#i tried to make it a companion piece so now-

[kirammanswifey]

how arcane characters would deal with mental disorders x fem reader

characters: viktor, jinx, vi, caitlyn, jayce, ekko, silco, mel and sevika.

writer's note: writing this felt like giving myself a warm hug, a comfort that i needed. if anyone reading this is going through or has gone through any of these disorders, i want to tell you that you are very brave because it is not an easy thing, so feel proud of yourself. i hope you liked this as much as i did. as i'm a psychology student, i felt very motivated and i hope that it was quite understandable and enjoyable. as you already know request are open ;)

P.S. i know the other option won in the poll on my profile, but i need more time to refine the ideas and make something high quality that everyone will love, which i’ll be posting tomorrow ;)

Viktor Depression

The world around you feels like a constant weight, a heavy blanket that wraps around you, not letting you breathe. You wake up each day with a sense of emptiness in your chest, as if a black hole is absorbing all your energy, your motivation, your ability to feel anything other than sadness and apathy.

It’s not that you don’t want to get out of bed; it’s that the simple act of moving a finger feels like a titanic task. Fatigue is your constant companion, a shadow that never leaves you. Things that once filled you with joy now seem distant, irrelevant, as if they belonged to a life that is no longer yours.

The dark thoughts are your constant whispers, reminding you that you’re not enough, that it’s all pointless, that there’s no way out. Sometimes, you cry without knowing why; other times, you want to cry, but even that you can’t do. You feel trapped in an invisible prison, with no strength to fight your way out.

Viktor watches you from the doorway of your room, his gaze soft and full of concern. He knows the weight of shadows well, although his are different. Silently, he approaches and sits on the edge of the bed, not invading your space, but close enough for you to feel his presence.

��I have a new project I’m working on,” he says in a quiet voice, trying not to break the fragile bubble of your world. “I thought maybe you could join me today. You don’t have to do anything, just be there. Your company always helps me think.”

He doesn’t pressure you. Viktor understands that words can be hard to find when your mind is clouded by depression. He knows that the solution isn’t to force you to feel better, but to be with you, to offer you a hand, a small step forward.

He gently rises and offers his hand, not expecting you to take it, but hoping that you’ll know he’s there, ready to support you when you’re ready. “The world can wait,” he murmurs. “But I’m here, whenever you want to come back.”

His patience is infinite, his understanding deep. Viktor doesn’t try to fix you, because he doesn’t see you as broken. He knows that depression is a battle you fight every day, and he’s willing to walk alongside you, every small step, every shared silence.

You look at his hand, then his face; he’s concerned even though he tries to hide it. You make a huge effort to get out of bed, and even though your body doesn’t cooperate at first, you manage. You take his hand and gently squeeze it; that’s the most affection you can give him right now, you’re exhausted.

“Let’s go,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and broken; it’s the first time you’ve spoken all day.

You’re sitting next to Viktor in his small workshop, surrounded by pieces of metal and unfinished prototypes. He’s explaining his latest invention, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. You feel a little better, enough to enjoy his company, and for a moment, a laugh escapes your lips when you hear one of his stories.

“Did you really say that to Heimerdinger?” you laugh, your eyes shining with a spark of life. It’s a small moment, but for Viktor, it’s like seeing the sun rise after a storm.

He smiles, pleased to have made you laugh. “Yes, and his face... It was certainly indescribable,” he replies with a softness that reflects his pleasure at seeing you enjoy yourself, even if just for an instant.

But suddenly, without warning, the laughter turns into a lump in your throat. The spark of joy fades as quickly as it came, and you find yourself trapped in a wave of overwhelming sadness. The tears start rolling down your cheeks, and you can’t stop them. The confusion in your eyes is evident, as if your body has betrayed the fleeting happiness you just felt.

Viktor notices immediately. He leans toward you, his expression turning serious, but his eyes remain warm and full of understanding. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t seek explanations that may be impossible to give. Instead, he moves a little closer, offering you his silent presence.

“It’s okay,” he says gently, his voice an anchor amidst your internal storm. “You don’t have to explain it. Just breathe.”

He offers you his hand, this time with more intent. You take it, feeling the warmth and firmness in his grip, a reminder that you’re not alone in this moment. You needed that contact. You needed to know that you could feel something other than sadness right now. Viktor doesn’t pull away, doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He knows that depression doesn’t follow rules, that it can strike at any moment, and he’s willing to stay with you, no matter how long it lasts.

“Do you want us to stay here?” he asks, his tone delicate. “Or we can walk a little, if that helps.”

His willingness to adapt to your needs wraps you in a sense of safety. Even though the tears keep falling, Viktor’s presence is a balm, a reminder that, even in the darkest moments, there’s someone who sees you, who understands you, and who’s willing to stay by your side.

“Just... stay here with me,” you say, letting yourself fall against his body, exhausted.

He caught you and wrapped you with care, it was a hug with the right amount of strength.

“Take your time, darling. I won’t go anywhere,” Viktor promised in a whisper, never stopping the caresses on your back.

And that was enough to make you feel less miserable.

Jinx Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

The echo of the explosions still resonates in your mind, even though years have passed since that day when your world crumbled. The night everything you loved was consumed by flames in an attack on the Undercity. The night you lost your family and were left alone, with the screams and the smell of smoke forever etched in your memory.

As you walk beside Jinx through the bustling streets of Zaun, everything seems normal, almost calm, until an explosion in the distance makes your heart stop. It’s a dry, loud sound, far too similar to the one you heard that night. Without warning, your breath becomes shallow, your lungs struggle to take in air, and an overwhelming sense of absolute panic takes hold of you.

Your body freezes, and it feels as if the world around you disappears. The crowd, the lights, even Jinx—all fade away, leaving you alone in that dark place where time doesn’t move. The ground beneath your feet seems to give way, and you feel yourself falling again into that abyss of the past.

"Hey, hey!" Jinx’s voice cuts through the fog in your mind. Her hands grip your shoulders, and her gaze searches for yours with desperation. "You’re not there, do you hear me? You’re here, with me."

Her words feel distant, but the warmth of her hands somehow anchors you, reminding you that you’re not alone. "But... the sound..." you murmur, barely audible, as tears start to fall down your cheeks. "It was the same... the same as that night."

Jinx guides you to a quieter corner, away from the noise, holding your hand firmly. "Breathe, hon, like we always do," she says softly, her voice tinged with controlled urgency. "Fill up those lungs, okay? Like we’re balloons."

You try to follow her instructions, but every time you close your eyes to concentrate, the images of that night hit you with renewed force. "It’s not working," you whisper, trembling. "It’s always there. No matter how much I try, it doesn’t go away. It doesn’t go away!" You scream in panic, the fingers of your hands stiffening, making them immobile.

The worry in Jinx’s eyes softens a little, but there’s something else there, something you can only describe as recognition. "That explosion... it reminded me of something too," she says after a moment, her voice quieter, almost a whisper. "I’ve been there, in that fucked-up place, where the ghosts never stop screaming."

Her words are like a key that opens the door to a deeper understanding.

She falls silent for a moment, gazing into the distance before refocusing her attention on you. "When I have my attacks, you’re always there for me, and I remember I’m not alone. That helps me a lot," she admits, a small, almost sad smile curving her lips. "And you’re not alone either, hon. We’re not broken, just a little bent. And here we are, bent together."

The hug she offers you is warm and firm, a tangible reminder that you’re not alone. You feel her strength, her determination, and something else: her own fear, her own struggle. "You don’t have to fight alone," she whispers, her voice a promise. "If you ever feel like you’re going to fall, we’ll fall together. And then, we’ll rise. Always."

You cling to her like a lifeline, letting her warmth and her words anchor you to the present, if only for a moment. "Thank you, sweets," you whisper, allowing yourself, for the first time in a long time, to feel that it’s okay not to be okay.

Vi Anxiety Disorder

The night drags you into the abyss of your mind, but you find no respite. Instead of waking softly to the day, you're trapped in pure panic. Your chest burns, each breath a lost battle. Your heart gallops wildly, as if trying to escape your chest. You are drenched in sweat, the sheets sticking to your skin, becoming yet another prison.

Your eyes snap open, the darkness of the room seems to close in on you, and the silence is deafening. The sensation of suffocation consumes you. You try to gulp down air, but it's as though your lungs have forgotten how to function. Your hands search for something, anything, to anchor you to reality, but all they find is emptiness.

The door swings open abruptly, and Vi stands there, alert, her eyes filled with concern. She doesn't need to ask what’s wrong; she knows instantly. She moves swiftly but carefully, approaching you without frightening you further.

"Breathe with me," she says gently, her hands finding yours, steady yet comforting. "Inhale through your nose... like this... and exhale through your mouth."

You try to follow her, but your body won’t cooperate. Your breath is shallow, frantic, as though every breath disintegrates before it even reaches your lungs. Tears begin to streak down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat.

"Vi... I can’t... I can't... I’m scared," you stammer, your words broken by sobs. Your mind is caught in a loop of terror, every thought spiraling downward, taking you further away from calm.

Vi sits beside you on the bed, her voice low and constant. "Don’t be afraid. Listen to my voice. I’m here with you, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you." Her tone is firm, anchoring you in the present, pulling you out of the tide of your own fear.

"But it hurts... my chest... I can't breathe..." Your body trembles, and your hands clutch desperately at her grasp. The feeling of control slipping away is overwhelming, leaving you feeling helpless.

Vi pulls you into an embrace, holding you close, offering her calm, her strength. "This is temporary. It won’t last forever," she whispers in your ear. "Trust me. Focus on me."

Slowly, very slowly, her voice cuts through the fog of your mind. You begin to breathe more deeply, following her rhythm, feeling how her presence stabilizes you, like a lighthouse in the storm. The pain in your chest begins to lessen, the pressure relents just a little, and your body starts to remember how to breathe without fighting.

Vi continues to speak, her voice a soft murmur, calming you with every word. "You’re strong. You have control, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now."

The tears still flow, but now they are tears of relief, not fear. "Don’t leave... don’t leave. I need you here," you whisper, your voice broken but sincere.

Vi strokes your hair, her other hand gently squeezing yours. "I’m not going anywhere, little doe," she says affectionately, kissing your forehead, tasting the salty remnants of your sweat.

You remain in her arms a moment longer, allowing yourself to rest, letting her strength hold you as you regain your own. Gradually, the panic fades, leaving only exhaustion and the certainty that Vi will always be by your side, no matter how dark the nights may get.

Caitlyn Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

The silence in the apartment is deafening. The only sound that breaks the stillness is the relentless ticking of the wall clock, its rhythm echoing in your ears like a hammer. You’re in the kitchen, eyes fixed on the glasses you’ve meticulously arranged in the cupboard. Each glass must be perfectly spaced, each one aligned to the exact same level. Symmetry isn’t just a preference—it’s a necessity. If something is out of place, you feel as though the whole world could collapse.

Your breathing is uneven, your chest rising and falling in quick succession. "One, two, three..." you murmur to yourself, counting each movement. Your hands tremble, but you can’t stop. You can’t stop. If you do, something terrible will happen. You don’t know what, but the certainty that it will be catastrophic clings to you like a shadow.

Caitlyn enters the apartment after a long day at work. Her expression shifts instantly when she sees you in the kitchen, trapped in your own ritual. She stops in the doorway, watching you with a mix of concern and sadness. It’s not the first time she’s found you like this, but each time, it hurts her as though it were.

"Darling?" Her voice is soft, as if afraid to shatter you. She steps closer, carefully setting her hat down on the table. "What are you doing?"

You don’t answer at first, your eyes still fixed on the glasses. "Almost done... just a few more minutes," you whisper, your voice trembling. You can’t stop. Every glass moved, every small adjustment is a battle between reason and irrational fear.

Caitlyn stops beside you, her eyes scanning the scene, seeing the perfect pattern you’ve created. "You don’t have to do this," she says gently, yet firmly.

Your hands freeze for a moment, but the urge to continue is too strong. "You don’t understand... if I don’t do it right, if they’re not perfectly aligned, something bad is going to happen." Tears begin to well up in your eyes, the pressure in your chest intensifying. "I don’t want you to think I’m crazy, but it’s like my mind... it can’t stop."

Caitlyn takes a deep breath, her hand reaching out to touch your shoulder delicately. "You’re not crazy," she says, locking eyes with you. "I know this is hard, that your mind doesn’t give you peace. But you don’t have to face it alone. Let me help you."

You turn to look at her, your eyes filled with desperation. "I can’t stop, Cait. If I do, I feel like everything will fall apart. I can’t control what’s happening inside my head."

Caitlyn nods slowly, her gaze unwavering from yours. "I know, darling. And I know this won’t be fixed in a day. But I’m here, and I’m going to stay by your side. We’ll face it together."

Her words anchor you, a beacon in the storm that is your mind. Slowly, almost against your will, your hands begin to lower, moving away from the glasses. The fear is still there, a current running just beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm you, but Caitlyn is beside you, her presence a reminder that you’re not alone.

"Breathe with me," she says, her voice soft and steady. "Inhale... exhale... together."

You follow her instructions, though your lungs seem to resist, full of anxiety. Caitlyn guides you, her hand never leaving your shoulder. "See? We’re doing it! You’re doing it!" She encourages, kissing your neck when she notices you’ve looked away from the glasses for five seconds. It was only five seconds, but Caitlyn knew it was a huge accomplishment, and she celebrated it.

You let out a small sigh, the tension in your muscles easing slightly. Your hands travel to Caitlyn’s waist, moving her so the glasses are no longer in your line of sight. You let your head fall against her chest, breathing in her scent. It’s so much better, especially when you start counting the beats of her heart.

"How brave my wonderful and glorious girlfriend is. I’m so proud of you," she whispered, her fingers weaving through your hair as she praised you.

"Cait, I love you so much. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me," you whisper against her warm chest, unwilling to leave that comforting refuge.

Caitlyn chuckles softly, and it feels like music to your ears.

"I feel the same way, darling," Caitlyn replied, gently swaying your bodies from side to side in a small rhythm.

You know that your compulsions won’t disappear, that the need for control will remain, but with Caitlyn, you feel like you can face it one day at a time.

Jayce Narcissistic Personality Disorder

The mirror in your room is your judge, jury, and executioner. Every imperfection is a sentence, every flaw a conviction. You spend hours in front of it, adjusting, retouching, trying to reach a perfection that always seems to slip through your fingers. Your heart beats fast, not from excitement, but from the constant fear that the world will see the cracks beneath your flawless facade.

Jayce enters quietly, his presence comforting and, at the same time, a threat. What will he think? Does he notice the imperfections you see? He steps closer, his gaze soft, but you feel the weight of his eyes as if he's scrutinizing every flaw.

"Love, it's late. Come to bed," he says in a calm voice, trying to distract you from your self-destructive spiral.

"Just one more moment," you reply without looking at him, your focus still on the mirror, searching for symmetry in your features, perfection in the unattainable.

Jayce sits on the edge of the bed, watching you. "You've been here for hours. You don't have to do this. You're beautiful just as you are."

His statement, though well-intentioned, feels like a white lie. "You don’t understand, Jayce," you murmur, your voice trembling with suppressed frustration. "If I’m not perfect, I’m nobody. I can’t let them see my flaws. I can't let… you see them."

Jayce stands, walking toward you carefully, as if approaching a flickering flame. "You don’t have to be perfect to be loved," he says, his words a whisper in the storm raging in your mind. "You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all to me."

Your gaze finally meets his through the reflection. Tears fight their way out, but you can't allow such weakness. "It's not that simple," you whisper. "Every day, every look, every word, it’s all a test. And if I fail…"

Jayce places his hands on your shoulders, his eyes filled with compassion and infinite patience. "If you fail, I’ll be here to lift you up."

"And what if I’m not enough?" The question slips out before you can stop it, the insecurity behind your narcissism showing in all its rawness. "What if one day you realize you deserve something better?"

Jayce leans in, his forehead touching yours, a gesture so intimate it almost breaks you. "I deserve someone who loves me for who I am, not for what I pretend to be. And that’s exactly what you are to me. I don’t have impossible expectations of you. I just want you to be happy, to find peace in who you are."

The internal struggle within you is fierce. The fear of rejection, the desire for perfection, the need to be seen and admired, all mix together in a whirlwind that consumes you. But in Jayce's arms, for a moment, the noise silences. His love is not a chain, but a refuge, one that offers rest if only you can let yourself fall into it.

"How can you be so sure?" you ask, your voice broken but curious.

"Because I love you," he answers without hesitation. "And love isn’t about waiting for perfection. It’s about accepting every part of you, even the ones you think are flaws."

The tears finally make their way out, releasing something within you that has been held back for so long. Jayce holds you as you cry, whispering words of comfort, letting all the pressure, fear, and anguish flow out of you.

"You’re perfect," you whisper, your voice cracked but full of sincerity. In your mind, Jayce is the epitome of everything you don’t believe you are: strong, confident, unshakable.

Jayce smiles softly, his hand caressing your cheek, wiping away the tears still falling. "No, I’m just a man in love. A man who loves you madly." His voice is warm, filled with a tenderness that disarms you. "Why don’t you show me that precious smile of yours? Please, it would make me so happy."

His sweet words touch your heart, and the corners of your lips stretch on their own, forming a sad smile.

"Gorgeous," Jayce murmured, caressing your lips with his strong, calloused fingers.

"Flatterer," you reply with a more elaborate smile, your eyes still wet, but now with a different shine, one that reflects the spark of hope he’s ignited in you.

"I’m just stating facts. I’m a scientist, honey, so I can tell you that, from my perspective, it’s scientifically proven that you’re gorgeous," he commented wryly, a wit that made you laugh.

Jayce smiled and kissed your forehead, holding you firmly in his arms. Finally, you feel like you can breathe, like air is filling your lungs again without that constant weight on your chest.

Ekko Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)

The room is silent except for the soft hum of music playing in the background, but your mind cannot stop racing. Your thoughts scatter like arrows shot in every direction. You try to focus on something, anything, but it feels as though your brain is in a constant battle between the ideas that come and go. The light from the lamp flickers irregularly, and for a moment, you wonder if the bulb is about to explode. This makes no sense, you know that, but the unease lingers.

You quickly get up from the bed, taking a misstep, tripping over a chair you hadn’t seen, barely avoiding it. Your heart races. Everything is a series of chaotic jumps in your head, an endless torrent of thoughts that can’t follow a single path. You look at the desk, with papers scattered about—unfinished projects, ideas you can’t ground. Everything calls to you, but you can’t focus on anything.

Your hands tremble slightly as you grab the pen and begin to write down an idea that came to you, but before you finish the sentence, a new image flashes in your mind. You stop, leaving the pen on the desk and staring out the window. Something about the glow of the stars makes you think of something else. You can’t concentrate. Everything distracts you, even the small noises you used to never notice. It’s so annoying.

Suddenly, you feel the stress begin to accumulate in your shoulders. It’s not just the lack of concentration; it’s the sense of constantly running toward something without ever arriving. You try to finish a task, but more and more thoughts pile up, projects, things that need doing. Everything seems urgent, and nothing seems possible to complete. Anxiety settles in your chest.

You’re about to get up again when you hear the sound of the door opening behind you. Ekko enters the room, his calming presence is the only thing that makes you stop for a moment. He watches you in silence for a few seconds, noticing the frenzy of your movements. You hadn’t realized, but your breathing is irregular, and you’ve gotten up twice without purpose. Something isn’t right.

He watches you quietly, understanding the internal struggle you’re facing. He knows what this means, what it costs you every day.

“What’s going on? Why are you so worked up?” he asks, his voice soft but with enough authority to make you stop and listen.

Your eyes focus on a fixed point, but you can’t find the words to explain what you’re feeling. You don’t know how to put into words what’s happening. It’s like you’re trapped in a cycle of thoughts that never stop.

“My mind... it doesn’t stop moving,” you finally manage to say, almost in a whisper. “Every time I try to do something, it’s like something else distracts me. Nothing stays. Everything slips away.”

Ekko watches you silently for a moment, understanding the fight you’re facing. He knows exactly what this feels like.

“I get it, babe,” he responds, his tone firm but gentle. “I know your mind’s all over the place right now, but I promise we can do this one step at a time. We’ll focus on one thing at a time, no pressure. Sound good?”

The fact that Ekko is offering to be there, without judgment, brings you relief. You know that the impulsiveness you feel, the urge to move without a plan, is something that consumes you. Your mind jumps from one thought to another, and each of those thoughts feels like an urgent need, an immediate necessity. But at the same time, nothing makes sense. Everything is scattered and out of control.

“It’s just that...” your words fade into the air, unable to be completed. You feel trapped in your own body, in your own brain. You can’t stop, but you can’t move forward either.

Ekko gently places a hand on your shoulder, his touch calming. “How can we start?” he asks sincerely, not rushing you. “Tell me what you need.”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The flood of thoughts quiets down, and for the first time in a long while, you can think clearly, even if it’s just for an instant. It’s not about having everything figured out right away; it’s about feeling that someone is there, willing to stand by you while you navigate through the mental whirlwind.

“I just... I don’t know how to do it without jumping from one thing to another,” you murmur, frustration and shame creeping into your voice. “I feel like everything’s overwhelming, and I can’t focus on anything.”

