#i really need to read caves of Steel

[missjamiekaye]

I subjected @hickorybird to Detroit Become Human this week so we topped it off with grabbing some beers and watching Blade Runner as a palate cleanser 😂

[jezebelblues]

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐔 ‘𝟗𝟐 | 𝐇.𝐒 ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐮, ‘𝟗𝟐. (a summer love he’ll never get back).

𝐂𝐖: allusions to smut+18 (piv), sadrry :( exrry, angst, unedited, fem!reader, time jumps between 1992-2012

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 4.5k

❏ i need to take a break from angst fr i’ve been putting toooooo much of it out lately. this fun was to write tho. love doing lyric based things. anyway! thanks for reading :*

masterlist

sometimes the heat made every breath stale. you’d inhale, and the air would hit the back of your throat in a dry, sun-scorched blow—hot and sharp as a blade through your nose. it’d coat your tongue in something arid enough that the words couldn’t bear the weight of themselves anymore. they were caught there, chafing against the tip of your tongue, dragging to a sputtering death before they even touched your lips.

but the air was saccharine, cotton candy floating from pink clouds and lingering in the breeze. every now and then, the waves would lap gently enough that it sounded like a lullaby—the sand just warm silk between toes, soft enough to fool you into thinking the world could be kind.

harry didn’t know YN, not at all. not before that summer.

the summer she fled from the midwest like it might collapse behind her, leaving only dust and cornfields and parents who thought love was autocratic.

the same summer harry visited the states for the first time, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, still trying to find himself in a world that felt too vast.

a summer, that’s it—fleeting, but heavy enough to settle against your sternum until your chest caved in. like the season tried to resuscitate that feeling over and over again until ribs would splinter under the pressure.

now it just left a hollow.

the airport was no less stale than the air outside—now just bathed in white fluorescents, cold and sterile like a morgue, buzzing flies and all.

he kissed her anyway, and she swore it wasn’t goodbye, but harry knew better. he could taste the finality on her lips—something unresolved laced with something copper, sanguine, tragic. maybe she bit her tongue to keep things together, or maybe she bit it back to prevent the three words they should’ve said to each other but didn’t.

he still remembers the tang of it; still wonders if she bled for him that day.

she didn't have the money to stick around, not for long, anyway. her whole life packed into a bag, she tore through the season like a comet. motel rooms when they could scrape together the cash, but mostly they lived out of harry's borrowed car.

a piece of shit, really. the kind of car that rattled when it hit fifty and burned your thighs on the vinyl seats. but to her, it was perfect. she loved it most at night. they’d park somewhere desolate on the shore, right in the sand—the waves crashing in whispers, the windows fogging up just enough to bare evidence to the way she’d ride him in the backseat, claiming the length between his thighs as her own.

he didn’t have as much tattoos then as he had now, but his favorites weren’t inked—they were the ones she left herself—bruises kissed into his neck, dark as midnight, tender as promises.

and the motel 6 that was on the corner of palm canyon and serra bore the imprint of their young, naive vows—right in the pavement.

the sky was painted lavender and steel blue that night, bathing them indigo underneath the cool, flickering light of the motel sign.

harry remembers her laugh—airy and light, like it came easier than breathing. she pulled him under yellow caution tape toward the fresh concrete.

“isn’t this bad for our skin?” harry muttered, glancing over his shoulders warily as the two of them kneeled down. “‘nd what if we’re caught?”

she laughed, the sky and the sign and the silver glow of the rising moon coloring her in like art. “don’t be a wimp, h.”her smile broke him, it really did. her shoulder brushed his as she pressed her hand flat into the wet cement.

the concrete was cold to the touch, thick and dense like dead flesh as she held her hand flush against it.

he followed, YN’s kiss on his shoulder pushing him forward. his handprint was so much larger than hers, like they weren't even made for the same world.

he had tried to wipe his soiled palm against the dew of the grass as YN wrote their initials underneath the imprints of their hands with her index finger, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide.

“there.” she murmured, leaning her cheek against harry bicep. “now it’s forever.”

he believed her then. he believed it in the way you believe the sun will rise, like the natural rhythm of breath—like it was written in stone.

but now at the age of thirty-nine, he knew better—knew how cement dried, how it cracked, how time eroded things. perhaps he should’ve known it was a bad omen the way it was solidified in cold petrichor, left to dry and harden just as they did.

as the years wore on, harry would come back once every blue moon, if he had the expense for it. the quiet part of the beach where they'd park his car wasn't so quiet anymore. it basked in fairy lights and neon glow, in the bustle of seaside shops; the sand stamped with footsteps of tourists that came and went.

sometimes, when he got drunk enough, he'd try to walk the path back to where they stayed. but the tire tracks in the sand were long gone, and the waves crashed farther up the shoreline than they did twenty years ago.

he could remember the way she'd slip out of the car, the door creaking faintly as it swung open, and how the dim light from the moon framed her face. her hair was a mess of salt and wind, strands clinging to the curve of her jaw and the hollow of her throat, and his sweater hung off her like it was never meant to belong to anyone else. it was too big, swallowing her, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. his name clung to her, silently.

she turned back to him, holding the door open, bending at the waist slightly as she leaned in. she tipped her head, her eyes catching the light just enough to glitter as she threw him a look—all flushed cheeks and teasing lips. “c'mon, lover." her voice was a breath. an invitation, an inevitability.

and harry didn’t hesitate. he never did, not with her.

he slid across the cracked leather seats in the back, his shoulder brushing against her arm as he dipped out, the soft brush of fabric on skin setting something electric humming in his veins. he slammed the door behind him, the sound loud against the hush of the waves.

he remembers the way the way her giggles bubbled, how the backs of her thighs felt pliant in his hands as he lifted her like she weighed nothing—like the earth itself would let him defy gravity for her—setting her atop the hood dusted with grains of sand blown awry from the wind, clinging right to her skin.

her fingers were in his hair before he even kissed her, tugging gently, threading through the curls like she was mapping him out. when his lips found hers, she tasted like summer—like sun-warmed strawberries and sugar and something he couldn't name but would chase for years. he nipped at her bottom lip, teeth pulling it back enough to meet her gaze—just to find her looking at him like he was the only thing real in the universe, like he’d been carved from air and fire and the aching edges some long-forgotten dream.

she’d wrap her legs around his waist, his chest bare and his shorts still damp from the ocean during sunset.

her fingers tightened, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp as she tipped his head back to reveal the curve of his neck, the column of his throat.

and she had pressed her lips there, a searing kiss where his throat dipped, where his pulse beat unsteady beneath his skin. her lips were softer than they should've been, her teeth sharper than he expected as she left the marks he loved so much.

he remembered the way his laughter cracked as her teeth grazed the curve of his shoulder, his hands tracing up her thighs, his dimples cutting deep. “people are gonna think m’yours if you keep leaving ‘em.” he smirked, tilting his head back down as she ran her hands down his chest, glancing up at him.

“aren’t you?”

“am i?”

she nodded, tracing the lines of the butterfly on his tummy, the wings fluttering with every breath. “until you aren’t.”

her words had knocked a breath from his chest. they weren't cruel—she wasn't cruel—but there was something devastating in the simplicity of them, the way they slipped so easily from her mouth. like she'd already made peace with whatever came next.

he narrowed his eyes down at her, watching her intently as her gaze remained distant, fingers gliding along edges and lines of his muscles he didn’t know existed until she found them.

the three words sat right on his tongue that night—sour, heavy, unspoken.

after a beat, she stilled her tracings, looking back up at him with her eyes so full of something he couldn’t quite name yet. she had pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him gently, only knocking him off balance enough to rock on his heels while she let out a breathy chuckle. “you’re overthinking it.”

he parted his lips to speak, but YN was already sliding off the hood of the car, brushing past him with a faint pat to his bum, her smile almost too small to catch.

she had lifted his sweater over her head, revealing her bare chest, her nipples tightening in the breeze, arms stretching upwards before she let it fall into the sand.

next was the bikini bottoms she had been wearing since their swim, sliding down her thighs so easily he wished he had done it himself.

she walked in reverse, shooting him a teasing look before she spun on her heel, jogging toward the water that reflected the moon and stars above, twinkling in the blue.

“move it, styles!” she shouted, dipping her head beneath the surface, her hair slicking back once she rose again. “we’ve got another thing to cross off the bucket-list!”

and again, harry hadn’t hesitated.

the motel 6 wasn’t there anymore either. it was demolished in 2007. serra retreat, it was called—an overly expensive peaceful reprieve for the rich, flanked by huge mansions that sat perched in the rolling hills, overlooking the water.

but harry and YN still existed there, only there, right in the worn, cracked pavement.

and in a way, the corner of palm canyon and serra road would always be theirs—a testament, a vow, a grave.

the weeks after she left he went back home to cheshire, a shell of the young man he was before he left. he came back a heartbroken, blubbering mess that cried for his mom.

he remembers it vividly, because then, it was the first time he sobbed into his mother’s shoulder for comfort since childhood.

and anne would try to remedy his pain, she really would. she’d wipe his tears and make him tea, listen to the stories he’d whisper if he felt up to it—memories spilling out of him in fits and starts, mumbled right into his bent knees.

for a while, he’d save up money from the small checks he’d earn at the bakery to buy calling cards. at first, he’d get at least four a month—one international call each week. she answered occasionally, maybe once or twice.

but he did it again, and again and again—whether it was her that answered or the sound of her pretty voice layered over static in the background.

hey, it’s YN! reached the right person at the wrong time—you know what to do after the beep. later!

and as the time stretched enough to let silence sit between the spaces, he’d walk over to the community library with an obstinacy soaked in hope—saturated so heavily that it would weigh down on him like the threat of an executioners blade.

he didn’t go there to study, or to read, or to pray in the small chapel nestled into the basement of the building, the exact room his grandmom had told him about after seeing only tired, distant eyes since he had come home.

“he’ll listen, sweetheart. he’ll take your sadness bit by bit and offer you solace in place of it.” she promised, (although she didn’t really have the authority to) her voice weathered with age, concern woven between each syllable.

but harry would press his lips into a tight line as he nodded politely, tuning her out after that.

he’d wear the (something he felt was no longer his) silver cross pendant against his chest every day as if it was attached to him. but, at that point, he wondered if it was just a force of habit rather than a symbol of faith.

because the less she answered, the more hopeless he felt—and the silence began to wrap around him like a noose waiting for the ground to give out.

instead, he’d go straight for the row of clunky white computers that whirred so loudly it ought of been told to hush by the librarian. his leg would bounce while it would dial up, his hands clammy as he typed in search of what he came there for—what’s the time difference between cheshire and ohio?

he had taken out his little notepad that was tucked into his back pocket, writing the answer down in the spotty blue ink just so he could do the mental math for every time he called.

and, eventually, (even after he took the time to consider time differences) it dwindled down to only buying one calling card for the month—because her answers were just becoming more and more scarce.

for a while, he’d call on the third of each month like clockwork (it was her favorite number—three). so much so, that during that summer, after one too many cheap beers they bribed the clerk to let them buy, him and YN got matching tattoos. she had gotten a small three on her left wrist, right along the curve of the bone; while harry got a small little shamrock in the very same spot—her number, his luck.

“in concrete and skin.” she smiled, the two of them walking out of the small parlor, leaning into his chest as she laughed.

“careful,” he smirked, nudging his hip against hers as they continued down the jagged sidewalk. “sounds like you’re making a vow there, angel.”

“isn’t it?”

he’d sit down atop the kitchen counter, his feet dangling as he pressed the landline to his ear. it would ring, the trilling brrrttt a taunt that sounded awfully similar to the whispers that’d pick and pry at his brain—you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame.

that’s what he thought, at least. maybe if he had just said i love you at the airport they wouldn’t be separated by an ocean, both the atlantic and a sea of regret.

the sound of her voicemail only answered again.

nearly twenty years later in july, (three weeks ago) he found himself in malibu again. it was like an attachment he couldn’t let go of, an addiction that wouldn’t set him free.

he held onto this unrealistic idea that he’d see her again—kneeling into their handprints, retracing old memories marked into the ground, as if it’d bring them to life again—just as he was.

harry knew it was delusional.

he visited the pavement every time he came, grass and weeds starting to sprout through the cracks in their initials—but it was still there.

he’d visit it like one visits a headstone, mourning what once was.

when he was back in london, in his own house now, he did something stupid. he did something impulsive, he did something he wish he had never done in the first place—he’d call her again.

it had been over ten years since he gave up calling YN. what the hell was he expecting? for her to pick up? for the number to even still be hers? he didn't know why he was doing it. maybe it was the date he'd just come back from—nice enough, but nice was the kind of word people used when there was nothing else to say.

she wasn't her, and it was starting to feel as if nothing would ever compare to the way he felt at nineteen.

he cracked open another beer, the neck of the bottle slick in his palm. he held it too tightly, his knuckles turning white as he stared at his phone. his heart slammed hard enough in his chest to make him dizzy as he dialed the number ingrained in his memory.

this was stupid—pathetic, mostly. and deep down, he hated himself for it. twenty years of heartbreak over a fucking summer, over a girl he had known for basically only four months.

he took another sip.

but it’s ringing, the trill looping and looping—meaning the number was still connected. it wasn’t empty, he wasn’t calling into the void. so, despite himself, he didn’t hang up.

he’d be calling a stranger either way he cut it: either someone he had never known answering, or the older version of a girl he had fell in love with two decades ago. stupid. pathetic. pathetic—

“hello?”

his beer slipped, the bottle thunking hard against the counter. he barely caught it in time, his grip unsteady as the voice on the other end sent a jolt through him.

his lips parted as his jaw went slack, the words caught somewhere at the top of his throat. his hand shook, his thoughts racing. she didn’t sound all that different, older, yeah, but still her.

she said it again, a little sharper this time, like she might hang up if he didn't respond. "..hellooo?"

his stomach churned and his breath wavered as he forced her name out, “Y–YN?”

there was a pause on the other line, faint shifting and rustling in the background like she was leaning into the phone. “yes, who is this?”

he could barely get his own name out. “harry.”

silence.

it stretched thin and tight, his pulse pounding in his ears. he swore he heard her suck in a breath, heard her lips part.

there was a breathy stutter, as if she was fighting the words she didn’t quite know how to articulate. “how–how are you?”

and all he could do was stand there, clutching a half-empty beer and shaking like a kid, because for the first time in twenty years, he heard her voice and didn't know what the hell to do with it.

but, he exhaled a laugh, though it came out more like a nervous puff of air, and scrubbed his hand over his face. god, how would you even begin to answer that after twenty years? "uh, i'm–m’good. yeah, good." he lied.

the bottle in his hand felt suddenly too heavy, so he set it down, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter instead. "and you? how've y’been?"

"i'm... alright," she said, though there was a hesitation, a weight to the word that made him suspect otherwise. her voice had softened in that way people's voices do when they're not quite sure how much to say.

the line hummed with static as he searched for something—anything—to say that wouldn't sound absurd. twenty years had passed. two decades. and all he had was how've you been? pathetic.

"you still in ohio?" he asked finally, hating how desperate he sounded to know something, anything about her life now.

"no." she replied quietly, and he could almost hear the faint shake of her head in her tone. "no, i moved. i'm in jersey now.”

the word hit him like a quiet ache. not malibu. not where it all began, not even back home in ohio, the whole reason she left in the first place. "right." he murmured, running his thumb over the edge of his counter. "makes sense. sounds...jerseys nice."

a faint laugh filtered through the line, and he almost forgot how much he'd missed the sound of it. "yeah, it is. what about you? uk still?"

"yeah, london now. still-still england." he struggled, tripping over his own tongue like a schoolboy.

"good." she sighed softly, but it hung there like an echo, as though she didn't quite know what else to add.

silence stretched out between them, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with all the words they weren't saying.

finally, she broke it, her voice lighter, almost cautious. "harry... why'd you call?"

his heart thudded, the question slamming into him with the weight of every regret he'd carried since the day she left. why did he call? he didn't have an answer that didn't sound like an excuse or a confession. "i... i dunno." he mumbled honestly, and his voice cracked just enough to betray him. "i just... i wanted t’hear your voice, i guess."

another pause. he could hear her breathing on the other end, steady but shallow, like she was processing something she didn't know how to hold.

"it's been such a long time.” her words were as much a statement as they were a question.

"mm-hmm.” he hummed quietly. "too long."

and there it was again—that silence, louder now, the weight of two decades pressing against them. his grip on the phone tightened.

"you didn't have to wait this long, you know—to call, i mean." she murmured, almost like an afterthought.

his stomach twisted, guilt tinged with frustration unfurling like a vine through his chest. "you stopped answering.”

her breath hitched faintly, and for a moment he thought she might hang up. but instead, her voice returned, quieter, more guarded. "yeah. i–i guess i did."

he swallowed thickly, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something too fragile to hold. "do you regret it?"

she didn't answer right away, and when she finally did, her voice was heavy with something he couldn't quite place. "do you?"

his throat tightened. he could lie—should lie—but he couldn't bring himself to. "every day."

another breath of silence, and then, "me too."

for a moment, harry could feel the years peeling away, leaving them bare again, like they'd been when they were young. when it was simple. when it was summer.

but it wasn't. it wasn’t 1992. they weren’t teenagers anymore, and they definitely weren’t in california.

"it's funny," she breathed after a while, her voice a bit steadier now, though there was something in it— some hint of resignation—that made his chest tighten. "i hadn't thought about malibu in... i don't even know how long. and then you call, and it's like i'm eighteen again."

he closed his eyes. eighteen. nineteen. it cut deep. "i've never stopped thinking about it, YN." he admitted delicately, his voice low, rough. "about you."

her breath caught, barely audible, but he heard it.

"harry." she sighed, a warning in the way she said his name, like she was afraid of where this might go.

"do you remember?" he pressed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "the beach? our bucket-list? our promises? us? how we said—how we said we'd never forget it?"

she was quiet for a long time, long enough that he thought maybe he'd gone too far. "of course i remember. how could i forget?”

and for a second, it felt like he could breathe again. like the two decades of distance between them weren't so insurmountable after all.

but then her tone shifted, growing firmer, almost bittersweet. "harry, we can't go back. you know that, right?"

his chest ached. "why not?" he asked, hating the way his voice cracked.

"because it's been twenty years.” she lamented, and there was something final in the way she said it, like she'd been rehearsing this conversation in her head for years. "because we're not the same people we were back then."

"so what?" he rushed, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. "so what if it's been twenty years? so what if we've changed? does that mean it didn't matter? that it wasn't real?"

"it was real, harry.”she countered, and he could hear the emotion building in her voice now, raw and unsteady. "it was the realest thing i've ever had. but that doesn't mean we can just pick up where we left off."

"why not?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "why can't we try?" he felt pathetic.

"because," YN insisted, then there was a pause, and he could hear her struggling to find the words. "because i'm not yours anymore, harry. i haven't been for a long time."

his heart dropped, the weight of her words crashing into him like a tidal wave—no, worse than that. "what do you mean?"

there was a long, shaky exhale on the other end of the line. "i'm married.”

he felt the air get knocked out of his lungs.

“i have a husband. a life. a... a house here in jersey."

he froze, his hand tightening around the phone. "a husband.” he repeated numbly, the word foreign and strange on his tongue. "you're... you're married?"

"yes.” she frowned, and he could hear the apology in her voice, even though she hadn't said the words. "i didn't think you’d ever find out—or need to.”

his head spun, lips threatening to tremble. "does he make you happy?" he asked after a moment, his voice shaky and quiet, almost a whisper.

there was a pause, “yes.” and it sounded like the truth, but it also sounded like something she was still trying to convince herself of.

he nodded to himself, even though she couldn't see it. "good..” he trailed off, his voice hoarse. "that's—um. that’s good."

"harry..." she started, but he cut her off.

"no, s’okay.” he croaked, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "i mean, of course. what did i expect, right? twenty years is a long time."

"it is…" she said quietly, and he could hear the pain in her voice, like she hated this as much as he did.

"you've got everything now, huh?" his voice trembled, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "money, a nice house. someone who probably doesn't spend two decades thinking about a summer that's long gone."

"harry, that's not—“ she paused, clenching her jaw. “that’s not fair.” her voice was a bit sharper now, but he just shook his head, his eyes glassing over.

"no, you're right," he said flatly, "s’not fair. none of this is fair."

silence fell again, heavy and suffocating, and he closed his eyes, letting the weight of it all settle over him.

he thought he heard a sniffle on the other line before it crackled. "i…should go, harry. m’sorry, i can’t.”

"yeah," his tone was short, his throat tight. "yeah, you should."

"take care of yourself, harry.” YN murmured, and then the line went dead.

he stood there for a long time, the silence of his empty house pressing in around him. twenty years, and all he had left was the ghost of a memory, the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in two decades, a stupid fucking vow sealed into the earth half way across the world like a taunt.

in twenty years she had forgotten malibu—but harry hasn’t left since.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - XIII

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters gen. warnings: NSFW, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more pic is BRZRKR #11 cover 😍

⚠Trigger warning: UNBRIDLED AND GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, if that squicks you DO NOT READ!⚠

13. ride the lightning

How does one describe the chaos of sitting in the eye of a lightning storm?

Wick is as terrifying as he is breathtaking, and you watch with horror as he is unleashed upon the room. Vampires seem to materialize from the very shadows, sounding the alarm, trying to combat the lethal threat in their midst. All of them die as they come against the inexorable force that is the dhampir John Wick.

He tears them limb from limb, using teeth and hands and the very chains he'd been bound with, the manacles still encircling his wrists. He uses them like flails, whipping his opponents with all the force of a hurricane. 

All this practically happens in the blink of an eye. Don Juan barely has time to react before the maelstrom descends upon him. Wick hits him hard enough to knock him across the room, blood spouting like a fountain. There is no reprieve before the dhampir has pounced on him again, and the two powerful monsters tumble and brawl like mad dogs. It seems Juan has the upper hand until Wick coils from his back and kicks him away, sending the vampire soaring into the black depths of the cave.

The battle rages and the hive continues to swarm, Juan’s vampires foolishly daring to challenge the dhampir in the throes of this berzerker rage. One of them has Wick’s sword, and when Wick takes it from him the tables turn even more ridiculously in the slayer’s favor. He severs limbs and lops heads, leaving blood and gore in his wake. You think you see him extract a heart with his bare hand, gripping it in his fist before crushing it into a pulp. 

That is when don Juan appears again from the shadows, his face a bloody mask, with a broadsword in hand and the fires of Hell shining in his eyes. “Dhampir!” he seethes. “I will END you for this!” 

Wick bellows back wordlessly, the power of his rage filling the enclosed space with crackling energy. You watch wide-eyed as a good chunk of the cave ceiling breaks free above you, crashing at your feet. 

Jesus Christ. They’ll bring the whole place down around you all, you fear, even as you cannot look away from the impending battle. 

Maybe he gives the impression of the soft-handed gentleman of leisure, but it quickly becomes apparent that don Juan knows how to use a sword as he and Wick clash. Toledo steel meets Japanese Tamahagane, and sparks fly, blades flashing too fast for the eye to see. Juan is the only vampire yet who could actually match Wick for strength and speed, and you watch with dread as Wick barely dodges losing his head. In turn Juan keeps ahead of Wick’s every slash and thrust, moving with a speed and grace that is as mesmerizing as it is infuriating. 

You scream as the vampire breaks the steel of Wick’s sword in half with a mighty blow, and hits the dhampir with some kind of power that knocks him flat on his back. Juan makes a fist, and Wick writhes on the floor as though his guts are in Juan’s clawed hand. Straining against your chains, you gather what little psychic power is left to you, imagining it formed into a sharp needle as you fling it at Juan. 

It does not really damage him, but he pauses to look at you with a snarl–it’s the only window Wick needs to swipe with what remains of his razor sharp blade, right through don Juan’s legs at the knees. 

With a horrified expression Juan falls to the cave floor. Wick gets to his feet, picking Juan up by his throat with a fearsome snarl, and hurls him again towards the back of the cave. More vampires are appearing from the depths–holy fuck how many can there be?--and with a single, feral look back at you Wick picks up Juan’s broadsword, and charges back into the fray.    

The enraged dhampir disappears further into the shadows of the cave. The din of the battle echoes back to you–until the cacophony finally fades, and then, there is just eerie, heavy, silence.

Your heart lodges in your throat, and does not budge until you see the outline of Wick’s imposing form again at the edge of the torch light. His chains are gone. He is hurt, clearly limping. He makes his way to you, and only belatedly do you realize he is dragging don Juan by his one remaining limb. 

The vampire is unconscious, and Wick drops him unceremoniously before you like an offering, and the sword clatters to the floor soon after. You should be horrified, but it smacks of a hunter laying a kill at his woman’s feet in a time when man lived in caves, and you are not unmoved. But that blue light has not receded from his eyes, and he stalks towards you like a predator. 

I kill vampires. It’s what I am.

Could he kill you?

“John?”

He only grumbles in response, stalking towards you, and you are afraid.

“Jardani?”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it, ptichka,” he growls, his huge hands encircling your waist, pulling you against him. You are practically naked, and he is covered in blood from the massacre he just unleashed; that is not what frightens you. His eyes still glow that eerie blue, and you wonder if it is not like the warning glow of a fuse on a bomb. Maybe he’s injured, but you would be a fool to think him wrung out yet.  

“You’re scaring me,” you tell him honestly, and you feel him deflate against you, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his arms wrap around your torso, breathing you in. You feel it as that crackling energy recedes back inside him, leaving him as close to human as he can ever be. 

“I would never hurt you.” He whispers it with the vehemence of a vow against your skin, and you want to believe him. God, do you want to believe him. You fold yourself against him with your hands still bound above your head, letting him engulf you with his larger form. 

You don’t want to cry; it’s embarrassing, and you don’t have time for it, but after what don Juan did to you it comes out anyway in hiccupping sobs and he holds you like something precious in his hands that could just as easily tear you in two. You don’t understand the soft things he says to you, hushed murmurs in Russian or some long dead dialect of it, but they calm you anyway. That intoxicating aroma of flowers and spice envelops you again like an opium haze, and you melt into the shelter of this man.  

When at last you quiet he draws back to look at you with those ageless dark eyes, though he does not let you go. When he brushes his lips against yours in an achingly gentle kiss it feels as though nothing could be more right in the world. 

You are so fucked.

You look up at your wrists encircled in iron, jangling your chains. “Can you find the key for me?” you ask quietly, as if you speak too loud you might break this spell of precious calm between you.

The low sound that rumbles from his chest echoes straight to your womb. He runs blunt fingers up the underside of your arm lightly, a maddening touch that makes your good sense go fuzzy at the edges. “Jardani…”

His grip upon you tightens; he leans in to kiss you again, claiming your mouth as his weight presses you back into the wall. 

The warmth of his blood-slicked skin upon yours is bliss, though a trill of hesitance surfaces in the very back of your mind. As though he senses it he speaks. “I want to be a better man for you,” he tells you roughly, his voice hoarse from battle and desire. “But I would be a liar, if I claimed this is not exactly how I want you.” 

Where don Juan’s hands on you made you want to scream, Wick’s rough paw tracing your curves is maddening in a completely opposite way. It is hard to tell what is that intoxicating dhampir magic upon you, consuming you, and what is just…your own rampant desire. You forget that you are not lovers, that you have not done this before. Maybe you are in love with John Constantine, and he was inside you not hours ago…but it is so easy to forget everything, in Wick’s arms. Deep down, you know that you want him in a way that feels as though his name was always written upon your soul. 

He nuzzles the bend of your neck, grazing your pulse with his fangs. You know he must be hungry, after such an expenditure of energy and taking such damage. You fight a war with yourself, aching to feel his fangs in you again, but you're not sure he'll stop, once he starts, and you don't have much to spare. Logic wars with lust, the eternal battle of wits versus hormones.

Usually, the latter wins. 

“Jardani…” you coax, hoping sanity will prevail. “You have to set me free.”

He groans in response, kissing your pulse. “I don't have to,” he protests, and though there's a hint of his usual insouciance, mostly you're afraid he's absolutely serious. You open your mouth to protest again, but he swallows whatever you intended to say with his lips on yours, like a starving man who intends to eat you whole, starting with your mouth. 

You're not sure who escalates this already torrid exchange with a fang piercing your tongue–all you know is that what was already a bonfire escalates into a full on inferno. He eats at your mouth, lapping at your tongue as that agonizingly wonderful wave of desire fills your every cell. As you strain against your chains to be closer to him, to have more, he takes mercy on you with one of those muscle-strapped thighs between yours. You grind on him desperately, too far gone for anything resembling restraint, your pride totally forgotten. 

He migrates from your mouth to your neck, piercing your flesh and drinking you down, grabbing handfuls of your curves to hold you close. That scintillating, excruciating pleasure pulses and purrs inside you. It is him, but also, it is the two of you together, and when that magic reaches its shining peak in your loins you think you might implode for the exquisite rapture of it, release like a chain explosion sparking and spreading from your greedy cunt up your spine. Through the ringing in your ears it takes you a few moments to realize he is talking you through it, whispering low words in your ear that you do not understand, but you feel all too well. 

He kisses you again with your blood in his mouth, a slow and sensual thing that manages to curl your toes all over again, his tongue swiping the seam of your lips. “My pretty little bird,” he whispers. “The things I am going to do you, when we have time and a soft bed…” 

The sound you make in answer is barely human–but then, neither are you. 

When he produces the key you don’t know if you want to smack him, or laugh. He had it all along? Did he take it from Juan, or one of the other vampires? With a knowing little smile he reaches up to unlock your manacles, smirking down at you with a warmth in his eyes that could start a forest fire. 

If you had any sense left to your name, you would be furious for this little bit of trickery. However, that is not what you need. When you throw your arms around his neck he embraces you hard, enveloping you in those strong arms and lifting you off your feet. You feel your heart glowing like a hot ember in your chest, and you have no fucking idea how all this is going to work out in the end, but at the moment it doesn’t matter. 

A flash of an image surfaces in your mind: tangled under warm blankets with this man’s powerful body curled around yours while the winter winds and the hungry wolves howl outside, and you are unfalteringly certain that nothing bad can ever touch you again. 

You feel that way now, pulling back to look at him, searching his handsome, blood-flecked face. You say nothing, and neither does he, but you know he senses some shift in you. Whether in the widening of your eyes, or the hitch of your breath–but he makes no life-altering demands. All he asks of you, is for another toe-curling kiss with the tilt of his head. His soft lips on yours feel like a promise, and for the umteenth time this night you think to yourself: you are so fucked. 

“We have to go find Constantine,” you say as you pull away from him. “I know he’s in danger.” You feel it tugging on you at the distant end of your metaphysical cord. Trepidation. Fear. Resolve. You’re not sure if taking you from him was meant as a trap, or a distraction, but it can’t be good. 

“You’re too late.” The thing at your feet that only vaguely now resembles don Juan grins a bloody grin. “They have the psychic, that woman detective, and they’re doing the ritual tonight. Mamon will rise, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“Where?” demands Wick with a growl that raises the hair on the back of your neck. 

Don Juan, however, just spits blood at the dhampir’s feet. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You can heal this eventually,” says Wick with a dismissive wave at the vampire’s missing limbs. “Tell me, or I will take your head too.”

“You won’t leave me alive,” scoffs Juan. “I was not born yesterday.”

“My word.” 

“As a gentleman?” The laughter that grates from Juan’s lips is bitter as the betrayal of a friend. He is not biting–and you are running out of time.  

Wick casts a look at you before returning to the vampire. “As a husband,” he answers. “It is the only vow that I ever held truly sacred.”

“John Wick, murderer and romantic…how sweet,” taunts Juan, rolling his eyes. Even in this state, he cannot be anything but that what he truly is: an asshole of the purest grade. 

 “Tell me,” says Wick darkly, brandishing a knife produced from somewhere. “Or I will keep you like this for centuries more. I will take pieces from you until you are nothing but the talking head you are, but you won’t die. Trust me, I know.” 

Juan just glares, until Wick begins advancing on him with the knife, seemingly going for an ear. “Fine!” shouts the vampire, desperately leaning away just before the blade touches his skin. “Fine, fine, hijo de puta.” Lower, under his breath he continues to grumble, “Chinga su madre, pinche pendejo...”

“You were saying?” 

Mad as a rattlesnake, but realizing he has no other alternative, Juan spills the beans. 

—-----------

*hijo de puta - son of a bitch *chinga su madre - fuck your mother *pinche pendejo - fucking bastard *🤣🤣 i’m so sorry…

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— CELEBRATION DAY

SUMMARY : cowboy Dean, that’s it! yeah, yeah, I’ve got a thing.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), blowjob (mentioned), handjob, unprotected p in v, angst, fluff

WORD COUNT : 5.9k

A/N : led zeppelin song title. omg, I wanna thank my big brothers for watching Supernatural when I was little. I never woulda met Dean’s gorgeous, galaxy freckled face, green-eyed sparkle sparkle, majestic body, honey hair, smirky, pillow lip prince—what was I saying? oh yeah, I love Dean, happy birthday to the man I’ve loved the longest 💗

Dean didn’t think the whole month of January could get any better.

Everyday Y/n left a gift for him somewhere around the bunker for him to find. It was like the Twelve Days of Christmas song, but so much better. 

He was really pretty sure she was stealing most of them. 

On the first day, a pin up style calendar, but instead of random women, it was her and all his favourite kinks and fetishes. If he could, he’d say he loved her in every language that exists. It’s the only way for him to show that he truly means it. At least he thinks so. 

On the second day, he received seven different types of necklaces that she thought he’d look prettiest in, but one stood out. One that he’d offhandedly shown interest in when they were window shopping to walk off the effects of caffeine in her system. The love letter smelled of coffee and recounted the feelings she had watching him be so domestic. 

On the third day, she gave him a Street Fighter arcade game perfect for his Dean Cave. He swore he’d beat her, but he didn’t have the heart to do so, and let her KO him (she already knew what he was doing).

On the fourth day, she got him a new, stainless steel watch. She attached a small love letter addressed to him, the last words were spoken by the Doctor: You waited long enough. Time and time again, with her by his side, he yearned for normalcy, a family, getting out. For some reason, an object that measured time symbolised their endless love, a promise that made him breathless.

On the fifth day, he was given seven different rings. The letter for this gift said something along the lines of: I need to practise proposing. And you didn’t say no, so this is going great. He chuckled at that. He’d never say no to her, especially not to marriage. 

On the sixth, she gave him a porn magazine, starring : her. He found it in the library when she sent him to pick up a book for her. A magazine like one belonging to Playboy that drove him crazy every day that he remembered what was in it. And that tiny love letter she put inside… He hoped no one would put their hands on that one. It was for his eyes only.

On the seventh, a black 1962 corvette that she put together with the help of her older brother. To say Dean was impressed was an understatement, despite all those times he taught her how to put the Impala back together, he was both turned on and fascinated with her work. And obviously they, uh, christened it. Or whatever.

On the eighth, she surprised him with twelve books he’d intended to read for such a long time, but never got around to searching for them. Shane; Whiskey When We’re Dry; Lonesome Dove; Blood Meridian. Were some of the titles he recognised and he was more than thrilled to dive into them and relax completely as reality faded around him. 

On the ninth, she gifted him a new cowboy outfit. She put that in the room where he kept all the costumes he wore. The material was more original, with amazing quality—aka, not cheap. A whole bunch of Hecho en Mexico tags that he’d ask her to read to him—in Spanish of course. For reasons. (And that love letter he found in the inner pocket also needed to be read in Spanish, too.)

On the tenth, he got to open a giant box of Scooby snacks. Here and there, there were a few of his other favourite snacks, but there were mostly Scooby snacks that he’d been munching on ever since. 

The eleventh, the gift he received were seven different bracelets. According to the love letter, they were gifts to keep him bound to her only. 

The twelfth, a brand new espresso machine. That was simply found by him in the kitchen, new, with an olive-green bow and a small lover letter. All that yummy coffee he gets to consume in the morning with her, trying it out together. Two coffee addicts in love. Nothing better.

The thirteenth, the gift was going to an amuent park together. They ate too many foods, went on all—if not most—of the rides, took a hundred photos, tried on the silly clothes, played the games—mini-golf, go-carts… He was exhausted as soon as they got inside the Impala. So, it was a last minute decision to stay at a nearby hotel for the night. It was the best sleep he had in ages. 

The fourteenth, a large journal in multitudes of journaling styles detailing things she loved about him that particular day or something he did that made her smile. It was cheesy, but very beautiful. The care and attention to detail made Dean’s heart lurch in his chest. From the cute bullet journal style, to the more than accurate drawings of him, and sophisticated details about things he didn’t know about himself, his habits, or other things he did. It was a collection of her love for him, which somehow made any fears evaporate like steam in a shower. 

The fifteenth, forty-five new sets of socks with cute and/or funny prints. And she was prepared with a new drawer for all of them to fit, rolled up perfectly like… well, whatever delicious meal she had planned just as he liked. Enchiladas. Yummy. And a new love letter shoved inside a sock to make him blush and smile boyishly. 

For the sixteenth day, it was four cassette mixtapes of all the songs they listened to when they went on some of their most meaningful dates and that played in the most memorable, intimate moments of their lives. Now it made sense why she was thrilled to learn and watch him prepare the mixtape he made for Cas. (It was better afterwards when his skills and patience were more than noticed by her and she—anyway, it was hot sex.) As for the love letter, it was profoundly clear that she wanted to praise and show she recognised his expertise, intelligence, and skill (not that she hasn’t praised him for it before). 

For the seventeenth day, he got a Katana. He didn’t need it, he didn’t even know he wanted it until he held it in his hands and unsheathed it. God, that was awesome. Of course he’d probably almost accidentally hurt himself playing around with it, using it unnecessarily in the kitchen—just as an example. 

For the eighteenth day, a sex position book with over 300 sex positions to try. It almost offended him, but after looking through a few pages, he was convinced that she was right and they needed to try some of the kinkier positions. 

For the nineteenth day, she handed him a lengthy collection of mint condition Batman comic books. He was so not cool about that, gushing and grinning, holding her tightly until she pushed him away to breathe properly. 

For the twentieth day, he received some new vinyl records of his favourite songs from his favourite bands to nearly complete his collection of music. And as always, he found a love letter relating to the gift she gave to him where she’d ‘hid’ the vinyls above his desk. 

For the twenty-first: an old photo album filled with photos he’d never seen from his childhood and up to last year. Some he never even remembered living, but they did skip a few memories that made him smile sadly. She confessed she got Cas to take her back into the past to sneakily take pictures of him and everything he lived through. It was oddly… endearing. Then, she gave him an empty photo album, only their New Year’s kiss was placed inside a protective, plastic pocket. Ready to be filled by him, this time around.

For the twenty-second, a custom made Batman costume. The story for this one was that she made a deal with one of Charlie’s old LARPing friends: if she got rid of a ghost in his house, he’d make her the costume. And after that, she got one of the Dean’s from another universe to act as the model for the measurements Charlie’s old friend took to make the costume fit him perfectly. There were a few ideas Dean had regarding that costume, and he’s more than a hundred percent sure Y/n’s been thinking the same thing ever since he tried it on. 

For the twenty-third, a twelve month pie subscription, obviously on National Pie Day. And he got to try the first one that day, rhubarb pie that made his mouth water as soon as the sticky insides made contact with his taste buds. How many times does he have to say he’s lucky in his mind?

And today, he had yet to find out. 

He was spoiled. 

Lavishing in her love for the past twenty-four days—more so than usual, soaking in it like the waffles he drowned in syrup for breakfast in the morning. 

Right after his birthday blowjob as soon as he woke up.

He ate those soft, perfectly crunchy, warm waffles in bed while basking in the golden afterglow of his orgasm. Breathless and dazed, he didn’t worry about a single thing as he moved from one waffle to the next, eating his favourite fruits, jams, chocolate chips, maple syrup, honey… all the things she knew he loved indecisively. 

And while she licked her lips clean of his cum, he licked his lips clean of whipped cream. 

God, he was lucky. 

She was awesome. More than awesome. 

There were no words he could find to describe her. 

The only problem with today was that he wasn’t gonna be the centre of just her attention. He could deal with that. He loved it, in fact. What he did not love was having to be the centre of attention with all his friends and family around. 

He just felt… maybe… shy. Embarrassed? Old? 

He wasn’t used to it. Not to that kind of attention from his friends, anyway. As much as they loved him and as much as he loved them. It was different. New. 

He was anxious about it. 

It was usually a phone call, a text, or nothing. He was fine with that. He didn’t really care. He was always hunting before. They were always busy with their hunts or their lives and birthday were always… whatever. 

He was used to Y/n. To the way she loved him. Worshipped him, even. Daily. It was almost the same as any other day, except for the gifts—which were grand, more… thoughtful and loving. As if she lived in his brain and heart, digging through his wishes and dreams to find the perfect gift to make him feel special. Something that lasted, something to be used, something to be loved by him. 

He was used to Sam. To the occasional, remorseless thieving of his little brother to get him what he thought he’d like. The singular, impactful gifts or the silly-joke gift he gave first to trick him into thinking it was something meaningless, thoughtless. The pat in the back, the hug, the pie, the childish decoration, the alcohol… a typical sibling birthday party meant to be laughed at. 

He was getting used to Cas. To the overuse of emoticons in the birthday text. The awkwardness in the hug before it settled and became comfortable to do. The thoughtful gift he recieved, something Dean mentioned whenever they hung out—even if it was ridiculous. Cas could get it. He’s an angel. And the best friend Dean could ever ask for. 

Jack… was, well, he’s Jack. He tried to copy Cas, Sam, Y/n. A mixture of all of the things they did, taking notes of what they were up to, finding something that was… him and not all of them. Dean’s heart softened and he cut Jack some slack, appreciating the effort, the thought he put into it, even if sometimes it was… bad. 

But now, some of his closest friends would be making their way to him and he was just not prepared for all of that.

What he was prepared for, was his girlfriend’s skillful ability to make a larger-than-necessary Rice Krispies Treat cake just for him. She liked it as much as he did now, replacing the traditional birthday cake—she wasn’t much of a cake fan. But his stomach’s heart did love those tres-leches cakes. 

Dean got dressed up as a cowboy as soon as Sam left to help Eileen prepare for the mini birthday party. He knew it did things to Y/n, even if she refused to admit it to him every time he brought it up or teased her about it. 

He tried to cling to her the whole day. 

He failed. 

She was up to secret stuff. 

He only got to be in her presence when she cooked or as she decorated the library where they’d later be embarrassing him with their loving attention. He helped her with all of that, of course—despite her protests. He’d hold her for a few minutes, kiss her a little bit, and then he’d follow behind her as if he couldn’t find anything better to do himself. 

He watched her pull out game after game, after game, and set it down on different tables. Cards Against Humanity. Loteria. UNO. Bingo. A few other classics, some from his childhood. And she was texting Sam the whole time for the location of each game, where to set it, agreeing on some and putting others away.

Dean didn’t mind. As long as there was something that took most of the attention away from him and towards something else. 

He played with the die from one of the games as he followed her around. His eyes traced over colourful candles, little horns to blow funny sounds out of, balloons, string, paper, confetti, banners, funny hats and glasses, and a dozen other items and decorations that made him feel like a kid again. 

Dean liked to watch her, and she liked watching his reaction to whatever she pulled out of the plastic bags he remembered watching Sam and Jack coming in with a few days ago. 

Dean was happy once she was done and finally resting from all the planning and tasks she was completing. She’d play with the buttons on his suit jacket by buttoning and unbuttoning them boredly as she took a break before heading off to the next activity. 

After she made the cake, she made extra for both of them to snack on—even though she’d also given him a piece before she prepared the Rice Krispies treat. The two of them waited for their friends to get to the Bunker and ate the small slice while watching a random movie on the television. 

Dean started to wonder what his brother would be getting him. Or Cas. Jack. Claire. Jody. Donna. Oh. He wanted to be sucked up into the couch, no, into Y/n’s soul. Just the thought of receiving a gift from everyone other than the people who currently lived in the Bunker made him flustered and embarrassed. 

He had no doubts the gifts would be good. Still, there was something about gifts and birthday parties that made him… uncomfortable. As much as he loved each and every single one of them, as much as he secretly adored being loved.. it felt like asking too much, even if this was all their idea. 

Even though he would do this and so much more for them. 

Dean didn’t know they were up to this until last week when Sam randomly brought it up. Y/n jumped on board immediately, then Jack did, and Cas. Jack and Cas were in charge of buying the snacks, which Dean appreciated because Sam tended to get distracted and would forget to buy some of the most important items—according to Dean, of course. The pie, being the main item.

Dean realised that neither he nor she were really paying attention to the movie. Their plates laid abandoned on the table next to the green leather couch they sat on. The cowboy hat was abandoned on Dean’s bed. She was tucked into the corner with one leg propped up in it with the other dangling over the edge. Dean settled on his back in between her legs with his head on her shoulder.

That was just the first step in seducing her. 

He wondered if he’d get more lottery tickets from everyone. If they’d bring some of the funniest, endearing birthday cards where they had to change the main title to for his age because he had the taste of a kid. He hoped they wouldn’t do something illegal like he knew Y/n and Sam were doing to make this the best birthday party for him. (Though, Dean was generally feeling pretty smug about their naughtiness.) 

He wouldn’t mind repeated gifts at all, as in… if Claire wanted to go mini-golfing with him and gave him another ticket… or if Jack simply wanted to try fishing with him again. He’d love that. To spend time with them. The people he cared most about. 

He played with her slim fingers, traced her knuckles, and teased the soft skin of her arms with his fingertips when she slipped them around his waist. He lifted her hands up to his lips, worshipping one thoroughly with his lips, warming them up for her. 

Her other hand rested over his chest where his heart was beating rapidly at the thought of what he wanted. Her hand laid still for a few seconds before she began to play with the buttons of his white dress shirt, then tapped her mossy-green nails against the ovaloid metal buckle of his belt. 

He dropped her hand gingerly to let her play with his clothes using both of her hands and he took to tracing her legs with his fingers over thick, warm pyjamas. He could feel her body release the tension of her stress, and for a moment, he smiled softly and felt his body do the same thing. 

When he turned to look at her, she glanced away from his chest where she was gently scratching his shirt to make the funny sound of cloth being scraped. He kissed her when she smiled at him, one small peck, not entirely innocent. 

The movie was long forgotten soon after that. Not that they were paying attention to it before anyway. 

Dean scooted up slightly to kiss her properly with one hand on her jaw, his fingers entwined through her soft hair, bringing her plush lips closer to his. It was unhurried, lazy, the slow build from firm, deep kisses, to demanding, heated ones that caused a blush to flare up their faces. 

Breathlessly, she began unbuttoning his shirt while he unbuckled his belt, but they continued kissing. His tongue slipped between her sweet lips, tasting more sweetness from the marshmallow and rice treat they ate not long ago. 

She brought the white t-shirt up his chest—excruciatingly slow—when she fully unbuttoned his dress shirt. Her fingertips slipped up the soft flesh of his tummy, his toned and freckled chest, then she flattened her palm over his rapidly thudding heart. Leisurely, she smoothed her hand down his soft, slightly scarred skin, brushing past the fine, blonde hair trailing down beneath his belly button.

Dean moaned into her mouth and impatiently lifted his hips from the couch. She snuck her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and curled her fingers around the base of his hardening length. Dean gasped against her kiss-swollen lips and closed his eyes tightly, promptly rolling his hips to push his cock through her fingers. 

“You look so hot like this,” she whispered against the corner of his lips. Dean squirmed and spread his legs when he planted his feet flat on the floor to aid each of his thrusts. Gently, she placed her other hand around his neck to tip his head back and to the side to place a feverish kiss to his cracked, pillowy lips. 

She continued moving her hand along his length, from root to tip, playing with the precum that began to accumulate and stain the cotton of his underwear. 

Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly with each breath, attempting to hold off his orgasm. His thighs tensed, muscles constricting beneath thin dress pants as she twisted her hand up and down his cock inside his slacks and boxers. His lips moved desperately against hers and he swiped his tongue across hers, his brows furrowed in mind-numbing pleasure.

Dean’s fingers dug into her thighs on either side of his body, trying to keep himself stable as his hips bucked up into her hand, driving his cock faster through her fingers. Her hand squeezed at the sides of his neck and released to make his brain fuzzier, neurons hazed with lust and need. 

“Please… I wanna be inside you, baby,” Dean panted against her lips as she kissed him. Instead, she rapidly continued to tug at his cock, her fist wrapped tightly around him until he felt like exploding. “I can’t- please- I need you,” he begged, but never dared to stop her as her lips trailed away to his jawline, to suck a dark mark on the sensitive skin of his neck. 

She suddenly loosened her grip on his cock and slowly slid her slick palm up the front of his body. His orgasm began to fade away and his body slumped against hers, his chests heaving with each breath, his heart racing. Her lips brushed against his earlobe, “you’re right…” she murmured.

“A-about what?” He mumbled, lifting himself up to turn and face her. She was smiling at him when he gazed at her, her eyes soft and full of love, mirroring the much more dishevelled expression on his own, pink face. 

Her eyes flickered away from his dewy green eyes when he leaned into her. He watched them travel up his body, from his thigh pressing into the leather next to her leg, to his boxers shoved low on his hips, exposing curly, light brown hair, his unzipped slacks and therather belt hanging losing around his hips, up to the opened dress shirt and t-shirt beneath draped haphazardly over his chest, and then her eyes stopped at his mouth. 

She tilted her head and met him the rest of the way to press her lips against his, placing a soft, adoring peck. “I do think cowboys are fucking hot, especially you,” she smirked, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, playing with the tiny hairs behind his head.

Dean bit his lip, mirroring her expression, and hummed, “is that right?” She nodded, her other hand slipping down to tease the waistband of his boxers. Dean’s calloused hands travelled up her sides, sneaking beneath her long-sleeved shirt, up warm, soft skin. “I already knew, just wanted to hear you say it.”

She laughed shortly, allowing Dean to lift her thick shirt up and off her body. Dean’s lips came down to her neck, hot and open-mouthed kisses flushing her skin. His hands traced her sides and eventually hooked at the top of her leggings to pull down the material covering her legs. He carefully let her lay down as she shifted to fully remove her leggings and underwear. 

But she sat upright once more before Dean could settle between her warm legs. Dean remained fully clothed and he laughed against her breasts when she impatiently shoved his slacks and boxers lower. His hands remained firmly on her body, exploring inches of familiar skin—squeezing, pulling, and holding. 

His soft lips moved over the expanse of her chest, teeth nibbling on sensitive flesh, his wet tongue tasting her velvety skin. Her hands made their way down past his cock to cup his balls, which made Dean’s brow rise in pleasant surprise, his mouth freezing around her nipple. 

He moaned around her skin and brought his own hand down between her legs as his cock bobbed excitedly. Warm slick coated his fingertips when he slid his fingers through her folds. With a pleased hum, she reached back to grip the wooden handle of the couch, and gently pressed her palm against his balls. 

He played with her clit, coating it in her arousal, then buried his middle finger inside her. She bit her lip and arched her back, a jolt from his thumb pressing into her clit causing her to moan. She removed her hand from between his legs—much to his disappointment—to dig her nails into his taut thigh. 