“We’ll take it slow,” Ekko replies, his tone calm and direct. “First, breathe. The first step is to breathe, and then we can start with just one thing. The rest can wait.”

You close your eyes for a moment and follow his words. You breathe deeply, slowly, trying to find the balance that always seems so hard to reach. Ekko is there, not rushing you, waiting for your mind to settle. With his help, little by little, you manage to focus on one small task, one that’s manageable enough not to overwhelm you. It’s just one step, but it’s a step toward calm.

“You don’t have to do it all right now,” Ekko says softly. “What matters is that you’re not alone in this. We’ll go step by step.”

You feel the knot in your stomach loosening, even though there’s still much to do. But at this moment, with him by your side, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you can find a way toward a little peace.

After hours of work and soft laughter, you’re sitting on the floor, with Ekko beside you, both looking at the pieces left to place in a puzzle. It’s almost complete, the pieces fitting perfectly, and though the hours have flown by, you feel lighter, the atmosphere quieter.

“One more,” Ekko says with a smile, holding up a piece in the air. He passes it to you, and together, you place it in its spot, completing the picture. The puzzle is done, and though it’s a small accomplishment, it feels more meaningful than it seems. Not just because of what you’ve completed, but because you’ve managed to feel centered, accompanied.

When you look at the drawing you had left unfinished, now finally complete, you feel a deep sense of satisfaction. Ekko helped bring to life the image that only existed in your mind, his hands working alongside yours, following every line with care.

“You did it,” Ekko says, his eyes shining with pride. “My girl is incredible.” He pulled you into his lap and kissed your forehead.

You look at him, your heart beating a little faster. The fatigue of the afternoon washes over you, but you don’t care. All that matters is that he’s here, by your side, and that, for once, you feel at peace. The air feels lighter, as if the space between you two has been reduced, softened by the stillness of the moment.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your words barely a whisper, but full of gratitude.

Ekko turns toward you, his expression softening. “Don’t thank me. Thank yourself. You’re the one who made it happen, not me.”

The way he looks at you, the way his presence has become part of your space, makes you smile. And, in a moment of impulse, without thinking too much about it, you move a little closer. He seems to understand it instantly, and before you can second-guess yourself, his lips brush against yours. It’s a soft kiss, no rush, no urgency, just a moment where words aren’t needed.

When you pull away, both of you stay there, looking at each other, the air between you charged with something that doesn’t need to be named. Ekko smiles, his eyes sparkling with that glint that makes you feel as though everything is right, as if the world, for a moment, is in its place.

“Everything’s okay now,” Ekko says softly, filling you with calm.

And in that instant, you believe him.

Silco Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)

The air in Silco's office is thick with tension, as always. The sound of the bustling city echoes through the glass windows, but inside, everything is still, almost as rigid as the gaze Silco fixes on you. You're sitting across from him, feeling a familiar dizziness, as if everything is out of control and, at the same time, you're trapped in an empty space. A mix of confusion and anxiety courses through every fiber of your being.

Your hands tremble slightly, and although you try to control your breathing, each inhalation seems to sink you further into the internal chaos. The voices in your head blend together, demanding answers, claiming something you can't give. Silco watches you calmly, but it's a cold, calculated calm, as if everything that's going on inside you is a game he knows how to play.

You feel the emptiness consuming you, and yet an unbearable pressure weighs on your chest. Your mind betrays you, throwing destructive thoughts at you, telling you you're worthless, that everything you do is doomed to fail. The contradiction is overwhelming: on one hand, you feel lost, and on the other, you refuse to give in to the feeling of helplessness.

"Are you alright?" Silco asks, his voice low and steady, but there's a slight intensity in his tone. He doesn't break eye contact, as if he's evaluating every micro-expression on your face, every movement. He knows you're not, but still, he asks. Is it a test? A need to know how far you can go? The silence stretches on, and your thoughts only intensify.

The urge to stand up and run from it all is strong. Everything in you screams to follow your impulses, to escape, to flee from the overwhelming weight of it all. But you stay there, because something in you knows that running will only plunge you deeper into the darkness you're feeling inside. You see yourself fighting, trying to maintain control, but every second makes you feel more lost.

"I'm sorry... I don't know what's happening to me," you whisper, your voice broken, struggling against the avalanche of emotions threatening to drown you. You feel the tears pressing behind your eyes, but you force yourself to keep composure. "It's just... it's all so intense. So confusing."

Silco keeps watching you in silence. There's no judgment in his gaze, only a calculated assessment, as if he's reading between the lines of your suffering. After a long moment, he sighs and stands up from his chair, approaching you slowly. It's not a sudden gesture, but calm, as if he's used to dealing with people who struggle with their own minds. He says nothing, but his presence is the only thing anchoring you in this moment.

With one hand, he takes yours. The contact is firm, but not aggressive, as if he's giving you space to breathe, but also space to not escape. In his eyes, something changes. There's an understanding that you can't fully decipher, but it fills you with a strange sensation, like, for the first time in a long time, you're not alone in the storm raging inside you.

"Your mind is betraying you," Silco says calmly, his voice soft but full of an authority that makes you feel that everything happening has a purpose. "It's an enemy that everyone must face at some point. But you don't have to face it alone."

The words fall on you like a stone, but strangely, they allow you to relax, even if only for a moment. The internal chaos you've always felt halts for an instant. And in that silence, you're finally able to breathe.

"All of this... this emptiness, the feeling that nothing matters, it's not your fault," Silco continues, his tone firm, though not without a strange gentleness. "It's just a phase, a moment that will pass. But you need to control it. Not let it take over you."

You feel vulnerable, but at the same time, a part of you relaxes in his closeness. Silco doesn't tell you that it's okay, nor does he promise easy solutions. He speaks to you with reality, with that harshness that you know comes from someone who understands suffering, but who doesn't have time to sugarcoat the truth.

"What you're feeling is real, but it's also transient. Not everything is as final as you think," he adds, his gaze fixed on yours with intensity. "You can be stronger than this."

The words resonate in your mind as you take a deep breath. You don't know if you fully believe them, but for some reason, in this moment, the darkness feels less imposing. You're not completely free of it, but at least you feel you're not entirely alone. Silco is here, firm and without judgment, waiting for you to take control of your own mind, without expecting you to do it immediately, but giving you the possibility to believe that you'll manage.

The pressure in your chest doesn't disappear completely, but a small crack of calm starts to open within you. And though you know your inner struggles won't end immediately, for the first time in a long while, you don't feel as lost. Silco looks at you one last time, without haste, but with a silent certainty.

"When you're ready, you can get out of this. I'll be here."

You're surprised by how firm his voice sounds, as if, by saying it, he's committed to being a constant presence. And although you don't fully understand how he does it, you realize that, in this moment, his steadiness helps you more than any empty words of comfort.

The world continues around you, but somehow, Silco has given you the strength to face it.

The silence between you and Silco lingers for a moment, but it's no longer the same silence as before. There's a strange peace, almost comforting, in the way he holds you, in the closeness you now feel between you both. The contact of his hand, firm and steady, gives you an anchor amidst the storm that still rages inside you.

A sigh escapes your lips without you noticing, and for a moment, it's not one of despair, but of relief. Silco, still keeping his gaze fixed on you, takes one more step closer. It's not a quick or rushed step, but a calculated one, as if he's sure that, in this moment, the only thing you need is that closeness, that calm presence.

Without saying anything, his fingers gently caress your cheek, a soft gesture that cuts through you. There's a tenderness in his movements that you hadn't anticipated, something that seems in complete contradiction with the person you know, but that, in this moment, comforts you more than any words. You feel vulnerable, but you don't fear it, not now.

Your breathing gradually calms, and Silco, silently, moves a little closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his body. The space between you is almost nonexistent now, and you can feel his breath in rhythm with yours. There's something in his presence that soothes you, that gives you the feeling that everything will be okay, even though it still feels hard to believe.

Finally, his lips come close to yours with an unexpected softness. It's not a hasty or desperate kiss, but something slower, more measured. The brush of his lips against yours is so gentle that it surprises you, as if he's waiting for you to accept it, for you to be ready. And you are. Though your mind is still filled with doubts and fears, something inside you tells you that this is the moment you can allow yourself to be vulnerable, that you can receive something that won't hurt you.

The kiss deepens slowly, and in that instant, the world seems to fade away around you. All that remains is the warmth of his body, the firmness of his arms around you, and the gentle contact of his lips, like a silent promise that, even though the future is uncertain, for a moment, everything is alright.

When you finally pull away, no words are needed. Silco looks at you with an intensity you've never seen before, but in his eyes, there's something more, something you can't describe, something that makes you feel that, despite everything you've been through, you're not alone.

"I told you you were strong," he whispers, his voice deep and soft at the same time.

And for a moment, everything seems enough.

Mel Chronic Stress Disorder

The atmosphere is thick with tension, but it's a different kind of tension. It's a quiet calm, yet at the same time, it is filled with the constant threat of what could happen. You’re there, in one of the rooms of the mansion, sitting on a chair by the window, gazing out at the illuminated city, but unable to really see anything. The world around you seems to blur, as if a layer of fog has settled over your senses, blurring every detail and leaving only the emptiness of your thoughts.

Mel, who has been watching your behavior for the past few minutes, approaches with a palpable gentleness in her movements. Her presence is firm, but not intrusive. From a distance, she’s observed how the symptoms of your chronic stress have taken over you, how anxiety and mental exhaustion have combined to make you feel beyond your limits.

She crouches slightly to be at your level, her eyes fixed on yours, searching for your attention. “I notice you’re not yourself, and I know it’s because the weight of everything has piled up,” she says in a low voice, her tone soft yet firm. “But I want you to listen. You have the right to rest. You don’t have to carry the world, not all the time.”

Despite her words, you feel a pressure in your chest that won’t ease. Everything feels too big, too heavy. Chronic stress consumes you, leaving your thoughts tangled while your body responds with a deep exhaustion that doesn’t seem to go away no matter what you do.

Mel, noticing the internal struggle that consumes you, steps closer and, without warning, places a firm hand on your shoulder. It’s not a gesture of force, but of support. A sign that she’s here, silently, but available to help you find the balance you need.

“Your body is telling you it needs to stop,” she continues, with a softness that’s hard to deny. “Those moments of despair, of exhaustion... they’re real. But you don’t have to go through it alone, no matter how much you think you can.”

The contact of her hand on you, her quiet strength, begins to offer some relief. Even though the weight still lingers, something in you relaxes. It’s as if her words offer you a rope to hold onto, something tangible in the fog that seems to surround your mind.

You lean forward, your fingers briefly touching your forehead as you try to calm the agitation still coursing through you. The stress, that constant pressure in your life, seems unwilling to let go of you, but at least in this moment, with Mel by your side, you can breathe a little more deeply.

“I’ll be here,” Mel whispers, like an unbreakable promise. “If you need to rest, I’ll help you find peace. You don’t have to go on alone.”

For the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to think that, maybe, it’s possible to let go of some of that burden. Mel’s voice, soft yet full of certainty, is a refuge in the midst of the chaos in your mind.

Mel doesn’t expect you to feel guilty for your exhaustion. She doesn’t demand that you change or “overcome” your chronic stress overnight. She only gives you space to feel what you need to feel and to acknowledge that, even though the road may be long, you don’t have to walk it alone.

When your eyes lift and meet hers, there’s something in your gaze that softens. The stress doesn’t vanish immediately, but the simple fact that someone understands you, that someone is staying with you without judging, gives you something you didn’t have before: the possibility of healing.

The silence between you both is comfortable. It’s a silence of acceptance and understanding. And as Mel remains by your side, her presence becomes something that offers comfort, not an immediate solution, but a step toward the calm you so desperately need.

After a long silence, Mel slowly approaches you, and her eyes, filled with softness and understanding, capture you. She takes your hand, with a delicacy that makes you feel lighter, as if the weight of your mind could lessen just with that contact.

“You know, right?” she whispers, her voice gentle but firm. “I’ve seen you fight, and still, you’re here, being so incredible. And to me, that’s what really matters. Not everything you’ve been through, but who you are now.”

The sparkle in her eyes makes you blush slightly, and your heart beats a little faster.

“Mel...” you whisper, barely able to find the words, feeling your nerves breaking. “I don’t know what I’d do without you…”

She smiles, moving closer. “I’m here, for whatever you need, for anything, always.”

Without saying another word, Mel gently caresses your cheek, as if every movement is a silent promise. Then, you see her lean in toward you, her face so close to yours that you can feel the brush of her breath.

“You’re my refuge, you know that, right?” Mel says, with sincerity that runs deep within you.

And without another word, her lips find yours, in a tender, almost urgent kiss, as if she wanted to convey everything she couldn’t with words. When she pulls away, her eyes shine with an unmistakable softness.

“I love you, with all my being. And that won’t change.”

You shiver slightly at her words, but instead of insecurity, you find comfort. Her eyes transmit calm to you, and for the first time, you realize that she’s willing to be the peace you so need.

Sevika Bipolar Disorder

The darkness surrounds you, but it’s not physical darkness; it’s something denser, creeping through every corner of your mind. It’s one of those days. You don’t know for sure, but you feel it deep in your gut: something has changed. There’s a void in your chest that you don’t know how to fill, and a sensation in your stomach that twists you up. You’ve been through this before. The bipolar disorder drags you, takes you as its own without warning, pushing you from one extreme to the other in a matter of hours, minutes.

You wake up feeling the weight of sadness, a sadness that feels physical, sinking you into the mattress as if the sheets were lead. You don’t want to move, think, or do anything. You just feel empty, as if all your strength has evaporated. The room seems smaller, the walls pressing in on you. Your legs don’t respond when you try to get up. A knot forms in your throat, but the tears won’t come. There’s no energy for that, just the weight of despair.

You don’t see her enter. Her presence is silent, but solid. Sevika knows something is wrong, she feels it even before you tell her. When you look at her, her expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you feel that the situation is serious. There’s no surprise, no fear, just a cold, calculating understanding. Sevika isn’t one to lose her calm easily. And that makes you even more confused, making you feel like you don’t belong in that moment, like you’re not the person she expects to see.

“What’s going on?” she asks, not softening anything. The question isn’t condescending, nor filled with concern. It’s direct, almost harsh, she doesn’t beat around the bush. She knows that, when you’re like this, empty words don’t help.

You struggle to form a response. You can’t, really. Your thoughts are tangled in an incomprehensible chaos. But she doesn’t expect you to explain anything. Sevika approaches, sits on the edge of the bed. Her gaze never leaves you, as if she’s evaluating your soul, searching for a point of vulnerability, a sign of what to do next. She has the ability to see beyond your emotions, beyond the depression that consumes you and the anxiety that makes you tremble. She knows that right now there’s nothing rational in your mind, but understanding is her only response. Patience mixes with a slight touch of toughness, as she always does with things she can’t control.

“You’re staying here. You’re not going to do anything impulsive. You’re not going to try to run out of here or make this worse,” she says with a calm coldness that leaves no room for objection. You know that, in this moment, she’s the only voice of reason you can hear.

You’re aware that Sevika is used to dealing with extreme situations, but this one is different. She watches you closely, but from a distance, as if she’s weighing the damage, calculating what she can do to keep you safe. You don’t see fear in her, but you see resolve. She doesn’t switch into “rescuer mode,” she doesn’t try to hug you or tell you that everything will be fine. What she says, she says with authority because she knows that if she gives in, chaos will take control, and everything she’s worked to keep stable will fall apart.

In the internal struggle between your broken mind and the anger that begins to build up inside of you, Sevika is the rock that keeps you from diving into the void. But she also knows she can’t ignore your emotions. Her expression hardens slightly when she realizes there’s something more going on. “I’m telling you this because you know it, not because I need to explain it to you,” she whispers, making it clear that there’s no room for games.

When you finally speak, it’s in whispers, as if your words have weight and could break you. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m... I’m so tired of this constant back and forth. I can’t handle it.”

Sevika doesn’t change her posture. She doesn’t tell you that she’s going to “fix” you, nor does she try to cure you. She knows that what you have doesn’t have an easy fix, but she does have tools to deal with the situation. “You don’t need to fix anything right now. You need to rest. Let what’s going to happen, happen, but don’t make decisions you’ll regret later. Do you understand me?” her voice is firm, but underneath there’s something else, a touch of softness she rarely shows.

The air in the room is heavy, laden with the weight of your thoughts, like a fog that prevents you from seeing beyond. Sevika is there, watching you with the same intensity as always, but with an odd calm, a calm that scares you because it makes you feel like she sees it all: the chaos consuming you, the internal battle between despair and rage.

“I don’t want this to control me. I don’t want to be like this,” you murmur, the words coming out broken. You know you’re saying it more to yourself than to her, but still, the guilt pierces your chest like invisible needles. You feel like you’re not being who she expects.

Sevika stays silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on you. There’s something in her face, a line of tension in her jaw, as if she’s weighing every word before speaking. Finally, she gets a little closer, breaking the distance between your bodies.

“It’s not about what you expect from yourself. It’s about what you need right now. And what you need right now is rest, stop fighting against something you can’t control.”

Your eyes search hers, those eyes that always seem to understand more than you can verbalize. And, somehow, you feel that there’s no judgment in them, just a silent acceptance of what you’re going through. It’s strange. In the middle of the storm in your mind, Sevika gives you the feeling of being the only anchor left in your world.

Suddenly, she stretches out a hand toward you, not rushing, not in a hurry, but with the firmness that characterizes her. You take it without thinking, as if it’s the only thing that can stop the flood of erratic thoughts flooding your mind. Her touch is warm, comforting. There’s a strength in that simple gesture, something that allows you to relax, even if just for a second.

“I’m going to take care of you, understand?” she whispers, her voice low, barely a breath. There are no empty promises in her words, just a statement of fact. But in her tone, you find a softness that she rarely shows. It’s like, for a brief moment, her heart opens a little more, even if she doesn’t fully recognize it.

The moment stretches on, and even though the storm in your mind hasn’t ceased, there’s something in you that feels a little lighter. Sevika doesn’t have the solution to your pain, but her presence, her closeness, gives you a peace you never even imagined.

Without thinking, you move a little closer to her, seeking that warmth. Her fingers interlace with yours, and for the first time all day, you don’t feel completely broken. Sevika has never promised you a happy ending, but in this moment, you don’t need one. The simple fact of being here, of having her close, gives you a reason to keep going, even if just for a little while longer.

“I love you,” you say without thinking, and the words come out with a clarity that surprises you. It’s not a grand declaration, it’s not a promise that everything will be okay, but it’s something real, something you never thought you could say to anyone before.

“I love you too, doll,” she responds with a half-smile, though her eyes seem softer than ever. And, for a second, the world seems to stop. The anxiety, the disorder in your head, dissipate, if only for a brief moment.

She leans in a little toward you, and in that instant, all that matters is the touch of her lips on your forehead, a simple gesture but filled with affection. The silence between you both is comfortable, no pressure, just the comfort of being together, knowing that, even if the world around you falls apart, Sevika will be the one to keep you steady.

[readwritealldayallnight]

When Gaz walks into the bases common room, his goal for making his third cup of tea of the day is diverted when he catches sight of Soap’s expression across the room.

The Scot looks absolutely befuddled, eyes wide and sitting slack-jawed across from his Lieutenant. Gaz walks over to the men, catching the very end of Ghost telling his companion to ‘piss off’.

“Alright?” He asks the lads, raising a brow in question.

“Ye oughta hear the shite LT’s tryin’ to convince me of over here!” Soap is all too eager to inform his friend. Ghost grunts, leaning further back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes as far back as he can, as if to tell the Sergeant in front of him ‘this is why I don’t tell you anything’.

Because that’s almost exactly what Ghost is thinking at that moment. He’d just entered the common room when he’d spotted the back of an all too familiar head, fiddling and distracted with the microwave.

When he’d walked up behind the younger man and echoed his call sign out in greeting, his mask hid the smug smirk that appeared at the jump Soap gave, uttering a loud “Shit!” in surprise.

Soap went on to complain about how he was apparently attempting to jumpstart his heart, drawling on about how the Lieutenant was always sneaking up on people like this, moving quiet as a Ghost.

“My missus says the same thing.” The masked man had mentioned casually, as if his chest hadn’t automatically puffed out in pride, standing up a little straighter at the mention of his girl.

“She says you’re too quiet? Aye, LT, think a lot o’ couples have complaints of the sorts in bed ya see-”

“Shut it, you prick.” Ghost quickly shut him down, ending that line of thought. “She says I walk too quietly in the flat. Accidentally scaring her all the time, poor thing.”

At that, Soap’s eyebrows had shot sky high, keen to hear more about the big bad Ghost’s life of apparent domestic bliss, turning him into an absolute sap.

Ghost wouldn’t normally volunteer information about his personal life. But he just loves you so much. And now that he’s not only thinking about you because he is all the time, but also talking about you, his mouth didn’t seem to want to stop talking about you.

“She put her foot down with me recently.” He’d added with a deep chuckle.

“She did what?” Soap had asked bewildered.

“She called it ‘putting her foot down’. I walked up behind her when she was doin’ dishes. Poor bird didn’t hear me and dropped somethin’.”

“Oh, no! Simon! That’s my favourite mug!!” You’d cried out, watching your most treasured ceramic shattering on the tile floor of the kitchen, spreading every which way across the room.

“M’sorry lovie. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” He’d sheepishly responded, reaching to turn off the running faucet. He’d grabbed the dish towel and gave it to you to dry your hands, lifted you by the waist and set you on the counter with ease, not wanting you to get hurt with your bare feet. He’d turned, already in search of a broom and dust pan.

“Again. You mean I’m sorry for scaring you again.” You had corrected him, narrowing your eyes. “I can’t take it anymore Simon. You don’t need to be stealthy at home, my love, you can make noise when you walk. In fact I need you to make noise when you walk at home!”

Simon had nodded along, diligently sweeping up every piece of your ruined mug.

“I’ll try harder sweetheart. I promise.” He’d offered, dumping the remnants into the bin before he’d walked up to you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist as yours slid around his shoulders.

The very next weekend he’d taken you to a local pottery painting class to make up for the lost mug, as well as you telling him off (because yeah, that was what Simon considered you putting your foot down with him, and he never wanted it to happen again if he could help it).

Ghost finds himself grinning further under his mask at the memory however, of how cute you looked as you tried to raise your voice at him, laying down the law in your shared home.

“And so what’d ya tell her?” Soap asked, curious to know how his Lieutenant had reacted, but more so if the man would even reply or rather would tell him to fuck off.

“I didn’t tell her anythin’.” Simon had uttered. “Did as my missus asked me to do, and that was the end of the story. Well, s’pose I did I tell her I’d look into mug making classes or whatever.”

“…”

“You what?!”

[sh1-n0bu]

yall really thought i was done with monster reader? nuh uh. VAMPIRE READER WITH A SHY MONSTERFUCKER CHARACTER

a shy monsterfucker who didn’t knew they were a monsterfucker yet, who didn’t knew of the kinks they had yet to awaken in themselves, who only thought of themselves as vanilla meeting you for the first time and thinking that you feel not so human. don’t get them wrong, there was nothing about you that was out of place. you looked human but you just… didn’t really felt like it at times

maybe it was the way you sometimes yawned and your jaws opened just a little bit too wide. maybe it was the way you were able to see so damn well in the darkness, eyes sometimes nearly glowing until they shake their head and your eyes looked just fine. maybe it was the way they slowly noticed that you barely ate anything whenever you hung out together, merely ordering a black coffee with extra shots or asking for the black coffee to be made just a little bit thicker. maybe it was the way your smile stretched just a little bit too big to be normal, sharp fangs and canines glistening

either way, you didn’t feel normal. you didn’t feel entirely… human, to them. but they find themselves shrugging it off, still thinking of you as their friend and a close companion

it all gets thrown out when you go radio silent one day. no phone calls, no notifications, no messages or hell, letters. just silence. worried sick, they make their way over to your house, using the spare key you gifted them and stepping inside to a dark and messy home. blinds closed shut, home miserable and, were those claw tears in the back of the couch?

feeling their guts churning with the desire to run away, they call out your name under their breath, akin to a whisper. when receiving no response, they call out again, feeling like they want to run away as they think of their choices. only a one step deeper into your messy home and their vision was swimming, being slammed down onto the floor as something hisses above them before it trails off into a low laugh. dazed, they open their eyes to find… you. except, it wasn’t really you. glowing slitted eyes, wide smile and a sense of danger

“fresh prey, walking straight into my grasp. must be my lucky day…” even your voice sounded weird, as if two people were talking at the same time. one, your normal voice and the other more high pitched. like how some creatures’ voice becomes higher pitched to mimic others and lure prey into their grasp. like… a monster

they tried to flee, to talk sense into you, fear and desperation tugging at their heart as their words trail off into a terrified whimper when your jaws open just a little bit wider, slits appearing at the sides as a long forked tongue runs over knife like sharp fangs before closing again. this felt like a nightmare, something they never really thought of happening before. they could only look away, tears stinging in their eyes when your clawed, stretched fingers tear off a piece of their shirt’s neck area open, thinking that you will tear them apart like how you just did with their clothes just now

a shy monsterfucker who lets out a yelp when they feel a wet feeling on their neck, something long and wet slithering over the skin as if softening the flesh there. despite the fear churning their stomach, they couldn’t help but whine out as their body suddenly started to feel hot. so needy and pathetically hard and wet in their pants like a hormonal teenager as they stare at your long tongue. even as you laugh at the flushed look on their face and make some demeaning remark, all they could do was stare

and to their own horror, they let out a fucking moan when your sharp fangs bite down on the same place you just licked at, head thrown back onto the floor as a loud plea for more falls from their lips. pleas of biting their neck more, tear their flesh apart with your fangs, clench down those strong jaws, absolutely ruin them to your own pleasure. they didn’t get it, wasn’t it supposed to hurt? at least, from all the movies and books, but no, it felt good. even as their blood gets drawn out and your canines dig into their flesh, tearing the skin apart, all they could do was moan out loud like a desperate harlot. mind muddled and body twisting to weakly hump at your knee between their legs, even as your jaws let go of their neck and licked the wounds close, they could only whimper at the loss of the feeling

the next morning, they woke up in your bed, surrounded in comfort and soft beddings. was… last night a dream? were they imagining it all? a wet dream?

their confused brain stops whirring question and theory after one another as the door to the room opens, you stepping in with a cup of steaming hot tea in your hand and a plate of some fruits cut into small pieces in the other. looking just fine and normal, no fangs, no blood, no strange slits at the corner of your mouths, no long slithering tongue, just a normal [name], albeit a tiny bit worried. so it was all just a wet dream…

since that day and that strangely realistic dream that the shy monsterfucker thought they had, it became a bit hard for them to look you in the eye and hold a normal conversation. they were fucking embarrassed, hell ashamed even, by their own thoughts that conjured up such image of you in their own sleep. they always knew you gave off an eerie, not-so-very-human vibes but even then, imagining you as a goddamn vampire who saw them as your prey was... a little bit too much. they didn't even found vampires attractive, but if you were to somehow magically turn into one, maybe they wouldn't mind it much. of being your bloodbag, your sweet prey, your willing sacrificial lamb that you toy and flaunt like a trophy pet

shy monsterfucker who gets too sexually frustrated easily ever since that one specific dream, always staring into your mouth whenever you're looking away and talking or laughing, hoping to see a glimpse of an unusually sharp fangs. who think they do indeed see something and immediately lets out a quiet whimper, thighs squishing and rubbing together as that one dream plays out in their mind again. who excuses themselves from the hang out earlier so they can go home under the guise of a "not feeling very good today", when in reality they would be touching themselves again that night, humping their pillows with pathetic broken moans of your name. sometimes, when feeling bolder, they would say the same pleads they did in their dream, asking you to bite them as they throw their heads back, neck free and pristine. if they shut their eyes tight and imagined hard enough, they could remember the phantom feeling of your slithered tongue running over their skin. humping at their pillow harder with a broken sob of your name as their body shakes, soiling their pillow case with their own cum again for the nth time in the last 2 days, changing it once more

they didn't get it, they usually had just a normal amount of sex drive, who barely got horny unless they were intoxicated or something. this newfound sexual frustration was weird to them. new and scary with the ways it left their body all hot and bothered just by looking at you. staring, waiting and gulping down saliva to wet their throat as their mind goes to the gutter. imagining your clawed hands trailing over their bare skin, maybe leave a few small cuts if you feel like it, hold over their hips a bit too tightly to leave a bruise, bite at their porcelain skin. would you make them your personal bloodbag if they acted good and begged hard enough?

shy monsterfucker who gets caught, mind too fuzzy with filthy thoughts as they moaned out your name into their pillows as you invite yourself inside their home with a bag of fresh fruits that you bought for them to get better, the spare key they gifted you in your hand. who didn’t knew they were caught, thinking of it as simply one of their imaginations again as they see you standing on the doorway to their room, leaning on the doorframe with a low hum

“i knew i used too much calming saliva on you” you say out loud, only getting a broken whimper of your name as their fingers curl inside their hole, tired and confused. vampires had a special aphrodisiac like mixture in their saliva that they used to calm their prey before feasting and to their bad luck, you have accidentally used an excessive amount when you drank from them few days ago

“[n-naameee]♡︎ ahck t-touch me! touch me, please♡︎…?” they cried out, hearts swirling in their pupils, face flushed to the tips of their ears as they whined out deliriously with an open mouth. a sweet prey, right in your grasp. since you were the one to cause it, it would only be right to fix your mistakes right? cooing out words of faux comfort, you step over their sweat clung body, taking in the way they looked so out of it. all wet and hard, too dazed to even say your name properly

shy monsterfucker who immediately lets out a squeal when your fingers push into their hole, while their own fingers were inside too! please be gentle, at least let them get their own fingers out first? who only could let out a broken sob when they could feel how deep your fingers curled inside them, feeling the way your fingers stretched and fucked their pathetic hole open easily. they were nothing but just a weak sex toy for you, a meager little bunny whose legs twitched and shook every time the pads of your fingers jabbed at that bundle of nerves inside them, squeaking like the precious little thing they were

“baahn—! aangh ah haang buh-bite..?” they asked, teary eyes staring up at you with so much love and lust as their wet lashes flutter against their red cheeks. “b-bite me♡︎..? aamh haah i... i’ve been such a go-ooddd♡︎♡︎ good bloodbag for yoouu♥︎!!” they blabber on, arm wrapping around your shoulder as they try to pull you down to their neck. the bite mark of a few days earlier already gone and healed thanks to your healing saliva. you could just hear the thrumming of fresh red liquid from under their skin, heart beat loud and erratic like a war-drum, begging you to tear them apart

shy monsterfucker who lets out the loudest moan, breaking down into pathetic blabbers of gratitude and pleads for more as you gave in to the instincts to feed. back arching up from the bed so prettily, soft chest against your own, a rapid beating heart under their own skin that you could feel against your cold, still one. shy monsterfucker who lets out a filthy squeal, tightening around your fingers as they cum on your hand, soiling it as the tears that built up in their heart pupil eyes finally fall down

shy monsterfucker who begs for a kiss, asking for your lips to be against their own. who lets out a cute muffled sob when you do just as they asked, tasting the metallic taste of their own blood on your lips before something long slithers down their throat. long and wet with a thicker textured saliva coating it, being pushed into their mouth, forcing their jaws open as they choke of their own moan as you continue to torture that tender spot inside their tight hole. gagging as your tongue slithers down their throat, feeling the way their adam’s apple feels a little bit wider due to how deep you showed your tongue inside their mouth

shy monsterfucker who could only cum dry, into your hands, tired and body aching due to their constant actions to try and relieve their sexual frustration. mouth left open, swollen lips wet with your mixed salivas that connect your faces just a little bit longer as your forked tongue comes slithering back out. eyes all hazy, nearly shut close with how low lidded they were. you would have mistaken them for unconscious if it weren’t for the weak whimper of a “mmghh—! s-shoo goowd♥︎ t-tongue... wan’ your tongue inside meegh♡︎♡︎” as they weakly wiggled their hips

shy monsterfucker who watches as you seemingly easily manhandle their body so you could do as they nicely asked, their strong body meaning nothing to you. who watches with their hands on the pillows by their head, neck painted a saccharine red that you loved, lust heavy eyes staring at you as a few tears fall from them. who lets out a broken sob as they see the way your jaws open a bit too wide, slits appearing at the edges of your lips to make it easier for your long tongue to come out. like a snake, it licks at their inner thighs, bloodied fangs leaving cuts on the tender flesh there as their legs violently trembled in your grasp

shy monsterfucker who chokes on their moans, head getting thrown back as your tongue pushes past their tight walls, eagerly humping your face as much as their shaking body could allow, feeling the way your tongue reached deep inside them — more than any meager sex toys or dildos ever could, twisting their insides. wailing out “guhhckk♥︎♥︎! s-sho deEEHNGK♡︎ y-your tongue— f-fuckinnh aanh nyah♥︎!! fuckinng my guts! aah ngaah—♥︎!” as they felt the way your tongue moved back and forth inside their hole, claws digging into their legs and thighs to keep them in place, forcing them to keep their legs open. who blabbers drunkenly about their mind melting, mushing up their words as they slur your name before fucking squirting. shrill noise between a moan and a squeal falling from their swollen lips before losing consciousness

shy monsterfucker who will most definitely ask you to bite them again the next time they wake up

⇨ dan heng, yingxing, argenti, moze, bronya, firefly, gepard, robin, caelus, yukong, legolas, lindir, meludir, baizhu, charlotte, diluc, furina, ganyu, kaveh, nilou, kokomi, xiao, calcharo, jiyan, xiangli yao, rover, zhezi, shorekeeper, aerith, zack, angeal, tifa, vincent, sephiroth + anyone you think will fit, really

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GOJO SATORU x FEM READER

Gojo “my girl is mad at me I hope I die” Satoru

wc — 600

tags — fluff, companion piece to modern intimacy so you’re also married in this one, love as annoyance 

Gojo looks like he tried to drown himself in the shower. 

If you hadn’t just mopped the floor, you might be tempted to give in and beckon him over to cuddle. As it is, your annoyance is only mildly tempered by how adorable he is. You suspect this was his plan all along. 

“Go dry your hair,” you tell him coldly, hardly even giving him a glance after his first step into the room. 

He pouts, which you were expecting. He should really learn some new tricks at this point. You make a shooing gesture at him to drive home the point. 

Instead, he clambers down next to your feet, all six feet and two inches of him compressed down to fit his head into your lap. Gojo’s so lanky it gives you the impression of a Jenga tower collapsing in on itself to watch him get on his knees. 

“But you’re mad at me,” he whines. Chilly droplets are seeping into your thighs. 

“I’ll be madder if you keep getting my pants wet. Go on, you’ll catch a cold.” 

“I deserve it.” 

“Gojo.” 

You say it as if you’re short of patience, when really, you’re far from it. You’re enjoying this way too much. 

He turns his head so he can look up at you. His hair falls into his eyes, making him look like a sad, wet puppy, shivering at your feet for mercy. It’s an act, of course. 

He’s the strongest man in the world. Still, you feel your heart melting as you would for any poor abandoned creature. You brush his bangs out of his face, trying to hold onto your weakening resolve. 

He knows he’s got you. It’s just a matter of time. 

“I can’t live with myself,” he says. “If you’re going to be mad at me, you should just kill me. It would be easier-“ 

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, but that’s when he strikes the killing blow. 

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just looks at you with eyes that are suspiciously shiny, his pretty pink lips in a soft frown. You sigh and put the book you were trying to read down. 

“Go get the hairdryer.” 

Gojo perks up immediately. You stay on the sofa. He sits on the ground between your legs as you run your hands through his hair, moving section by section. It fluffs up as hot air moves over it. 

“Are you still mad?” 

“Want to take a guess?” 

He turns around so fast he almost hits himself in the face with the hairdryer in your hand. 

“I’ll never do it again, I swear.” 

“You swear?” You’re teasing. 

Gojo places one hand over his heart and raises the other like he’s making a pledge. You’re the only nation he’d ever devote himself to, anyway. “You know my motto is happy wife, happy life.” 

“I don’t know, actually.” You laugh. “Did you just come up with that?” 

“Now you’re just being mean,” he says. 

“I’m glad you picked up on it,” you say dryly. 

You like him pathetic. It appeals to your worst nature, the one that kind of wants to pinch him just to see him cry. You don’t know when you developed such feelings, and you’re certainly not sadistic towards anyone else, but Gojo just provokes you. It’s what he does. He’s good at being annoying. 

But you love that part of him, just as much as you love the part of him that can’t live without your attention. 

“You really learned your lesson?” You ask. “You won’t do it again?” 

“And go through this again? You kidding?” 

You pinch his cheek in annoyance, but he just laughs and wraps his arms around you, ignoring the way you try to wriggle away. 

“Your hair isn’t dry yet!”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, rubbing his cheek against yours. His shampoo smells good. “Happy husband, happy wife.” 

He knows you too well for you to disagree. 

[hyperions-light]

Varric's Second: Defining Rook's Narrative Role

"That's why you're my second in command."

Is one of the first things Varric says to Rook in the entire story, and it seems innocuous, on its face; a piece of exposition, nothing more. However, it will define Rook's narrative role far more than may be initially obvious, and tells us some key facts about Rook immediately.

A second, especially in a situation where one may get in a fight (i.e., a duel) is someone who stands for one of the primary participants. They negotiate on their behalf, organize the details, and, in some cases, take over for them should they be unable to continue. They must be someone that the primary has absolute confidence in to represent them.

Now, you know Varric. Liar, Author, Handsomest Dwarf in Thedas. You know what kind of person he is, what he values. What kind of person do you think he'd choose to represent him directly?

There have been many complaints about how nice Rook is, but I submit to you that by placing Rook as Varric's second at the beginning of this story, Veilguard is giving you prerequisites for the sort of person they are.

Bioware has always done this; no matter what else they are, the Warden has to be someone who will accept the responsibility of ending the Blight. Hawke must be someone who tries to take care of their family. The Inquisitor must be someone who, when thrust into a position of power against their will, will step up and take the reins. These qualities are immutable; it maybe that Hawke, the Warden, and the Inquisitor are the kind of people who can save the world relatively alone. Veilguard is telling you Rook is not that kind of person.

On an external level, the reason for this is that if you are going to invest heavily into making the companions lifelike and narratively significant, you have to justify the expense. As many people as possible have to see that content, or the studio is going to call it a waste of resources. If Rook can dismiss them they cannot have major plot arcs, because that's a waste of money.

But diagetically, this problem is solved by Varric's introduction. Does anyone seriously believe that Varric would choose someone to DIRECTLY represent him-- stand in for him morally, physically, and philosophically-- that would abandon their friends? VARRIC TETHRAS, the man who bribed the Templars to stay away from Anders' clinic for years, the man who supports Merrill in her quest to summon a demon, the man who stands by Hawke no matter what-- does anyone think THAT MAN would pick someone to stand in for him who doesn't care about their companions? I think implying he would would have been a gross mischaracterization.

Rook is not the kind of character that would want to save the world alone, even if they could, because Varric wouldn't choose that. They are Varric's second, and that one assertion tells you an enormous amount about them.

This feels like a good place to end for now, and makes this post relatively spoiler-free. I want to talk about Varric vs Solas throughout the narrative in future, so watch this space for links to that.