Dean dragged his tongue across her chest to attend to her other breast and dipped a second finger into her. Her pussy fluttered around his scissoring fingers, she whispered his name, moving her legs over his hips in a more comfortable position. Her hand slid up to bunch up in his shirt as her thighs twitched, screwing her eyes shut as the pleasure dazed her. 

Her shift in position brought her centre closer to him and he pushed a third finger into her, working her open thoroughly, expertly. Her wetness drenched his thick fingers, making every push and pull swift and easy. They curled inside her, rubbing delectably at her g-spot, pressing delightfully into the most sensitive parts of her walls. Her toes curled and she lifted herself up higher in his lap, implicitly urging him to skip to the fucking.

Dean instantly did as she wordlessly requested and pulled his glistening fingers out of her warmth. He stroked his cock a few times, first, watching her watch him coat himself in her excitement. He looked back down between their flushed bodies when he began moving his cock through her dewy folds, moaning contentedly at the sensation of her against him. 

She unclenched her hand from his shirt to bring up behind his neck, her delicate fingers slipping between short hairs. Finally, Dean pushed himself into her deliberately, then out gradually. Over and over they created a rhythm.

With one foot on the floor and his knee pressing into the backrest, his hands gripping her hips tightly. His lips connected to any part of her he could reach, moaning and gasping softly against her skin with every clench of her pussy, every measured thrust to feel every inch of her slide across his cock. 

Her arm flexed behind her as she moved with Dean, her fingers gripping the wooden arm of the couch tightly, timing each roll of her hips with his. Occasionally, she met every one of his thrust and brought his face closer to her with her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

His breath dampened her already steamy skin and his hands started to wander lovingly over her shiny body, feeling the exertion of her muscles beneath his calloused palms. 

Gradually, they began to move faster against each other. 

Dean’s body built up more heat with the clothes still covering every inch of him. His mouth went dry with every open-mouthed breath and he searched for her lips as a tingle ran up his spine, his stomach clenching to foreshadow his impending orgasm. 

He felt her breath against his lips and her fingers moved deeper into his hair, tugging so his mouth fell open. Her lips moved over his, her wet tongue bringing moisture back into his mouth, and over his chapped lips. Dean kissed her back with so much more force, easing his tongue into her mouth when she pulled hers out to smirk into the kiss. 

He squeezed her ass, painfully pressing his fingers into her back, desperately trying to feel her against his body. He fucked into her briskly, with strong thrusts that pressed his cock deeper into her channel until she squirmed from how good it was. He swallowed her pleased groan and brought her closer with his arm around her waist and his palm flat against her back. 

Dean’s thrust became erratic, every slam of his hips and every roll of hers made contact with her clit, bringing her close to the edge with him. Every touch of each other’s bodies, every hot and lewd kiss, every heavy and fast breath, every breathless and pleasured sound, every wet and hot sensation built up like volatile chemicals.

With a few final thrusts, Dean came with a groan of her name by her ear. She squeezed his cock tightly and cursed at the sensation of his hot cum coating her insides. Her thighs pressed into his hips as she orgasmed with a sharp gasp, clinging to him as they rode out their climax.

Dean ground his hips up into her, keeping himself deep inside her as she shook and held him in a tight embrace. Their lips met once more for a softer, more elated kiss as they became blanketed in the afterglow of their release. She released the wooden arm of the couch to cup Dean’s scruffy jaw and Dean’s arms circled around her waist.

He moved backwards carefully and laid her down onto her back, allowing her to fully wrap her legs around his waist. Dean shoved his suit jacket and dress shirt off as they kissed. She smiled against his mouth and let him pull away fully from her lips to watch him throw both items onto his bed. 

“It was cold before, but it’s hot now,” he muttered, pulling his t-shirt up over his head by the back of the neck. She giggled and brought her hands to his ass, moving his pants and underwear lower, past his thighs. 

“Well…” she trailed off, gazing at him as he slowly pulled his cock out of her. “Hey,” she pouted, moving his attention away from the mess between her legs and the mixture of their spendings leaked out of her. 

“Uh, yeah?” He grinned, moving off the couch to kick off the cowboy boots, and everything else so he was fully naked before her. 

“Your last gift,” she started, looking over to the bed. Before returning to his spot between her legs, Dean followed her eyes and lifted a brow. “It’s under your pillow,” she smiled shyly, looking up at him as his lips parted and then made an ‘o’. 

“Awesome,” he murmured, making his way to his side of the bed. He searched underneath with a swipe of his hands beneath the cool pillow and grabbed the small, somewhat heavy box decorated with pink wrapping paper and a silver bow. “What is it?” He asked, shaking it curiously.

She laughed at him, taking the unused napkin from the table to clean herself up, which distracted Dean from his gift. He was about to protest, offering to clean her up, but she laughed. He pouted at her, but settled back in her arms in the same position as before once she finished.

“I really… really hope you like this one,” she whispered against his shoulder. Dean looked back at her and smiled softly—his eyes reassuring her that he’d like anything that came from her. He carefully pulled at one end of the bow to watch it fall apart into a straight line. 

He ripped the paper to reveal a wooden box. Dean imagined a necklace, if the thud against the soft cushion inside the box revealed anything about what it actually was. 

A ring? He planned on proposing, but he’d say yes if she turned the tables. He smiled at the thought, but he doubted that they were stepped enough into a normal life for that. If it were up to him, he’d have asked her to marry him ages ago. 

He opened the box slowly and blinked at the steel key. 

“A… key?” He asked out loud, turning his body to look at her as she waited for his reaction anxiously. 

“I… bought a house?” She squeaked, her cheeks turning dark. Dean’s lips parted. He wanted to question her, to make a comment about what the place looked like or where it was or how much it cost, to say anything, but his throat tightened and clogged any words from escaping. With his tongue heavy in his mouth, there was no hope to ease her anxiety. He shut it instead. “For you- us. You and me…” she rambled, wrapping her hand around his to shut the box as if it were Pandora’s box—unleashing her deepest fears, but worst of all, her hope. 

“I…” Dean trailed off, staring at the wooden exterior of the square container. A little box that would give him the future he’s secretly always yearned for with her. He was too much of a coward to ever do anything and go for it. Her hand moved away from his and she shifted behind him awkwardly, pushing him off her so he’d face her instead. 

“You don’t…” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “It’s okay, if you don’t want… this…” She snatched the gift away from him as if she’d show him her deepest secret and had been judged for revealing what it was. 

“No! I-I do want this,” Dean reassured her and quickly took it back to open it, and remove the key from inside. He placed it on his palm, cold, small, and light against his sweaty skin. “I just…” His eyes flickered up to hers, the guarded and nearly stony expression on her face twisting his stomach in regret. “I love you,” he breathed, pressing his lips against the corner of her lips. 

“Are you sure?” She bit her lip, her eyes dancing over his face to gauge any emotion or shift that would hint to reveal he was truly feeling. “I don’t want you to be unhappy… if you don’t want this, it’s okay. You can tell me. I have a backup gift anyway,” she shrugged casually, moving to sit on her legs next to him.

She gazed at the side of his face as he continued to make her heart plummet with the long stare at the key in his hand. 

“Why?” He asked with knitted brows, looking at her. He could tell she felt much more bare and vulnerable as she crossed her arms over his chest and kept herself covered with her own body.

“I didn’t know if I wanted to give it to you just yet,” she admitted. Dean frowned. “But after today… the way you followed me around and helped me.. I changed my mind,” she shrugged again, “but it’s okay if we both want something different, if you’re not ready… you know I’d wait…” She smiled nervously, so it didn’t last, and her mouth returned to a straight line.

“No more waiting, baby.” Dean shook his head and put the key back into the box, leaving it beside him to take her hands. He lifted them both up to his lips, staring into her eyes to demonstrate his earnestness, “you waited long enough.” 

“I promise you that I’m ready,” he reassured her, brushing his thumbs against her knuckles. “This gift… it means so much to me. I do, truly, love you.” Dean tugged her hands and she finally laughed, allowing herself to be happy with him. In this moment. And forever. No more waiting. 

As he held her, Dean pictured the future they could have together and let his body rest without fear of everything else going on. For once, he’d let himself be happy. It was the one way he could let go of Sam, allowing both himself and his baby brother a shot at a normal life, something Dean wanted for himself and Sam for so long. This was the first step to freedom. 

“Happy birthday, Dean,” she whispered against his forehead, kissing the tiny scar that resided there. 

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[coffeegnomee]

The two sides of season 5.

The absolute vibe difference from looking at Minute’s lore by stitching together all the lore moments together VS taking out ALL the lore is sending me. 

And both are immaculate.

Like in the first, you would find Minute, Jumper, and Pentar in the cave, lost, silent, overwhelmed that they just lost the presidency and were betrayed by Leo and Clown.

Minute slides down the wall, buries his head in his hands. He was just a DM away, why didn’t they talk to him. They were so close to peace.

Burnt out, despondent. Weary from weeks of trying to save bases from PrinceZam, from weeks of resisting the urge to kill him. Emotionally drained from realizing there was a new threat on top of Zam; Mapicc and Ro were going to revert spawn to the way it was before they got there.

He had bet the presidency. And lost. Was betrayed by the whole server for some money.

What should he do now?

As they wait in that cave, the sounds of the server turning to hardcore echoes through the dripstone. Screams of frustration at the idiocy of Ro as Bacon is annihilated by an arrow cannon. Planet’s cry cut short as Zam’s sword stabs through his back.

They’re lost. Broken.

And then Zam’s sing-song voice comes to their ears. What are you going to do now, Minute? I just killed Planet, Minute? Do you care? Do you even care? 

What if I blew up the Vitalasy hole, Minute? Would you stop me?

The Vitalasy hole. Threatened over and over. Not this time. If Zam wanted to die, he could die.

The team exchanges a look, nodding. They equip their elytras and fly over. 

Zam is jumping up and down waving his hands. Insane grin spread wide. His arms thrown out in welcome as the team plummets from the sky like rocks, landing in full gear.

Zam says something stupid. Who cares what this cretin is saying. He’s the reason for everything bad that’s happened to them. “Let’s just cut to the chase”, Minute splashes the potions and in seconds the thorn in his side lies dead at his feet.

Mapicc and wemmbu destroy the Vitalasy hole. They would be next.

They plot the perfect ambush and in two swift strokes, both enemies are gone. The bloodlust keeps growing, it feels good, going back to his PMC roots. Just neutralize the threat in front of him. He never needed Clown to do the PMC’s good work.

Rumors fly that his enemies are possessing other server members’ bodies. It doesn’t matter. He could take them down again just as easily as before.

He takes a fight, and Clownpierce joins. He’s better than Clown. They have the gear advantage. 

But he slipped up. And all it takes is one slip up. He thought he knew what true bloodlust was. He thought he knew what cold, calculated indifference was. 

But Clown was far more relentless. Far more ruthless, targeting Minute and ignoring his teammates. 

Before he even knew what was happening, he was out of gear. On the run. Scrabbling over rock and river in a desperate attempt to flee. 

Maybe this is how Zam felt when he was dying. 

In one final attempt to swim away, he felt the cold steel of Clown’s sword pierce his armor and break it, plunging into his heart. It was all over. 

And then the other option is like:

(Every time I read this back I get the singsong “happy happy haPPY!” meme song stuck in my head. A silly goofy jingle. Or Zam doing the “I like purple, and I like green, but my favorite color, do you know my favorite color? My favorite color yellow!”. It makes me giggle so much. It’s so unserious.)

Minute is betrayed and it really freaking hurts. But time wins all wars, they would come up with the perfect attack eventually.

Completely unworried, they realize their names spell out Peanut Butter And Jelly! They’re the best part of a balanced breakfast!

They show up at spawn to see what the almighty and powerful wemmbu /neg has to say for himself. It’s a whole lot of nothing.

As they laugh together and leave for the carnival, Bacon just explodes, pops like a grape. It’s the funniest shit ever. They were going to win this war easy peasy. No worries.

They pose for a screenie to commemorate the new team name. Planet dies to Zam. Oh no! Anyway. 

Zam gets into call and it’s the perfect moment to mention that they’re the best part of a balanced breakfast! But this kid, man, he just wants to YAP. Yawn!

He starts threatening the Vitalasy hole or something. He’s done this so many times I literally could not care less. But he seems to be over there so I guess we’ll check it out. 

Laughing like drunken frat boys, high on their friendship, they fly over, and this ant is just standing at the top.

Let’s just wipe the grin off his face and screw this popsicle stand.

He drops. Really easily? Was that really his whole plan? If this is him winning, I hope he never stops winning. 

That was weird. Well. Anyways!

There’s this thing added where the dead can grant blessings and curses. That insane person, Zam, blesses Minute because of something called “made sense for my character”? Whatever that means. 

But man, Pentar got cursed twice and now he’s actually chubby. It’s like, kind of funny. But we have to fix him. 

Rek and Terry would die for them so Pentar can run. Quick fix. Everything is fair again. 

They move their base and prepare the Secret Plan™. The power of friendship was going to win this war. Together, they are an unstoppable force. Peace and justice would rule this land once and for all!

Jumper lures Mapicc over with some lie, Minute looks down the barrel of the arrow gun and giggles as he lines up the shot. It’s too easy. Jumper is safe on the camel and he pulls the trigger. Mappic pops like a grape, it’s a great sight to see. Enemy #2 is gone!

Maybe they could end this war today. Ash messages wemmbu, and wemmbu gets on. Omg the plan can happen today! They were going to win this war.

Wemmbu bans LifestealLord and it’s like, kind of concerning, but they have an ambush. With Ash’s signal they descend upon the president and kill him, it’s pitifully easy. Can you imagine his face when he saw his heart start dropping for the first time in weeks? Hilarious.

Are we the bad guys? No. no. 

Well, we may not loooook that peaceful right now, but you just gotta trust the process. 

Minute feels the first little doubt that they are as good as they think they are, he accepts the possibility. But like. They’re about to get the presidency back and unban everyone who was killed. The end result will fix everything. And everyone would be friends because who doesn’t love the power of friendship??

Ash, Jumper and Pentar EXPLODE in front of Minute. 

But that’s just not fair™. Kill us unceremoniously? We are not taking that.

They get brought back and there’s a slight issue. Their enemies start possessing bodies. But it’s nothing too important because they have a base to decorate!

And then their enemies stop playing fair. Why won’t they come to the AntiTrap Box™? Just come and sit down in front of us Oh My Gawd. We aren’t going to kill you, this is a friendly meeting because we are a little concerned that you might think you can win, but friendship is going to win. 

Fine. Observe from a distance.

We want a revive beacon of life. We can fight all week, and if any of you HAPPEN to last until Saturday we can do a big battle and then last team standing wins. Sound good?

What do you mean no? You want it to just play out? This is a human story? But I want to win. Somebody has to win.

The friendship gets strained as the tension grows. Their enemies still are a team of 4 despite the fact that they banned 3 people. They’re out numbered without Ash.

Over the next few days they get a little more paranoid. They know Clown has been logging on all day every day. They suspect a trap in their base, but they have to check it out together, so that none of them die. And preferably when nobody else is online so they’ll be safe.

But then they get goaded into a fight. But it was going to be fine. 15 stacks of xp each and secret netherite armor. They easily outmatched anyone who would come at them. 

At some point they had to fight, mighteswell be tonight. Mapicc is using harming arrows, the silly goober. 

Then Clown joins. And he’s also using harming. Maybe they missed something. 

Ro and Clown target Minute and Mapicc has a knock back sword that is really starting to get annoying. 

Things are not looking good. 

And the power of friendship is not strong enough in the face of an evil murderous clown. Minute dies, Pentar dies.

Jumper survives and rallies the And JellyS. One final stand to ban everyone. Because if nobody is alive, Lifesteal will be at peace. 

They fail. 

It’s sad. 

Oh Well! Let’s go back to the carnival!!! 

——

The second one also reads like a horror movie where it’s super happy but then every once in a while the screen goes blurry and the character starts breathing heavy when they realize maybe killing people should affect me, and then brightens up and the happy music starts playing again and it’s like the most unnerving shit ever. And then they all die brutally at the end.

But reading them back and remembering how both were actually happening at the same time is just so funny to me.

Maybe pb&j was a fun plot? nah. Unless? 

Also, I feel like it could be easy to read the second option as me being mean to pb&j and like /neg-ing their comments, but those out of pocket things makes this interpretation so much better, without it, it’s not nearly as absurd. And it genuinely brings me so much joy. Lifesteal used to not have any lore, and laughter at the other team and petulance at the things that go wrong for your team are time honored traditions. You can see Mapicc and Ro and Zam and Bacon and so many others doing it in earlier seasons. It comes out of them because it’s literally Minecraft and that always lends a certain level of absurdity at all times. Part of the charm. 

Also, I feel like if you missed Jumper’s pov of Minute’s and Pentar’s death you miss a lot of the character moments in either interpretation. She put it in her discord. 

[ozzgin]

Dear Ozzgin,

Is your new addition to the repertoire, the yandere android, a Mixture of Experts like GPT-4.5, or something else entirely? Would his performance / 'humanness' degrade if he were talking to another machine (an inhuman one, not designed to be Spacer-ly human) for a long time?

Any random lorebits on Spacers you did not include but would have had you felt less constrained?

Hah, okay, I see you've gotten into the technical aspects. I'm about to go on a ramble so I'll do a cut here for everyone else to not clog your feeds. Feel free to read if you're into this kind of stuff. :D

First, I just wanted to point this out because I've read your hashtags and comment: the CCD sensors were a bit of an asspull because it's one thing I'm more knowledgeable about, but I don't feel like it'd be a realistic choice, if I am to be nitpicky. They're expensive to produce and are mostly used for really high performance work (telescopes), but a humanoid robot wouldn't need such advanced digital imaging for daily life use. So, you know, it's arguable whether or not there are better alternatives when it comes to a mass-produced agent processing the immediate environment.

Now to your actual question: I've used the machine learning approach because this is currently our most advanced way of developing AI, but it would not be enough to explain the Android's perfect understanding of human speech. ChatGPT analyzes sentences and their meaning purely based on grammar and associations, but there's many examples of it struggling against anything more intricate than literal context. So yeah, that kind of sarcastic dialogue and implied meaning is wishful thinking of times far away sadly. I'm only wildly guessing he wouldn't struggle with today's impediments. There's a black box somewhere in there that fills the gaps and variables we don't have.

If at some point you find yourself with time to spare, I'd recommend reading the book directly. It's very interesting to see how people viewed the "future" back then, and you will detect a lot of optimism regarding computers - such as Daneel (the original Android) being a flawless human. Funnily enough, the book was published shortly before the Dartmouth Conference, so Asimov was this close to discover that language recognition is, in fact, a terribly tangled business and not as simple as they had originally expected.

I think I covered the basics when it comes to Spacers, but then again I cannot tell how easy it is to follow for someone that isn't familiar with the original work. I also didn't want to reproduce every fact, mot a mot, from Caves of Steel, especially since this is less about politics and more about romance. I'd suspect the people reading the story are not too bothered by the only briefly mentioned murder. Cause is less important when the effect is a tall robot boy with a crush on you 👀 if you feel me.

Anyways, I'm very glad you like the story, every now and then I'll insert little facts and technical details - as it usually is when you study Physics and CS but have no friends in the field - so it's definitely nice to have someone recognize the stuff! :)

[supermanshield]

Superbat and the Kryptonite Ring: A Reading List

The quick guide, if you just want to jump right in:

Superman (1987) #2

Optional: Action comics annual #1, Adventures of Superman #466, Action Comics #653. These lead up to Dark Knight over Metropolis.

Dark Knight over Metropolis: Superman (1987) #44, Adventures of Superman #467, Action Comics #654

Superman: The Man of Steel #21

Superman (1987) #126 (+ Action Comics #737)

Superman: Lex 2000 (one-shot)

Superman (1987) #168

Detective Comics #756

Batman #612

Optional: Superman/Batman #6, #12, #44-#49, Justice League (2011) #19-20, Batman/Superman (2019) Annual #1

When I think of Superbat, I think of trust. And when I think of superbat and trust I think of this:

panels from Action Comics #654

(and other things, but that's beside the point for this post). Superman trusts Batman with his life, and the decision to stop him if he ever needs to. But Batman also trusts Superman to make the right choice, giving the ring to him first. Even though at this point in post-crisis continuity they're not really friends - they know each other and their secret IDs, they've hung out a couple of times, but that's about it - Bruce doesn't make this choice himself and keeps anything from Clark, but gives the choice to Clark. This is not (yet) the paranoid Batman that keeps things like this from Clark.

So, where does this symbol of their friendship and trust come from, you ask? What happened to and with the ring throughout the years of post-crisis canon? Let's get into it under the cut.

The origin

Superman (1987) #2 (beware the Byrne-era Superman)

(Optional: Action comics annual #1, Adventures of Superman #466, Action Comics #653)

Dark Knight over Metropolis: Superman (1987) #44, Adventures of Superman #467, Action Comics #654

The kryptonite ring first makes its appearance in post-crisis continuity when Lex Luthor fashions a ring from a sliver of kryptonite that came from Metallo. However, its radiation causes him to get cancer and subsequently lose his hand. He keeps the ring in a safe after that. It eventually gets stolen by Amanda McCoy, who has found out that Clark is Superman, and goes to confront him with it. She panics and flees, leaving Clark behind, and she gets mugged and killed. The ring makes its way to the streets of Gotham, where it ends up in Batman's hands.

Dark Knight over Metropolis tells the story of Batman investigating the ring and its previous owner and her death. In the end and after saving each other multiple times, Bruce tells Clark about the ring he found and gives it to him. Eventually Clark shows up at the cave to give it to Bruce, the only man he can trust with his life.

Lost... and retrieved

Superman (1987) #126 (+ optional Action Comics #737)

Superman: Lex 2000

Superman (1987) #168 and Detective Comics #756

In Superman #126, Lex claims he needs the ring when he's on trial. Clark goes to batcave to pick it up himself and hands it over for tests, after which he gets it back, because he believes in fair trial. However, when Clark gets the ring back it's been replaced by a fake (something he doesn't notice because in his Superman blue era he was not susceptible to kryptonite). Luthor has the real one again, right before he becomes president.

panels from Superman (1987) #126

In the Superman: Lex 2000 one-shot, one of the stories shows Batman breaking into Lexcorp to threaten Lex to give back the ring, but this backfires.

panels from Superman: Lex 2000

In Superman #168, Lois then finally decides to take matters into her own hands and asks Batman for help stealing the ring back from Luthor, because Clark won't tresspass into the White House to steal it.

panels from Superman #168

This very chaotic but fun story is continued in Detective Comics #756. In the end, the ring is back with Clark, Lois, and Bruce. Though we never actually see who of them gets to keep it, I'm going to assume it's Bruce, because he has it in Batman: Hush, which takes place some years after this story.

Could Bruce use it? And Batman's paranoia

Superman: The Man of Steel #21

Batman #612

Superman/Batman: the Search for Kryptonite (#44-49) (specifically #49)

Justice League (2011) #19-20

Clark trusts Bruce enough to give him the means to stop him if he ever needs to, but could Bruce actually go through with it if he had to? Now, there are other contingencies that he has for a rogue Superman, as shown in Tower of Babel, but green K is the most direct one.

In 1993's Superman: The Man of Steel #21, set after Superman's death, there is a page that shows Bruce brooding in front of the case where he keeps the ring and contemplates if he could have used it. He sounds doubtful and above all reluctant when he says he would have had to, though ultimately it wouldn't have mattered anymore since Clark was dead at the time.

panels from Superman: The Man of Steel #21

This is much different from the Batman we see in Hush, where he keeps the ring on himself instead of in a case, and uses it without any doubt. In Batman #612, part of the Hush storyline, when Clark is under Poison Ivy's control, he uses it freely on Clark, enough to subdue him and snap him out of Ivy's control, but no more than that.

Of course, Batman doesn't kill, but from the moment Clark gives him the ring, the implication is given that there might be a scenario where it's a last resort and he actually has to stop Clark. I believe there is a comic that explores this in the Armageddon 2001 crossover, but I haven't read it. Or any other Elseworld stories where Superman goes evil, so I'm not aware if Bruce has ever used it like that. I like to think that even if he needs to, Bruce finds another way, because that's what Superman and Batman do.

Finally, in Superman/Batman: The Search for Kryptonite, Clark asks Bruce to help him rid the world of Kryptonite, after the large asteroid that carried Kara had come to earth. They go about this together very meticulously, and in the end, Clark decides to give Bruce the final piece of kryptonite. But when Bruce goes to deposit it in his cave, we see that he has all varieties and a stockpile of green K.

panels from Superman/Batman #49

This first of all is weird because doesn't Clark know that Bruce already has a kryptonite ring? Unless continuity was wiped somewhere inbetween again. But it also shows how paranoid Batman has become, how far we've strain from the Bruce that really trusted Clark and gave him the ring first in 1990 to do with it what he wanted. Instead, Bruce now keeps a lot of kryptonite unbeknownst to Clark. I personally like the 1990 version of Bruce much better.

During the New 52 era, Bruce also had a Kryptonite ring that was given to him by Clark, as shown in Justice League (2011) #19 and #20.

Extra appearances

Superman/Batman (2003) #12, Superman uses it or a different piece himself on Supergirl.

Batman/Superman (2019) Annual 1, a very fun Superman vs. Batman story :D

In animation: Justice League Doom, loosely based on Tower of Babel.