[dolche-tejada]

You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he has Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best our MC could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

[heirofnight]

meddling

azriel x reader drabble

word count: 2k - longest drabble ever, i'm so sorry

summary: reader just escaped a horrific past that has left her closed off and in need of isolation. she takes up residence at the house of wind, finding solace in the private library. she's content to keep to herself, but a meddling house and a stray little shadow have other plans.

a/n: i wrote this very quickly, this is more like a stream of consciousness than a well-planned piece of writing lol. also my first time posting so pls be kind 😭 i just felt like writing and then ... this happened. ok enjoy!

azriel was a silent, watchful protector of yours when you initially arrived at the night court. studying you, observing you from afar. you spend most of your time on the third level of the house of wind - shy and in need of isolation. your past was something you were desperate to forget. but, even after your relocation to velaris, your mind was murky. you'd tried sorting through thoughts and emotions that you'd pushed deep down in order to survive, but it all felt akin to wading through waist-deep mud in heavy, laced-up boots. you'd found solace in the private library on the third floor, only doors down from your own chambers. many mornings you awoke, dressed, and shuffled to the warm library that was lit with beams of light from dawn's glow. you'd curl into your favorite chair that overlooked velaris and the glistening sidra far down below, taking in a centering breath. it felt like muscle memory, and the house had learned of your routine. a warm teacup waited for you, right beside your well-loved armchair. your tea was the perfect temperature: the house had learned that too. and every morning, a sly, stray tendril of shadow wove its way through the half-opened library doors. it noted your presence, your general state of well-being, before darting away playfully to relay this information back to its master. yes, rhys had asked azriel to watch over you, but even az knew that this level of attentiveness was overkill - even for him. you'd peek up at the tiny shadow each morning, expecting it now. at first, shortly after arriving at the house, you'd blink up at it - not having the mental energy to delve into its motive. now, a couple of months later, you'd felt more settled. more relaxed. and you almost considered this lone shadow to be a sweet little companion, the only being that dared approach you this frequently. you'd give it a soft grin each morning, and it would swirl happily, lazily, before departing as quickly as it came.

you were always cold. try as you might, you often only felt true, comfortable warmth when bundled beneath the layered blankets that adorned your oversized bed. you knew you shared this hallway with azriel, but rarely ever saw him. you'd hear him arrive late at night every now and then - assuming that he'd just returned from some sort of mission. what you didn't know, however, was that azriel had tried his hardest to silence the thump of his boots against the stone floor every single time he approached the arched door of your room. before, when he only shared this hallway with cassian, he'd make noise on purpose upon arriving home. his own way of letting his brother know that he was home and safe, without having to strike up any sort of conversation. he was drained after most missions, had enough of speaking. but with you occupying the room next to his own now, he wouldn't dare disturb your well-deserved, peaceful slumber. az assumed with the past you'd endured, that you'd trained yourself to sleep light. not a sound, don't fuck this up, he'd think to himself, willing his shadows to silence his footsteps entirely. even with the suppressed steps, he still tightened every single muscle. stepping so slowly, he knew he must look ridiculous. if cassian ever saw this, saw him, he would never live it down. on several occasions, your heavy wooden door had unlatched on its own during the night, leaving just enough of a space between the frame and the door that azriel could see the beige drapes that fluttered lightly against your windows through it. your sweet shadow companion would leave az's silent side to dart through the crack, and return just as quickly to whisper cold, shivering against his master's ear. to deter the draft from chilling your bones any further, azriel would reach a scarred hand out to the doorknob, closing it as silently as possible - making sure to pull until he heard the slight click of the latch.

you'd often opted to eat your meals either in the library or in your room - the house setting out a plate and silverware for you wherever you'd decided to spend your time that evening. you didn't allow yourself to wonder what the members of rhysand's family must have thought of you - a secluded, timid female that went out of her way to avoid the members of a family that had tried so hard to give her a home, a place to heal. you'd always quickly push those thoughts to the back of your mind, wanting to focus on taking care of yourself, and not others for once.

tonight, you'd chosen the library. you'd recently begun a trio of books that you'd found on one of the overflowing shelves, and you were unable to put them down once you'd started. you didn't notice the time, didn't notice the mid-afternoon sun become dusk, making the sidra glow like wildfire. you did, however, notice the grumble of your stomach once it became evening. the light of day was gone - the library now filled with the warm glow of faelights, dim candles sitting in golden candelabras, and a crackling fire within the hearth across from you. you frowned to yourself, noticing now that the house hadn't placed dinner on the mahogany coffee table that sat in front of the fire. you glanced around, the thought of verbally speaking to the house itself feeling a bit silly. you briefly told yourself that asking the house may offend it - that was even more laughable. could you offend a house? while silently mulling over these questions, that sly, sleek little tendril of shadow slowly approached you from the door of the library. it curled and twisted its way to you, stopping at your right hand to weave its way around your wrist. you looked down at it curiously - it had never touched you before, had never gotten this close. you'd deduced at this point that it was one of az's shadows - figured that it was just curious about the new presence in the house. however, it began to twirl, trying its best to get your attention. "yes?," you whispered aloud. speaking of silly interactions, you thought briefly. it weaved through your fingers, as if it were trying to hold your hand, before darting towards the door and stopping in the doorway. it was waiting for you; wanted you to follow. you cocked a curious eyebrow, slowly closing your book to set it on the table before you. gathering your linen dress in your hands, you stood, hesitantly walking towards it. "where are we going, little one?," you whispered towards it. the shadow responded immediately by darting down the hall and to the left, towards the stairs. you quickened your steps to catch up to it, only to find it waiting on the landing of the staircase for you. once you spotted it, it darted away again, down one level. peering over the railing, you noticed it twirling towards the doorway of the dining hall. family dinner was taking place, and judging by the various muffled voices and laughter you were able to hear from the staircase, everyone was present.

you tiptoed quietly down the stairs, which you realized was probably pointless. you were sure at least one of them had already picked up on your approaching scent by now. the patient shadow still waited by the door for you, swirling and twirling happily. inviting you inside to dine with its master and his family. you took a deep breath, watching as the shadow darted back to azriel's shoulder, whispering something against the shell of his ear. immediately, az's head snapped towards the doorway, meeting your own nervous gaze before you had the chance to escape without being noticed. his presence felt grounding - it had since the first time you met him. he didn't speak much, but neither did you. he felt familiar, safe, and you wondered briefly if it was due to the affection you'd grown towards his shadow that checked on you dutifully since your arrival - an act that you assumed was azriel's doing.

your hands were clasped in front of you as you nervously played with your fingers. you surveyed the room, taking everything in: the relaxed family, the spread of delicious food on the table. azriel continued to watch you with a calm, yet indiscernible expression on his face. the corner of his lips turned up just slightly, trying to convey that it was okay, you could come in. rhysand noticed you next - he followed azriel's distracted gaze to the threshold of the door, finding your small frame standing there. "well, look who it is," rhys drawled politely, loud enough to quiet the rest of the family sitting around the table. everyone's gaze found you at once, and you swallowed thickly. your eyes darted back to azriel's in a silent plead, his hazel eyes feeling like a lifeline. az nodded once, gaze soft and kind. "why don't you sit down and join us? we were hoping you would," rhys stated sincerely, gesturing a sweeping hand out over the spread of food. “help yourself, y/n. if you don’t see something you’d like, the house will prepare a more suitable meal," he smiled warmly. as if on cue, a goblet of wine, plates, and silverware appeared in front of an empty chair - courtesy of said house itself. you smiled softly, at the high lord, at the house's display of affection towards you. "thank you," you spoke warmly, perhaps the first time most of them had ever heard you speak at all.

the empty seat that was now prepared for you was right next to azriel, and you slowly made your way towards it. you felt the prying gaze of everyone at the massive dinner table, and silence still encompassed the room. your eyes flitted around nervously, and azriel tracked the movement immediately. he cleared his throat once, a silent, stoic glare tossed to his family. they got the hint, and all fell back into comfortable conversation amongst each other - attention no longer all on you. you took your place next to him, staring down at your empty plate. your hands fell into your lap, your fingers fiddling together once more. azriel watched you from his peripheral, not wanting you to feel balked at.

he leaned over finally, speaking so only you could hear, "would you like to try the potatoes?", his tone was warm and soft - comforting. you darted your gaze over to him, only meeting his eyes for a moment. he was much more intimidating up close, and you were far too shy.

"they're my personal favorite," he continued on, the corners of his mouth curled upward. you let out a small breath of a laugh, playing with a stray thread on your gown. "yes, please," you whispered to him, eyes raking over the large elaborate plates and dishes set in the middle of the table, searching for the potatoes he spoke of. before you could reach towards the gold serving spoon that sat within the buttery dish, his hand had already grasped it, bringing a heaping serving right over to your plate.

"i've got it," he spoke softly, dishing your meal. you nodded once, cheeks heating at the action. it continued this way, azriel asking if you'd like to try each entrée and side, one by one. he'd offer his own personal opinions on each one, and you'd both laughed at the way he'd described the asparagus - "absolutely abysmal," he'd report, nose scrunching dramatically.

after your plate was adequately filled, az went back to his own food. you began to poke at yours. "thank you," you whispered over to him after a moment. he glanced over at you and replied with a friendly smile, and over his shoulder appeared a small tendril of a shadow - your meddling little companion that had also apparently conspired to bring you closer to its master. it twirled your way happily, looping through your fingers and up your arm. you laughed softly, meeting azriel's sparkling hazel eyes. he smiled fondly at his shadow, "i'm sorry, sometimes it feels like they have a mind of their own," he paused for a moment, watching the smoky tendril weave through your hair. "they like you," he whispered, meeting your eyes with a grin.

"don't apologize," you replied softly. "i like them too. i think they knew i needed company," you said pointedly, not dropping his gaze for the first time all evening. he nodded in understanding, plopping another bread roll onto your plate.

"well, welcome to the family, y/n," his words were soft, but the weight you felt in your chest was overwhelming. warmth, true warmth, spread through your limbs, snuffing out the chill that had left you constantly shivering.

[ellecdc]

HI HI i recently read “the winner takes it all” and i was wondering if you’re planning to create a part 2? if you don’t, can i request it with the plot of emmeline trying to win n the boys over, as well as to embarrass the reader, but the boys decided it was the perfect time to hard launch the reader?

BUT IF YOU ALREADY HAVVE A. PLOT IN MIND PLS DONT LISTEN TO ME I LOVE UR FICS!! 💕💕🫶🏻

You know, I actually didn't plan on making a companion piece to this but this was such a fun idea I couldn't help myself - thanks for requesting!!! 💖

*chanting* hard launch, hard launch, hard launch 👏 👏 👏

Poly!Marauders x reader (gender not specified)

The Loser Has to Fall

Companion piece to The Winner Takes It All

It felt like a giant weight had been lifted off your shoulders now that you knew exactly where you stood with the boys. You didn’t realize how deeply it had been distressing you to not know what you meant to them.

Apparently, you meant the world to them.

You spent the rest of that evening in the Gryffindor common room; James and Remus ran down to the kitchens to bring a picnic for you four and Sirius told you to enjoy the princess treatment when you insisted on going with them. You’re pretty sure that was just a ruse to keep you seated in his lap.

You were floating on cloud 9 the entire week afterwards with one of the boys by your side at any given moment. While that wasn’t necessarily new, knowing why they were there made a world of difference. 

You spent hours in the library with Remus sharing shy glances, gentle touches, and sitting far closer to one another than was strictly necessary. 

James and Sirius would show up with food or drinks for you two, but Sirius would eventually convince James to “leave the boring swots to their books, Prongsie” by promising him a race around the quidditch field on their brooms.

James made a solid (and embarrassing) effort to sit beside you everywhere. Great Hall – he sat beside you. Gryffindor common room – he sat beside you. Classes you had together – he sat beside you. Classes you didn’t have together – he tried to sit beside you before Flitwick took five points from Gryffindor and kicked him out.  

And Sirius appeared to simply enjoy your presence. One rarely ever saw Sirius Black without him speaking, smirking, or the likes; but it appeared he enjoyed your company for the solace that it was. Most of your time spent together was in companionable silence, or him asking you to tell him all about your day, your week, your life. James said he was sure this was the longest he'd ever gone without having to listen to Sirius’ voice – Sirius swatted his ass for that.  

But the way the rest of the school saw it: nothing had changed.

Which is why when you watched Emmeline approach the Gryffindor table with a look of determination painting her features, you had to hide your laugh behind your hand.

“Hello, handsome boys.” She said cheerily as she sat beside Sirius. He looked to James sat across from him before his eyes shot to you.

“Hello, Emmeline.” James said politely. 

“Where have you boys been? I feel like I never get to see you anymore.” She carried on, either unaware or undeterred by the boys’ lack of interest.

“Mm, here and there.” James said suspiciously, moving his body so he was sat straddling the bench and facing you, effectively pointing his back to Emmeline.

“Mostly with Y/N.” Sirius added pointedly.

Emmeline grimaced at the mention of your name, but quickly saved face.

“That’s nice. Well, I was wondering if you guys were going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” She asked, voice sickly sweet. 

James seemed to remember something at the mention of Hogsmeade. “Actually, yeah. Moons, you need more chocolate, right?”

Remus blushed a little but nodded in the affirmative. “We’re running low since someone stress ate most of the reserve.” He said pointedly, shooting Sirius a glare.

Apparently, Sirius had been so nervous about asking you to be official (Sirius Black: nervous? Who knew?) that he’d ransacked Rem’s stash.

Sirius – not one to be shame-faced – shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. “Don’t worry your pretty little mind, my moonshine – I’ll replenish your reserves and then some.” He declared.

“Great!” Emmeline said with a clap of her hands, clearly unable to manage the conversation as it steered further and further away from her. “I was thinking the four of us could go together!”

She had placed one of her hands on Sirius’ bicep and you felt your face turn red from repressing your laughter. Lily would be losing her mind right now.

Sirius looked at the hand with a look of half confused concern and half disgust before he used the forefinger and thumb of his opposite hand to peel it off of him and place it gingerly onto the table.

“Well, I know that the four of us were going to go.” James clarified as he motioned between himself, Sirius, Remus, and you. “I’m sure Lily, Pete and the others will be going as well, so you’re welcome to ask to tag along with them.” 

Undeterred, Emmeline carried on. “Come on, boys. We used to have a lot of fun together! I thought we could pick up where we left off.” She sing-songed as she sent you a devious wink.

Sirius – with his flair for dramatics – slammed both hands onto the table and stood from his place before hopping onto the table, boots knocking over glasses and plates and reached down for you. 

“What?” You whispered in a little bit of horror.

“Up you go, my love.” He said loudly as he hauled you up to join him on the Gryffindor table. 

“Mr. Black.” You heard one of the professors call from the head table. You never fully understood the phrase die of embarrassment before, but you sure as hell did now. Your gravestone would read: Y/N L/N, gone too soon, killed by dramatic public display of affection.

Sirius, completely oblivious to your horror or thriving off of it (you were sure it was the latter), wrapped one arm around your shoulders and the other around your waist - dipping you so low you were sure your hair was getting into someone’s pancakes - and kissed you in front of the entire Great Hall. 

You could hear cheering and wolf whistles as he kept you suspended for a few moments before he pulled you back up to your full height.

“I am so bloody mad about you.” He shouted out for everyone to hear. More students cheered and whistled as Professor McGonagall shouted “Mr. Black, get down this instant! 15 points from Gryffindor and detention with me tonight.” 

“Worth it.” Sirius said with a smirk as he shot a glance to Emmeline.

“In case that wasn’t clear enough, we’re very taken.” He added with finality as Remus helped you down from your place on the table and Sirius took your previously vacated seat beside James, and Emmeline stalked off.

You shoved your face into Remus’ side as he offered you refuge under his arm.

“Oh, my poor dovey. Did he embarrass you?” He cooed as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

You moaned in a way you hoped portrayed a resounding ‘yes’. 

“I’m sorry. They’re the worst sometimes.” He commiserated with you. 

Feeling slightly less flustered, you pulled your head away from his ribs, though you stayed glued safely to his side. 

“You weren’t innocent in all of that, doll face.” Sirius accused you from across the table.

“I beg your pardon?” you asked feigning innocence.

“You knew exactly what she was doing when she came over here. You didn’t feel the need to mark your territory?”

You scoffed. “First of all, I’m not a dog; I don’t ‘mark’ territory. Second, you’re not my territory, you’re my boyfriends. And thirdly… well, you seemed to have handled her fine on your own.” You said as you pointed your nose up in the air.

“Ah, I get it. You just wanted to watch your sexy man turn down a girl by stating how madly in love he is, hm?” He smirked at you.

You suddenly wished you’d stayed in Remus’ rib cage. 

[clare-875]

Despair (Sanji x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Sanji x Female Reader Summary: You start to skip meals, doubting yourself and your image. Sanji doesn't notice until it's too late. Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Body image, Comparing yourself to others, Not eating enough (TW: eating disorder), Passing Out [One Piece Masterlist] _____

You prod at the food that lies on your plate absentmindedly, telling yourself to eat. It looks delicious; of course it does. Sanji's food was to die for, and you felt your heart sink at your thoughts to not eat what he has poured heart and soul into. But then again, your thoughts haven't been nice to you recently. You have found yourself comparing your image with Nami and Robin and all the other women you come across and you feel buried insecurities rising because of it. You know it's ridiculous; that you should really just embrace yourself and just deal with it. But you can't just deal with it. It's been running your mind rampant. I'm not pretty enough. I should work out more. Why can't I look like her? I should really start watching what I eat. You know the last thought is the most ridiculous; Sanji makes his meals to cater to every necessity your body could need. But you have tried everything, and the beautiful figures of your female companions are overwhelming. What if he realizes... I can never look like them. Will his eyes wonder? Will he leave me?

"Love, is everything alright?"

Your gaze snaps upward at your boyfriend's voice and he looks to you with deep concern in his eyes. The cook eyes you questioningly before looking at your untouched plate of food. "Is the food not to your liking? I could make you something else if you-" You quickly cut off his words, not wanting him to question the meal you know he has prepared so intricately for you and the crew. "No, no, I was just thinking. Thank you Sanji, it looks lovely." You try to undo his concern and make your lips quirk upwards, but you know what you produce is a half-hearted smile. Sanji looks at you, the furrow of his brows not giving way. However, as he goes to ask you something, he is interrupted by the voices of the crew. "Sanji! Another!" Luffy has his now empty plate high in the air, craving more of the meal, Ussop and Chopper doing the same next to him with wide grins on their faces. It has the cook rolling his eyes but he stops when Nami joins the fray. "I wouldn't mind some more too Sanji-kun!" Robin nods along, a soft smile on her face. "Me too!" The cook turns hesitantly from your side then, going to fetch their plates. "R-right, straight away ladies!"

He leaves you to your thoughts again.

In his distraction, you push your plate to Luffy who sits near you. "Here Luffy, take mine, I'm not feeling that hungry." Your Captain turns to you, eyes gleaming as he ponders your words. "Really?" But he has already taken the meal outstretched to him. "Thanks [y/n]!" You find yourself standing as he devours your meal in an instant, and hope Sanji doesn't notice it wasn't you who ate it. Robin perks up at your sudden movements. "Is everything alright, [y/n]?" You freeze as you turn to her, and you are met with her kind smile, the concern in her eyes. But you also see all that you cannot be. It is insufferable: your jealousy. It makes you loathe the depths of yourself and so you force it away and nod. "Yeah, I'm just turning in." You try to ease her concern and you don't know if she believes your words, but you move before she can question you further. You leave the rowdy crew to their dinner and open the kitchen door, not seeing how Sanji turns in surprise at your sudden absence.

You breathe in the crisp evening air, not noticing how desperately you needed it until it hits your face. A single tear slips from your eye but you catch it quickly, shaking your head. What's wrong with me? You move across the ship to the bathroom, hoping that a bath might help wash away your suddenly erratic thoughts. However, when you strip yourself of your clothes, you realise it is a mistake; there are mirrors. Your lips turn downward as you look at yourself realizing how impossible it would be to look like Nami and Robin. How impossible it would be to contort yourself to that image: pretty eyes, perfect smile, lack of waists and slim figures but still with curves where you needed them to be. How do they do it? Your thoughts then turn to how Sanji's face looked as they asked for seconds of his meal. He seemed so happy to cater for the beautiful women; of course, he would be. How long until his thoughts drift away from you? You turn away quickly and continue your tasks until you're wrapped in a towel again, hating your envy and hoping sleep might control it.

However, your insecurities can't disappear that easily.

Your thoughts mingled the rest of the week, and because of it, you found yourself eating less. You found yourself pushing meals to Luffy when Sanji was distracted, desperately hoping he didn't notice. You worked out more, glad that Zoro said nothing when he saw you more frequently in the crow's nest. You slowly started to slip into the rhythm. Skip breakfast, work out, a little lunch, work out, skip dinner. It was becoming easier to ignore your hunger, you told yourself you were seeing progress. You could never hate the beautiful women around you for your sudden revelations, you saw it as your own problem. You told yourself it was for the best. However, what you failed to see was that among your suddenly obsessive thoughts, you have slowly started to neglect your health, and on top of that, you have slowly started to neglect Sanji.

The cook had barely seen you the past week, and he missed you. What hours you would usually spend by his side you now spend in the crow's nest and he wanted your presence by him again. You used to always be in the kitchen as he prepared meals; his personal taste tester always gifting him compliments that made his heart soar. You would always share stories as he chopped and mixed, and he would be blessed by the soft sound of your voice. You would dry dishes you insisted on drying as he passed them to you, and he would hear your sweet laughter at something that had happened earlier in the day; he would have to struggle not to swoon just by the sound of it. You used to hold him gently as he cooked the crew's meals and he would feel your warmth make his heart stutter, make him want to create even better dishes just as a thank you for being his; for being you. Your fleeting touches, your pretty smile, your gleaming eyes, your perfect figure that melds into his; they were all suddenly taken from him and he didn't know why.

Sanji had tried to approach you several times but you had evaded him. "Sorry, Sanji I'm too busy right now." "Sorry Sanji, maybe another time." "Sorry Sanji, I think I'm gonna go to the crow's nest again." Sanji's lips downturned at the thought. Had he done something wrong? His fingers flicked on his lighter as he pulled out another cigarette; he had been going through them like lollipops recently. His heart twisted in slight envy as he thought of you in the crow's nest again, no doubt with the stupid marimo nearby. How had Zoro of all people seen you more than he had? It took all his strength not to (for no reason) go beat up the green-haired swordsman. His thoughts then lingered on an event he had considered over and over; the night when your smile didn't shine as it should as you poked and prodded your food. Of course, Sanji noticed the unusual despair on your face; he was basically a professional at catching on women's true emotions.

Had something happened? Had someone done something?

As Sanji thought on and continued to blow on his cigarette he finally considered something he had yet to acknowledge. Now that he had thought about it, he hadn't seen you much during meal times with the crew. You would either pop your head in for a brief while, leave quickly, or barely even show up at all. Sanji raked his brain harder for answers. He had thought he'd seen you slip something to Luffy during those times, but could it be your meals? He had seen your fleeting figure and he had seen how your eyes had seemed duller, your face a bit paler, your figure a bit more littered with exhaustion. But it couldn't be, could it? Were you skipping meals? He then thought of how your eyes seemed to sadden at the last island you and the crew had gone to. They were saddened by the presence of the women on the island; known for their beauty and charm. And, of course, they were beautiful, but they weren't you. Sanji had toned down his woman-crazed ways the instant he understood what his feelings for you meant. Had he let slip? Had you misinterpreted his care for flirt? Was it all his fault?

"Sanji-kun!"

He snapped out of contemplation as he registered Nami's worried voice as she ran to him quickly. "Nami-san? What's wrong?" Sanji feels his already racing heart pick up pace as the navigator frowns before spilling the words that has her rushing to him. "[y/n]... she passed out. She's with Chopper."

......

When you finally reopen your eyes, you are lost for a moment, not knowing what happened. But then, your memories start to flood back in. That's right, you think to yourself. You had finished your workout again, but something hadn't felt right. As you descended from the crow's nest and went to rest you had suddenly felt dreadful. Cold sweat had started to seep from your skin, your vision had slowly become clouded by spots and you had felt nausea wash over you quickly. You had stumbled, luckily Nami had been walking past as you did. You had felt her arms, heard her muffled voice in the ringing of your ears - something about staying awake - before the darkness had pulled you in. You sigh looking at the tube ingrained in your arm with despondency, before registering a warmth around your hand. You instantly look down to see that it was Sanji, and he had also just realised that you were awake. Your heart beats faster, shame befalls you, but he speaks first.

"Love... what happened? Chopper said you were malnourished..."

Your heart twists as you look at the cook who has utter concern and sadness and determination in his eyes. Why? "Love, please... talk to me." Sanji's voice sounds desperate for answers already lingering from Chopper's diagnosis, but he needed to hear it all from you. You let the silence remain for a moment to try and control your emotions, but your tears let slip and Sanji's eyes widen at the sight. "I-I'm sorry Sanji. I just- I just haven't been feeling like myself and- and I just wanted to feel better. I skipped meals and I guess I trained too hard. I-" You swallow harshly as you look at the man who squeezes your hand in comfort despite your despair causing his heart to ache. "I just wanted to be good enough, I didn't want you to realise that I'm not as pretty as-" You pause as you tear your eyes away from Sanji. "I just didn't want you to leave me." Sanji can't even describe the amount of disbelief that filled him at your words. You were scared that he would leave you?

"Love... How could I ever- What made you think- It's all my fault."

Your gaze snaps upward at his remark as you shake your head about to retort but he continues on. "I'm sorry love. I should've noticed sooner." Sanji feels his heartbreak for you as his lover, but failure seeps in as the cook of the crew. How can he dream of being a renowned chef, when he can't even notice his own partner, clearly having skipped and pushed away his meals. It was his job to make sure all the crew were fed and nourished perfectly, and he had failed to do that with the one person he cared about most in the world. What's more, he hadn't even noticed your insecurities; he had let you wither and deal with your pain alone. He grits his teeth. "[y/n]." Your heart jumps slightly at the sheer will in his eyes. "Believe me. You are beautiful, perfect, you are the only woman for me. Please, let me be there for you, let me help you..." He holds your hand up in his but you eye him hesitantly and so he continues. He presses his lips to your hand and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks; missing the intimate moments you have traded because of your irrational fears.

"I could never love someone else."

Your eyes glisten with his care and you squeeze his hand gently before peering into his gaze. "I'm sorry Sanji, I didn't eat your meals. I- I've been so distracted I haven't even come to see you... I missed you." Sanji's lips quirk upward then into his kind, warm smile.

"I missed you too, love."

In the following days that passed, you made up for the lost time with Sanji. In his kitchen, you went back to your usual routines and he swooned at your presence, also back to his normal self. Almost all the crew, except for those forever oblivious, let out a collective sigh of relief at the sight of the both of you together and back to your usual ways. Nevertheless, even as insecurities may bubble and rise within you from time to time, you didn't find yourself contesting your beauty or his love for you again; more like Sanji wouldn't let you. Each time he saw your eyes wonder, he held you closer. Each time he witnessed your thoughts drift away he brought you back to him. Each time you considered your self-worth, he would be there to reassure you of your beauty, and his adoration; all almost painfully obvious in the way he basically screamed of his love for you each passing day. He never wanted that look of despair in your eyes again, and so he made sure he didn't.

You looked at your boyfriend, the loving, doting, devoted chef of the crew and you didn't doubt him; you didn't doubt his words. You accepted yourself and you accepted his love, letting despair dwindle away; relishing the brighter days that lay ahead.

[cherrydbear]

Since y'all seemed to like this I'll keep rambling on the subject, I can do this all day. Here are some of those examples where I think their friendship really shines through:

From Sanji's perspective, this guy just showed up outside his restaurant one day, dueled the legendary swordsman who slashed Don Krieg's fleet to pieces, willingly got cut almost in two, nearly bled to death, was tied up by his own crew and then captured by the Arlong pirates, still singlehandedly escaped and came back to join the fight and defeated one of Arlong's best fighters, then nearly bled to death again and woke up just in time to drink himself silly at the afterparty. I've heard people say they "match each other's freak" and that's the truth. Sanji watches this absolute wackadoodle of a man and knows he's found someone who matches his freak. From Zoro's point of view, some cook at a floating restaurant just fed all of their enemies out of principle before kicking their butts. How could he not respect that sort of unconditional adherence to a sense of honor and justice? Especially considering he himself experienced starvation not too long ago in Shells Town. Now this cook, the newest stray in Luffy's collection, immediately proves himself to be immensely capable both in the kitchen and on the battlefield, incurs injury to himself without complaint to protect these people he barely knows, and still is the only person to come sit by Zoro and check up on him. So Zoro knows that Sanji has a heart of pure gold, and I think that's a big part of why he gets frustrated when Sanji tries to cover it up with bravado and perviness.

This scene was really interesting to me because usually when someone demands that Zoro does something, he grouches and grumbles about it, so in this case it seems he just spontaneously started helping out himself. And if there was ever a man whose love language is acts of service, it's Roronoa Zoro. He seems to be more of a "companionable silence" kind of guy, while Sanji's a talker and will say anything to keep feeling connected. Now, I don't know if this is just a me thing, but I like to say my friends' names a lot, even just because the association with them brings me joy, but I rarely use the names of people I'm not close with except to refer to them in third person or to get their attention. In this scene, it seems to me that Sanji keeps repeating Zoro's name as a way to show he's thinking about him and appreciates him being there, though I might just be projecting.

Now, I know shippers go crazy over this one, but I think it's honestly really solid platonic evidence and I'll tell you why (not to dissuade shipping, I think you have to be friends before you can be more than friends so all of this can be fuel for the ship too if you want it to be). Firstly, they're comfortable enough to sleep this close together. Sanji's resting his sleepy head right on Zoro's shoulder (it should have been me, not him) and Zoro just lets him. Also note real quick, only a short distance away Luffy is using Usopp as a pillow, so they're all a cuddly cozy little family. When Zoro notices Sanji mistakenly trying to kiss him, he doesn't even move away, he just makes a face and waits for Sanji to wake up so he can make fun of him. Sanji, for his part, doesn't act embarrassed or disgusted that it turned out to be Zoro there, only playfully mad about his expression. They squabble for a few moments before Luffy pushes past them and they turn their attention to the next thing, argument forgotten, proving that neither was actually angry about anything and they were merely enjoying the opportunity to bicker.

This is from the hunting competition in Little Garden that I mentioned before. I just wanted to point out that both of them are grinning and clearly having a grand time.

(I love how Sanji's hands are just massive sometimes.) They have the entire forest clearing, and Sanji chooses to sit his little booty down right next to Zoro and toss his food at him. They're just like those kids in elementary who had beef over who has a more impressive Pokémon collection and would always sit next to each other at lunch to compare cards and play together at recess but claim they're archnemeses. And for as much as Sanji implied to Usopp (though oblivious) that the heart shaped vegetables were just for the ladies, he did choose to make it and serve it to the whole crew. Speaking of the ladies, Sanji is always adamant about protecting them, but he was perfectly fine with leaving Nami and Robin in Zoro's care, just as Zoro trusted Sanji to take care of Luffy and Usopp.

I also loved how Sanji packed Zoro a cute little lunchbox for exploring and he was NOT going to let no stupid south bird take it from him.

Alright that's all for today folks I gotta wake up in like 5 hours for work lol

Continuation from this post

[l-uminescent]

˚⁀➷｡˚ THE EYES OF A DRAGON  ━━━ DAERON TARGARYEN X FEM! READER & JACAERYS VELARYON X FEM! READER

synopsis: the dreary weather of dragonstone results in you recalling the events of the past year. your escape from your first love, daeron targaryen leaves you with a new life as a dragon keeper where you eventually learn to love again, much to jacaerys velaryon's delight. with the calling of the dragon seeds you are needed to protect the crowd against the fury of vermithor's wrath. surprisingly however, you find yourself with a new companion, one in which the green's are keen to acquire. as daeron writes requesting to talk to you again after finding out this news, your loyalty to jacaerys velaryon will evidently be tested with the return of your old lover.

request (rough translation): hello, could you please make a love triangle story between jacaerys x reader x dareon. since she is the daughter of an ancient dragon guardian (reader's mother died when she was born) she was raised by her uncle who is also a guardian of the dragons and her other uncle was a grand maester in ancient times. when she visited her uncle she met dareon, where she had a friendship and then dareon broke reader’s heart and returned to dragonstone. the war began to recover the throne of rhaenyra and jacaerys calls for the dragon seeds. reader in dragonstone was guarding the nests of dragon eggs by order of her uncle and came across the cannibal who was going to eat the eggs. not wanting that to happen, she tried to calm and control the terrifying dragon, and let her ride it. she realises that she is a dragon seed, therefore meeting jacaerys and striking up a friendship with him. after a while, in battle she meets daeron again. he tries to apologise, telling her he loved her and that he wants her to come back with him - it could be because of her, or the dragon she possesses, as she and cannibal are capable of seriously injuring vhagar and destroying the green’s. but, the reader loves jacaerys and doesn’t plan on betraying him.

notes: thank you sm @alyssa-dayne for requesting!! i kind of went off on a tangent and completely disregarded some of the requests you made, i’m so sorry😭 i hope you enjoy what i did write in its place though bc i had so much fun writing it and absolutely loved your request!! ive also seen a tiktok fan casting harry gilby as daeron and omg i am in love ?? and will be using him from now on. both daeron and Jace have been aged up to 21.

warnings: kind of dark! daeron, language, misogyny, violence, blood mentioned, angst, fluff w jace, friendship w ulf

word count: 4.9k

IT HAD BEEN ALMOST A YEAR SINCE YOU HAD STEPPED FOOT IN KING'S LANDING LAST. the pain of it all was still an open wound. still raw, still bleeding. it would take time for it to heal, time for the cut to be fully stitched up, to pick up the broken pieces. you were prepared to take all the time in the world for it to mend itself since escaping the viper's den. but it seemed like the gods were out to get you, throwing you back into the war that cut you in the first place.

it was many many moons ago that you were brought to the capital in the first place. your uncle was a maester and after the passing of your mother thought it would be best that you were to be brought to the red keep. he kept you close, keeping it a secret from the rats in the walls that he was giving you the same education the males received. so you spent many late nights with him, studying the language and histories of old instead of the usual sewing and stitching you would do during the day with your septa.

that was where you met him for the first time. daeron targaryen. you had been studying late with your uncle in the library. you uncle was an avid believer that a girl had every right to the same knowledge as a boy. a creak of a door had broken your study of the history of the seven kingdoms, revealing a slender blonde in its place. he walked over to your dimly lit table greeting your uncle, whispering something you couldn't make out. you studied him as he spoke, hazy mind too frazzled with tiredness to fully comprehend the boy that had been brought before you.  he was an angel to you, nothing like you had ever seen before. you thought the seven had blessed you with his falling from the heavens above, with hair as blonde as the snows in the north and eyes as purple as the flowers that blossomed in high garden you could not help but be enamoured. and that was the beginning of your fall.

you often reflected on that day in the library, meeting daeron for the first time as the rain patters against the walls of stone in dragonstone. being in a room with nothing but your own thoughts and defeaning silence lead you to the edge of madness. most days, it meant you reminisced on your times in the capital and now, as you lay in bed as the fire in the hearth dwindles and your candles burn low, you think of the blonde beauty. you finally understand why your uncle fought so hard to keep you away from the targaryen boys, "cynical beings" he called them as daeron left the library that night. you would never forget how his eyes graced your figure. the soft smile playing on his lips was a definite contrast to the dark hue that took hold in his eyes. you failed to pick up on this, too besotted by the man in front. panic however, was written clear across your uncle's face. he was accustomed to the targaryen's and their 'favourites'. how a being of lesser status would be that intriguing to them that they had to keep them near was a tale that was repeated constantly in the cycle of the dynasty. "they would stop at nothing to get what they desire, my dear." you remember him warning you, "and i began to fear that daeron targaryen has set his sights on you."

you had wished you heeded the look of distain and the words of warning from your uncle. yet you were so naive to the ways of the world, so young to be thrown into the den of dragons. you recount the day he began to approach you. it was subtle to begin with, he often sought you out to walk in the gardens when your uncle was meant to be teaching him. sneaking away early claiming he was needed to train in the yard, yet it was to seek you out instead. it was every so often at the start, you used to mistake it for coincidence. but it soon turned to daeron needing to see you all the time, glancing at you as he trained, the odd walk in the garden was never enough. and so it began.

daeron began to court you in every sense of the word. small trinkets and gifts would often be sent to your chambers. blushes would stain your cheeks as looks of wanting were shared across feasts and celebrations. touches, that were held a tad too long were daeron's favourites for a while.  he adored seeing the bashfulness on your face, as his slender fingers tapped your waist as he sought you out for every dance. 

you were a fool to fall for it. the targaryen's were a messy family, a mess you had no business being thrown into. but, you were drawn in just the same. the longing glances and subtle touches, turned into stolen kisses as daeron snuck his way through the passages maegor had built. you had thought you were in love with the man, and he with you.

how wrong you were. 

and you were too late to realise.

with the death of king viserys came what would be known for centuries as the 'dance of the dragons.' and you had just so happened to find yourself in the middle of it. your strong-mindedness and wilful opinions clearly saw you taking the side of the blacks. what right did anyone have to deny the heir the king had named just because she was born a girl? you often thought. you saw how unfairly women were treated by the scholars, how they were subjected to needle work with the septa's rather than the histories from the maesters. with the reign of a new queen you had hope that she would put an end to the inequality that was evident throughout the realm.

this sense of hope came crashing immediately with the entrance of daeron to your chambers. he spoke of aegon being raised as king. "it is only right." he would exclaim, "he is male. what use would my half-sister be if  she were to sit the throne, she is too weak."

you were enraged by this. the blatant disregard for rhaenyra, branding her as weak felt like a swift knife to your stomach. "you think i am weak then too daeron?" you recalled saying with a shake to your voice. "just as i am a woman, you deem me incapable. you think me stupid? hmm? you believe just because i was born this, i would not be fit to do anything other than sew, and produce heirs?"

you had always heard the people of the court say that the targaryen's were closer to god than man, something you would often brush aside. you could never picture your sweet daeron as mad as they claim the rest to be. but, you had finally awoken from whatever haze-induced state in that comes with being in love with a targaryen. the look in his lilac eyes would be one you would never forget, haunting your nightmares for moons to come. you now understood the fear of those who crumbled beneath that of the conqueror, swearing fealty. daeron's eyes conveyed the message words could not. you would learn to fear him, if you ever dared cross him.

tears, made themselves known then. spilling from your cheeks, you began to silently cry as the man you loved left you with that. daeron, would never see you equal just as he would never see rhaenyra fit to sit the iron throne. because of what you had been born. 

and thus with that you had made your decision, no amount of fear could stop you. with the news of aegon's planned crowning seeping through the walls of the red keep, and your once whole heart being left behind also, you had slipped away into the shadows, disguising as a fisherman's daughter as you and your uncle sailed to dragonstone to declare for queen rhaenyra targaryen, first of her name.

it was hard at first in dragonstone. your uncle sought audience with the queen, stating what had occurred on dragonstone and how you had managed to escape. nevertheless, the queen was wary of you. it was no secret that daeron had began to court you, how the two of you would eventually marry. they did not know you had discovered the darker side, the misogyny within. a look of sympathy was evident in the queen's eyes as she saw your heart break all over again as you recalled the story, she herself being reminded of the betrayal of alicent hightower. her good-will meant that you were allowed to stay within the castle, your uncle taking up schooling the queen's sons and you were to begin work with the dragon keepers along with your other uncle, who you barely knew. 

the many days of training with the other keeper's kept your thoughts off daeron's betrayal. you had hardened over the course of many moons, building your walls high and swearing to never give your heart to another.

that would be seen to not have lasted very long due to a certain dark-haired prince.

you had met jacaerys velaryon for the very first time when you were sent to keep guard of the smaller dragon's, vermax being one of them. you had tried your very best to make yourself scarce in his presence as you patrolled the pits. but the loud roar's of the dragon's still made you jump every so often, and in doing so you had dropped your spear. landing with a loud clatter, jacaerys' head had whipped around to see what had happened, only to find you. a chuckle had escaped his lips at your clumsiness, calling out a "new to the job?"  much to your unamusment.

"yes, well, my prince i am very much new to being this close to a dragon." you bit back in response.

a second had passed before jacaerys had beckoned you closer to him and his dragon. not wanting to anger him, you gingerly approached; still deathly afraid of dragons. 

"vermax here is a sweet dragon, here place you hand atop his snout. you will not come to any danger so long as i do not will it." he teased, but seeing your face pale he quickly announced he was only jesting.

your hand shook as it rose from your side as you slowly reached for the dragon. faltering, as vermax breathed out smoke. jacaerys noted your fear and guided your hand with his placing it on his dragon's snout. goosebumps rose across your skin at the contact and you were sure your sickly face regained some colour as your cheeks heated at the close proximity.  "see i told you, you would not get hurt."

and so it began again,except it was different this time. 

you found it almost easier to love jacaerys, or jace as he wanted you to call him. he was not as needy as daeron was, allowing you to always have your space but making sure you knew he would be with you in a heartbeat if you needed him. you adored the boy, how freckles splattered across his cheeks like stars, how his dark curls sometimes got in his eyes when he yielded as sword, and how he respected you. jace would always take the time to help you with your studies if needs be, to teach you how to wield your keeper's spear. he treated you as an equal, something daeron never did. the softness of jace was something you also never had with daeron. the kisses shared, were full of longing, full of love differing, heavily from the fierce, lustful ones of your previous lover. he was everything daeron was not.

you knew then that you wanted to marry jacaerys. there was not a second doubt in your mind. your loyalty for him was unwavering, he had made you learn to trust love again. you owed him everything, and you swore you would repay the love kindness he gave you as you still looked out at the dreary weather of dragonstone.