Fun fact: in JLA: Tower of Babel, Bruce's contingency for Clark has nothing to do with green K, unlike in the movie. I'm assuming that this is because at the time, in the comics, Bruce didn't have the ring, it was in Lex's posession (during his presidency). Besides that, Bruce's contingency for Clark in Tower of Babel is something that would affect him no matter where he is.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[nyxshadowhawk]

I Read The Silmarillion So You Don't Have To, Part Five

Previous part: https://nyxshadowhawk.tumblr.com/post/728961431368761344/i-read-the-silmarillion-so-you-dont-have-to-part

Chapter 10: Of the Sindar Meanwhile, in Middle-earth…

Remember the Sindar? They’re the people of Elwë, the only one of the original three Elven Lords who never made it back to Valinor, and Melian, a Maia who seduced him. The Sindar are basically native to Middle-earth, and save for Elwë himself, none of them have seen the Two Trees of Valinor. That makes them “Grey Elves,” neither light nor dark. They live in Beleriand, the westernmost land mass of Middle-earth, on which most of The Silmarillion takes place, and which is completely gone by the time LotR takes place.

Elu Thingol by @bohemianweasel

The Sindar know Elwë as Thingol, which is Sindarin for “Greymantle,” and acknowledge him as king. Earlier, I assumed that Thingol and Melian were the ancestors of the Sindar, but this isn’t true; they only have one child, and her name is Lúthien. She is one of the other major players in The Silmarillion, and was based directly on Tolkien’s wife Edith, so she’s kind of a big deal. She’s born in the forest of Neldoreth, and white flowers spring up to greet her.

While Melkor was being held captive in Valinor, the Dwarves finally enter the picture in Middle-earth. They call themselves Khazâd, and the Sindar call them Naugrim, which means “stunted people.” The Elves are somewhat bewildered when the Dwarves come into Beleriand from the East, because they didn’t know that any other people existed. They assumed that they were the only living things who could speak or make things. They don’t learn the Dwarven language, but the Dwarves endeavor to learn Sindarin. When the Noldor eventually show up, the Dwarves really like them, because the Noldor share their reverence for the god Aulë and their skill at metalwork and cutting gemstones.

Because Melian is a Maia, she can see the future. She warns Thingol that the peace isn’t going to last. Thingol decides to build a fortress in case worst comes to worst, and enlists the help of the dwarves to build it. The Dwarves oblige, happy to have a new project, and Thingol pays them in pearls, which they’d never seen before. The biggest pearl is called Nimphelos, which the Dwarves particularly value. (Its name sounds a lot like Omphalos, an egg-shaped sacred stone at Delphi that the Ancient Greeks thought was the navel of the world.) The Dwarves build Thingol a mansion underground, in the style of their own. I’m guessing that, like Hobbit holes, this is a reference to Celtic fairy lore that describes fairies as living in mounds. Like the fairies of British and Irish lore, Thingol has a lavish underground palace called Menegroth, the Thousand Caves. Its pillars are carved to look like trees, with carved animals on the walls and in the “branches” of the pillars. Colorful mosaics decorate the floors, banners and tapestries chronicle the deeds of the Valar, there are silver fountains and singing nightingales, and it’s all as beautiful as anything gets outside of Valinor.

Everything’s great for a bit, but Melkor’s monsters still exist, and eventually Orcs and wolves push into Beleriand. The Elves don’t know what the Orcs are. They assume that the Orcs are Avari (Elves that refused to go to Valinor) that turned evil, which is almost right in an indirect way. Thingol needs weapons to fight Melkor’s monsters, but the Sindar don’t have any weapons and don’t know how to make them, because they’ve never needed them before. The Dwarves know how to make them, having used them to fight all the dangerous things in the East, and they teach the Sindar how to make and use them. Dwarves remain the absolute best at making things of steel, and they invented chainmail.

Remember the Nandor? They were another subgroup of Elves who split off from the Teleri while they were traveling to Valinor, and stayed in Middle-earth. They become the Wood Elves, and their descendants will be the elves of Mirkwood. But at this point in history, they come to Thingol, seeking protection from Melkor’s monsters. Thingol lets them stay in an eastern land called Ossiriand.

A Sindar Elf named Daeron invents the runic writing system, which the Elves don’t care for, but the Dwarves readily adopt.

Once again, everything’s great for a while. But then, Morgoth and Ungoliant have their struggle to the north. The Sindar hear Morgoth’s shrieking and know that something is wrong. Melian’s magic keeps Ungoliant from entering their land, but barely. The Sindar are suddenly assaulted by Morgoth’s massive army of Orcs from his northern citadel of Angband. The Orcs aren’t like anything the Sindar have ever seen, and there’s thousands of them. We get a short summary of the ensuing battle (in which Tolkien drops more place names than I can possibly keep track of).

The Elves and Dwarves win, but they lose a lot of lives in the process. The King of the Nandor, an Elf named Denethor, dies in combat. Distraught by his death, many of his people renounce open war. They are called Laiquendi, “Green Elves,” because they wear leaves. The rest of the Nandor join the Sindar, and merge with them. The Sindar fence themselves into their forest with a magic wall of “shadow and bewilderment” that Melian casts to keep the Orcs out. After that, their forest becomes known as Doriath, the “Land of the Girdle,” after the magic wall. The wall protects them, but the peace and bliss are broken.

Chapter 11: Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor In which the Two Trees have a last hurrah.

Back in Valinor, the Valar are very sad about the Trees, but they’re even sadder about Fëanor. Fëanor is, without a doubt, the best of the Elves. He may be a narcissist, but he’s right about how great he is: he’s the strongest, the smartest, the cleverest, the most beautiful, the most skilled, and the most capable both mentally and physically. Imagine all the good he could have done in the world, and what beautiful and useful things he might have made, if Morgoth hadn’t corrupted him! Now he’s going to waste his life on a pointless endeavor, and his entire line is cursed. It didn’t have to be like this. When a messenger tells Manwë how Fëanor responded to the prophecy of doom, Manwë cries.

However, Manwë doesn’t dispute Fëanor’s boast that people will sing of his deeds until the end of the world. After all, songs are beautiful things. If you remember, Eru Ilúvatar told Melkor that all of his evil deeds will result in more beautiful things, that no one would otherwise have conceived of. Evil always begets good, in spite of itself. Fëanor’s evil deeds will result in the creation of beautiful art in the future, thus indirectly producing good things. But that doesn’t make Fëanor’s actions any better in the present.

Yavanna, goddess of plants, and Nienna, goddess of sorrow, do their absolute best to heal the Trees. The Trees are beyond saving, but the goddesses’ lamentation does do something: With their last bit of strength, Telperion bears a single silver flower, and Laurelin bears a single golden fruit. Yavanna picks them both off the trees. After that, the Two Trees die for good, with nothing but their lifeless stems remaining in Valinor as a sad monument to what once was. Manwë blesses the flower and the fruit, and Aulë makes vessels to hold and preserve them. Then Varda hangs them in the sky as the new lamps: The flower of Telperion is the Moon, and the fruit of Laurelin is the Sun. The two lights will help the Children of Ilúvatar and hinder Morgoth.

Creation of the Two Trees by Julia Pelzer

Each group of Elves has a different name for the Moon and the Sun. The Vanyar (the Elves who got to Valinor first and stayed there) call them Isil and Anar. The Noldor call them Rána the Wayward, and Vána the Heart of Fire.

The Moon and Sun also have their own Maiar to guide them through the sky. The Maia of the Sun is called Arien, and the Maia of the Moon is called Tilion. Both Maiar had loved their respective Trees while the Trees were alive, and begged for the position of tending to the Sun and Moon. Arien is a fire goddess who doesn’t fear the heat of the sun, and Tilion is a hunter god who was one of Oromë’s companions. (This mirrors Norse Mythology, in which the Sun is driven by a goddess called Sol or Sunna, and the Moon by a god called Máni.)

Narsilion by breath-art

The Moon rises first, and brings hope to the Elves. When the Moon rises, Fingolfin and the Noldor begin their long trek into Middle-earth across the frozen north. After the Moon rises and sets seven times, the Sun is hung in the sky, and the first dawn comes. When the Sun sets, it comes to rest in Valinor, briefly reminding the Valar and remaining Elves of the light of the Two Trees and the joy they once had. But the Sun and Moon still pale in comparison to the Two Trees. The only remaining things that preserve the original light, pre-Ungoliant’s destruction, are the Silmarils.

Morgoth is obviously horrified, and immediately sends dark clouds to prevent the Sun from shining upon his land of Angband. Arien, the Maia of the Sun, is the only entity that Morgoth is really afraid of, and he no longer has the strength to attack her. But he does send evil spirits after Tilion, the Maia of the Moon. (This might explain why the moon has phases, but it’s not explicitly said.)

The Valar still remember what happened the last time they put up lamps, and they’re not about to let Morgoth destroy their paradise for a third time. They decide to almost completely cut off Valinor from the rest of the world. They make the Pélori Mountains around Valinor rise impossibly high, with sheer faces like glass. The only way in or out of Valinor is through a mountain pass called the Calacirya, which the Valar leave open to allow the Elves to see the stars. But the pass is heavily guarded. And, as an extra precaution, they fill the sea with enchanted islands that are full of illusions to confuse and trap anyone who tries to sail to Aman. The Noldor are officially, permanently cut off from Valinor — there’s no turning back now.

Telperion and Laurelin by MrSvein872

Chapter 12: Of Men In which the Men finally show up.

Having sealed themselves away, the Valar basically leave Middle-earth to the mercy of Morgoth. It’s not all bad, though; the Sun keeps Morgoth at bay, and it causes many new things to grow in Beleriand. Beleriand is a pretty nice place, for what it’s worth. Not as nice as Valinor, but, y’know… it could be worse.

When the Sun rises, the Men finally awaken. The Elves have a lot of different names for them, but the important ones are Atani (“Second People”) and Hildor (“Followers”). The Men didn’t have a Vala to invite them to Valinor. Men fear the Valar, because they don’t really know what the Valar are or why they’re there, and the Valar have stopped paying attention to Middle-earth. Ulmo watches over the Men through all the water of Middle-earth, but Men don’t know how to understand the divine messages brought to them by the water. It’s rumored that the Men befriend the Avari, the Dark Elves who never went to Valinor.

At the time, Men looked more like Elves than they do now. Men were taller, stronger, and longer-lived than they are now, but Elves were still prettier, wiser, and more skilled than Men. Elves are immortal, and do not sicken or age, but they can still be killed. Men have less robust bodies and are more prone to illness and injury. Dark Elves are better than Men, but the High Elves that saw Valinor are significantly better than both Dark Elves and Men. The only Dark Elves that come close to the greatness of the High Elves are the Sindar, and that’s only because their queen is a Maia.

The other big difference between Elves and Men is what happens after they die. When Elves die, they go to the Halls of Mandos and eventually reincarnate. The Elves don’t know what happens to Men after they die. If they go to the Halls of Mandos, they don’t go to the same part of them that the Elves go to. No one but Mandos and Manwë knows what happens to the Men after that. Only one Man ever came back from the dead (we’ll get there). It’s possible that the only entity that knows anything about what happens to Men after death is Ilúvatar himself.

The relationship between Elves and Men gets steadily worse with time, mostly because of Morgoth (again, we’ll get there). By the time of the Third Age, when LotR takes place, there are very few Elves left. They have retreated away from the sunlight, into lonely woods and caves, and “become as shadows and memories.” The Men take over from the Elves, and forget that the Elves ever existed. But the The Silmarillion is about the First Age, and back then, Elves and Men were friends. Some Men achieved greatness through learning Elven wisdom, and some Men even had children with Elves.

Chapter 13: Of the Return of the Noldor In which we return to the main plot, and a LOT of shit goes down.

Where we last left the Noldor, Fingolfin was leading them on an impossible journey across a frozen wasteland to cross into Middle-earth, because he saw Fëanor burn the boats on the opposite shore. Fëanor and his sons continued further into Middle-earth, and made a camp in the north.

Morgoth also saw Fëanor burn the boats. Even Morgoth was a little afraid of Fëanor, so he decides to preemptively attack Fëanor’s camp. Despite being taken by surprise, the Elves trounce the Orcs, because they still have the strength of Valinor in them. They’re strong and swift, with sharp and effective weapons, and the Orcs don’t stand a chance. A small handful of Elves — Fëanor, his seven sons, and their loyalists — slaughter an entire army’s worth of Orcs in only ten days. Morgoth’s plans for the conquest of Beleriand are ruined, for now.

Fëanor assumes that by chasing down the Orcs, he’ll find Morgoth. Fëanor is so impassioned, so ready to finally kick Morgoth’s ass, that he pats himself on the back for having defied the Valar. It was such a good idea to tell the Valar to go fuck themselves and come to Middle-earth! Now he gets the opportunity to personally take Morgoth down!

He spoke too soon. Fëanor promptly finds himself face-to-face with the fortress of Angband and an entire army of Balrogs. Oops.

Somehow, Fëanor manages to hold his own against multiple Balrogs, until Gothmog, the Lord of the Balrogs, nearly kills him. He only survives because his sons arrive at the last minute with reinforcements to fend off the Balrogs.

Fëanor against the Lord of the Balrogs by Evolvana

Fëanor doesn’t live for much longer, though. His sons start to carry him back to their camp, but he bleeds out on the way. He curses Morgoth and tells his sons to avenge him with his dying breath. As his spirit leaves him, his body burns to ash, because his soul is just that fiery. And that’s it — Fëanor, the mightiest Elf to ever live, is dead. His curse means that his soul is forever trapped in the Halls of Mandos, and he will never reincarnate. No one like him will ever appear in Arda again.

The Death of Curufinwe Feanaro by Gwenniel

Honestly, I’m surprised that Fëanor dies this early. I thought he was the central character, but I’m still only about a third of the way through, maybe less.

Despite having taken out Fëanor (mostly due to Fëanor’s own arrogance and impulsiveness), Morgoth still lost badly. He sends an envoy to Fëanor’s sons, acknowledging defeat and requesting a ceasefire, even offering to surrender a Silmaril. Fëanor’s eldest son, Maedhros (MY-thros, ‘th’ as in “this”) takes over from Fëanor as the leader of the Noldor. Maedhros doesn’t trust Morgoth as far as he can throw him, but decides to go to the negotiation anyway, with backup. Of course it’s an ambush, and there are Balrogs. All of Maedhros’s backup are killed, and Maedhros himself is captured and taken to Angband.

Fëanor’s other sons build themselves a mighty fortress, but Morgoth keeps Maedhros hostage until the Noldor agree to end the war and leave Beleriand. The sons of Fëanor doubt that Morgoth will keep his word on that. They also literally can’t stop fighting Morgoth, because of their oath. So, Morgoth hangs Maedhros by the wrist from the face of the Thangorodrim Mountains. The only remaining option is to try to rescue him.

Maedhros Upon Thangorodrim by Jenny Dolfen

Back with Fingolfin, the rest of the Noldor painstakingly make their way across the land bridge. It’s an agonizing journey, and many Elves die, but when the first dawn finally comes, Fingolfin unfurls his banner and blows his horn in victory. The ice starts to melt, and flowers spring up under his feet. The Sun chases Morgoth to the depths of his citadel, so he doesn’t harass Fingolfin’s group as they arrive in Middle-earth.

Helcaraxe by Stefan Meisl

Fingolfin is wiser than Fëanor, and doesn’t try to attack Angband. Instead, he tries to find the other Noldor. Most of his Fingolfin’s group really hate Fëanor and his sons, because it’s their fault that they nearly froze to death. So, they make their own camp near Lake Mithrim.

Fëanor’s group hears of their arrival. They’re astounded and impressed that Fingolfin and co. managed to survive, and that they made it to Middle-earth. They would welcome Fingolfin’s group, but they’re too ashamed to offer. Too little, too late.

Fingon, Fingolfin's son, decides to try to heal the relationship between the two groups of Noldor. He recognizes that Morgoth would be thrilled if his enemies were so divided against themselves. If they want to stand a chance against Morgoth, they have to unite. Fingon has the perfect idea for how to bring the two groups together. He was very close to Maedhros. He doesn’t know that Maedhros wanted to go back for him when Fëanor burned the ships, so, he assumes that Maedhros betrayed him. Even so, he still cares enough about Maedhros to want to try to rescue him.

He climbs the mountains of Thangorodrim by himself, hidden under the cover of the darkness that Morgoth created to shut out the sun. Then, Fingon takes out a harp and starts singing. He sings a song from Valinor, from long before the unrest took hold. His voice rings throughout the mountains, in which there had never been singing before. He sings in defiance of Morgoth like the Whos singing in defiance of the Grinch on Christmas Day.

He Sang a Song of Valinor by Jenny Dolfen

Faintly, he hears an answering voice singing the same song. Maedhros is singing, despite his suffering. Fingon climbs up to where Maedhros hangs, and cries when he sees how much pain Maedhros is in. Maedhros has long since given up hope, and begs Fingon to shoot him, to put him out of his misery. Fingon prepares to shoot an arrow, but says a prayer to Manwë, asking him to have mercy.

Fingon’s prayer is answered. Manwë sends the King of the Eagles, Thorondar, who picks up Fingon and carries him up the mountain face to where Maedhros hangs. Fingon can’t find any way to open or break the shackle that holds Maedhros, and can’t detach it from the mountain face. Maedhros again begs Fingon to kill him, but Fingon figures that it’s better to lose a hand than to die. Fingon cuts off Maedhros’ hand, and Thorondar catches him, carrying both Elves back to Lake Mithrim.

Flight from Thangorodrim by @thegreencarousel

(As you can probably guess, a lot of Silm fans ship Fingon and Maedhros. I almost did, too… and then I remembered that they’re first cousins.)

After that, the rift between the two groups of Noldor is healed. Fingon is hailed as a hero by both groups of Noldor. Maedhros steadily gets better, and recovers his strength. He pulls and Inigo Montoya and learns to wield a sword just as well with his left hand. He also waives his claim to kingship over the Noldor. He begs Fingon to forgive him for having deserted him back when Fëanor burned the boats, and tells Fingon that he’s the rightful heir of the House of Finwë. That’s a nice gesture, but it’s actually part of the curse — The House of Fëanor became known as the Dispossessed, because even though they’re the older brother’s children, they permanently lost the rulership of the Noldor.

The now-united Noldor decide to explore Beleriand a little more, and they eventually meet the Sindar. The Noldor and Sindar recognize each other as kin, but have a hard time understanding each other because they speak different languages. Eventually, they figure out a way to talk to each other. The Noldor learn about King Thingol and the magic wall around his kingdom of Doriath, and about the Sindar’s battles with the Orcs. The Sindar are delighted that these stronger, smarter elves from Valinor arrived right when they were most needed, and assume that the Valar must have sent them.

Thingol is less enthused about a bunch of hotheaded foreign princes arriving in his land. The only Noldor he trusts to let past the magic wall are Finarfin’s children: Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Galadriel. This is because their mother was Eärwen, one of the Teleri Elves and Thingol’s niece. So, they’re his closest relatives among the Noldor. Angrod is the first of the Noldor to enter Thingol’s palace in Doriath. He tells Thingol all about what happened to the Noldor in the North — how they crossed over, how many of them there are, how they beat back Melkor’s forces, how Finrod saved Maedhros, etc. He leaves out the part about the kinslaying and the curse.

Thingol gives the Noldor his blessing to remain in the northern part of Beleriand, but they can’t displace the Sindar from their homes. They also aren’t allowed to come past Doriath’s magic wall, unless they’re invited, or if they desperately need an audience with Thingol. Thingol is Lord of Beleriand and the Noldor are imposing upon him, so, they’re in no position to argue.

When Angrod brings this message back to the Noldor, Maedhros straight-up laughs. “What kind of king is he? These aren’t his lands. He doesn’t have the power to grant us leave to live here, as if we were his vassals. If it weren’t for us, there’d be Orcs breaking down his door.”

Maedhros by _star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Caranthir, another one of Fëanor’s sons who inherited his father’s fiery temper, also doesn’t like Thingol’s conditions. “Who’s idea was it to send Finarfin’s sons as our spokesmen? I don’t trust a word they say, and I don’t trust this cave-dwelling Dark Elf. Finarfin’s sons should remember that, whoever their mother was, their father was still a Noldo — they should be loyal to the Noldor.”

Angrod is furious at this, and storms out. Maedhros chides Caranthir for going too far. The rest of the Noldor are all concerned that Fëanor’s whole family appears to be a ticking time bomb. It’s only a matter of time before one of them snaps and causes violence. Maedhros reads the room, and manages to get his brothers under control. He decides that he and his brothers should leave before things get worse. Not just leave the meeting, but leave the region — it’s better that they and the other Noldor remain friends at a distance, rather than risk another confrontation that tears them apart from within.

Maedhros and his brothers head east. Their new home is more exposed, and has less natural defense against Angband, but Maedhros doesn’t mind this. He and his brothers can be a buffer for the rest of the Noldor if Morgoth attacks again. And of course, the curse is still in effect.

Caranthir and his people are the first to find the Dwarves, who had stopped coming into Beleriand ever since the battle against Morgoth. You’d think that the Dwarves and the Noldor would have a lot in common, since both love to make things from metals and gems, and they both appreciate good craftsmanship. But nope. The Dwarves are too secretive, and Caranthir is too arrogant. He doesn’t even bother to hide that he thinks the Dwarves are ugly, and all his underlings follow suit. Despite that, the Dwarves and Caranthir’s Elves have a common enemy in Morgoth, so, they form an alliance anyway. From that alliance, Caranthir ends up learning a lot of Dwarven secrets about metalworking and masonry. It’ll really pay off for him in the future.

Caranthir by Miyota

Twenty years pass since the Sun first rose, and Fingolfin decides to throw a feast to unite all the scattered Elves. This feast is such a big deal that it has a name — Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. It’s a last moment of joy and happiness before everything goes to hell again. A number of Sindar attend the feast as well, alongside their leader, an Elf called Círdan (you’re gonna want to remember him). Thingol does not leave his magically-fortified palace, but he sends two diplomats to the feast — Daeron, the Elf that invented runes, and another called Mablung. There are even some Green Elves from the easternmost part of Beleriand. The main language spoken at the party is Sindarin, because the Noldor have had an easier time learning it than the other Elves have had of learning Quenya. All the Elves are on good terms with each other, and everything is great for a while. The Noldor begin to think that maybe Fëanor was right about Middle-earth being a good place for them.

Another thirty years pass. Turgon (Fingon’s brother and a son of Fingolfin) meets up with Finrod (a son of Finarfin). Together, they travel southward on the River Sirion, just to get away for awhile. They sleep on the riverbank, and Ulmo (the Vala of water) sends them a dream. Neither of them remembers the dream, only that it was troubling, and neither realizes that they had the same dream. After that, they’re both burdened with a sense of unease. Troubling dreams can only mean one thing — Morgoth is going to become a problem again. Turgon and Finrod independently decide that it’s a good idea to prepare for the worst.

Finrod and Galadriel, his sister, are briefly guests of King Thingol in Doriath (being two of the few Noldor whom Thingol would allow past the magic wall). Finrod is very impressed by the majesty of Menegroth, the king’s underground palace. He wants his own underground palace just like it, and tells Thingol as much. Thingol could have said, “no, how dare you copy me,” but instead he tells Finrod about a secret place in his realm — there’s a gorge in the River Narog, the river to the west of the Sirion, where there’s a cave complex that Finrod can use to build a palace.

Enlisting the help of some Dwarves, Finrod builds his palace, Nargothrond. He gives the Dwarves treasures from Valinor to thank them. The Dwarves are so impressed with the jewels that they make Finrod a beautiful necklace called the Nauglamír, which is said to be the finest work of the Dwarves in the First Age. It’s set with many, many gemstones from Valinor, but it’s as light as spider silk. The Dwarves are also grateful to Finrod for giving them an excuse to build another cool cave palace. They give him an epithet in their own language, Felegund, which means “Hewer of Caves.” Only a really cool Elf appreciates caves so much that he asks for his own cave palace.

Finrod by _star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Galadriel decided to stay in Thingol’s court, instead of following her brother to Nargothrond. She happened to meet one of Thingol’s relatives, a certain Sinda named Celeborn, and fell in love with him. Staying with Celeborn gave Galadriel the opportunity to study at the feet of Melian herself. So, if you’re wondering where Galadriel gets her wisdom and power from, it’s because she learned directly from a Maia.

Meanwhile, Turgon is feeling homesick for Valinor. He remembers the city of Tirion on its hill, with its silver tree (not the Silver Tree, one of its descendants). When he returns home, Ulmo personally appears to him, and tells him to go to the Vale of Sirion. He finds a hidden valley surrounded by mountains, in the center of which is a hill. It’s the perfect place to establish a New Tirion.

Throughout all this, Morgoth has been carefully observing the Noldor’s activities, and judging their strength. As soon as the Noldor are too distracted by city-building to prepare for war, Morgoth strikes. The Orcs are still a lot weaker than the Elves. Fingolfin and Maedhros chase the new Orc army all the way back to Angband. They kill every last one, within sight of Angband’s gates. But remember, Morgoth is a Vala, and has more up his sleeve than simply Orc armies. He causes earthquakes, fires, and volcanic eruptions. The Elves realize that there’s only one thing to do: cut the threat off at its source. They lay siege to Angband, and this siege lasts a full four hundred years.

Angband by gresetdavid

The Orcs are so afraid of the Noldor that they don’t leave Angband. Fingolfin boasts that the only way Morgoth could score a point against them is if the Noldor commit treason amongst themselves, which sounds a lot like tempting fate. Despite his confidence, the siege is a failure. Four hundred years, and the Elves don’t get any closer to capturing Angband, let alone taking back the Silmarils. Morgoth can still send spies out the back way, because the Elves can’t climb the snowy Thangorodrim Mountains. He captures Elves alive, and terrifies them so much that they do his bidding without having to be forced. He also looks for opportunities to sew dissent amongst the Noldor. It worked once, so it can work again.