━━━━━━━━━━ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━━━━━━━━━

with jace's calling of the dragonseeds, your skills as a keeper were put to the test as many poor folk streamed in from the streets of king's landing and dragonstone alike. the drone of voices woke you from your daze as you paced up and down the stony column that separated you from the dark unknown of vermithor's cave. both men and women started to appear being lead by rhaenyra herself, jace slowly behind. you were confused with the lack of dragon keeper's accompanying her, as it seemed to be only you and your uncle who accompanied the crowd. 

you stood to the side, as both rhaenyra and your uncle called for the dragon in high valyrian - a language you were still learning to speak. a slow, menacing growl greeted rhaenyra in response to her call and movement caused the crowd to stir fearfully. from what you had studied about the ways of the keepers, was that dragon's could smell the fear of the person approaching. and with a crowd this afraid you were sure vermithor would not react well. 

the rising of the copper beast saw many yelp as he beared his blood stained teeth. despite your focus on the dragon ahead, you noticed those of higher status leaving to take shelter in the stone stands above.  you willed yourself to take a few deep breathes as your eyes met jace's worried ones, he took note of how you remained still not daring to follow the other lord's footsteps. he knew how stubborn you were, you swore to protect the people from the dragon's and he knew you would not leave no matter how hard he begged.

a forced smiled adorned your lips as you stared back at jace, a nod following, telling him that you were to do the role his mother had assigned to you.  facing the beast as jace returned to safety you pointed your spear at it, forcing yourself to remain as calm as possible, you slowly approached him. it was no use. the overpowering fear of the dragonseeds had sent vermithor into a hunger induced frenzy, sending sprouts of fire into the group. chaos erupted as the fire took hold of the first seed who had tried to approach. rolling out of the way, you had began to push a group of star-struck women who seemed to be rooted to their spot. you shouted an ear-defeaning "run"as loud as you possibly could to as many people as possible, as you stayed as close to the edge of the column trying to take vermithor's attention away from the others.  adrenaline coursed through your veins as you attempted to poke the dragon with your spear. yet it was no use, vermithor moved too fast and too furiously for you to catch him sending waves of fire to whatever living thing he could see as he did so.

jace watched on in absolute terror as you moved yourself closer to the dragon, dodging at only the last second to avoid the ripple of flame. his hands gripped the ledge of the stand he looked out upon tightly, knuckles whitening as he did. he had already tried to run down the steps to pull you to him, but the queen's guard had stopped him in the process, his mother deemed him too important as heir to be killed in such a way. so all jace could do is watch, praying to all the gods he could think of to grant him this wish of keeping you alive.

a loud shout from behind you had alerted you of the oncoming flames as you tried to help another group of people to safety, rolling out of the way you had landed up against rock who seemed to also cover the man who had warned you of vermithor's next attack. returning your gratitude, you had grabbed the man's cloak and had pulled him against the wall at the back of the cave. the two of you grabbed ahold of two of the many torches that lit the dark room, and scaled the edge of the cave, holding onto the side as you weaved in and out of the connecting paths between each lair. "thank you for saving me back there." you remember saying to the man. as the two of you walked, you had learned that he was called ulf, and claimed to be the bastard son of baelon targaryen. you did seem to be weary of the claim, you had heard from many the love the man had for his wife alyssa, swearing not to take another lover for as long as he remained alive, but now wasn't the time to question it so you left it at that. 

as you continued to walk for what felt like hours, ulf roared in happiness that he seen a light at the end of the awful narrow cave you had ventured down. the two of you began to break out into a run, thanking the gods that you had managed to make it out unscathed. the feelings were short-lived though, as the alley had opened up to the largest cave you had ever seen, and an even larger eye glistened in greeting you as you stepped out. 

the sound of blood could be heard in your ears as you realised that you were now face to face with the largest dragon on dragonstone - the cannibal. your flight or fight seemed to kick in that moment, months of keeper training seemed to as well, as you shoved ulf back down the corridor you came down and spun to point your weapon at the monster ahead. 

the dragon seemed to be almost taken aback by your courage, nose flaring with smoke as you stood eyes wide with the spear facing him. the cannibal knew you were no match for him, yet it seemed he admired your courage. he studied you, as you also studied him waiting for his attack. his black scales made him blend in easily with the darkness of his lair, only the torch you had dropped when you pushed ulf seemed to mark his presence as well as his gleaming green eyes. they seemed to bore into your own, as he assessed whether you were friend or foe. you did not break the eye contact once, your hands still tightly gripping the spear as if it was your lifeline, your only hope at survival. 

it seemed however, that this hope prevailed. the cannibal had made his decision of you, bowing slightly smoke emitted from his gigantic snout almost knocking you down. it seemed somewhat friendly. you could not believe what you had done, with your courage it appeared that you had somehow managed to claim the largest dragon alive, the first person to ever do it. gods you could not wait to show jace about this. 

you remembered that day like it was almost yesterday despite many weeks having passed since. jace had almost murdered you. he thought you had perished in the flames of vermithor. as you stumbled up to the castle to tell the queen what had occured, jace had been there too. he had kissed you in front of everyone, not caring that the rumours would swirl afterwards. he was in sheer relief that you had returned to him safely and managing to tame the cannibal in the process. 

in that time also, you had taken to flying the cannibal. only a short distance at first, around dragonstone as you were still wary of his size and his cannibalistc nature having to fight him many a time to not eat the eggs laid by the other dragons on island, it took him a while to gain your trust and he you due to his unease with having a rider. it was not until you began to speak to him in high valyrian that the bond between the two of you was sealed, completely unbreakable.

and at this, you woke earlier than usual this morning to fly him to king's landing - making it known to the green's that rhaenyra had the largest dragon on her side. a smirk was plain on your face as you sawed the skies on your beloved dragon, and you were sure he held the same expression. it almost felt revengeful as you lapped around king's landing dipping as close to the castle as possible without being in reach of arrows. your intent was to prove to daeron you were stronger than he thought - you had claimed the biggest dragon after all. you had made sure that all were to see. the cannibal seemed to enjoy the screams of terror revelling at the attention, he let out a defeaning roar as he dipped and rose again, just to sweeten the revenge. 

you knew it was time to go when you heard the rustling of trees in the distance. vhagar was indeed no match to your dragon but you weren't ready to test the water's just yet with a dragon nearly the size of your own. you drew back from the capital, as the she-dragon's body became visible in the skies. "let us go home"you spoke to the cannibal. heeding your words he carried you across the waters back to the safety of dragonstone. as he settled once more in his lair and a stern "don't eat any more eggs!" from you, you began to clamber back to the castle, your ego boosted now that aemond targaryen deemed you a threat. you had only wished now to see the targaryen brothers reactions when they discover that it was you that rode the largest beast in the realm. 

━━━━━━━━━━ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━━━━━━━━━

the rain pattered steadily against the window as you lay in bed, recounting these moments. the candle's in your room seemed to flicker as they reached the end of their wicks giving you the sign that it was time to go. the note clutched in your hand deemed that the whispers seemed to reach daeron targaryen's ears quickly enough, he was now informed that the rider of the cannibal was none other than his old lover. you pulled your robe on, reading the piece of parchment for the final time before the candle's fizzled out completely. daeron had requested to meet you, no violence, no fights. he just wanted to talk. your curiosity got the best of you sadly and you wrote back earlier in the day saying you would talk peacefully. he had agreed to meet you on your own shore, at the edge of dragonstone. it was safely out of the way of the black's, meaning that they would not be able to see the meeting but not far enough that a screech from a dragon would go unnoticed, so you deemed yourself safe enough.

even though the cannibal blended perfectly with the night sky, the sheer ferocity of his size meant that there was absolutely no way you would be able to bring him without being spotted by a guard of some sort. so you entrusted the help of ulf, the man you had protected from your dragon many moons ago. the two of you had struck up some sort of odd friendship despite the age difference being vast, you found the man quite funny and he you. he could not believe a girl as clumsy as you had managed to save him from the cannibal as well as claiming him in the process.

ulf was the perfect man to deliver you to daeron. as you snuck into the dragon cave silverwing resided, he had already mounted the dragon - a sense of excitement emitted from him for doing something so secretive, something the queen could never find out about. you however were the exact opposite. nerves ate at your stomach as you gripped onto elf's torso. you had thought you were going to be sick, you hadn't seen daeron in almost a year. you wondered if he looked different, if he sounded different, if he thought different.

you had to force these thoughts out of your mind as silverwing made her descent in the trees a few yards away from the clearing where daeron and tessarion stood. you did not want him to know that you had entrusted someone with the knowledge of this secret meeting, so you had told ulf to patrol the skies and you would wave at the sky if you needed him. he agreed to go reluctantly, only after making you promising to give him a ride on cannibal the following day. you huffed out a laugh at this, ulf always knew what to say when you felt anxious. 

as your friend and his dragon took to the skies again, you began to enclose the distance between you and the blonde prince. anxiety once again took reign of your body, you could feel your heart pounding in your ears and you hands began to shake uncontrallby. you forced them to play with the ring jace had given you in promise that he would marry you after the war had ended. your mind grounded itself at the thought of jace, even as you came face to face with daeron. you thought of jace, how you had to return home safely to him.

"you claimed the cannibal then." daeron spoke. he hadn't changed one bit since you seen him last, his lilac eyes still sparkled in endearment at you even after all this time. 

a sigh escaped your lips as you drew even closer to him, "didn't think i could do it?" you responded snarkily, head tilting to the side slightly as awaited his answer. 

all he could do was shake his head and laugh. "you have not changed one bit. i have missed you."

your eyes were slightly wide at his confession, taken aback by it. you weren't expecting that, you were prepared for daeron to beg you to join the green's, for him to tell you how you would be increasingly useful to win the war. you had not prepared for his expression of feelings. he took your look of bewilderment as a sign to continue.

"i still stand for aegon's claim, he is stronger than my half-sister, but i wish for you to come back. aegon said he will pardon you for your crimes of betrayal and treason if you return with me to king's landing. we will marry and you will become a princess of the realm."

there it was. you knew his confession was too good to be true. "oh speak plainly daeron." you spat. "you only wish for me because of my dragon." rage took hold as you moved close, tilting your head up, you began look him in the eyes. you wished to convey to him the sheer anger you felt at his words, just like the look he had given you all that time ago. except now, the blood of the dragon ran within you too. 

you were now nearly pressed to the boy, your voice dropped to a dangerously low whisper as you continued. "you see me as weak daeron. i alone, have claimed a dragon twice as powerful as yours and you still do not deem me as worthy, as an equal. i will never join the cause of a fucking usurper when the woman who i fight for deserves the throne."

he hummed in response, a wicked smile taking over his face. "you only fight for them because of that bastard." the look of shock on your face was clear as you faltered slightly at his sharp words. "didn't think i had heard? i have given you a chance to join me, my love and you have refused. i will bring fire and blood upon that bastard until you have no choice but to stand by my fucking side."

his hands came up to grip your jaw forcing you to look into his eyes as he spoke the last sentence. you knew what he was capable of and you knew what he said he meant to make true. that didn't stop you from scoffing at his words, your tongue rolling over your lips as you did so "he is more man than you will ever be daeron. bastard or not i will marry him, or i will be long cold and dead in the ground. either or, it would happen long before i would ever, ever stand by you and you betray the man i love."

at this, daeron used the hand he had on your jaw to shove you away, anger plain on his face. the heart that had once bled for him was replaced by something cold, something darker. the love for jace was the only thing in it that burned strong, you would do anything to protect him from the monster before you. you promised yourself, you would die before you let daeron touch a hair on his head. you weren't the same naive girl you had been when you first laid eyes on daeron targaryen. and you weren't the same stupid girl who coward when that  his lilac bore into yours the night you left. as that look returned to his face before he once again turned to leave, tears did not stream from your eyes as it did all that time ago. instead, you held his gaze, your own pupils mirroring that look - you now too held the eyes of a dragon.

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Very Hopper Holidays

Hopper POV || wc: 3.7k || tags: smoking, recreational drugs, grouchy old men dealing with their feelings, smart-ass Eddie Munson, meet-cute Steddie, Steve and Max siblings, El thinks Steve is cute (so does Eddie), emotionally available Wayne Munson gives the best advice, holiday fluff, found family

This is a companion piece to my fic The Babysitter Chronicles, but can be read separately!

Brief background: Wayne patched Steve up after his fight with Billy in s2

Hopper’s freezing his goddamn balls off out here, waiting on the front stoop in the dark, banging his fist on the door. There’s no answer, but the lights are all on and it’s dinnertime on Christmas Eve. So someone’s fucking home, and the sooner they answer the sooner he can leave.

“Dammit, Wayne. Open the door so I can give you a damn present, or next time I pick up your nephew maybe I throw him in jail for the night instead of bringing him home.”

Sure enough, the door flies open, but it’s not Wayne on the other side. The kid’s standing there, layered in enough flannel shirts and sweatpants to dress all of El’s shithead friends with some left over. Hopper watches as he drags the sleeve of an oversized black flannel across his red and dripping nose, shifting uncomfortably and eyes darting side to side.

“Munson,” Hopper crosses his arms, “where the hell’s your uncle?”

Even bundled up like a little kid, he still tries to make himself bigger, taller, meaner, like he always does when Hopper picks him up. “Not here.” The tone is flat, devoid of Munson’s usual snark as a particularly intense gust of wind slams the screen door open against the side of the trailer.

“It’s Christmas eve, what do you mean he’s not here?”

“He’s working.”

Hopper scoffs. “You’re telling me your uncle works Christmas eve?”

Munson scoffs back at him, a dramatic mockery of Hopper’s own tone. “We’re Jewish, asshole.”

Well, shit.

He doesn’t have time for the kid’s hardass act. All he wanted to do was drop off a simple thank you and also merry christmas but now probably happy hanukkah gift and be on his way to his own family. He can only hope El spares him a bit of holiday mercy for making her wait. 

“Kid, can I just come in?” He takes another step up, only for Munson to block his path.

His eyes grate across Hopper’s jacket, noting the star on the chest. “No cops in the trailer.” 

A low grumble forces its way up Hopper’s throat which breaks into a frustrated groan when another gust of wind scrapes the exposed skin on his cheeks. He stamps his feet on the stairs hoping it’ll keep the blood flow going to his toes as they start to tingle. Munson’s wrapped his hands up inside the sleeves of what’s most likely one of Wayne’s old jackets.

“Look,” Eddie starts, sniffling another drip back inside his nose, “if you could just–”

But Hopper cuts him off with a deranged laugh, head thrown back in dismay at this entire situation. “No, you look here. You’re going to listen to exactly what I have to say.”

Eddie’s taken a step back, and yeah, Hopper supposes he’s never seen the Chief of Police actually freak out before. But it’s been a long day of wellness checks and stove fires, and Eddie’s the only thing standing between him and a night of kid’s Christmas movies and spiked eggnog.

So he pushes forward, spurred on by the kid’s once-in-a-lifetime stunned silence. “Now it’s clear that Wayne’s working nights, probably earning holiday hours to pay for the radiator which is pretty obviously busted, given the ten to twenty shirts you’re wearing. Meaning you’re alone, in a tin box with a tiny space heater that’s so old it’s a fire hazard shoved into the corner of your room.” The Chief walks up the stairs, standing on the step just before the door so he’s towering over Eddie, who shrinks in on himself just a bit. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Munson.” Hopper ticks off each gloved finger as his list of demands grows, Eddie’s growing wider in time. “You’re going to let me inside so I can piss and blow my nose, since I’ve been standing out here for too fucking long. You’re going to pack a bag, you’re going to call your uncle, and you’re going to tell him you’re staying with me for the night.”

Eddie stammers, mouth flapping around words he can’t find fast enough. It doesn’t matter, because Hopper’s on a roll now.

“Then,” he steamrolls Eddie again, pushing his way into the trailer, closing the door as Eddie stumbles backwards down onto the couch, “you’re going to eat my food, you’re going to watch our movies, you’re going to smile when we smile and laugh when we laugh because even if you’re Jewish you can still have a damn good fucking Christmas eve!”

He’s sick and tired of stupid teenage boys trying to be something they aren’t, like they’re manly or tough or strong for barely surviving on their own, practically raising themselves. And the best way Hopper can drill that into their thick skulls is to get them to shut the fuck up and feed them.

The silence lingers on the frost coating the inside of the windows and the crust of dried snot on Eddie’s sleeve. The kid’s avoiding eye contact, like Hopper will just leave if he’s ignored. But if Hopper can outlast guards in the POW camp, and a little girl who hates green beans, then he can sure as hell outlast Eddie goddamn Munson. So Hopper waits. And waits. 

It pays off, like he knew it would. The kid gets up, storms towards one end of the trailer. Hopper slowly follows down the narrow hallway and sees Eddie viciously shoving rumpled clothes into a backpack, mumbling about pigs and asshole cops. 

After all’s said and done, they’re pulling up to the cabin about twenty minutes later. The front door opens with a bang in greeting, causing Eddie to jump out of his skin. But when they step through the now open door into the warmth of the living room, there’s no one there to greet them.

Ah, so she’s a little upset.

El’s door is closed, like it’s not supposed to be. Light shines out from underneath, and he can hear soft voices inside. The whispers are abruptly hushed when he knocks on her door. “El, honey, I need you to open the door. Six inches, remember?” Hopper tries turning the handle but it doesn’t budge. Honestly he can’t help but wonder why he bothered to install a door with no lock when she’s got superpowers– that’s on him, he supposes. 

He turns around to find Munson standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. “Take your jacket off, put your shit down, and stay a while, will ya?” Hopper laughs at Eddie’s incredulous expression, eyebrows scrunched together and lips pursed tight. 

“Ok,” Eddie drags the sound out in question as he sets his pack next to the couch, “who opened the fucking door?”

“Hey, language!" Hopper calls, Max’s voice echoing his own.

Eddie startles, head whipping between Hopper’s no-doubt exasperated expression and El’s still-closed bedroom door. He drags his hands down his face and sighs as her mimicry sends the girls into a fit of giggles. He hasn’t decided yet if Max is a good influence on El, even if Hopper knows it’s not himself she’s mocking.

He hears the creak of the bathroom door opening as Steve walks back into the living room. Hopper can’t help but turn to watch the show, the two boys coming face to face. 

Munson’s oversized black and red flannel covers the ripped sleeves of whatever tattered, black band t-shirt he’s wearing. Which would be on par with what he normally looks like, except it’s contrasted against bright blue, wool pajama pants with little white snowflakes on them. When Hopper first spotted them at the trailer, a teasing smirk on his face, Munson only rolled his eyes and argued they were the warmest clean pair he had.

Harrington, on the other hand, has lived his entire life in locker rooms and an empty house. Which means that he once again forgot to bring a shirt to change into after his shower. It's not normally a problem-- except when El catches him, a blush lighting up her face like a goddamn Christmas tree, accompanied by incessant giggles that make Hopper want to drown himself.

What is a problem is Munson’s shameless gawking, mouth wide enough to catch a whole swarm of flies. His blush puts El's to shame, red blotches burst across his neck like hives. Hopper can practically see the steam rolling out of the guy’s ears, hearts popping out of his eyes as he just stares and stares his fill, completely unaware that Hopper’s still standing less than five feet from him.

Thankfully, so far Steve is none the wiser. He’s got a cotton swab in his ear, head tipped down as he double-knots his Tigersharks swim team sweatpants. Hopper notices they hang baggy and loose around his hips. Another shitty reminder of how much weight the kid’s lost since getting kicked off the team because of his ‘incident’ with Hargrove. He wonders about the last time the kid ate a decent meal, and pushes down the rising anger at the most realistic answer, which is not recent enough for his liking. Hopper has the same gnawing concern when he looks back at Munson, dark circles under his eyes, skinny as a bean-pole. 

He’s got to stop taking in strays.

“Harrington, we’ve talked about this.” Hop tries to keep the frustration out of his voice, but if he has to watch El swoon over the kid’s wet hair and bare chest again he’s gonna blow a gasket. “Put a damn shirt on.”

“Oh, yeah sorry, Hop.” Which is the exact moment Steve decides to turn his head. They both catch Munson giving Steve a once over, who then chokes on his own spit when he notices Steve looking back at him. Hopper knows Harrington’s trying to turn over a new leaf, but he also knows the kind of people Richard and Helen Harrington are. So he’s a little surprised when, instead of having to stop a potential hate crime, he notices a similar blush bloom across Steve’s chest– or maybe it’s the heat from the shower. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Muson’s screech is so high it could set dogs howling. Steve flinches at the outburst, and Hopper hopes this little interaction doesn’t trigger another migraine for the kid. He was barely pushing through when Hop picked him up yesterday, but seems to be feeling better today.

“Munson, I need you to tone it down,” Hopper argues. It goes unnoticed.

Steve’s sputtering. He runs a nervous hand through his hair and of-fucking-course Munson gasps, swoons just like El. Harrington’s free hand fumbles for a shirt hem that isn’t there. He realizes he’s half naked and turns into a deer in headlights, hands frantically moving over his chest like he doesn’t know how to hide himself. Unfortunately the unintentional groping sends Munson into a coughing fit. 

“Me? What the hell are you doing here, Munson?”

Munson scoffs, crossing his arms as he backs himself into the wall behind him. “The high and mighty Chief of Police here basically kidnapped me. Forced me to pack a bag and tossed me into his truck.” Ah, there’s the Munson he expected. Except if it wasn’t for how many times Hopper’s hauled the kid in, he might not have noticed the nervous energy in Eddie’s twitchy fingers and shifty eyes. “He failed to mention–” he waves around at everything until Munson’s wild gesturing lands on a half-naked, sweats hung low, hair slicked back, barefoot Steve Harrington.

The squeal of El’s door opening behind him propels Hopper full-speed into the living room towards Steve’s duffle. He pulls out the first shirt he manages to find. It hits Steve in the face, and they both breathe a sigh of relief when he pulls it on.

“Aww,” El complains, before her eyes grow ten sizes too big when she catches Hopper glaring back at her. 

“Who the hell is this guy?” Max asks. She makes her way toward the kitchen, dragging El with her to help pull out dishes and cups. 

“Apparently another kidnapping victim.” Steve huffs, annoyed, before making his way over to the girls. “Munson, get over here and help me set the food out.”

Steve doesn’t even look up from where he’s pulling a large cast iron out of the oven, so he misses the absolutely priceless distress scrawled into Eddie’s bulging eyes and flapping hands. Looking back and forth between Harrington and Hopper, Eddie points to himself in confusion as if Steve hadn’t asked him by name. Hopper can only chuckle at the kid’s antics. He rolls his eyes and tilts his head toward the kitchen so Munson finally gets the jist, moving across the cabin in double-time. 

It’s a more intense Christmas dinner than Hopper was hoping for, but after introductions and a full stomach, everyone’s relaxed a bit. El and Max curl up on the couch next to him, snuggled under the same blanket surrounded by bowls of popcorn and half eaten bags of candy. The boys, finally over whatever awkward tension laced between them earlier, are sitting rather comfortably next to each other, poking fun at the cliche holiday movies that Hopper secretly enjoys.

Well after the girls are tucked in and the boys have set up a mess of sleeping bags and blankets on the living room floor, Hopper moves quiet as a mouse across the trailer to Eddie’s duffle. After a quick search, he pulls a joint from a hidden zipper pocket hand-sewn inside the lining.

Kid must think he’s so smart, like he’s the first guy to ever sell drugs.

Hopper deserves a little treat after all the shit he’s been through this year. It’s been ages since he’s smoked, and with the boys here to help watch over the kids, he thinks he can allow himself time to relax for just a little bit. He’s earned it. Plus, it’s not his fault the damned kid decided to try to sneak his stash here. Hop’s not an idiot, even though the boys clearly thought so when they went out for some ‘fresh air’ earlier and came back looking a little less fresh than when they left.

So he brushes the snow off of his favorite lawn chair, wraps himself up in a tattered old blanket, and lights up in the cold, winter air. 

Hop loved smoking in high school, so he takes a long inhale, reveling in the burn heating his chest. Unfortunately, Hopper hasn’t been a teenager in a long, long time. His coughing fit is loud enough to wake his non-existent neighbors. But when he can finally breathe fresh air again, there’s no noise to be heard from inside.

He goes slower this time, tugging on little puffs as he watches the snow fall between the pine trees. It’s quiet, a good quiet, filled with the rustling of rabbits in the brush and bugs singing in the night. Even the joint is absolute shit, like most of Munson’s wares. It’s still enough for him to relax, to appreciate what unfortunate circumstances have gifted him, and keep him from dwelling on what he’s lost. 

Less than an hour’s passed when a pair of headlights shine down the drive. Wayne steps out of his beat-up truck, in only slightly better condition than Eddie’s van, and makes his way over. Without a word, Hopper gets up and grabs another folding chair propped against the end-railing and sets it next to his own.

The joint’s gone by now, but Hopper pulls out a pack of smokes and offers one to Wayne, who silently takes it with just a slight nod of his head in thanks. Out of the corner of his eye, Hopper notices Wayne’s worn-down work boots have a gash at the front, exposing the hard steel underneath the suede. He’s wearing a large, thick flannel that looks exactly like the one Eddie was wearing when Hopper found him, and it’s just as oversized on the old man. 

There’s almost nothing similar between Wayne and his nephew. Wayne’s always been a quiet one. A guy who’d make his way to the back of a crowded room, who kept his head down when he knew what was good for him. And Eddie is– is really just something else. Loud, obnoxious, brash, a kid with a well-crafted personality faker than government coverup. Almost one of a kind, if Hopper didn’t happen to know another boy just like him.

Wayne clears his throat, stubs out the bud with his boot in a little pile of snow. “Got a note from my foreman saying you kidnapped my boy.” His tone is gruff, but Hopper catches the small uptick to the man’s chapped lips.

He doesn’t say anything when Hopper heads inside. It takes him a minute to find the wrapped bottle and two glasses. While he meanders around, he checks that the boys are still both snoring away and the girls are sound asleep amidst a pile of stuffed animals.

When he closes the front door behind him, Jim hands the bottle to Wayne and sets the two glasses into the snow between them. Wayne hums in thought, turning the bottle over in his hand. “Macallen single?”

Jim actually croaks, chest light and filled with laughter when he clocks the mirth in Wayne’s teasing eyes. Maybe him and Eddie aren’t so different after all, both having a shithead sense of humor.

“Just Johnny.” Jim wipes a hand down his face like that’ll hide the sincerity in his smile. “You helped patch up my kid, Wayne. You didn’t save the goddamn world.”

The light in Wayne’s eyes dims only slightly. Instead of unwrapping the bottle, he unscrews the lid off the top, ripping the paper off with it, and pours them both half a glass. They silently cheers, even though the air between them has shifted slightly. 

“Thought that boy was a Harrington, not a Hopper.” It should sting, but it doesn’t, because Wayne’s not that type of man. It’s a genuine question, one that Jim’s not sure how to answer. So he keeps silent, hoping Wayne will cave and move on like his kid does when things stay too quiet. But Wayne sits, and sits, and his own gut finally starts to roil. Ah, so that's what it feels like.

“Apparently I’m good at picking up strays.” Jim’s attempt at a joke falls flat between them. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Although, I think I got to Harrington a little too late.”

Wayne takes a decent sip from his glass, smacking his lips together. He peers out into the dark, just beyond the porch railing. But Jim can tell he’s not looking at the woods in front of them or the starry sky overhead. Wayne’s looking at something that’s long behind him.

“Ya know, Harrington didn’t look much different than my boy did when he showed up lookin’ like a dropped sack of peaches. Just a little thing he was; no hair, clothes that didn’t fit. Hell, I’d almost been able to see his ribs if it weren't for the bruises.” Wayne’s looking down at his feet now, scuffing the snow off the bottom of his boots. He downs his glass in one go before pouring himself another. 

“I beat myself up for too long for not doing something sooner. My own nephew, my own brother, livin’ only two towns over, and I had no idea it was that bad. Told m’self over and over that I should’ve known, should’ve helped sooner.” Wayne heaves a heavy sigh before looking up at Jim again. There’s guilt in the crinkles around his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with resolve. “You might not’ve always been there for the Harrington kid, but that don’t mean he don’t need you now. Maybe more than ever, by the look of him. And if he’s got you watchin’ out for him, maybe he’ll turn out more Hopper than Harrington afterall.”

Jim can’t take the intense eye contact anymore and firmly looks away, finishing his glass and extending it out to Wayne for a refill. It’s quiet, Wayne’s patience sitting on his shoulders like the world’s most uncomfortable blanket. But even blankets that are scratchy as hell can still be warm.

After a while, the silence releases enough tension that he can sit back again, and the two men slowly sip their whiskey and watch dawn break through the trees. Wayne grabs the bottle as he moves to stand and pats Jim’s shoulder a little too hard. The man’s stronger than he looks.

“Why don’t you bring Eddie back yourself a little bit later, give me a chance to fix that radiator. Plus, being around Harrington might be good for him,” he chuckles to himself, hopping into his truck. “Maybe show the boy not every kid who don’t wear all black ain’t a damn conformist suburban yuppie.” Jim laughs, Wayne’s mockery a spot on impression.

All’s still quiet in the cabin, each kid right where he left them. He’s not sure if it’s the joint, the two whiskeys, Wayne’s advice, or just a combination of everything, but there’s a heat behind his eyes he hasn’t had to deal with in a long time. He’s not typically a crier– happy or sad. The only time he’s cried since Sarah was in the elevator shaft, El collapsed in his arms just after closing the gate. And even then, it was only a few stray tears.

Now he’s unspooling wads of toilet paper to blow his damn nose in, crying like a kid who got coal in their stocking. Except this isn’t like when he thought he’d lost El, or when he’d held Sarah’s hand when she took her last breath. Jim Hopper’s happier than he’s been in a long, long time. And after the shit awful year he’s had– that they’ve all had– he lets himself revel in the joy of having a family again.

Gorgeous graphics provided by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

And as always, thank you to @carolperkinsexgirlfriend for telling me "I think your calling might be writing well-meaning, grumpy old men" and also, "you just understand the spirit of The Old Man", but mostly just thank you for being an amazing beta reader <3

[bullet-prooflove]

For Rip Wheeler

“Oh, if all I got is your hand in my hand Baby, I could die a happy man”

Tagging: @1-fuzzy-squirrels @nerdypinupcrystal @babygirl8900 @domquixotedospobresblog @buckysteveloki-me

Companion piece to Thrill of the Chase (NSFW) - Rip has always loved the thrill of the chase.

Rip doesn’t have a heart, at least that’s what they say about him. They see his hard edges, his gruff exterior, the aura of violence and they think there’s a barbed wire where one should be.

For a while even he thinks it’s true. The world has battered him, bruised him, broken him, he doesn’t have the capacity for softness anymore. He tells you that after you fuck him for the second time.

“Don’t expect anything from me. I don’t have anything to give you.”

His relationships have aways been physical, raw, primal. It’s about stress relief, not connection. He assumes it’s going to be the same with you until it isn’t.

There are so many ways you’re different to the women he’s been with before. There’s a softness in you he doesn’t anticipate. You aren’t rough with him like the others, you’re teasing, gentle. When he’s camping out alone, he thinks about the light caress of your fingertips across the scars that line his left shoulder, the tender brush of your lips as you explore every inch of him.

He might fuck but you, you make love.

He tries to fight the fall, really he does but it’s a constant war deep inside of him. He forces himself to leave your bed when he’s finished with you, he redresses in the dark as you sleep, ignoring the urge to climb back into your sheets, to hold you, to love you.

He’s tired, sore and pissed off when he comes across you in the barn. He’s been pulling up hemlock all day in one of the pastures and you’re finishing a check up on John Dutton’s horse Starbuck. The old girl is getting up there these days, she’s starting to have more health problems. There’s going to come a day soon where you make the recommendation to put her down and the thought of that…

It devastates him because the two of them, they sort of grew up together. She was the first foal he birthed back in the day.

You must see the exhaustion in him, the toll of the day has taken. He thinks that’s why you reach for him, why you catch his hand when he walks by. The gesture surprises him because the women he’s been with, they’ve steered clear of his moods, they didn’t walk head first into them.

“Come home with me tonight.” You say as he turns to face you, and he sees the sincerity in your features as you draw him close. “Let me look after you a little.”

It’s the first time that anyone has ever offered him that, that they’ve cared enough to consider his wants, his needs. He’s tired of this war he’s been waging with himself, he’s tired of resisting you. All he wants right now is to curl up in bed, with the woman he’s falling in love with.

“Alright darlin.” He concedes, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek. “If you want me, you can have me.”

Love Rip? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[moonselune]

Mayhaps, if you'd like to do one with all the companions, (if not just the ladies are fine^^):

Comforting Tav over something seemingly insignificant, a small inconvenience (dropped food, easy to repair broken item, a shop not having the one thing they're looking for, ECT), but it's just the thing that broke the camel's back, and all the stress and worry and hardship catches up to Tav

this one took a while to do but I hope its okay ! Added Rolan to it but not Raphael as I genuinely think he would simply just magic you away because he would just not want to deal with that - not very order and decorum of you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

You and Karlach had been on the road for weeks, dealing with countless threats and challenges. Today, you had looked forward to a simple pleasure: a meal cooked over the campfire, a small respite from the chaos. But as you carried the pot of stew to the table, you tripped over a root and spilled it all over the ground.

Karlach saw the accident and rushed over, her eyes wide with concern.

"Easy soldier, you got mouths here, to feed not the ants," she said, trying to sound upbeat but she noticed you were very much not sharing the same vibe as her. "Hey, it's okay! We can make more,"

But something inside you snapped. The spilled stew was the final straw. You dropped to your knees, staring at the mess, and felt tears welling up in your eyes. All the stress, the exhaustion, and the constant battle against the odds suddenly came crashing down on you. Karlach immediately knelt beside you, her large, warm hand on your shoulder. "Hey, hey, it's alright. It's just stew. We'll figure it out," she said softly.

You shook your head, unable to hold back the sobs. "It's not just the stew, Karlach. It's everything. I'm so tired. I'm so stressed. I can't keep doing this."

Karlach's eyes widened in panic. She wasn't used to seeing you like this. She wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

"Shh, ssh, it's okay. Let it out," she whispered, stroking your back awkwardly but tenderly. "Shhh,"

You clung to her, the warmth of her embrace grounding you as you let the tears flow. Karlach continued to hold you, her voice a soothing murmur in your ear.

"We're in this together, okay? You don't have to carry it all by yourself. I'm here. We'll get through this."

Her words, combined with her reassuring hold on you, slowly began to calm you down. As your sobs subsided, you leaned back and looked at her, seeing the worry and care in her eyes.

"I'm do sorry," you mumbled, wiping your eyes. "I didn't mean to break down like that. I-"

"-Don't apologize. You're allowed to feel overwhelmed." Karlach shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're allowed to need a break. We'll take it one step at a time, okay?"

You nodded, feeling a little lighter, and Karlach pressed a kiss to your forehead. The two of you sat there for a little while longer, basking in each other's warmth and slowly you began to feel all of those broken pieces start to mend together.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

You were in a bustling market, searching for a specific ingredient for a potion. After hours of looking and dealing with the noise and chaos, you finally found the stall that supposedly had it. But as you reached the front, the vendor shook his head. "Sorry, sold out."

That was it. The final straw. You felt a surge of frustration and helplessness. "What do you mean sold out, we need that-"

Before you knew it, tears were streaming down your face. You tried to hold them back, embarrassed by your reaction, hiding your head in your hands, hoping nobody would notice but it was too late. Minthara, who had been silently watching your back, noticed your distress immediately. She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing at the vendor before turning to you. You were now shaking, unable to move, stuck in a cycle of crying, trying not to show yourself crying and crying more. Minthara put a hand on your shoulder, glaring at the vendor before you both.

"Excuse us," she said coldly to the vendor. Without another word, she scooped you up effortlessly and slung you over her shoulder. You were too overwhelmed to protest, your emotions a tangled mess. She carried you to a quieter, more secluded alley away from the bustling crowd. Once there, she set you down gently and knelt before you, her eyes searching yours.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice demanding but surprisingly soft.

You tried to speak, but the words came out in a choked sob. "It's… it's just too much. Everything is going wrong. I'm so tired, Minthara. I can't keep doing this."

Minthara's expression softened, and she reached out, gently cupping your face in her hands.

"You are strong, but even the strongest need a moment to breathe," she said, her voice steady and calm. "You don't have to carry this burden alone."

You leaned into her touch, feeling a mixture of shame and relief. "I'm sorry. It's such a small thing to get upset over. It's shameful."

"It is not." `Minthara shook her head and as you tried to bow your head, trying to hide from her gaze, but Minthara was relentless, jerking your head up and back to her. " And it's not just the small thing. It's everything that led up to it. You are allowed to feel overwhelmed."

She pulled you into an embrace, her strong arms holding you close. "Rest here for a moment. Take your time," she murmured. "We'll face this together."

Her words and presence brought a sense of calm over you. You clung to her, letting the tears flow as she held you. In that moment, you felt safe and understood. Minthara's quiet strength and unwavering support were exactly what you needed.

After a while, you pulled back, feeling a bit more composed. Minthara looked at you, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Feeling better?"

You smiled, wiping your eyes. "Yes. Thank you, Minthara."

"Good. Though my only request is that next time you share your worries with me." You nodded and she stood up, offering you her hand. Now, let's find another way to get what we need. We won't let this defeat us."

"Minthara?" You call out to her quietly and she looks at you, her eyes wide, waiting on your every word.

"Yes, my love?"

You didn't answer her, just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips, pulling away with a smile. "I love you, entirely."

"I love you too."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

The day had been a long string of battles and challenges, leaving you exhausted. When you finally made it back to camp, you realised your weapons had grown dull. Pulling out your dagger you began to sharpen it, but either from the strength of your frustration that had built over the past few days, or the excessive use of it, it snapped.

You stared at the mess, the broken pieces of dagger on the floor, glinting back at you almost mockingly in the evening sun. You felt the weight of all your stress and fatigue crash down on you. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you dropped to your knees.

Lae'zel, who had been sharpening her own blade nearby, looked up at the sound of the dagger breaking. She saw you kneeling by the broken pieces, tears streaming down your face. With a determined stride, she approached you and knelt down beside you.

"This is but a minor setback, a weak dagger clearly" she said firmly, her voice calm and pragmatic. "I have many, have one of mine. The battle is not lost."

You shook your head, unable to hold back the sobs. "It's not just the dagger, Lae'zel. It's everything. I'm so tired. I can't keep doing this."

Lae'zel's eyes softened slightly, and she placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm and reassuring. "You are stronger than this, and we will face these challenges together. Allow yourself a moment of weakness, but do not let it consume you."

For once her practical approach, and slight criticism, began to ground you. You took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure.

"We will rise above this," she continued, her voice steady as she awkwardly pat you on the shoulder. "Together, we will face whatever comes our way. You are not alone in this, I am here, place your burdens upon me."

''I don't want to do that though-'

"-Do you not think me strong enough? You think your burdens above me?" Lae'zel asked in slight outrage and you couldn't help but laugh at her sincerity.

"No, of course not, my love." You smiled as you rested your head on your shoulder, feeling a bit more in control. She helped you to your feet, her grip never faltering.

"We will clean this up and get you a new blade, one worthy of your strength" she said, her tone decisive. "And we will succeed."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

The branch whacks you across the face, a stinging reminder of the day's endless frustrations. It's the final straw. Rage bubbles up, hot and uncontrollable. You raise your hand, the words of a fireball spell forming on your lips. This stupid, unyielding piece of nature is about to feel your wrath.

"Stop!" Shadowheart's voice cuts through your fury, sharp and commanding.

You freeze, your breath coming in ragged gasps. She steps between you and the offending tree, her dark eyes filled with concern. She places a hand on your arm, gently but firmly.

"Calm down," she says, her voice softer now, soothing and she raises her brows at you. "Starting a forest fire isn't going to help us on our travels and it's just going to annoy the two druids."

The fireball dissipates in your hand, and the anger that fueled it ebbs away, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. The tears come then, hot and bitter. You collapse to your knees, the weight of everything crashing down on you. Shadowheart kneels beside you, her arms encircling you, holding you close.

"It's alright," she whispers, her voice a balm to your wounded soul. "I'm here."

You sob into her shoulder, the days of pent-up frustration and exhaustion pouring out in a torrent. She holds you tight, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions.

"I'm so tired," you manage to say between sobs. "So tired of everything."

"I know," she says, her hand gently rubbing your back. "I know. But attacking nature won't help. You can always come to me. Let me share your burden."

Her words are like a lifeline, pulling you back from the brink. You cling to her, the warmth of her body grounding you. Slowly, your sobs subside, and you lift your head to look at her. Her face is filled with such tender concern that it makes your heart ache.

"Thank you," you say, your voice hoarse but sincere.

She smiles, a small, gentle curve of her lips. "Anytime, my love."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira

The past few days had been a relentless series of challenges, and your nerves were already frayed when you entered a small shop in Baldur's Gate. You were searching for a particular herb that Jaheira needed for her potions, a task that should have been simple. When the shopkeeper informed you that they were out of stock, it felt like the final straw. Your composure shattered, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes.

You tried to hold them back, but the weight of stress, exhaustion, and frustration was too much. You turned away from the shopkeeper, not wanting to make a scene, but the tears started to fall. Jaheira, who had been examining a display of potions nearby, noticed your distress immediately. She approached you with a quiet urgency, her eyes filled with concern.

"What's wrong, my heart?" she asked gently, her voice steady and soothing. You shook your head, unable to speak as the tears continued to flow.

"I… I can't do this anymore," you finally managed to say, your voice trembling. "Everything's just… too much."

Without another word, Jaheira wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a firm, comforting embrace. She didn't offer empty platitudes or try to tell you that everything would be fine. Instead, she simply held you, letting you cry against her shoulder. Her presence was solid and reassuring, a rock in the storm of your emotions.

"It's okay to let it out," she murmured, her hand gently stroking your hair. "You've been carrying a heavy burden. Let me share it with you."

You clung to her, feeling the warmth of her body and the strength of her support. Gradually, the tension in your muscles began to ease, and your sobs turned into quiet sniffles. Jaheira continued to hold you, her calm and steady presence providing a safe space for you to release your pent-up emotions.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice still shaky but filled with gratitude. "I needed that."

Jaheira pulled back slightly, cupping your face in her hands and wiping away your tears with her thumbs. "We all have moments like this," she said softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. We'll get through this together."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

The day had been a whirlwind of tasks and responsibilities, leaving you mentally and physically drained. When you finally returned to camp, you decided to prepare a simple meal for everyone. However, as you were carrying the pot of stew to the fire, you tripped over a loose stone and spilled the entire pot onto the ground. It was a small accident, but it was enough to push you over the edge.

You stood there, staring at the ruined meal, feeling a surge of frustration and despair. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you began to shake, overwhelmed by the stress and exhaustion that had been building up for days.

Gale, who had been organizing his spell components nearby, noticed your distress immediately. He rushed over, concern etched on his face.

"Hey, what's wrong, my beloved?" he asked gently, his voice filled with worry.

"It's just… everything," you said, your voice breaking as tears started to fall as you gestured to everything around you. "I can't handle it anymore. I'm so tired, and now this…"

Gale's expression softened, and he reached out to take your hand. "Come here," he said softly, guiding you to a nearby log to sit down. He knelt in front of you, still holding your hand, and looked into your eyes with a calm and steady gaze.

"Let's do some breathing exercises," he suggested. "It might help you feel a bit better. Just follow my lead."

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Gale began to breathe slowly and deeply, and you mimicked his actions. Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale. The rhythmic pattern of his breathing, combined with his presence, his love, it started to soothe your frayed nerves.

"Focus on your breath," Gale said gently. "Let the tension flow out with each exhale."

As you continued to breathe with him, you felt your body gradually begin to relax. The tears slowed, and the tight knot of anxiety in your chest started to loosen. Gale's hand remained steady in yours, a grounding force that helped you find your center.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice still shaky but calmer than before. "I love you."

"I love you too," Gale smiled, a warm and understanding expression on his face. "We all have moments when things become too much. It's okay to feel overwhelmed. But please, my love, do not suffer alone. It breaks my heart to see you shed tears like this."

"I'm sorry I-"

"-I do not need you to apologise," Gale whispered as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I just need you, no matter how you feel, okay?"

"Okay" You weakly smile and bury your head into his shoulder, your tears staining his robes but he couldn't care. He just held you and slowly everything seemed to be alright.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The day had been long and grueling, filled with minor inconveniences and stressful encounters that had worn down your patience. You found yourself in the middle of camp, trying to prepare a simple meal. As you were chopping vegetables, your knife slipped, and the entire bowl of carefully prepared ingredients tipped over, spilling onto the ground.