A hundred years into the siege, Morgoth tries to capture Fingolfin. He knows that Maedhros isn’t about to let himself get captured again, and taking out the king would be an advantageous move. So, Morgoth sends a bunch of Orcs to sneak towards the Elves’ camp using the back way, through the same frozen mountain pass that Fingolfin used to get into Middle-earth. Morgoth should know at this point that Orcs are no problem for Elves. Fingon notices the Orcs, and slaughters them. This battle doesn’t even count as one of the “great battles,” because there aren’t enough Orcs for it to be notable. After that, there’s an interlude of peace that lasts for many years.

Fingon by _star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Morgoth finally gets the memo that he’s not going to beat the Elves by throwing Orcs at them. So, he tries a new tactic: A fucking dragon! If you think Smaug is bad, he’s a little baby lizard in comparison to Morgoth’s dragons. This one is called Glaurung (“gold worm” in Sindarin), and it’s a fat worm-like thing with a mouth of sharp teeth and fire breath. Glaurung is a young dragon, so, he mostly just thrashes around destroying fields and so forth. But he sufficiently terrifies the Elves.

Glaurung by Vaejoun

Fingon isn’t afraid, though, and takes a band of archers to pummel Glaurung with arrows. Glaurung’s armored scales haven’t fully developed yet, so the arrows drive him crawling back into Angband. Fingon is endlessly praised by the Noldor for having defeated the dragon, and Morgoth is kicking himself for having shown his hand too soon.

After Glaurung’s defeat comes the Long Peace, which lasts two hundred years. In that time, the Elves have the opportunity to build beautiful cities and write books of lore and create other art. (This time is called the “Long Peace” because Morgoth doesn’t make any attacks, but presumably, the Siege of Angband is still going on.) The Noldor and Sindar also intermix, becoming more like one society, though the biological and cultural differences between them remain: The Noldor are still smarter and stronger, wiser, better warriors, and they like living in stone buildings. The Sindar have better singing voices, and are better musicians in general, and like living in the woods. Some Sindar are nomadic and wander around Beleriand, singing as they go.

*whew.* That’s it for this section.

Next part.

[theheartofone]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Nine

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Spitfire

I’m going to kill Law.

No, really, I’m planning his demise.

Nami’s fingers gently interlock through my dark and unruly hair, neatly braiding two symmetrical strips across my head - but all that’s running under that brewing scalp of mine is how I can make Law pay for what he’s done.

Last night was the worst. With Zoro’s snoring and his random mutterings in his sleep, I was practically left wide awake, strewn across the open-spaced crumbling floor, my eye twitching in unbridled irritation.

And with my hand being otherwise occupied, I woke up like a mess. Dishevelled and barbaric, my hair kept slipping over my eyes and I was left there with no way of helping myself. At one point, I considered shaving my head clean - but before I could grab a sharp scrap of metal to de-hair myself, Nami had walked to the firepit of where Zoro and I sat like furious toddlers. She took one pitiful long look at me, and then had decided she had to intervene with my appearance.

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” she lightly says in my ear, her fingers looping through another dark brown lock into another. Her other hand pats my head, her orange hair entangling around my shoulders in a sign of solidarity. “Maybe… I don’t know, maybe it’ll make you two learn to tolerate each other more?”

“But he sucks!” I whine out, stamping my free hand against the rocky ground. “He sucks at sleeping, Nami! You know what he so lovingly said in his sleep last night? Into my ear? ‘I’m going cut you down. I’m going to bury all your limbs in different places, so that even in your death you won’t be honoured.’ I was fucking horrified. I couldn’t sleep.”

Robin’s rich laugh echoes throughout the cave, her deep blue eyes fixed on mine. She tilts her head as if considering a thought, a finger pressed beneath her mouth. “I wonder how he’d cut you down with only one hand free to him.”

I gape at Robin and give her a thanks for adding more fuel to my nightmare spout; not to mention, I can feel Nami behind me with a massive grin on her face as she sprays a mist of water against my matted hair.

“It’s not funny.” I pout, eyeing the hot breakfast that Sanji’s so lovingly cooked up, all encircling deliciously around the firepit. “I’m not even in the mood to eat anymore. Zoro eats the size for two fucking orcs, anyway.”

Robin amusedly looks at me as she pointedly lays her book on the floor. She places her chin in the palm of her hand, which in turn makes me raise a brow.

Not knowing why, I hesitate for a second. “What?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Raya, but I can’t help find this a little entertaining,” she smiles, her eyes flicking to the area next to me. “Especially when Zoro’s sitting right next to you.”

I turn and for the first time in the entire morning, I realise that Zoro is indeed sat right next to me. As if he could even be anywhere else.

I slowly turn, meeting the gaze of someone who’s been pointedly glaring at me for a lot longer than I’ve realised, his bewildered look searing into me as if I’ve just insulted him.

My face falls.

Oh. I did just insult him.

“Really?” Zoro grumbles out, his mouth full of sausage and bread. He instantly drops the rest of his breakfast onto the plate, as if hurt by what I said, and, in a tantrum, wipes the grease on his trousers.

“We have napkins,” Nami quietly mutters out, judgement written all over her face.

My face contorts from guilt to irritation in an instant. “Well, excuse me for trying to have some girl time, Zoro,” I blurt out and eye him with disdain. “I need a way to get through this… imprisonment, somehow.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t we talk about how you accidentally flashed me when you were taking a bath?” Zoro grins with spite, a brow raised at me in challenge. My face falls, heat growing across my cheeks. Oh, gods. “One second you make me crouch on the floor to get you in the water, and the next second you try to get out, tackling me down all wet and n—"

I clamp my other hand over his mouth shut – sealed tight, air-locked – as I hiss, “It was an accident!”

Nami and Robin burst out laughing, moving their heads between Zoro and I as if witnessing a legendary sword-fighting match.

“Yeah, never mind what I said before; looks like you two are really getting to know each other without my help,” Nami impishly says, making us chained folk both roll our eyes and Robin chuckle louder.

For a moment, Nami hesitates, and before she sits in the empty space besides me, she takes the perfect moment to scruffle Zoro’s mossy hair, making him grumble and helplessly attempt to duck away from her looming hand. Nami only smirks and twirls a few of his green strands in her fingers, eyes glinting at Zoro with the slightest inkling of hope. “You need a hairdresser too, princess?”

“No.”

A kiss of teeth. “You suck.”

“Go bother the cook,” a muffle from a mouthful of sausage and bread quips back. Suddenly, a slow smirk rises on one side of Zoro’s mouth as he takes a moment to look at Nami in the eyes. “Talkin’ about that, didn’t I see you and him gettin’ all tolerant with each other yesterday?”

I look up in surprise, but Robin only smirks with her usual goddamn omniscient look in her eyes. Nami’s face has fallen as if Zoro’s just struck a knife in her face before a terrifying appearance of fury crosses her. A beat passes before Nami and I both shout out at the same time.

“What?” I gasp in betrayal, accusingly stabbing a finger at Zoro’s arm. “Why didn’t you tell me anything!”

“I’m going to pummel you in the face,” Nami grits out through clenched teeth, her legs tensing as she prepares to lunge at Zoro. Instinctively, Zoro raises his free arm to block the incoming blow, bracing himself for impact. But the strike never comes.

Zoro hesitates, slightly opening his eye, puzzled by the sudden stillness. His confusion mirrors my own as I glance at Nami, expecting her fury to have landed by now. But instead of following through with her threat, she’s frozen, her gaze lifted to the ceiling, eyes wide with something that almost looks like awe.

My curiosity piqued, I follow her line of sight, craning my neck to see what has captured her attention. There, in the distance, my eyes lock onto a familiar beady-eyed beast.

Of course, I think, suppressing a wry smile. Great timing.

A silhouette of an unnaturally immense-sized dragon beats its wings in equal movements, with three tiny sized passengers scrambling on his stern – one of them clasping his straw hat on his head with a flimsy arm. Luffy’s screams bounce on any available wall, floor, and ceiling throughout the gaping tunnel, making Aragnus huff out through his snout in impatience.  

I don’t know whether to grin or to snarl at the view – in one sense, I have some gripe with Aragnus, from outing me as some sort of deathstalker in the worst way possible. In another sense, he did what he had to do to keep me alive. I wouldn’t be here, curse-free and, more importantly, without any metallic shrapnel thorning throughout my body.

In any case, he’s not the prey of my fury today. No, that all goes to a certain doctor on board.

Luffy cheers again, his squawky voice reverberating through all our ears. I amusedly smile as I watch both Zoro and Aragnus unintentionally breathe out a resolute sigh at the same time.

Your brother has given me much discomfort this morning, Aragnus hisses through my head, his voice tinged with slight weariness. He has tested my restraint more than once. I’ve considered reducing him to ashes.

For half a second, my eyes widen after hearing his words. Brother. Luffy, my… brother? Not biologically, but I suppose… cosmically?

I push the thought aside and glance up at the massive dragon. Our eyes meet, and I can’t resist flashing him a mischievous grin.

Having a little servant-master bonding time? I didn’t know your courtesy also extends to Luffy.

Aragnus sassily huffs and looks away from me, as if trying to hide the non-existent embarrassment on his face. I serve you, and by extension, those that share your line. It is nothing more than so.

I snort and watch him soar closer and closer to our camp, his wings riding on the fresh breeze coming in within the interconnecting tunnels to each cavern. Yeah, right, I think to myself. If this old grump doesn’t like Luffy, he wouldn’t be soaring around right now, doing so many ostentatious mid-air tricks in effort of gaining his approval.

When Aragnus’s paws gently scrape against the claw-marked ground in landing, Usopp’s the first to slink off his back and onto the floor like quivering jelly.

“I… I’m…” Usopp mumbles out, unable to form a coherent sentence. Sanji curiously strolls over to him and pokes his pale corpse with the tip of his shoe.  

“I told you to eat breakfast before going on that joyride, dumbass,” Sanji grumbles, his tone thick with disapproval. He then turns to Aragnus, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Care to do me a favour, dragon?”

Aragnus responds with a low, unintelligible hiss, his beady eyes narrowing as he shifts his gaze to me.

What have I become? A mere trick-performing dog for your pitiful little camp? he grumbles in my mind.

I suppress a snicker, raising my brows in mock chastisement. You heard him, Aragnus.

With an exasperated flick of his wings, Aragnus allows Chopper and Luffy to slide off his arm before lazily turning back toward Sanji. Without warning, a tiny jet of flame shoots from Aragnus's snout, aimed directly at the chef.

“Shit!” Sanji yelps, jerking back as a small burn forms on one of his fingers. He shoots a furious glare at Aragnus, waving his hand to cool the sting. “What the hell was that for, you scaly bastard?”

Aragnus shifts his gaze from Sanji to me, a smug glint in his eyes. Sanji, still nursing his singed finger, turns to me with a frown, his expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief, like a scolded child.

Go on, Aragnus urges, his tone almost playful. Tell him what I said.

I sigh, shaking my head in resignation. “Aragnus says, ‘Oops.’”

Expecting Sanji to blow up at Aragnus’s evident sarcasm, I quickly pull out a plaster from one of my work bags and wave it at him as a distraction, making Sanji instantly zip his mouth shut and stare at me with a terrifying amount of adoration.

“How can you be so... so...” he whispers, taken by my seemingly incredible act of generosity.

“RAAAAYYAAAAAA!” Luffy screams, one of his arms locking around Aragnus’s paw, the other swinging maddeningly like a baseball pitcher until it blurs into only colour and no limb.

“Fuck,” I breathe out, my eyes widening in sheer terror with knowing what’s coming.

Bracing myself, I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing there’s no escape from the chaos that’s about to ensue. In a flash, Zoro reacts, twisting his body and pulling me into him, my head colliding with his warm chest just as Luffy releases his grip on Aragnus and catapults himself in our direction.

Luffy lets out a startled yelp as he crashes into Zoro’s back, his momentum abruptly halted. He bounces off and lands on the ground, immediately pouting as he looks up at us.

“Zoroooo!” he whines, clearly disappointed. “I was trying to surprise her!”

Zoro, now being sandwiched in between two cosmic-bound forces, grunts out a laboured huff.

“You were about to knock her head off clean,” Zoro pointedly says. He looks back at me for a beat and our gazes lock. An inscrutable look washes over him before realisation hits him. His arm disappears from my waist, the warmth of his touch instantly going as quick as it came – and for a brief moment, I wanted to yank his arm and place it back where it was. He peels Luffy off his back like a sticker, depositing him in front of us.

Luffy blinks for a moment as Zoro sorts him out, but when his eyes finally find mine, he grins wildly and twists his arms around me.

“Man, today’s a great day!” Luffy sings, adoringly squeezing me along with all the breath I have. “I have another sis’! Who woulda’ known?!”

“In a weird way, yeah,” I say, an unconscious tiny smile creeping on my mouth. I think the realisation just hit me now, with Luffy saying those words, that we are indeed in some way or another… family.

Zoro watches us, his eyebrows raised in surprise. His eyes flick between me and Luffy, clearly processing the unexpected bond. I just shake my head slightly at him, knowing he’ll probably bring it up later. It’s not like I can avoid the conversation—there’s no running away from him now.

“I wish I was the one who’s cuffed with you, Raya! It’s no fair Zoro’s the one who can spend all the time with you.”

“Trust me, it’s not fun,” Zoro says.

I elbow Zoro and glare at him. In turn, he only looks down at me and teasingly offers a smirk.

As we all begin to sit down, Sanji drags in a humongous tray into our cavern with steaming animal carcasses piled on it. With a swift kick, the tray gracefully twirls and slides, landing perfectly in front of Aragnus’s sat down body.

Aragnus growls out a hum of approval as he begins to dig in, but I look at Sanji with surprise. Sanji shrugs when he notices my questioning stare, a cigarette softly placed between his lips. The end of the cigarette slowly glows with glowing embers in sync to Sanji’s expanding chest.

“Can’t let these dragons starve - else they’d eat us for dinner, my love,” he says. In a hasty effort to change the subject, he nods at the glowing cuff between Zoro and me. “How did that happen?”

“I did it,” a measured masculine voice resounds in the corner. I turn to the sound, and only grit my teeth when my eyes lock onto Law’s. He offers a smirk when he sees my furious expression while coolly walking towards our campfire. The rest of his crew disperse from behind him, eagerly joining us with big grins; Bepo catches my gaze and gives me a sympathetic, yet uncertain, smile.

Sanji frowns at the surplus of Heart members, eyeing them as they begin digging in. “Didn’t know we were having guests.”

Luffy ignores Sanji’s comment, his eyes widening at Law. He shoves his wrist into Law’s face, making the latter scowl and bat his arm away. “Really? Can you cuff me too, Torao? Cuff me!”

“You’re not getting cuffed, Mugiwara. Get away.”

Luffy pouts and crosses his arms. “Why’dya even do it if you’re not gonna do it to me? I wanna join in on the fun.”

“Because,” Law enunciates, brushing past my captain and sitting intentionally right across from me, his eyes glinting at me with a certain kind of mischief, “They were getting on my nerves. I decided to give them a sweet taste of my revenge.”

His lie catches me off guard, and I give him a strange look. I was almost certain this would be the moment he'd spill everything—my true identity, the dark history behind my newly awakened power. But he doesn’t. Instead, he brushes it off as a simple prank, leaving me confused and a little suspicious. Is he planning something, or was this just an unexpected act of kindness? The way the lie slides off his tongue so effortlessly makes me narrow my eyes at him, unsure how to interpret his intentions. The double entendre in his words doesn’t go unnoticed either.

“So, you decided to bind them together?” Robin raises a brow.

Law shrugs, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. “A harmless prank.”

“Harmless, my ass,” I mutter to myself, making Zoro snort out loud.

Law only smugly cocks his head at me in tandem to biting a piece of toast. A wave of anger pierces through me, seeing him act so nonchalant and unworried. If only I could just sink my teeth into him the same way he’s taking those bites of food.

I shiver aggressively, shaking my head as if trying to throw those awful intrusive thoughts away. What the fuck is happening to me? My own mind is coaxing me to submit to murder.

Zoro, in the corner of his eye, watches me with a frown on his face. I don’t know how long he’s been monitoring me, but it only hits me now that he’s intently keeping an eye on my reactions. But not once this morning have I seen him sheathe his swords to his hip; his hand hasn’t moved from his plate or his thighs and this makes me feel incredibly… out of sorts.

“Where are your weapons?” I mumble quietly, pretending to look at the rest of the camp and the members animatedly talking within it.

I intently watch his face to see if he makes any minute expression on it, but Zoro only shrugs in response. His lashes flutter and shadow over his tan cheeks as he looks down to his empty plate, his calloused fingers stretching across his thigh in idleness.

“I don’t eat with my swords,” he says, giving me a sarcastic eyebrow raise. I scoff at him.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He pauses and looks at me, his gaze firm and absolute. “I told you before, Raya. I’m not scared of you.” He leans in slightly, his voice lowering as he continues. “But I have this feeling you’re taking what I’m saying the wrong way, the way you always do.”

Instantly, I take in a sharp breath. My mouth opens and closes, determining on how I should respond to him, and for some reason, I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I hold his immovable stare.

Before I can respond, Luffy’s boisterous laughter cuts through the silence. He’s already engrossed in conversation with Usopp, who has finally found his voice after the dragon ride. Their lively banter echoes through the cavern, but Zoro's words still linger in my mind.

“You’re always like this,” Zoro continues, his voice softer now, almost like he’s trying to reason with me. “You overthink things. Sometimes it’s not that deep.”

I scowl at him, the defensiveness rising up before I can stop it. “I’m not overthinking anything,” I retort, but even I can hear how unconvincing I sound.

“Sure,” Zoro replies with a lazy smirk, leaning back slightly. “Whatever you say.”

I turn my head away from Zoro, staring straight in front of me out of pettiness, but instead, my eyes accidentally lock with Law’s, making all of those repressed feelings within me start to coil tighter.

Revenge, another unwanted thought brushes against my mind. No, not revenge – justice. Attack him, fight him, terrify him for your freedom. That’s what I want. That’s what will sate my fury.

Law doesn’t miss my gaze darkening for even a second. He leans his torso over slightly, taking me in, tracking me with those troubled yet sharp eyes.

“I think you and I should talk,” Law steadily says, quiet enough so that it drowns in the midst of other peoples’ animated conversations. I think you and I should talk, before you do something that you’ll regret, he means. Before I fall victim to these vicious thoughts that only appeared when my true form was awakened.

I purse my lips and nod once, but intentionally, I eye the rest of the crew as a reminder that this area isn’t private enough. Law nods, standing up as he brushes crumbs from his jacket, whispering something unintelligible to Bepo before he coolly walks towards the other side of the cavern.

I look at Zoro and, in front of the others, obnoxiously say, “Well, I guess we should go and do some sword stuff.”

The end of his mouth twitches amusedly as he looks at me with a deadpan look. “Yeah. Totally. Can’t wait to do some sword stuff.”

Zoro rises to his knees with a deliberate calm, his eyes not leaving mine as he offers a hand to help me up. I take it, trying not to focus on the warmth of his grip or the way his rough skin contrasts with mine. Once I’m up, he releases me almost immediately, his hand dropping back to his side with a casualness that irritates me more than it should.

We begin walking toward the edge of the cavern, and I can feel the weight of several pairs of eyes on us. Nami and Robin, no doubt amused by the exchange, Luffy probably still sulking about not being involved, and Sanji… well, Sanji is always watching with that intensity he tries to disguise as casual interest. But I don’t dare glance back to confirm; I’m too focused on keeping my composure as we head toward Law.

Law, standing in the shadows at the far end of the cavern, watches our approach with an unreadable expression. The usual smirk he wears is absent, replaced by something more serious. It makes my nerves prickle, a sense of foreboding settling into the pit of my stomach.

I glare at him. “So, are you going to explain what you did to us?” 

Law takes a moment to sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose before taking a moment to fully look at the chain that bounds Zoro and I together.

“I wasn’t lying last night. Roronoa, you did fuck up,” Law mutters, taking a step forward to examine the damage. His fingers gently trace over the linkage as he looks up at me. “I was supposed to be bound to you – not to him.”

I laugh out loud, because that’s the only way I can react to hearing this piece of information. “Please, tell me, where did your logic disappear off to when you were brewing up this idiotic plan?”

He glares at me. “Answer me honestly, Raya. If you weren’t bound to Roronoa right now, would you have run away and disappeared from your crew just so that you didn’t have to face your possible doom?”

My laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a cold silence as I stare at Law. His question hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding. It’s as if he’s reached into my mind and pulled out the one thing I’ve been trying to ignore—the gnawing fear that if given the chance, I might just run. Disappear into the shadows to avoid facing whatever monstrous power has awakened inside me.

“Thought so,” Law says quietly, his tone less confrontational and more understanding than I expected. He steps back, giving me space, but the weight of his question still presses down on me.

“That,” an inked finger points at my cuff, “weakens your powers. It keeps you in check, meaning we won’t have accidental God outbursts whenever something mildly unpleasant happens to you. Until I do some more research on your powers and how we can help you from turning into another Tyr, that’s going to stay there as a precaution.”

I glare at him. “So, you’ve basically imprisoned me.”

“If that’s how you want to see it, sure.”

I bristle at this slightly. “Don’t you think you’re being a little bit too dramatic?”

“If you’re volatile now, what would you be like if your full powers are unleashed?” Law counters. There’s a pause where I shift from one foot to another, unsure of how to respond. He continues, frustration evident in his face. “Look, if either of you have any other solutions, then I’m happy to hear them.”

“Could you then at least unbind me?” Zoro intervenes, pointedly looking at the cuff encircling his wrist. “I don’t get why I’m roped into this.”

“You’re roped into this because you decided you couldn’t keep your sticky fingers away while I was in mid-incantation,” Law snaps, his eyes narrowing on Zoro. “I’m not redoing my work, Roronoa. It’s not a permanent spell, and it’d actually be helpful if you could keep an eye on things. Just give me a few days to learn more about Kozuki’s awakening, and all of this will be done and dusted.”

Before Zoro can open his mouth, Law turns his attention to me, his gaze piercing me with sincerity. “One of Tyr’s evident mistakes was not learning of his bloodline, of where all his power even originated from. It’d be wise if you did some research on your past, though I know that idea pains you. But the faster we figure this out, the easier you’ll have it.”

I narrow my eyes at Law, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy shroud. Research on my past? The idea of delving into that unknown, murky territory is as appealing as walking barefoot on shards of glass. But the reality of the situation is unavoidable—if I don’t take control of this power, it will control me, and I’ll be no better than the monsters we’ve been fighting against.

“I hate that you’re right,” I admit, the bitterness in my voice unmistakable. “But I’ll do it. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m okay with being treated like a ticking time bomb.”

Law nods, his expression softening slightly. “I don’t like it either, Kozuki. But this is the safest way for now. I’ll do everything I can to help you figure this out.”

Zoro, still looking less than thrilled with the situation, tries to cross his arms but tugs me aggressively to his chest. Flustered, he steps away from me, ignoring my irritated expression, and gives Law a hard stare. “Look, just make sure you follow through, Torao. I’m not interested in playing babysitter any longer than I should.”

Law rolls his eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Believe me, I’m as eager as you are to resolve this.”

I look between the two of them, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and irritation. As much as they’re both insufferable in their own ways, I know they’re trying to help. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need their help.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, turning to leave. I tug on my wrist connecting to Zoro's, making him grumble out a string of curses. Law watches us go, his expression unreadable, but I can sense the wheels turning in his mind. He’s not done with whatever plan he’s concocting, and that thought makes me uneasy.

But then, I pause in my footsteps without thinking; Zoro yelps and only barely steps away before he collides into me. I turn around and look at Law, my face set very serious.

“Law,” I mumble. He looks up from his thoughts and raises a questioning brow. I clear my throat, averting my gaze. “Thank you… for, um… not outing me to the group today. You could’ve done that and made it a lot easier for yourself, but you didn’t. I… appreciate it.”

Law’s expression softens, and he gives a slight nod, his usual cocky demeanour tempered by a rare glimpse of sincerity. “I’m not here to make your life harder, Raya,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure we all get through this in one piece.”

I hold his gaze for a moment longer, then turn away, pulling Zoro along with me.

“Kozuki,” Zoro suddenly bites out. I look up, surprised in hearing the tenseness in his voice.

“What is it?” I stare at him, noticing the way his brows are furrowed and his mouth pursed deeply into a frown. I sigh and look down at our cuffs. “It’ll be temporary, Roronoa. It’s shitty, I know—"

“It’s not that,” he quickly cuts me off, his gaze locked on me with dead seriousness. “I need to piss.”

*

It’s the afternoon – and a hell of an afternoon it is. The clanking of metal against stone fills another cavern, a steady rhythm as Zoro sets up his gym equipment. The dumbbells, barbells, and various other heavy objects he loves to train with are neatly laid out, but the usual calm of his workout space is anything but. I sigh internally and feel Zoro unintentionally yank on my wrist again, almost toppling me over to the floor.

“Do you have to do this right now?” I hiss through gritted teeth, frustration already bubbling over me as Zoro on me tugs once again, making me almost dive headfirst into the cement. “I’m not really in the mood to be amputated today, you know.”

“If I don’t, I’ll lose my edge,” Zoro replies, his tone dismissive as he grabs a dumbbell with his free hand. His muscles flex, the veins in his forearm standing out as he starts his reps. It’s a sight that would have been impressive—if it wasn’t so fucking inconvenient.

I try to remain still, but every time Zoro moves, the chain binding us jerks taut, sending a sharp jolt through my arm and pulling me slightly off balance. It’s as if the chain has a life of its own, tugging me this way and that with every flex of his muscles. The constant, unpredictable yanking makes it impossible to find any sense of equilibrium, and the frustration builds inside me like a kettle about to boil over. Each time he lifts the dumbbell, I’m dragged along in a clumsy dance, my patience wearing thin as I fight the urge to scream and knock the weight out of his hands.

“Do you always have to be so intense?” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably as Zoro reaches for a heavier weight, his muscles straining with the effort.

He doesn’t even look at me, his gaze locked on some invisible point ahead as he methodically lifts the dumbbell, his biceps bulging with each slow, controlled movement. The sheer focus in his eyes is almost intimidating, as if nothing exists except the iron in his hand and the sweat on his brow.

“Can’t you just stand still for an hour?” he finally replies, his voice steady, barely winded, as if he’s unaware of—or perhaps indifferent to—how much he’s disrupting my balance with every lift.

“Easier said than done,” I grumble under my breath, struggling to find my footing as Zoro powers through his routine. His focus is unbreakable, each lift executed with precise control, his muscles flexing and unflexing with mechanical efficiency. Meanwhile, I’m left to wrestle with the constant tugging of the chain, the metal links clinking with every one of his movements.

I grit my teeth, determined to stay as still as possible, but it’s like trying to stand on shifting sand. Every time Zoro hoists the weight, the force of it sends a jolt through the chain, yanking me off balance. My feet shuffle awkwardly, trying to keep up with the relentless push and pull, but it’s no use. The more I fight it, the more my frustration builds, the irritation bubbling under my skin like a pot about to boil over.

Seconds stretch into minutes, each one dragging on longer than the last, my irritation growing with every lift, every clink of the chain, every muscle that Zoro flexes without a care in the world. I can feel my temper fraying, the last threads of patience snapping one by one until finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“Would you just stop!” I snap, my voice echoing off the cavern walls, the words bursting out of me with all the pent-up anger I’ve been trying to hold back. I yank my arm back in a futile attempt to steady myself. Zoro grunts at me pulling away from him, his torso ever so slightly being pulled towards my direction, yet not enough where I could make a convincing point.

Zoro pauses, lowering the weights with a huff. He looks up and glares at me. “If you keep complaining, this is going to take forever. Just deal with it.”

I narrow my eyes at him, mocking his condescending tone. “Maybe if you weren’t so damn single-minded about this, we wouldn’t have a problem.”

Zoro’s eyes finally meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something dangerous in them, a darkness pooling in his grey iris. The sweat across his tan skin reacts with his mossy green hair, allowing it to lay matted and wet across his forehead. I can’t help it – I can’t look away from him, the way the muscles in his jaw tense as his gaze darkens, locking on me with such intensity.

A bitter smirk curls at the corner of his lips, a teasing glint in his eye as he slowly lifts his free arm. The movement is deliberate, almost taunting, and I can’t help but watch as his biceps flex with effortless strength. His rough, calloused fingers rake through his hair, pushing the damp strands back into place with a careless grace.

“You’re really pushing it, Kozuki.”

“No, you’re pushing it,” I childishly bite out.

“C’mon. You haven’t even seen half of it.”

I scoff out and raise my brow at him. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

Zoro’s smirk is slow and deliberate, curving with a dangerous edge that sends a shiver through me. His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, a look so charged it silences any retort I had prepared. “You really want to know?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost taunting.

Before I can respond, Zoro drops the weight with a resounding thud, the sound reverberating through the cavern. His movements are fluid, every gesture calculated as he turns toward me. In one swift motion, his arm wraps around my waist, and suddenly, I’m lifted off the ground, my breath hitching in surprise as I’m drawn tightly against his chest.

“Wait, what the fuck—” I gasp, my hand instinctively reaching out to steady myself, fingers clutching at the firm muscle of his shoulder. But Zoro doesn’t hesitate, his grip strong and steady as he shifts me effortlessly, pulling me closer until my feet leave the ground completely. The way he holds me with such ease and power leaves me momentarily speechless, my pulse racing as the reality of our proximity sinks in.

“So eager to complain,” he teases, his voice a deep, rich rumble that seems to resonate through my entire body. “I figured I’d put you to good use.” His words are laced with amusement, but there’s a challenge in his tone, one that stirs something inside me I hadn’t anticipated. He begins to lift me higher, his muscles flexing with every powerful movement. The sensation of being pushed upward, with him guiding me so effortlessly, is dizzying. Then, just as smoothly, he draws me back down, bringing my face dangerously close to his. The warmth of his breath grazes my skin, the closeness of him overwhelming, almost intoxicating.

“You’re such a brute,” I hiss, trying to muster some irritation, but my voice betrays me, coming out softer and more breathless than I intended. Zoro’s smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with a knowing amusement as he senses my wavering resolve. He lifts me again with the same ease, his hold unyielding. Sweat glistens on his skin, tracing shimmering paths over the defined contours of his muscles as he moves. His gaze remains fixed on mine, a playful light in his eyes as he watches me struggle to maintain composure.

Realising I’m outmatched, I allow my body to relax, surrendering to his strength. He manoeuvres me with such confidence, as though I weigh nothing, and the way he handles me sends a thrill through me, awakening something deep within that I can’t quite explain.

Without warning, Zoro pulls me back toward him, his movement gentle yet firm, until our faces are just millimetres apart. His breath brushes against my cheeks, warm and teasing, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. His eyes, sharp and focused, flick from my lips back to my eyes, mischief dancing in his gaze. “You’re a lot lighter than my usual weights,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that wraps around me like a caress. “Maybe I should add some difficulty.”

With that, his fingers begin a slow, deliberate exploration of my waist, tracing the curves of my body as if committing each one to memory. His touch is light but intentional, his hands gliding over my hips with a lingering caress before he suddenly shifts his grip. A surprised yelp escapes me as his arm slides lower, his strong fingers gripping my thigh as he lifts me higher against him. The movement pulls me flush against his chest, the solid strength of his body pressing into mine, and I can’t help the way my breath quickens in response. My legs dangle helplessly for a moment before instinct takes over, and I wrap them around his waist, desperate for balance and a semblance of control that seems to be slipping away.

“Put me down, or so help me Gods,” I snap, but my voice betrays me, a sultry edge creeping into my words that I know he can hear. His smirk widens, the satisfaction clear on his face as his voice drops to an intimate whisper. He pushes me upward, positioning my midriff against his face, his calloused fingers tracing the tender skin beneath my thighs with a touch that is both possessive and gentle.

“Why?” he murmurs, his breath warm against me. “You’re finally being useful. Besides, you seem to be enjoying this.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate the way my body reacts to his touch, the way my pulse quickens as his muscles shift and flex beneath my hands. The way he holds me, the firm yet tender strength of his grip, the heat radiating from his body—it’s all doing something to me that makes it hard to think, let alone protest.

“I-I’m not…” I stammer, but the tremor in my voice reveals the truth, the unsteady rhythm of my words making it clear. I clear my throat, struggling to keep my expression neutral, to fight against the overwhelming sensations that have taken hold of me. “I’m not feeling anything.”

Zoro chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that seems to vibrate through his chest and into me, connecting us in a way that feels almost tangible. He pulls me down again, this time bringing his face so close to mine that I can see the faint flecks of darkness in his stormy grey eye. The intensity in his gaze is almost too much to bear, a magnetic pull that draws me in even as I try to resist. “Liar,” he whispers, his breath mingling with mine, a quiet challenge that sends another shiver down my spine.

His hand slides up my back, his fingers pressing into the small of my spine, urging me even closer until the space between us is nearly non-existent. The heat of his body seeps into mine, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes it impossible to focus on anything but him. I can feel every inch of him now, every subtle shift of his muscles, every breath he takes. It’s overpowering, this closeness, this connection that seems to vibrate in the very air around us.

“You’re such an ass,” I mutter, but the words lack any real force. My pulse pounds in my ears as I take in the details of his face—the way the scar over his closed eye stands out in a lighter shade against his golden skin, the sweat that glistens on his neck, tracing elegant lines down over his defined collarbones and disappearing beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. His presence is magnetic, impossible to ignore, and I can feel myself being drawn deeper into his pull, unable to resist.

Zoro’s grip on me tightens, the possessiveness in his touch growing as his breath hitches slightly when I shift against him. My fingers dig into his shoulder, gripping him as firmly as he holds me, as if we’re both clinging to each other, caught up in a moment that feels charged with energy.

“Are you done complaining now?” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before, a low growl that sends a thrill through me. His breath fans across my face as he speaks, the closeness amplifying every sensation, every emotion swirling between us. He tilts his head towards me, his lips only a mere fraction away from mine. “’Cause I can deal a lot more damage if you push me.”

I open my mouth to retort, but the words falter as I feel his grip tighten just a fraction more, his body pressing closer to mine, enveloping me in his warmth. The room around us seems to shrink in size, filled with an unbreathable heat that consumes us both whole.

But just as quickly as it began, Zoro suddenly releases me, lowering me back to the ground with a smoothness that leaves me stunned. The absence of his touch is startling, a cold shock to my system, and I have to fight the powerful urge to reach out, to pull him back and demand an explanation for the storm he’s just stirred within me.

“Let’s get back to training,” he says, his tone more controlled now, though there’s still a hint of that dangerous edge lingering in his voice. He averts his gaze away from me, staring at a spot in the wall across from him.

I silently nod, trying to ignore the lingering heat in my veins as we return to his workout routine. But as Zoro picks up his weights again, I can’t help but feel like something has shifted between us—something that can’t be easily ignored.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not entirely sure I want to ignore it anymore.

I try to shake off the feeling, to push away the frankly baffling mix of sensations swirling inside me. The irritation, the heat, the connection that seems to hang between us like a thick fog. I know I should just let it go, move on, and pretend that nothing happened. But I can’t. Not with the way Zoro’s gaze flickers toward me every so often, not with the way his muscles tense with each movement as if he’s trying to keep himself in check.

An hour later, the clanking of weights eventually slows, then stops altogether. I look over to see Zoro wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes still glued to the floor in that usual contemplative way of his. I can’t help but notice the slight tremor in his hand as he sets the dumbbells down, the brief pause as if he’s weighing something in his mind.

“Alright,” Zoro finally says, breaking the silence with a gruffness that belies the uncertainty I can see in his eyes. “I’m done for now. Let’s find a place to crash.

I nod, grateful for the chance to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the cavern. The chain between us rattles as we gather our things, the sound a constant reminder of the bond that keeps us tethered—both literally and figuratively. We move through the dimly lit tunnels in silence, our footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. Neither of us speaks, but the quiet isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s more like an uneasy truce, a temporary pause in the ongoing battle of wills.

The small cubby hole barely has enough room for the two of us. The walls feel like they’re closing in, every breath of mine echoing against the stone as we awkwardly settle in for the night. The chain binding us together makes the situation even more uncomfortable, the metal links clinking with every slight movement.

Zoro lies beside me, his eyes open and his body tense, as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. The silence between us is heavy, filled with the unuttered sentiments we’ve exchanged in glares and scowls. But despite the discomfort, there’s no real anger left—just an odd sense of acceptance that this is our reality now.

I shift slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t strain my wrist or press me too closely against Zoro. He’s warm – too fucking warm, actually – his presence a steady reassurance even as it irritates me. The silence stretches on, but it’s not uncomfortable. We’ve said too many apologies in the past, and if I’m being honest, they’ve lost their meaning; now, it’s just about getting through this without driving each other insane.

I’m trying to find sleep, but it eludes me. My mind keeps replaying the events of the day—Law’s words, his insistence on me having to comb through my bitter past, makes me less tired and more agitated.

“You’re thinking too much again,” Zoro murmurs, his voice low and rough from fatigue.

I turn my head slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, but there’s an alertness in them that tells me he’s not as close to sleep as he appears.

“Hard not to,” I mutter, shifting slightly to ease the stiffness in my neck. “It’s been a long day. And having to sleep like this isn’t helping. In fact, this whole setup's fucking ridiculous.”

“I mean, you’re making it worse by moving around so much,” Zoro grunts, his voice rough with fatigue.

“I can’t help it,” I retort, frustration bubbling up as I try to wiggle free. “You’re taking up all the space.”

“There’s only so much space to take,” he bites back.

I huff, annoyed but also too tired to keep arguing. Instead, I settle for glaring at the darkness, my body tense as I try to find some semblance of comfort. The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, but I can feel Zoro’s presence beside me like a physical weight.

After what feels like an eternity, Zoro finally breaks the silence, his voice low and rough from disuse. “You ever think about your family?”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden question. Family isn’t something I talk about often, and certainly not with someone like Zoro. But there’s something in his tone that makes me pause, makes me consider answering honestly.

I turn to him. “Why the question?”

“I would’ve told you earlier, but I didn’t know you were a Kozuki for a while. I’ve met some of your family, you know.”

I purse my lips and search his gaze, but he doesn’t offer me any sort of reaction. I huff and look up at the dark ceiling, my free hand resting across my chest, fingers thrumming out of agitation.

“Law did mention that you met them,” I say. He doesn’t respond; instead, he closely watches me, as if wordlessly telling me to continue. I clear my throat. “Hiyori gave you the Enma, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she did,” Zoro admits.

I purse my lips and train my eyes on the ceiling. Hiyori. The sole reason I regret leaving Wano; the girl who gave me reason to keep on living whilst I was back in that confined world with their confined beliefs of what women can do with their lives. My heart pulses sourly; thinking of what she must feel like, what she’s doing… Would I ever see her again? Even now, with my unpredictable awakening, those chances are growing slimmer by the moment.

“She…” My voice cracks slightly, making me quickly clear my throat as if to cover up the poor blunder within my defences. “She must have trusted you very much to give you a piece of our heritage.”

Zoro remains silent for a moment, his gaze softening as he watches me wrestle with my thoughts. I can tell he’s not the type to pry, but there’s a genuine curiosity in his eyes, a need to understand. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentler, lacking the usual roughness.

“Hiyori’s strong,” he says simply. “She didn’t just give me Enma because she trusted me. She did it because she believed it was the right thing to do, to protect Wano.”

I nod, my thoughts drifting back to my time home. The memories are hazy, but they’re laced with a bittersweet nostalgia. I can still see Hiyori’s determined face, the way she carried herself with grace despite the weight of her responsibilities. It’s strange to think that she’s still there, carrying on the legacy of our family, while I’m here, far from home and bound by chains—both literal and metaphorical.

“She’s always been strong,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “Stronger than I ever was. I admired that about her. She would stay, even if it meant she would fuck up her life and her dreams along with it. I… Well, I run away from things a lot.”

“Oden ran away a lot,” Zoro mentions. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

I laugh out loud. “See, I’d normally be upset with a comparison to Oden, but I guess that’s pretty accurate.”

I pause and look at him, a thought flashing across my mind. Enma’s still broken into bits; that being completely my fault. “I promise I’ll get Enma fixed soon, though… I think facing that sword had been a nightmare of mine for a while. She holds a lot of…bad memories, but I think that she might be the key to finding more about my past.”

Zoro purses his lips and looks down as if he’s about to say something. He hesitates for a moment longer before finally opening his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I don’t think I can face that sword right now, anyway.”

I raise a brow and look at him, completely taken off guard. Zoro’s not the type to just admit something like that. “What? What do you mean?”

He sighs and avoids my gaze, shifting his head toward the black ceiling.

“Sometimes… I feel like Enma brings the worst out of me. It feels like if I slip up in my mental defences, I could be consumed by her power and then… turn into someone… really evil.”

Zoro’s admission catches me off guard, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for words. The Zoro I’ve come to know is so sure of himself, so unyielding in his strength and resolve, that hearing him express doubt—especially about something as significant as Enma—is jarring.

“I didn’t think you’d ever admit something like that,” I finally say, my voice softening despite myself. “I guess even you have your limits.”

His gaze flickers to mine, a shadow of vulnerability passing through his eyes before he masks it with his usual stoicism. “Everyone does,” he replies gruffly. “Even someone like me. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna give up. I just need to get stronger—to control it, not let it control me.”

I nod, understanding more than I’d like to admit. The fear of being consumed by power is something I’m all too familiar with. “It’s not easy, is it? Facing something that could potentially destroy you.”

“No, it’s not,” Zoro agrees, his voice low. “But it’s the only way. If I let fear hold me back, I’ll never achieve my goals. And I can’t afford that.”

For a few minutes, we both remain silent, both savouring the words the other has said, our minds beating against the dark shadows that try to consume us within the night.

A realisation crosses my mind, and before thinking about it, I turn to Zoro.

“You’ve never told me about your family, you know,” I quietly mention. I look at him hesitantly. “Is there a reason?”

Zoro's expression shifts slightly, his gaze turning inward as if he's considering something he's not used to sharing. For a moment, I think he might brush off the question, but then he speaks, his voice low and measured.

“I don’t really have much of a family,” he begins, his eyes still focused somewhere distant. “At least, not in the way most people think of it. I grew up in a dojo. My sensei, he took me in when I was a kid. And obviously Kuina.”

My lips curl upwards in hearing that familiar name. Obviously Kuina. She was the rock that supported us both; she was there for us in two entirely different ways, yet, still, she had made such a similar impact.

“Obviously Kuina,” I repeat with a smile. I curiously search for his eyes within the deep darkness of the cavern. “So… you had no other family?”

Zoro hesitates for a moment, his gaze flickering between mine and the darkness of the cavern. It’s clear that this is a topic he doesn’t delve into often—if ever. Finally, he sighs, as if deciding that there’s no point in hiding it from me.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not really. My parents died when I was young. Too young to even remember their faces. After that, I was on my own for a while. I don’t really remember how long, just that I had to survive.”

I listen in silence, my chest heavy with the weight of his words. His story is all too similar to mine. While I had more family than him, I left Wano all too quickly. I only had Gramps and Kuina. Only two strong currents in my life, one of them having passed away far too quickly.

My throat grows thicker as I think about Gramps. That old man – that loveable pain in my ass… who would’ve known he would’ve been the target of something so sinister. I hope he’s okay. Gods, I just hope he’s still alive.

I clear my throat, shaking those dark thoughts away. I take in Zoro’s softened appearance, his gaze taking me in like a wide-eyed German Shepherd who only just remembered how to become vulnerable.

“And now you’re here; ‘Pirate Hunter Zoro.’”

“I guess.”

“Don’t you think that nickname’s a little too outdated for you? I mean, you’re part of a pirate crew.”

He shrugs, flexing his sore arm. “I never really cared about all of that.”

I scoff. “You should! I’ve got some killer nicknames for you, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Zoro smirks, his gaze lingering on mine for a little longer than it should. “Give me a list, then. I’m interested.”

“Okay, so the first one’s Marimo,” I say with a straight face.

Zoro’s face falls into a scowl, tugging on his cuff so that I’m instantly pulled towards him. “Ha ha ha, you’re so funny, Raya. You should turn into a part time clown.”

“And then the next one’s Sword-mouth. Get it? Cause you have a sword—”

“That’s fucking bad.”

“Okay, okay, what about Bullhead? That’s my favourite.”

“Bullhead?” Zoro repeats with a sceptical raise of his brow. “You’re really reaching with that one.”

I smirk, feeling a surge of playful energy course through me. “Oh, come on, it suits you. Stubborn, always charging headfirst into things… It’s perfect.”

Zoro rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in his gaze. “You really like pushing my buttons, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” I admit with a mischievous grin. “It’s just so easy to get a rise out of you. You’re like a bull seeing red. Maybe I should consider making a red cape for you.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re asking for it, Kozuki.”

“Oh, am I?” I say, leaning in just a little closer, my tone teasing. “And what are you gonna do about it, Bullhead?”

Zoro’s eyes narrow, the playful glint in them taking on a sharper edge. He doesn’t respond immediately, instead, he lets the silence stretch, the tension between us growing thicker with each passing second. Then, in one swift movement, he grabs my wrist—the one bound to his by the cuff—and yanks me toward him.

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls me down onto the makeshift bed, his grip on my wrist firm but not painful. He’s over me in an instant, his body hovering just above mine, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. The chain between us clinks softly, the only sound besides the rapid beating of my heart.

“You’ve been pushing me all day,” Zoro murmurs, his voice low and rough. His eyes, darkening with something far more intense than irritation, lock onto mine. “I’m thinking maybe it’s time you see what happens when I push back.”

But before I can respond, Zoro shifts his grip, grabbing my other hand and pinning it above my head along with the chained one. His strength is undeniable, and the way he’s holding me down, with just enough pressure to make it clear that he’s in control, sends a thrill through me that I can’t quite explain.

He lowers his head, his breath hot against my neck as he murmurs, “Why don’t we think of nicknames for you, huh?”

My pulse quickens, a heat rising in my chest that has nothing to do with the close quarters we’re in. I can feel the roughness of the stone bed beneath me, the coolness of the air on my skin, but all of it fades into the background compared to the weight of Zoro hovering above me, his presence completely overwhelming.

"Nicknames for me?" I murmur, my voice trembling slightly despite my efforts to keep it steady. I try to inject a bit of the usual sarcasm into my tone, but it falls really flat – embarrassingly so. I swallow down my pride as I defiantly look into his gaze. "Like what?"

Zoro smirks, but it’s not the usual cocky grin; this one’s intense, more primal, and it makes me hold in a small breath. His eyes flicker over my face, taking in every detail, every reaction, as if he’s cataloguing it all for some future purpose.

"I’m thinking…" He pauses, his grip on my wrists tightening slightly, just enough to make me aware of the power he holds over me right now. "Something that suits you. Something that captures that fiery temper of yours. Maybe… ‘Spitfire’?"

I scoff, trying to sound unimpressed, but there’s a flutter in my chest at the name. "Spitfire? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?"

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, and it sends a wave of heat through me. "It’s fitting. You’re always spitting fire, whether it’s with your words or your actions. You’ve got somethin’ that could burn anyone who gets too close."

He gently picks up my hand that’s tethered to his, carefully eyeing the bruises that have formed beneath and around the cuff that’s so tightly linked over my skin. “Or… The Whining Witch? Since you love to scream my head off.”

I burst out laughing. “That’s an awful name.”

“Really? I think it’s pretty good.”

“Stick to Spitfire, buddy—"

Without warning, Zoro lowers his head, his lips grazing the bruised skin of my wrist with a feather-light touch. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard, making me bite down on my lower lip to keep from gasping.

His tongue flicks out, tracing the bruise with agonizing slowness, and I feel my legs tense in response. The sensation is electric—a tantalizing blend of pain and pleasure that causes my breath to hitch in my throat. Throughout, his eyes remain locked on mine, never breaking contact, as if he's studying every flicker of emotion, every reaction his touch elicits.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady, to mask the effect he's having on me.

Zoro doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he continues his deliberate exploration, his tongue tracing the marks left by the cuffs with a maddening precision. It's as if he’s soothing the pain, but there's something more in the way he touches me—an unspoken claim that lingers beneath the surface, making it clear this is about more than just concern.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes have darkened, filled with a heat that mirrors the burning sensation spreading through my chest.

His voice, a low, rough murmur, breaks the silence. "I'm making sure you remember who you're dealing with, Spitfire."

The way he says it, the way the nickname rolls off his tongue, sends a jolt of something intense through me. My pulse pounds in my ears, my heart hammering in my chest as his calloused fingers gently stroke the tender spots on my wrist. A part of me wants to push back, to reclaim some measure of control, but another part—a larger, more insistent part—is drawn in by this side of him, captivated by his raw intensity.

Then, without warning, his mouth is on me again, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of my neck. I gasp, my back arching instinctively as he trails his mouth lower, his teeth grazing just enough to leave me on edge, caught between anticipation and desire.

“Zoro—” I start, but my voice cuts off as his tongue flicks out, teasing the pulse point at the base of my throat. I groan out without the ability to restrain myself, squirming under him, but he holds me steady, his grip unyielding.

“You talk too much,” he whispers, his breath fanning against the wet column of my throat. “Maybe I should find a way to keep that mouth of yours busy.”

His breath is so warm against my skin, his lips so close to mine that I can almost taste him, yet he doesn’t close the distance. Instead, he continues to toy with me, his fingers tracing patterns along my side, his touch light and provokingly slow. His hand slides up, brushing against the curve of my waist, and I can feel the heat pooling in my stomach, desperate for it to be released. Zoro’s eyes are locked on mine, powerful and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.

He leans in, his mouth hovering just above my collarbone, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, goosebumps bubbling all over my body in anticipation. My fingers dig into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor me, but he only smirks, his lips ghosting over my skin without making contact.

“You’re torturing me,” I manage to whisper, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

“Am I?” he replies, his voice a low, teasing rumble. His hand slides up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. “Or are you just not used to someone who knows how to play the game?”

“You’re such a—” I hiss, yet again, but the words die in my throat as his hand slides up, under my shirt, and his rough fingers brush against the bare skin of my stomach. He smirks against my neck, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s pulling from me. His fingers trail higher, exploring, tracing patterns on my skin that leave me trembling. I should be pushing him away, but all I can think about is how much I want more.

“Calm down, Spitfire,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. “You’ve gotta learn to be patient.”

And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when the bound coil between us is so tight it feels like it might snap, something shifts. There’s a soft, metallic clink, a sound that breaks through the haze of desire and pulls me back to reality. Zoro freezes, his head lifting as his eyes flicker down to the source of the sound.

I follow his gaze, my breath catching in my throat as I see it—the Kozuki Coin, the last gift Gramps ever gave me before he was taken away, rattling out of my pocket and onto the ground. The sight of it is like a bucket of cold water, dousing the fire that had been burning so brightly just moments before.

“Oh,” I say, my voice cracking in a mixture of surprise and grief. “That’s…”

The golden coin glints in the dim light, its intricate design catching the eye, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The weight of what it represents settles over me like a heavy shroud, pulling me back from the edge of the precipice I’d been teetering on.

Zoro’s grip on me loosens, his gaze lingering on the coin for a long moment before he looks back at me. The darkness in his eyes has softened, replaced by something more contemplative, more grounded.

I reach down, my fingers brushing against the cool metal as I pick up the coin. The weight of it in my hand is familiar, comforting in a way that nothing else is. I turn it over, tracing the intricate designs with my thumb, and for a moment, I’m lost in the memories it holds.

But then, as my fingers continue to brush over the face of the Kozuki coin, a sharp sensation travels through my hand, as though the coin itself has a pulse—one that syncs with my own heartbeat. My mind starts to blur, the world around me melting away as a tingling sensation runs down my spine.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic clink echoes through the cavern, jerking me back to the present. Before I can process what’s happening, an explosion rips through the air. The blast is so powerful that it sends a shockwave through the small cubbyhole we’re hiding in, causing the walls to shudder and dust to rain down from the ceiling. My heart lurches as I realize it came from my backpack, which had been lying just in front of the cubbyhole.

“What the fuck just happened?” Zoro hisses, wide-eyed and looking alert, his fingers brushing over the empty spot at his hip where his swords usually are. He curses to himself and hastily begins to look around for his weapons, wherever they might be.

But my eyes catch onto something. My fingers reach for the back of Zoro’s hand, trying to pull him back into the moment. “Wait, look,” I whisper.

The force of the explosion knocks the backpack back against the wall, tearing it apart. My belongings scatter across the ground, torn fabric and charred remnants of supplies I’d packed now little more than useless debris. Smoke curls up from the remains, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning.

I stare at the tattered remains in shock, my pulse pounding in my ears. Amidst the destruction, something catches my eye. There, in the centre of the wreckage, untouched by the blast, lies Gramps' forgotten logbook.

The worn leather cover is surprisingly intact, its edges barely singed, standing out starkly against the charred ruins of everything else. My hands tremble as I reach out to pick it up, the familiar weight of it grounding me.

“How?” Zoro mutters in surprise.

“I don’t know…”

With a mixture of confusion and disbelief, I open the book, flipping through the pages. Not a single word is smudged; the ink remains sharp and clear. Even the delicate, brittle paper seems unaffected by the explosion. I turn page after page, searching for any sign of damage, but it’s as if the logbook has been preserved by some kind of magic.

As I continue to flip through, a sudden sharp pain lances through my finger. I yelp, more out of surprise than actual pain, and look down to see a thin cut on the tip of my finger. Blood wells up and smears across the page.

Before I can react, the blood starts to seep into the paper, spreading out in thin, crimson lines. The words on the page blur, shifting and twisting as though they’re being rewritten in blood. The entire page begins to change, darkening until it’s completely red. Then, as if the logbook itself is alive, the transformation spreads like wildfire, turning every page into a deep, dark crimson.

The leather cover follows suit, its familiar texture shifting beneath my fingers. The logbook vibrates in my hands, the edges of the pages curling as they harden, morphing into something else entirely. My eyes widen in shock as the logbook twists and reshapes itself, the leather stretching and smoothing until it forms a hilt—a weapon’s hilt.

My breath catches as I realize what I’m holding. The logbook is no more, replaced by the unmistakable handle of a sword. The leather is supple yet firm under my grip, perfectly fitted to my hand. Etched into the base of the hilt, just where my thumb rests, are the words:

“You weren’t ever much of a reader. Clumsy oaf.”

I stare at the inscription, a lump forming in my throat. Gramps’ familiar scrawl brings a flood of memories crashing down on me, his voice echoing in my mind, teasing and affectionate. But before I can fully process the message, my eyes are drawn to the top of the hilt, where a hollowed-out coin holder gleams in the dim light. The metal is polished, almost as if it’s waiting—waiting for something specific to complete it.

The Kozuki coin in my hand suddenly feels heavy, as if it’s pulling me toward the hilt. Without thinking, I lift the coin and set it into the holder. It clicks into place with a satisfying snap, the metal fitting perfectly as though it was always meant to be there.

The moment the coin settles, the entire hilt seems to come alive. The face of the golden coin begins to shift, the once-familiar emblem of the Kozuki clan dissolving like liquid metal. In its place, a new symbol emerges—a silver emblem of a helmet with a star etched across its screen, gleaming with a cold, almost ethereal light.

Before I can comprehend what’s happening, the coin begins to melt, the silver flowing down the hilt like molten steel. It moves with a purpose, cascading down in shimmering waves, shaping itself into a blade. The transformation is mesmerizing, the metal expanding and stretching, forming into a massive, two-handed longsword.

The sword is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The blade is a brilliant gold, the metal glowing with an otherworldly light that seems to pulse with energy. It’s enormous, easily as long as I am tall, yet perfectly balanced in my grip. The edge gleams razor-sharp, catching the light and reflecting it in a dazzling array of colours.

I stand there, the sword heavy in my hands, the weight of it grounding me as the realization of what has just happened sinks in. This is no ordinary weapon. It’s a piece of my heritage, a manifestation of the power that’s been lying dormant within me, waiting to be awakened.

Zoro stares at the blade, his eyes wide with shock and something else—something like respect. He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face says it all. This is a weapon worthy of a warrior, and in this moment, I feel the weight of that responsibility settle on my shoulders.

The sword hums with power, the energy coursing through it resonating with something deep inside me. It’s as if the blade is an extension of my own soul, forged from the very essence of my being. I can feel it, a connection so strong it’s almost overwhelming, and I know, without a doubt, that this weapon was meant for me.

The metal blade hums, its resonance vibrating deep within the recesses of my mind. The sound is a low, pulsing thrum, like the distant rumble of thunder or the echo of a heartbeat. It’s an ancient sound, carrying with it the weight of countless generations, the whispers of those who have come before me. It vibrates through the sword, through my arm, and into my very bones, a steady rhythm that matches the rapid beat of my heart.

At first, the noise is nothing more than unintelligible static, a jumbled mess of sounds that scrape against the edges of my consciousness. It’s like trying to tune an old radio, the signal crackling and popping as it searches for the right frequency. The noise grows louder, more insistent, until it drowns out everything else—the distant echoes of the cavern, the sound of Zoro’s breathing, the pounding of my own heart. All of it fades into the background, swallowed by the static that floods my mind.

And then, through the chaos, I begin to hear something—someone. A voice, distorted and faint, like it’s coming from a great distance or through a wall of water. It’s a voice I’d know anywhere, no matter how garbled or distant it might be.

It’s Gramps.

“Raya—” The word is drawn out, his voice cracking as it forces its way through the noise. There’s a slur to his speech, as if he’s struggling to form the words, like he’s fighting against something—pain, exhaustion, maybe even fear. The sound of it makes my chest tighten, my breath catching in my throat.

“Gramps?” I whisper, my voice trembling as I clutch the hilt of the sword tighter. “Gramps, is that you?”

“Raya… oh gods, Raya!” His voice is raw, frantic, and filled with a desperation that sends a chill down my spine. It’s like he’s drowning, each word a struggle to the surface before being pulled back under. “They… they got me… they… the ink… it’s—”

His words come out in a jumbled mess, fragmented, and broken, as if he’s fighting to stay coherent. The pain in his voice is palpable, and I can hear the faint sound of sobbing, choked, and muffled as though he’s trying to hold it back but failing.

“Gramps, where are you? What’s happening?” I try to keep my voice steady, but it wavers, betraying the panic that’s beginning to creep in. The connection between us feels tenuous, fragile, like a thread that could snap at any moment. I need to hear him, to understand what’s happening, but the words are slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Find Trafalgar Law—” Gramps croaks out, his voice faltering. There’s a long, agonizing pause, and for a moment, I think I’ve lost him, that the connection has been severed. But then he speaks again, his voice weaker, more strained. “Gods, oh Gods, Tell… tell Luffy, too… they’re… they’re all—"

And then it cuts out.

[vodika-vibes]

Hello there! I love your writing sm💕💕

If you feel like, can I have a reader X Cody where the reader is the padawan of Obi wan? Something I can read while at work but it can be 18+ if that’s what your muse comes up with

💕💕💕

Trapped

Summary: You and Cody are trapped in a cave after an explosion, and you take the moment to spend time with the love of your life.

Pairing: Commander Cody x Padawan!Reader

Word Count: 799

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Sorry that it's so short, but I hope you like it!

“This is dumb,” you announce as you kick at the stone that’s keeping you sealed in this small cavern. “Why don’t I just-”

“Because you already tried that, Commander, and it nearly killed us.” Cody interrupted from where he’s sitting on a rock, his helmet sitting on the ground at his feet, “Relax. The General and the others will find us, as soon as the fighting is done.”

You huff and sit on the rock next to Cody, leaning your weight against him, “I know, I know. I just don’t like it when Master is fighting without me to watch his back.”

“The rest of the 212 is there, they won’t let anything happen to him.” Cody replies as he drapes his arm over your shoulder, “Besides, it’s not so bad being locked in here with me, is it?” There’s a hint of teasing in his voice and you nudge him gently.

“I suppose it could be worse.” You allow with a sigh. 

Cody laughs, and his fingers find the length of your padawan braid, which he slowly runs through his fingers. It’s something of a habit for him, whenever the two of you are alone, he’ll find your braid and run his fingers over the beads indicating your achievements. 

“So, do you get a bead for fighting in a war?” Cody asks after a long silence.

“Steel.” You reply absently, “It’ll be my second one. Assuming I survive the war.”

“You will.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“If you think death is going to get you out of this relationship-”

You laugh, your head tilting back to thump lightly against his shoulder, “That would be something to see, wouldn’t it? You in a relationship with a force ghost.”

Cody sniffs, “Needs must and all.” He trails his fingers up to the base of your braid, where the first steel bead is located, “I had wondered about this one,” He admits, “It stands out compared to the others.”

“Mm. Master and I were sent to negotiate a peace treaty for a planet locked in civil war…it ended poorly.” You explain easily, “There was an explosion and we got separated, and ended up having to fight in the war.”

“What happened?”

You release a humorless laugh, “People died. People lived. More people died. I developed an allergy to red meat, and got struck by lightning. Master nearly lost his leg to a landmine. It was a whole thing.”

“...sounds miserable.”

“Isn’t that just what war is?” You counter lightly, “At least this time I haven’t been struck by lighting. That sucked, Cody. Like really bad. Still have the scar, Master Che couldn’t do anything about it.”

Cody dropped your braid and his fingers drifted to your left arm, where the scar lies hidden under your robes, “I’m guessing you were struck here.”

“Mm, I was lucky that Master was right there or I wouldn’t have survived. The electricity entered my left arm, crossed my chest, and exited out the right. Stopped my heart.”

“Well, I’m glad that you didn’t die. My life is better with you in it.” Cody says lightly.

“Yes, I know.” You smile up at him, “Shame that this whole thing is forbidden.”

“I’m fairly certain that the General knows.” Cody says dryly, “On account of the very firm talking to he gave me about respecting your boundaries and not pressuring you into anything you’re not ready for.”

At that you burst out laughing. “Oh, I’m sure he knows. But Master’s been married since he was 20, so he’s not about to lecture me about anything.”

Cody’s head snaps to the side, “General Kenobi’s married!?”

You grin, “He married Master Vos years ago.”

Cody’s jaw dropped, “He married Quinlan Vos? Why?”

You laugh, “I assume it’s because he loves him.” You sit up and press a quick kiss to Cody’s cheek, and you laugh when he turns to catch your lips in a deep kiss.

“So that means that we can get married, right?” Cody asks.

“Mm, someday. After the war.” You reply lightly, and your fingers brush against his cheek and you lean in to kiss him deeply, passionately.

Cody blinks at you, visibly having to reset his brain, “Right. Right, so Dooku and Grievous. And then a wedding.”

You laugh, “It’s a date.” And then you tilt your head to the side, as if listening to something only you can hear, “Master and the others are here.”

“Great, this cave kind of sucks.” Cody catches your hand as you get to your feet, “Love you, cyare.”

Your smile softens, and you lean in to kiss the tip of his nose, “Love you more.”

“Not possible,” Cody finishes with an easy smile, before he gets to his feet as well.

Time to go back to the war.

[m-jelly]

I had this in mind for a while now, a levi x mermaidfem!reader I have no context I just need fluff rn in my life 😭

Sorry this took a while to make, I was coming up with the plot for it and I wanted it to be different and new for you all <3

@ladycheesington <3

The Club

Pairing: Mafia Levi x Mermaid Reader

Tags and warnings: Future AU, fluff, falling in love, scars, past physical abuse, healing, blood, mentions of violence.

Concept: Levi and his gang raid a club and find many of those working there were abused by the gang that had run it. While investigating the club that was now his, he sees a tall big tank in the middle that goes up many floors, inside was you. Levi takes care of you and keeps you employed at the club. Now with a better life and hope, you get to know your new boss and you both fall in love.

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @notgoodforlife @demonsimp6 @nbinairyn @bisexual-bucky-fan

A tooth flew through the air with blood closely following. A body slammed into the table causing it to smash and glass to cover the floor. Irritated, the creator of the pain in the broken body on the floor clicked his tongue. Smart shoes stepped on the glass around the broken man.

Pleads and begs came out of the mouth of a man with teeth missing, blood and spit flying out. With arms raised he hoped his life would be spared, but the man above him was angry. He saw no mercy in the cold steel blue eyes that looked down at him.

With a calm mind and a choice made, a gloved finger squeezed the trigger causing a bullet to rip through the man's hands and finally through his head. The room went silent as the pleas for mercy stopped. Peace filled the club.

Levi sighed as he felt his head throb. He pinched the bridge of his nose before putting his gun away and investigating the club. As his men checked the bottom floor, Levi was more interested in the grand tank in the middle. He climbed the stairs to the top floor for VIPs only and saw the top of the tank was open.

The top of the tank had a resting area on a fake beach. Around the tank was seating, as if something was to entertain them. Levi was aware that supernatural beings were used as entertainment, he was also aware that this club had a mermaid.

Levi took a seat before leaning on the edge and looking into the water. "I'm not here to hurt you. I want to help." He reached down and put his hand in the water. "You can drag me in if you want." He dragged his gaze over to a little cave used for hiding. He smiled softly when he saw movement. "You can bite me too."

Levi's eyes widened when you slipped out of hiding. His heart raced in his chest as you moved through the water towards him. He felt nervous and flustered all in one. You were so beautiful in his eyes, like a goddess. He held his breath when you rose out of the water and leaned on the side right in front of him.

You tilted your head and hummed. "You going to hurt me like the old boss?"

"No."

You grabbed his hand with your webbed one and started reading him. "There's a lot of goodness inside you." You sighed a moment. "So, what's your plan with me?"

He held your hand and smiled. "I would like to keep you."

You hummed a laugh. "I'd like that."

He pulled you closer. "You're really pretty."

You blushed at his words. "Thank you."

He moved your arm out of the water and inspected you. "What are these scars?"

"He would beat me, taze me, burn me and cut me."

"I'm sorry."

You sighed. "You didn't do it or make him. You don't need to be sorry."

"Do you have a home?"

You whined. "You're looking at it."

Levi reached over and grabbed you before lifting you out of the water. "This won't do. You'll have a new place. For now, you'll live with me."

You gasped and felt flustered. "Hey, I need a towel!"

Levi saw your tail slowly turn to legs. "Oh, shit." He sat you down and grabbed the guest towels and gave it to you just in time. "Sorry."

You hummed a laugh and wrapped it tightly. "Thanks."

Levi looked over your scars all over your body. "Tch, fuck. I'm glad I killed that fucker."

"Thank you for killing him. He was trash."

He scooped you up and smiled. "Let's get you to my place to relax."

"Thank you again. What do I call you?"

"Levi, you?"

You smiled and said your name. "Nice to meet you."

You danced in your tank for those watching. You laughed as joy filled your heart. You were actually enjoying your job now and Levi was being so sweet and kind to you. You spent as much time as possible with Levi and it was wonderful that you lived with him. You were supposed to have your own place, but two months on and you were still with Levi.

You smiled when you saw the VIP light come on, which meant Levi wanted to see you. Levi wouldn't let anyone go into the VIP room anymore, it was just for you and him. You felt something for Levi, so whenever he wanted to see you, you swam to him fast.

You shot up to the top and smiled brightly. "Levi!"

Levi leaned on the side and smiled back at you. "How are you?"

"Better now you're here."

Levi blushed. "Tch, flirt."

You leaned up and smirked. "That's right." You sighed as your lips almost touched Levi's. "I like you."

"I like you too."

You tilted your head. "No, I really like you."

He gulped hard. "Me too. Can I kiss you?"

You purred. "Please do."

Levi crashed his lips against yours and moaned against your lips. He tangled his fingers in your wet hair and pulled you against his body. He didn't care that your wet breasts soaked his shirt. Levi just wanted you as his own. He bit your bottom and tugged a little.

Levi pulled back and sighed. "Fuck, I've been dying to do that for so long."

You moaned a little. "Me too. I want to pull you into my tank and show you so loving, but there are people here." You giggled at Levi's blush. "We can have fun at home, right?"

"Of course. I'll spoil you at home."

"You spoil me too much there."

He hummed in thought. "No, not enough."

You lifted up and sat on the edge of the pool with the end of your tail in the water. "Can we keep kissing, or will you go into boss mode and make me work?"

Levi dragged you close. "We'll kiss all day."

"Good."

Levi ran his hand over your scales. "So smooth. I love how it looks and feels."

Your fin ears wiggled in delight. "I'm so glad!"

He leaned over and nipped the top of your fin ear making you squeak in delight. "Fuck, I could eat you up."

"Le-Levi."

He nuzzled his nose against yours. "I don't want to scare you, but I have a confession, it's more than like."

You mewled. "Mate and love?"

"Yes."

You gave him a pleading cute look. "Promise?"

"Promise." He pressed his lips against yours. "Sweet mate and love."

[anakinskywalkerog]

My Very Soul (Chapter 31)

Anakin Skywalker x Jedi!Reader

Link to Chapter 30

Warnings: whew. okay everyone. i'm sorry about this one. this chapter is pure pain. angst and emotional torture and a major character death. tread lightly and read this only if you're doing okay. i'm so so so sorry. that's just how the story goes.  

Summary: As Anakin races to your aid, you find out more about your mysterious, violet-eyed attacker. A major shift occurs in your life, altering your relationship to the Force.

Word Count: 4.6k

"Anakin, be reasonable," Obi-Wan pled. The two Jedi Knights hurried alongside the outer perimeter of the Guild headquarters, where their battalions had, thus far, managed to hold the base.

         "I'm going after them," Anakin promised, his brow furrowed as he turned to look at his former Master. Obi-Wan's face looked exasperated—the stress and exhaustion from the battle read in every line near his eyes, in the way his mustache moved to the side. Anakin knew Obi-Wan well enough to see the fear and worry behind this carefully cultivated façade.

         "Anakin, you mustn't let your feelings cloud your decision-making," Obi-Wan implored, rounding the corner toward the recently constructed command center at the center of the Guild, where Rex and Cody waited to consult the Council via hologram. The Jedi back in Coruscant were waiting to hear about the progress on Felucia, but Anakin didn't care about the Council. He didn't care, at the moment, about the 501st holding the Guild from separatist forces. He was beyond concern for the war. He only knew he needed to get to you.

         "Yuma signaled for help, Obi-Wan!" Anakin fumed, his jaw clenched, his breath coming hot and tight out of his nostrils. "Do you really believe she would have signaled for anything less than—"

         "No," Obi-Wan responded, slowing his stride as the two of them neared the rudimentary command center. "I don't believe she would have signaled needlessly. But—"

         "But nothing. They need our help. Something's wrong, I know it, I...I can feel it." Anakin felt his chest tighten at these words, his worry and anger closing around his heart like a fist. Why couldn't Obi-Wan understand that you were in danger!?

         "Our orders," Obi-Wan said with a tired, heavy sigh, "are to remain at the Guild. If we are unable to hold the front here—"

         "I know our orders," Anakin spat, breathing hard. He turned his angry pout on his former Master, who looked back into Anakin's eyes with concern. Anakin shook his head, trying to clear his anger, trying to focus. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm going after them," Anakin said shortly, turning to head back in the direction they had come, back toward the perimeter of the Guild, toward the direction of Yuma's signal. "It is your choice whether to come or not."

         Anakin turned to walk away, his angry stride starting to break into a jog as his thoughts turned to you. He knew he shouldn't have separated from you, he thought angrily. If anything at all happened to you...Anakin couldn't consider the possibility. His insides turned to steel, a hot, heavy, twisted metal, and he quickened his pace. You were his whole world, his reason for existing. He would not allow anything to happen to you.

         Behind him, Anakin heard Obi-Wan heave another sigh. The sound of his Master's quick steps growing nearer reassured Anakin that Obi-Wan was, at last, seeing reason. The two Knights hurried away from their duty, toward the sound of the distress call they knew they must answer.

You strained, trying to pull at the restraints around your wrists, around your ankles, but the heavy metal bounds wouldn't budge. You were held in a restraining plastron that stood in the middle of a large, empty cavern. You searched the ceiling and looked into the sides of this voluminous cave, trying to discover a way out, but it was too dark for you to grasp your surroundings fully. The only shapes around you were the many stalagmites that rose from the stone floor. The cave itself seemed to be whispering to you, making noises that were not noises that could be made without a voice. The humming continued. You felt your head drooping, felt your consciousness pulling away from you. You gritted your teeth, fighting to remain in the present, fighting the battle with your brain fog and winning.

         The woman with the violet eyes leaned up against one of the larger stalagmites, watching you with a malicious expression on her face. When you looked into her eyes, the whispering voices in your mind grew louder. Why were you having this reaction now, in the presence of this woman who, while an enemy, was certainly not a Sith? Why were you struggling to maintain a hold on your consciousness? The cave continued to whisper, as if deriding your questions, as if mocking you for your ignorance. You struggled against your restraints some more.

         "Let me go!" you yelled again, infusing into your voice all the Force command you could muster. The woman sat watching you, a wicked smile gracing her lips, but she did not respond. You tried again. "You will remove these restraints!" you shouted, but the woman simply laughed.

         "This is entertaining," the woman drawled, her voice jogging your memory in a sickening way, your stomach turning. You felt outward toward her in the Force, feeling her anger, her hatred, her...insecurity? The instability within this woman raged within her like a fire, burning up every thought. You felt her presence like you were holding something that burned your fingers. You scrunched your eyes closed, trying to force her impression out.

         "I'm aware of your abilities, you know," the woman said, and you opened your eyes, glaring at her where she sat so casually. "I can see what you're trying to do. But your intuition won't help you now, I'm afraid." She pushed herself up off the ground where she sat. "Knowledge of what's to come won't stop it from happening."

         "What do you want with me?" you spat, glaring at this woman and feeling the hatred from her presence lap at your insides like a flame. Or, maybe, you considered, this was your own anger. You took a breath to calm yourself. You mustn't lose focus.

         "Retribution," the woman said casually, holding up her hand and looking down at her nails, as if she were bored with this conversation. "Revenge, I can admit. And pain." She looked back up at you and took a few steps closer, smiling with her teeth in a way that made your insides squirm. "I want you to feel pain. And you will." She cocked her head, turning to her left. You felt their presences coming in—the people entering the cave felt fear, a sickening, all-encompassing fear, a fear mixed with ire. You turned in your restraints to regard three large men carrying a heavy-looking crate. You gasped, recognizing the one with the bald head and the lightning tattoo. The man looked up at you as the henchmen approached, giving you a menacing glare.

         "Yes, I am not the only one who wants revenge," the woman continued as the men set the crate down in front of where you were restrained. "She will suffer, my friend," the woman said, signing her speech with her hands to the man with the tattoo, who grunted in response. "But the pain must wait."

         The men walked away, and you tried to turn yourself around in your restraints to see where they exited, but it was no use. You were bound too tightly. The woman stepped forward and pressed the panel on the side of the crate. As it opened, you felt the sounds of the whispering intensify, those low notes continuing in the back of your mind, a long, melancholic chant. You felt your eyes roll back into your head, and you fought, trying hard to regain your eyesight.

         "Convenient," you heard the woman say, and you pushed your eyes forward, regarding her with blurry vision. She'd stepped even closer to you, leaning in, her purple irises alight with some foul emotion you felt swelling around her. "That this," she continued, gesturing with her hands toward the cavern around you, "was once a dwelling place for a Sith Lord and his apprentice." You felt her thoughts turn to her henchmen, and their fear as they regarded this place. You started to understand. "I knew, of course, that you would be difficult to subdue," the woman continued, "without a little help. And since my uncle refuses, for some reason, to touch you, I knew I needed to get a little...inventive."

         At these words, your thoughts started to spin. Her uncle? Who was this woman? And how did she have such knowledge of the Sith, of the ways of the Force, if she wasn't a Jedi? She couldn't be even five years older than you were. You felt her presence turn sour, her anger singing you from within. You forced your eyes open, so that you could look at her.

         "Yes, I can feel your confusion," the woman mused, her brow furrowing. "Though we are not all gifted in the Force as you are, these rudimentary changes in energy are apparent. To me, anyway." The woman laughed without humor.

         "Who are you?" you asked, knowing that you would be able to decipher the answer in her thoughts. The woman smiled an evil smile as she lifted her head out of the crate. She raised her eyebrows. You couldn't see what was in her hands.

         "Ah, yes, I suppose your abilities would come in handy when seeking information," she said, but you only half heard her. You were concentrating on the images and impressions flashing through her thoughts—Count Dooku was there, and you delved deeper, feeling into the woman, feeling her memories. You saw her as a child, petulant, moving things with her mind. You saw Dooku, yelling at some other man, felt the child's emotions. She was crying. You felt other things too, things you couldn’t decipher.

         "Dooku...is your..." you began, trying to piece it all together.

         "My uncle," the woman seethed, standing up and looking you head on. You saw in her hands a large needle. You swallowed, bringing yourself back to the moment. You felt the woman's anger at Dooku's name. "Yes," she continued, walking to your other side, holding the needle in front of her. "My uncle became, as you might know, very disenchanted with your Order. He refused," she continued, stopping to study you, "to allow anyone in his family to join." You felt other images flash by in her mind—images of Dooku hitting her across the face, pushing her to the ground, shouting at her.

         "He hid you," you stated, looking deeper into her mind, trying to glean any information that might help you escape this mess.  

         "Yes," she answered, her eyes showing just a hint of the pain you felt raging within her. "He made sure no one would ever find me. He made sure I learned every sick, twisted ability he could teach me. But I was never enough for him." She paused, reading your reaction as you felt her memories, her pain from her training.

         "He shouldn't have done that to you," you started quickly, taking advantage of her silence. "Had you been found by the Order, you would have been trained differently. But it isn't too late—"

         "It is," the woman hissed, "altogether too late. For me," she grinned, her anger twisting her face into that same, wicked smile, "and for you."

         "What does any of this have to do with me?" You asked, confused.

         "Ah," the woman laughed. "Well, my uncle wasn't too happy with me after our little meeting on Serenno. You remember?" she asked, and the memory of it came back to you, though it felt like a lifetime ago. You and Anakin, searching Serenno for answers about the separatist attacks on the senators. You thought of Anakin with a pang, remembering the fight you'd had after your first encounter with this woman, wondering where he was now in the battle raging outside the cave, whether he was okay.

         "Yes, you and pretty boy caused quite a stir between me and my dear uncle," the woman grimaced. You thought you could sense the ghost of a scar across her face, one that might have been made by a lightsaber. "And, of course, the Count was furious that I had encountered you, furious that I had betrayed details about his involvement to the ones so special to—" she cut off at this, and you sensed, for the first time, fear in her presence. What had she been about to say? Special to who?

         "Regardless," she continued, "I didn't forget that you bested me then, and I planned to make it up to my uncle. Earn his favor, or, at the very least, escape his...wrath." You furrowed your brow, confused. "I wanted to kill you, you see," she said, "to make up for my mistake. But my uncle told me you were not to be harmed, not to be dealt with." This piece of information stopped your thoughts in their tracks. Not to be harmed? As instructed by Dooku? How could that be?

         "I listened," the woman added, continuing her story. "I did not attempt harm you, though I admit I resented you even then. I didn't understand why you were known to my uncle, why you and your precious lover boy were not to be touched. I started to wonder what my uncle was hiding, when he would slip away. I wanted to know who he was conversing with, at night, why he shuddered with fear at random moments." The woman paced to your other side, the needle looming large in her hands. "But I was careful. I began to eavesdrop, collecting what information I could, while still performing those menial tasks for my uncle—sending bounty hunters to scare the senators, trying to stir up dissent within the Republic. But then—" she cut off, her face twisting, and you felt that she might as well be talking to herself, her presence so deep in her memories. "Then I was sent to attack a senator on Levangé." You swallowed, a lump forming in your throat. "A job I thought would be simple, a task I knew I could perform to get back into my uncle's confidence." The woman's face screwed up in anger, and she stepped forward again, looking into your eyes.

         "You ruined that for me too, you see," she said, her eyes level with yours. "You got me captured, got me interrogated, thrown into a Republic cell. My uncle was furious." You looked down, seeing that she was squeezing the needle, her hands straining around its large barrel. "Sure, he...liberated me," she said, laughing a harsh laugh. "But he punished me. He was terrified of his secrets getting out, you know." The woman took a breath, as if she was losing control on her calm pretense. "He banished me, once he was done with his punishments. I was turned out like a common rat. And all for him to declare himself, not even a week later, to the Republic. All for the war to start, for his schemes to be made public." You wanted to keep this woman talking, keep her focused on her story so you might find a way out of this, find your way back to Master Yuma, wherever she was in this mess of tunnels. You focused your Force energy on your binding, trying with all your might to unlock the mechanism, but it was no use. Your hands and legs remained bound.

         "So you see, all of my woes can be traced back to you," the woman was saying, her eyes on you, her face in a slightly maniacal smile. "I lost everything. All because of you. You ruined a lot of things for me," she said as she leaned forward, looking into your face. "You took away my family, took my position, took my uncle's fascination...and, without the purpose he had given me, I started to seek a new purpose. Revenge."

         "You...you don't have to do this," you whispered, looking around frantically. "I didn't take those things from you. You were born into the worst of circumstances, but you can still—"

         "Still what?" the woman asked derisively. "Still lean into the 'light side of the Force'? You will soon learn," the woman snarled, "that there is no such thing as the dark and the light. There is no difference between the Sith and the Jedi, Y/N. Both seek power, mastery of the Force. The only difference is the wording they use when they speak of their methods."

         "How do you know my name?" you asked breathlessly, looking back to the needle in the woman's hands.

         "I know all about you, Y/N. I eavesdropped plenty on my uncle, and his conversations with his...Master," the woman fumed, and you felt again the pinpricks of fear in her presence. "I know that you and your precious Anakin Skywalker are to be 'preserved' for him," she continued. "I know that, because of this, I cannot harm you. I cannot kill you. They would find out," she smiled, holding the needle, looking like she wasn't all there in her mind. "They would come after me, and kill me. I don't know why they bother with you, why they discuss you and your friend..." the woman stepped up in front of you once again, sizing you up, your form much shorter in stature than hers. "So I had to be clever, when planning my attack. I still have contacts in the separatist movement, you know. It wasn't difficult to visit a few of their bases, trying to form a plan. And then I stumbled on this wonderful place," she explained, raising her arms and gesturing around the cave. "Knowing, as I know, that you struggle with your so-called 'dark side'...I thought a Sith dwelling would be the perfect place to hold you. But how to get you here!" The woman laughed shrilly. "It has not been easy. I knew I needed to push the separatists as far toward your Guild as possible, knew that if the situation were dire enough, the Republic would send you, their prized student. And I knew I needed to do it without attracting my uncle's attention." The woman breathed deeply, as if she were basking in her success. "It took longer than I expected. But finally, you arrived. And now I will find my revenge. I can still hurt you." She reached out with her hand, touching the side of your temple. You bristled at her touch.

         "My uncle was terrified that you would find out anything about me," the woman continued, switching the needle from her right hand to her left, like she was playing with it. "He hid me even from his own Master, you know. And perhaps that is why he sent me away—I was becoming too much of a liability." She laughed again, her eyes darkening. "But I don't care to follow his rules anymore. You will know my name. And you will remember who it is that causes your pain." You looked at the needle again, and back into her eyes, your presence finally giving over to fear.

         "Vyra," she said plainly, reaching out and touching your hair, as if you were old friends. "My name is Vyra. And you don't have to worry about this," Vyra added, gesturing to the needle in her hand. "It isn't for you."

         It was then that you felt the disturbance—the presences moving toward you, the rift in the Force, as if something were being set in motion, as if the song were swelling toward forte, the symphony reaching its final act. The whispering voices in your head joined the cacophony, growing louder, growing excited. Your head ached from the effort it took to stay present, to keep your consciousness in the here and now.

         "Bring her in, boys," Vyra said in a manic, evil tone, her smile taking over her whole face. You turned to regard the same three henchmen carrying something, walking toward you. You strained to see the limp form in their arms.

         "No!" you shouted, your eyes filling with tears. You pulled at your restraints, pushed out with the Force, your fear and panic swelling along with the voices in your head.

         "Yes," Vyra contradicted as the men lay the unconscious form of Master Yuma beneath your feet. "I would have preferred lover boy, of course," she added casually, like you were discussing the weather. "That was the original plan. But he is well protected, and when your Master," she continued, the word rolling off her tongue contemptuously, "basically fell into my lap? Well, I couldn't pass up the opportunity. She was so easy to collect, unconscious as she was. She fell from quite a height."

         "No!" you shouted again, as loudly as you could, your voice grating against your throat. "Let her go!"

         "Your Force command is useless, here," Vyra said slyly, reaching to prop Master Yuma's unconscious body in a seated position against the nearest stalagmite. "But it's entertaining to see you struggling so much. Please, continue."

         "What are you going to do to her?!" you pled, continuing to struggle against your restraints. "Let her go, now!"

         "I would have thought it was quite obvious, by this point," Vyra responded, rolling her violet eyes. "Even your intuition doesn't allow for basic deduction skills, I suppose." Vyra pressed the needle against Master Yuma's neck, almost gently, injecting her swiftly with some kind of clear liquid. When she was finished, she stood up, admiring her handiwork.

         "It should only take a few minutes," Vyra explained, her face the face of pure evil. "This is a fun concoction that my uncle tends to use on his...enemies. It will make her see things," Vyra clarified, taking a step away from Master Yuma and back toward you. "See unpleasant things. It's an excellent form of...emotional torture. And I thought, since I am not able to harm you, physically," Vyra added, stepping until she was inches away from your face once again. "How else to torture an empath?"

         Your heart beat madly in your chest as you watched Master Yuma start to twitch. How were you going to get out of here? You needed to think quickly. You saw, underneath Vyra's dark cloak, the form of a lightsaber—Yuma's lightsaber. If you could distract her, you might be able to wrest the lightsaber from her through the Force. But how to use it, with your hands bound as they were, above your head?

         "No..." Yuma whimpered, and you looked back at her, horrified, watching her form start to shake. "No, no, no..." Yuma was shaking her head back and forth. You felt her presence descend into terror, felt your own following hers. Her eyes shot open.

         "NO!!!" Yuma shouted, looking around wildly, her eyes unfocused.

         "Master!" you yelled for her.

         "No, Y/N, no!! No!! Get away from her!! Stop it, stop hurting her..." Master Yuma yelled wildly, her eyes unseeing, her body jolting back and forth, reacting to the poison's effect on her mind.

         "Master, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." you started to sob, your own body shaking. You could feel every dip in your Master's presence, saw with her the vague impression of yourself...of yourself being threatened, of yourself being hurt.

         "Isn't it excellent?" Vyra asked, her eyes alight with excitement. "I did not know, of course, that the images her mind would conjure to torture itself would involve you...how fun!" Vyra clapped her hands together.

         "Stop!! No!! NO!!" Yuma was shouting, and in her mind you felt the impression of dead bodies all around her, piling up. You saw through her presence your own form, lying on the ground, unmoving, your eyes open, your mouth gaping. You saw Anakin's form lying next to yours, and Obi-Wan's next to his. You saw with Yuma a pile of dead Jedi.

         "No, no, Y/N, no, it's all my fault..." Yuma cried, her head shaking back and forth, her hands pushing into her eyes.

         "No, Master, no..." you sobbed, trying to think clearly through the voices that were laughing, jeering in your head. "No, it's not your fault, Master, it isn't real, it isn't real, Yuma, come back to me!"

         "It's all my fault," Yuma said again, "I tried, I tried..." From where she was slumped against the rock, you saw that her unfocused eyes had tears streaming from them.

         "No, Master, no, it's not real, I'm going to get us out of this, I'm going to help you, Master!" you cried, looking around wildly, screaming in the Force, asking for something, anything that would help you get out of here, anything to help you fight. You strained against the bounds on your hands and legs, pressing with all your Force effort, willing them to open. They wouldn't.

         Vyra stood next to you, leaning in, looking into your eyes, enjoying every moment of your agony. As you turned to look at her, every part of your insides seemed to erupt. You spat at her, your body still raging in the Force, trying to get out of your bondage.

         "You see what I mean," Vyra said gleefully, "about the dark and the light? It's all a myth, Y/N. You'll know soon enough." You felt Vyra's thoughts turn to the kill.

         "Um, Vyra..." you heard one of the men say, approaching quickly.

         "What?" snapped Vyra, turning to the man reluctantly.

         "Code blue. They're close."

         "No!" Vyra screamed in rage, her hands balling into fists. "Urrghh!" She swiped at the air with her long limbs, hitting something imaginary.

         You felt the voices swelling around you, the hum echoing against the cave walls, blocking out every sound. You pushed against them with all your might.

         "No," whimpered Yuma, her pain tinging the air around you.

         "Ruining the fun..." you heard Vyra say, as if to herself, and you looked at her, seeing that her face was calculating. "Only one thing to do, now," Vyra said, her face illuminating as she took Yuma's saber from beneath her own cloak and lit it.

         It happened as if in slow motion. You felt your body twist, screaming at your restraints, pressing yourself forward toward your Master. Vyra kept her eyes on you as she leapt toward Yuma, pressing, in one, quick motion, the saber's green blade directly into Yuma's chest.

         "NO!!!!" you screamed, your sight turning to black, your feeling in the Force so strong that you thought you might shatter your own blood vessels, shatter the cave around you. You felt the stalagmites begin to crack.

         "Until we meet again," you heard Vyra say maliciously, and you wrenched your sight back to reality, trying to see through your blurry eyes as Vyra pocketed Yuma's saber and leapt into the air, disappearing upward into the darkness.

         "NO!!" you screamed again, your head turning backward and forward, looking around for your attacker, straining against your restraints. Your rage continued to shake the ground, continued to cause the stalagmites to crack. But there was no one left to attack—Vyra and the henchmen were nowhere to be seen. You breathing was coming in large gasps, your mind unable to comprehend your surroundings, your entire self shying away from what had just occurred. It couldn't be. Yuma couldn't be...

         "Master," you whimpered, looking through the darkness at the form slumped over against the stalagmite. "Master....master..." you continued, as if compulsively, begging the universe to let her respond, begging her through the Force to wake up. "Master! Master!! MASTER!" you shouted, reaching out through the Force, feeling forward toward Yuma's insensate form. But you couldn't feel your Master there, you realized. You couldn't feel anything.

         You kept your heavy lids open, beholding the unmoving form of the person who was your family, your mother, your father, your mentor, your safe harbor, your source of comfort and knowledge and love. The person who had taught you every important value you held dear. As you looked at her, you saw, to your astonishment, her form vanish, her clothes falling empty to the ground.

         It was then that you descended into madness.

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

But there's no happy endings, not here and not now this tale is all sorrows and woes you dream that justice and peace win the day but that's not how the story goes

Honestly very sorry for this. This hurt to write. To anyone who cares about this story--I'm sorry! But this is how the story goes.

Another chapter is up NOW so don't dwell in your misery, go read

divider credit to @racingairplanes

taglist part 1: @iyoogi @cluelessgurl @layazul @annadastra @graciexmarvel @galaxiasyamor @organasith @indigoblues1207 @outoftheregular @katsukiswrld @prettyboyrryy @jellydodger @wildflower57 @padmeamidalaslover @em-asian @heavenseraph @iloveinej @leapofblank @sahverah @elsyyie @usuallyunlikelyfox @jadeonce @papadragun @dopejellyfishfury @stxrrielle @lilianashomaresparza @prettylittlecarstairs @deadunicorn159 @atoelicker @arelisskywalker @maythefloorbewithyouanakin @your-local-crzy-lady @dontmindme262 @xenochuguardian @cassiopeiashift @allihavenegativethoughts @hamiltonwc @1-800-nostalgiaaa @heyitsaloy @haydenchristensenluvbot @sunflwrsunnieshine @muthafuckingstargirl @window-to-nothing @shadowhuntyi @jedi-archives @inmourningforanakin @vivsmcdo @betrund @ahqkas @aquaamethyst96 @escapepoet @randomstuff2040 @kenjikishimotosupremecy @nycweb-slinger @anxlaufeyson @magic-magnoliaa @theezlife @unipugrose22-blog @anhsoka @lucyysthings @hopefulpursepeanutdeputy @captainson-of-coul @zelzablues @chrisevansslutttt2

[defira85]

Apologies for the delay! 1 and 11 for the latest creator ask?

And my apologies for the slow answer😅from your very magnificent ask meme here (and I've JUST seen the political minutiae one from today as well and I'm WHEEZING)

1. Your hottest Durgetash take. The kinda heat Gortash had to endure in HoH. (But be respectful about it fellas, this means everyone)

Oh man I sort of try to avoid posting "hot takes" because I did my time in the Dragon Age fandom and it's very easy to hurt people's feelings because there's such a fine line between vagueblogging and hot takes sometimes... I suppose my thing would be that as much as I'm notorious for writing a happily ever after tragic romance with Gort, I feel like it does him a fundamental disservice as a character to try to... whitewash? His capacity for cruelty? There are piles of rotting bodies in the Steel Watch factory from what we are told are explicitly his experiments, based on the correspondence between him and Balthazar about controlling an undead brain with a tadpole. He kidnaps several young women and girls - at least one of whom he murders and puts her head in a jar 'because he liked her singing voice'. And yes teddy bear bombs etc etc, we all talk about that one, but as much as I love reading romantic Gort stories (with Tav or Durge! I'm not fussy!) he's so much more than just a charming bad boy villain, he's a man with a cruel and sadistic streak a mile wide. He's not afraid to get his hands bloody, and will in fact enjoy it

And yes we can all have our own headcanons of course, that's what makes fandom such a beautiful place, is the depth and breadth of ideas people bring to a character and offer up to one another by way of fic and meta and art but I suppose that's just one that'll always make me go hmm

11. Sceleritas my beloved, how exactly does he fit in there?

He’s my best friend, he’s my pal, he’s my homeboy, my rotten soldier, my sweet cheese, my good time boy-

Younger Kass had a relationship with Sceleritas that I would almost classify as... he was like an extension of herself. He was there almost before she could anticipate a need, and they worked together in a fluid harmony that could be unsettling. This synchronism was fundamentally broken by Bhaal's resurrection, because of course she wasn't supposed to survive that event and so they never reconnected on that same level again. That's the point when he became more of a babysitter, spending his time trying to realign her with Bhaal's desires and slowly failing over the next decade

I wasn't as huge of a Sceleritas fan until I saw a video of an Accepting Dark Urge kill him permanently. That was the moment I saw him as a creature fully separate from Bhaal and not just a shadow puppet Bhaal was projecting onto the wall of the cave. His capacity to change like Durge is questionable, but his fear of death and his anxious desire to live really hit me hard and since then I've been ride or die for him. Bhaal can't have him in my canon, if I can redeem Gortash then I can redeem Sceleritas

[cor-lapis-candy]

So there is a very very talented artist on Instagram under the name daione.sith (100% look at their stuff! And of you have the money their patreon cause !!!! The NSFW versions!) And they have a demon Diluc drawing and good lord has it given me an idea.

So here I come like some kind of goblin out of my lil cave of Minecraft and grinding to give you this.

This piece doesn't really need a CW or a TW to my knowledge, but if religious themes or anything to do with possessive themes makes you umcomfy maybe don't read this one!

Have you ever seen the Anemo Archons cathedral in the afternoon?

Rays of golden light transformed into halos of gold and blue, green specks filling gaps between pure white streaks, the air filled with specks of dust that drift and paint the cracks between each colour stained display of devotion. Candles of every kind, pillars and tealights, long burning towers of wax that are lit day in and day out, melting and painting old stained wood with pools of faded whites and yellows, all long since forgotten and uncleaned after their purpose had been served.

There is piety in the air and whispered hymns on the lips of every soul that passes through those doors, heads bowed and hands offered in prayer and open devotion, and yet one resounding set of steps is all it takes to taint and defile, the solid click after click of his shoes against polished tile is a simple rhythm that sinks sin into the very stone foundations of the cathedral, a rot of domination seeping into the roots and curling around the heart of the church of freedom.

A demon in only your mind alone, and a saint in all others eyes, the uncrowned king and deep shadow across your devotion looms over you, standing as he always does, clothed in his jacket and hands ringed in simple yet daunting steel rings, lips moving through mockeries of prayer after prayer as the air fills with thick incense.

The censer by your side long since burnt out, a centerpiece to the flowing wreaths and displays of devotion through fruit and wine, the ash that falls and spills from the gaps tells of age and endless nights in the fogs of devotion and prayers that the red haired man that has come to curl around your back would disappear from your side, that 'The Diluc Ragnvindr' would turn those crimson eyes from you and find some other lamb to lead a stray, and yet again you feel the heat of his gloves drag across your arms, his hands pulling you backwards into the broad expanse of his chest.

The scent of incense is overpowered but the smell of oak, wine and something burnt, like the after scent of a fireplace or boiler pit, it smelt like iron and ash.

You know what lies under the heavy finery, that the moment you step out of these hallowed halls and step over the threshold of your home there is no archon or divine grace to save you, red hair will give way to arching horns and draping layers with loosen and fall away to leave the defined lines and markings of his true nature bare.

A sight many women and men would kill for will lay bare and inviting on your bed, legs spread with one hand lazily pumping his length. Fingers dragging the small trail of pre further down and making the ridges and inhuman shape all that more prominent, black trails that swirl across his hips and up around his chest, for something so inhuman he plays the role well, a thick swatch of red hair covers his chest and leads wispily down his stomach.

The deep red of his hair mats itself with sweat and other evidence of your entanglement, something of both his and your own, and yet it's not a matter of when you would give in but how.

Some Days he would catch you before you got into the cathedral, other day, ones much like this one, he would cradle you through your last prayers and escort you home, making you a sight of envy for all those that would catch sight of the two of you, and oh how people would see. The route he would make you take winds the many main streets and side roads, every set of envying eyes would watch as his gloves hands dug into your hips, how he let you push against him and made him chuckle.

The sound mistaken for mirth when really it was nothing but condescension.

Whatever his end goal was, Diluc Ragnvindr was working his way into your heart and head, somedays all it took was a flash of the fiery red of his hair and you would be wound up expecting those heavy hands and ash laiden words to coax you off your beaten path and into the dark of some ally for a quick moment of hushed breaths and shape teeth digging into whatever skin you had exposed or could be exposed.

But here in your home as he lays back, horns ripping through the plush pillow you had bought not a day before, red tipped claws digging into the soft skin of your hips and dragging you further and further down his cock making the finale ridge of something just shy of to big, to wide, too much for you, press against your opening as he huff out a laugh.

Today he would take you wholly, leave you gasping and open mouthed as he sunk that finale but of himself into you, stained you inside and out with himself, marks of theet and hands mean nothing to how he will know that he finally came in you, finally painted your inside with his spend.

How glorious it will be the day he gets you watch you stumble back from that cathedral to his winery, to drape yourself across his lap and grasp at the base of his horns and beg for him, true devotion to him, true adoration and nothing but from you, to him would be the icing on this long overdue cake.

For now though he will enjoy the fucked out and watery eyes stare from you as he pushes you that little bit further down his cock, bottoming out and drawing a deep gasp from your lips.

For now this will do…

[bubblegum-blackwood]

VC Kink Week - Day 6 - Edge Play

I'm a little nervous posting this one - it's not like anything I've done in VC fic before! But I hope y'all like it. Here's to the Loustat bitches.

"Bus Stop"

Louis was nervous.

When Lestat had first approached him to ask about the idea, he had been initially put off by the very thought, and he shut the conversation down. But Lestat was relentless in pursuing his goal, as with most of his goals, and after a good month or so of nagging and puppy dog eyes and kisses more persuasive than Louis liked to let on, he finally caved and agreed to give the brat what he wanted. They didn’t do it right away, because Louis wanted time to prepare, research, formulate a plan, have some sort of idea about what he was actually going to do rather than diving headfirst into something like this, where trying it new for the first time could end in a flaming dumpster fire disaster if they weren’t careful. Lestat was impatient as always, and Louis tried to explain to him - wouldn’t it be all the better for the greater buildup? Lestat pouted but let Louis do his reading and ask his questions, and now, after what felt like much too long, they were finally doing it.

Louis was nervous.

Lestat was a bit nervous, too, but he didn’t want to let that on lest Louis use it as an excuse to shut down this little scene he had waited weeks for before it had even started. His hand trembled as he stood on the fire escape letting the cool night breeze caress his face, smoking a cigarette that did nothing much for him save as a part of the act, this little play they were putting on. The fire escape was also part of the act - although for the purposes of their evening they were going to pretend it wasn’t a fire escape but rather a bus stop. Boy, their neighbours sure wouldn’t like them tonight.

Louis took a deep breath he didn’t necessarily need just to calm himself, steel his nerves - okay. He could do this. For Lestat. He ran his lean fingers through short black curls with another sigh. It would only get worse the longer he waited; he had to do it now. Before he chickened out and let Lestat down big time.

Louis marched out onto the fire escape with Lestat, leaning against the wall without acknowledging him. Lestat snuck a look long enough to brighten up at the observation that Louis had taken his entire ensemble from Lestat’s wardrobe - from the red silk shirt unbuttoned to show off silky black chest hair to the shiny leather jacket, tantalisingly tight pants, high-heeled boots. He was a vision, there was no other word for it. Lestat almost salivated - he looked so brilliant in that shade of red. It put Lestat to shame in his plain grey t-shirt and the worn light-washed jeans he had borrowed from Daniel (which he was only able to pull up his legs after much adjusting to the waistband that he would then have to undo before he returned the pants - Daniel had much thinner hips then Lestat did). They stood in semi-awkward silence, and as it went on Lestat began to fear that Louis would lose his nerve and call the whole thing off, but finally he opened his mouth and said, “What sort of place could a pretty thing like you have to be going to at this hour?”

Read the rest on AO3! If you liked it, please consider leaving kudos and/or comments to let me know, I would really appreciate it!