It was a minor accident, but it was the final straw. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you felt a wave of frustration and hopelessness wash over you. Your hands trembled as you stared at the mess on the ground, unable to hold back the sobs that were threatening to escape.

Astarion, who had been lounging nearby, noticed your distress immediately. He stood up and approached you, his eyes narrowing in concern. "What's wrong with you now?" he asked, his voice a mix of irritation and worry.

"I can't… I just can't do this anymore," you choked out between sobs. "Everything's going wrong, and I can't handle it."

Astarion's expression softened, but his way of comforting was unorthodox. He got you to your feet and held you by your shoulders and looked at you straight on.

"Get it together!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with urgency. He had never seen you like this and he was panicking as it was stirring unexpected emotions in him."If you keep crying like this, I might start crying too, and that would be a disaster, because I am not a pretty crier!"

Despite his harsh words, there was a hint of genuine concern in his eyes. You couldn't help but let out a weak laugh through your tears. His attempt at tough love was oddly endearing.

"Look, darling" Astarion said a bit less panicked now, "Life is a series of unfortunate events, especially for us. But you can't let every little thing break you. You're stronger than this."

He reached out and gently lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "And if you need to cry, fine. But don't think for a second that you're alone in this. We've all had our moments of weakness, even I - though it may be hard to believe"

You giggle and sniffled, wiping your tears away. Astarion's seemingly tough exterior was still present, but there was a warmth in his eyes that reassured you. "Thanks, my love."

He stood up and offered you his hand, pulling you to your feet. "Now, let's clean this up and make something edible. And try not to spill anything this time, alright?"

His playful tone lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but smile. He pulled you into a quick embrace and gave you a reassuring squeeze and kiss on the head before sending you on your way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

It had been one of those days where nothing seemed to go right. The constant stress and pressure had been building up, and when you finally returned to camp, you just wanted a moment of peace. As you unpacked your belongings, a small, cherished trinket slipped from your hands and shattered on the ground.

It was a minor inconvenience, but it was the last straw. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you felt a wave of despair wash over you. Your vision blurred as you tried to gather the broken pieces, your hands shaking uncontrollably.

Wyll, who had been tending to the campfire, noticed your distress immediately. He stood up and walked over to you, his expression filled with concern.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked softly, kneeling beside you.

"I can't… I just can't do this anymore," you choked out, your voice trembling. "Everything's going wrong, and I can't handle it."

Wyll's heart ached at the sight of your tears. He reached out and gently took your hands in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

"Shh, it's alright," he murmured, his voice soothing. "You're not alone. I'm here."

He pulled you into a gentle embrace, holding you close as you cried against his shoulder. His strong arms wrapped around you, providing a sense of safety and comfort that you desperately needed. He didn't say anything for a while, simply letting you release your pent-up emotions.

After a few moments, Wyll pulled back slightly and cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears. "Sometimes, it's the small things that push us over the edge," he said softly. "But you don't have to carry this burden alone. Let me help you."

His words and his unwavering support helped you find your footing again. You took a deep breath, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. "Thank you, Wyll," you whispered, your voice still shaky but filled with gratitude.

Wyll smiled warmly, his eyes filled with compassion. "Always," he replied. "Now, let's see if we can fix this, shall we?"

Together, you carefully gathered the broken pieces of your trinket. With Wyll's help, you managed to repair it, and the simple act of working together helped you regain your composure.

"See? Good as new!" Wyll smiled as he presented it to you, you took it with a small smile, nodding your head in thanks as you held it to you chest, the trinket becoming even more cherished now.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The potion fizzles and pops, releasing a pungent, acrid smoke. Your heart sinks as the mixture turns an unnatural shade of green, clearly ruined. It's a small thing, a simple potion gone wrong, but after days of pent-up frustration and exhaustion, it's the final straw. Your shoulders slump, and the tears you've been holding back for days finally spill over.

You drop the vial, not caring as it shatters on the floor. Halsin, who has been quietly reading in the corner, looks up, concern etching deep lines into his kind face. He rises and crosses the room in a few swift strides, his presence warm and comforting.

"Hey," he says softly, wrapping his strong arms around you. "It's okay. It's just a potion."

But it's not just a potion. It's everything. The endless challenges, the constant sense of impending doom, the weight of the world pressing down on you. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. He holds you tighter, his hand gently stroking your hair.

"It's alright," he murmurs. "Let it out. I'm here."

You feel the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and slowly, the storm inside you begins to calm. You pull back slightly to look at him, and to your surprise, you see tears glistening in his eyes. His lips tremble as he tries to hold them back, but he fails. He begins to cry, his tears mingling with yours.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice breaking. "I just hate seeing you like this."

The sight of Halsin, this strong, stoic druid, crying because you are crying, tugs at something deep inside you. A laugh bubbles up, surprising you. It's absurd and adorable, and somehow it breaks through the lingering sadness.

"You big softie," you say, wiping away his tears with your thumb.

He laughs too, a shaky, relieved sound, and pulls you into another hug. "I can't help it," he says. "I love you too much to see you in pain."

You cling to him, finding comfort in his warmth and his tears. The moment, though born from frustration and exhaustion, becomes tender and you can breathe easier now. Halsin kissed the top of your head and the two of you stay there for a while, basking in each other's presence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Rolan:

The day had been a series of small misfortunes, and the final blow came when you discovered that the shop you had been counting on didn't have the one item you desperately needed. It seemed like such a trivial thing, but in that moment, it felt like the weight of the world was crashing down on you. Tears pricked at your eyes, and you felt the overwhelming urge to scream in frustration.

Rolan, who had been browsing a nearby shelf, noticed your distress. His usual confident demeanor faltered as he saw the tears welling up in your eyes.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, a sob escaped, and you quickly covered your mouth, embarrassed by your outburst. Rolan's eyes widened, clearly panicked. He wasn't used to dealing with such emotional meltdowns. Bickering nd arguing he could deal with, this he was a lot less prepared for.

"Uh, okay, let's… let's figure this out," he stammered, awkwardly placing a hand on your shoulder.

The small gesture was enough to break the dam. You began to cry in earnest, the stress and worry of the past days pouring out in a torrent of tears. Rolan looked around, unsure of what to do, but his concern for you was evident.

"Hey, it's okay, beloved" he said, trying to sound reassuring despite his own uncertainty. "We'll figure this out. Just… let it out."

His awkward but sincere attempt to comfort you made you feel a bit better. You took a few deep breaths, trying to steady yourself. "I'm sorry," you managed to say between sobs. "It's just been so much, and this… this was the last straw."

Rolan's expression softened, and he squeezed your shoulder gently. "No need to apologize, dearest. We all have those days," he said, his voice a bit steadier now. "How about we take a break and sit down for a bit? We can figure things out from there."

He led you to a quieter corner of the shop, and you both sat down. Rolan fumbled for a moment before pulling out a handkerchief and offering it to you. "Here, use this," he said, his tone gentle.

You took the handkerchief and wiped your tears, feeling a bit more composed. "Thank you, Rolan. I just… I couldn't hold it in anymore."

Rolan nodded, his expression understanding. "It's okay. Sometimes, we just need to let it out. And I'm here for you, even if I'm not the best at this."

You couldn't help but smile at his honesty. "You're doing just fine," you said, grateful for his support.

Rolan relaxed a bit, relieved that he was able to help in some way. "Alright, then. Let's take a few more minutes, and when you're ready, we'll go find that item together."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you all enjoyed it! - Seluney xoxo

[aylish91]

New chapter incoming!!

Sea Of Hope Chapter 8

Previous Next SOH Master Grandmaster

This masterful piece of art was done by @aoi-kanna as a commission. They are truly talented and I appreciate all the hard work they put into making this for me. Go check them out, they are absolutely wonderful!!!

Story below or AO3 above.

~~~

While Axe checked you over, Edge grabbed Red by the back of the neck and stormed down the main hatch, loudly yelling at the rest of the crew to mind their own business as they scurried out of his way. For the most part, Red's protests went unheard as he was dragged down the steep steps. Blue, on the other hand, had hesitantly approached Papyrus, whispering something before they too turned and headed past the hatch, disappearing through a pair of doors into the upper levels of the ship. 

The clearing of a throat had you tensing and pressing closer to Axe. Black had once again gotten closer than you were comfortable with, standing only a couple paces away. “AS HEARTWARMING AS THIS IS, IT IS QUICKLY BECOMING LATE AND THE LADY STILL NEEDS ADEQUATE DRESS. MY BROTHER’S COAT IS HARDLY A FITTING SUBSTITUTE.”  

Rus chuckled beside him. However, when he made to comment, a look from Black had him looking down instead. 

Axe narrowed his sockets. “Don’t know where you’re planning on get’n somethin. Ain’t exactly swimmin in extras and you’ve refused to mend mine so I could give it to her.”  

Black scoffed. “YOU FAILED TO MENTION IT WAS FOR YOUR MARKED. YOU HAVE ALSO YET TO COMPLETE THE TASK I ASKED OF YOU. I DID NOT SEE THE POINT IN TURNING IN YOUR FAVOR WHEN MY OWN HAD BEEN UNMET.” 

“Been busy.” 

“AS WE’VE ALL.” 

Something shifted in the air, both of their eyelights brightening. Rus glared, moving closer to his brother. It took Crooks placing a hand on Axe’s shoulder for the two to back down. 

“Petty bastard.” 

“WHEN IT SUITS ME.” With a flourish of a hand and a half step back, he indicated the direction of the doors, continuing to meet Axe’s gaze. “NOW, I BELIEVE WE SHOULD ATTEMPT TO FIND SOMETHING MORE SUITABLE UNTIL NEXT WE MAKE PORT. SURELY YOU CAN AGREE IT WOULD BE IN EVERYONE’S BEST INTEREST.”  

“Fine, but we’re not leadin’.” You could hear the creak of Axe’s teeth. 

“OF COURSE.” With a tight turn, Black nodded, marching forward with Rus trailing behind with a wink. "AS YOU WISH." 

Axe refused to move at first, tugging his empty socket and prompting a sighing Crooks to nudge you both. "I Know You Don’t Like Him, But He Is Fair.” 

“Bastard never does anything fer free.” 

“And Yet, He Has A Point.”  

Neither you nor Axe was reassured but allowed him to guide you forward regardless. Crewmen brave enough to linger eyed your group with various degrees of emotion. When a dog monster growled, another was quick to slap the back of their head, nervously hunching at a glare from both of your skeleton friends. You tried not to show your fear or your growing limp as you passed, hoping Rus' long coat hid what you couldn’t. It didn't seem like a good idea to show weakness around others. The watchful eyes and aggressive postures spoke volumes to your already heightened nerves. Entering the ship did nothing to ease your discomfort.  

It felt cramped and pressing despite having more than enough space and light. Unlike the previous ship, several lanterns lit the expanse leaving no ominous shadows or darkened areas. You could easily see all the doors lining the walls as well as the beautifully carved and decorated windowed doors marking the end of the hall. Rus waited near the last door on the left.  

It was calm and warm, but you couldn’t shake off the feelings of danger. 

“Ya c’n go inside Darlin. Milord’s wait’n.” Rus stood to the side, motioning you inside the now open door. 

You looked to your companions. While Axe kept his eyelight on Rus, Crooks’ soft smile and nod gave you enough of a boost to cautiously cross the threshold. It smelled of lavender tinted with something you couldn’t quite place, the overall size relatively small. What looked like a narrow modified canopy bed connected to the wall was on your right. In front of you, under a single window, was a rather lovely desk intricately carved with polished knobs. To your immediate left was an open decorative chest shoved in the corner. Everything was of exquisite taste and quality, from the bedding and carvings on the furniture to the upholstery on the chair at the desk. The few trinkets left out were of fine gold or silver with glistening jewels. 

You jumped when the door closed behind you. Axe nor Crooks had made it inside. It had your stomach rolling with nerves. You did not anticipate having the others closed out. Having Black now between you and the only exit made it worse. His eyelights were too bright. 

Didn’t Rus call him a lord...? 

Your chest tightened at his approach, making sure to lower your gaze. 

“TRUE TO MY WORD, THAT HORROR’S GARMENT HAS BEEN MENDED. HAD I KNOWN IT WAS FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS, I NEVER WOULD HAVE HELD ONTO IT.” In his hands was a large linen shirt, neatly folded and dark in color. Holding it out, he offered it to you. “PUT IT ON. I WILL ADJUST IT AS NEEDED AFTER.” 

You froze, intently focusing on the simple article of cloth. Was he expecting you to do it here and now? In front of him? Wasn’t it bad enough you were laid bare in front of all those on the deck, or stars, when you pressed yourself against Blue? At least Axe had good reason to see you. Multiple! To willingly undress now in the presence of a man other than your husband...  

By the angel, what would Axe think of all this? 

Black must have noticed your silent panicked uncertainty when you didn’t immediately take it. Clearing his throat, something in his tone changed. “I SHALL, OF COURSE, REFRAIN FROM LOOKING WHILE YOU DO SO. YOU MAY LEAVE MY BROTHER’S COAT ON THE CHAIR WHEN YOU ARE READY.” 

It was hard not to squirm. While that was greatly appreciated, it still felt uncomfortable. Could you trust his word? You hardly knew the man. Perhaps things may have felt different if the room wasn’t quite so stifling or the door hadn’t been shut so suddenly. 

Luckily, heavy thumps in the hall distracted Black enough for him to hand you the garment himself, squinting at the door behind him. He was just about to speak again when another set of thumps sounded, this time shaking the door. Growling, he finally turned when the muffled voices following the noise got angrier. 

You really didn’t want to do this right now. Not here. Not with all the uncertainties surrounding you.  

Taking a slow breath in, you let it out. The sooner you changed, the sooner you could be rid of these unsettling feelings. With unsteady fingers twitching against the fabric as you took one last glance at Black’s back. 

One more breath. 

The sound of your rattling bones was louder without the security of the coat. Placing it on the chair, you did your best to quickly dress.  

The feeling of fabric against your bones was surprisingly comforting as you pulled it over your head. True to Axe’s size, the shirt almost went to your knees. It was so large the fabric pooled on your much smaller frame and reminded you of the nightgowns you used to wear back at the manor. 

If only it wasn’t so short. 

Though your more private areas were covered, it was not good for a lady to show so much… leg. You tugged at the hem, the sleeves threatening to engulf your hands.  

“I’m dressed, my lord.” 

A calculated breath was your only answer before his eyelights found you, fuzzy with a slight warble. You had to second guess if you had seen them correctly, for the next moment they were back to their bright and sharp orbs. Getting closer, they traveled over you as he hummed, the heel of his boots clicking as he circled. If you had hair, it would have stood on end at the subtle brush of his hand against your back. 

“AS I EXPECTED.” 

You startled, yelping when he came around to lightly grip your hips. Instinctively, your hands came to your chest from the forwardness, sockets wide. He paid no mind, eyelights intent on the bunched fabric. He only let go to pull a satin rope from his pocket. 

You squeaked again when he reached around you to wrap it around your waist. 

“MUCH BETTER. HOWEVER," His gloved hands touched your elbows, slowly moving up your arms to grasp your hands for inspection. “YOUR MAGIC. IT IS MUCH TOO THIN…” He turned them over. “Hmmmmm. Knowing Him…” 

Your chest clenched. He was close enough you could feel his ambient heat and wisps of breath. 

Before Black could say or do anything else, his door nearly burst off its hinges, a very aggravated Axe forcing it open. Black pulled you into him with a snarl, eyelights vanishing with the click of his teeth. Stuck in a headlock was a disgruntled Rus, resigned to the hold around his neck. 

You didn’t know if you could physically handle any more stress.  

“BY THE ANGEL, YOU WILL REPLACE THAT LOCK IF YOU HAVE BROKEN IT!” 

Axe’s voice was low, grin tight as he took in the scene. “Don’t appreciate the closed door, Black. Hell ya think yer doin’ in here?” 

Black placed you behind him, grumbling a growl. “AS I STATED EARLIER, I HAVE GIVEN HER SOMETHING TO ADEQUATELY COVER HERSELF UNTIL WE CAN PROCURE SOMETHING MORE FITTING.”  

Axe narrowed his sockets at Black’s squared shoulders. For a split second, you could see the red orb of his eyelight flick over the man in front of you before it focused on you.  

“Sure that's all ya were doin’?” 

The fabric of Black’s gloves creaked. “IF YOU MUST KNOW, I WAS INSPECTING HER MAGIC FLOW. I’M NO EXPERT, BUT EVEN I CAN TELL IT’S RUNNING LOW. A MORE IMPORTANT QUESTION WOULD BE, WHY HAVEN’T YOU—” 

“I’ve been doin’ exactly what I need ta be. Don’t need ta explain myself either.” Rus stumbled into the room when Axe unceremoniously released him to motion to you. “Now, if yer done?” 

With a snarl, Black pointed a finger. “NOW SEE HERE YOU–” 

Instinctually, you reached out, stopping just before Black’s arm. “My lord, I!” You faltered at his abrupt attention, pulling back to dip your head in respect. “I thank you for your kindness, but I should return to my lord husband before any more misunderstandings occur.” 

His eyelights stuttered. “I, I BEG YOUR PARDON?” 

There was a beat of awkward silence before Axe broke into heavy laughter, the loudest and deepest you’ve heard from him. It was enough to warm your cheeks as he beckoned you out and away from the room. Black gaped, slack-jawed and sputtering as you passed. You were already being guided onto the deck by the time he was able to call out one last time from his doorway. 

“AXE! YOU WILL… THAT… YOU WILL EXPLAIN YOURSELF!” 

Axe only laughed harder, closing the doors behind you. 

The sun had mostly set by the time you stepped out into the humid sea air. You would have done anything in the past to be able to look up, out, and around but Axe was swift in guiding you down the main hatch. You didn’t want to linger longer than necessary anyway. 

You didn’t have Rus’s coat to hide under. 

You were grateful for the darkness once you were under. The lanterns were farther spread, some empty of light altogether. It helped ease your mind against the wandering eyes. Most gathered under the brightest lamps, playing cards at makeshift tables, drinking, and socializing while others lounged in hammocks hanging interspersed between the canons. While some watched you pass, Axe was surprisingly good at slipping through the darkest areas to avoid the unwanted attention.  

The closer you got to the front of the ship, the fewer people there were until you came upon barrels and crates stacked near and around an area quartered off by familiar heavy sheets. You could even recognize the stack you and Blue had hidden next to, the sheet on that side still halfway pulled down. Axe was kind enough to hold the flap for you to enter. 

Finally, you were able to relax the tension out of your shoulders and pained joints. You wanted to climb back into the hammock and rest your aching pelvis, maybe snuggle against Axe and his warmth. The way he moved about though had you gingerly sitting on his stool, setting it upright from where it had been knocked over. 

You wondered when that had occurred. What happened after you had been taken? 

... 

A quiet curse had you looking back at Axe as he re-fastened the makeshift wall. There were a few more rips in it than you remembered. If he had any sewing supplies, you would have to mend them. It was the least you could do as thanks. 

You let out a slow breath, peering down at your clenched fists. They were cold and stiff on your lap. Black had been interested in them. The lot of them had been interested in general, but he had seemed so focused. 

Your voice was soft, hesitant as you summoned the courage to speak. “Axe? I have so many questions, but I’m afraid… I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask.” 

Axe chuckled. “Don’t gotta be afraid with me, Dove. It’s good ta ask questions around here. The more ya know the better, good or bad. Don’t let anyone tell ya otherwise.” 

You picked at the hem of the shirt, smoothing it down as much as you could. “Is that true?" Axe simply grunted. Collecting yourself, you forced yourself to ask the questions burning your mind. "What is a Banthos? What does it mean to be one? And what did Black mean when he said my magic was too thin? I don’t have magic. I’m not… I’m not even a monster.” 

It was hard not to flinch when, from your peripherals, you saw him stop. His voice had become more serious but thankfully still soft.  

“The hell yer not. Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been told, where ya come from, or what ya been through. But you’re as much of a monster as the rest of us. You’re made of magic and hope just like me.” He came over to place your hand in his scarred one, taking a knee to look directly into your sockets. “We’re the same. Dust and all. It don’t matter about anything else. As fer your magic,” he rubbed his face with a frustrated sigh, “let me worry about that. Just know ya got it and I’m gonna make damn sure ta get it where it needs ta be.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that, but it sent a comforting feeling to your chest. He was always so warm. It reminded you of your mother.  

Nodding, you were about to ask about your first question when footsteps interrupted you. Axe stood, moving between you and the flap.  

“AXE, IT IS GETTING LATE. I HAVE TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF PREPARING SANS’ ROOM FOR THE LITTLE MISS. I HOPE YOU HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN.”  

Axe only slightly relaxed at the sound of Papyrus’ voice, not moving but calling out to the other skeleton. “I can take her when we’re ready. Just got a few–” he bristled when Papyrus entered and smiled down at you, hand twitching at his side –“more things ta take care of.” 

“AND WHAT MIGHT THAT BE SO I MAY HELP?” When Axe only grumbled, Papyrus took it upon himself to continue. “WELL, WHILE YOU FIGURE THINGS OUT, I SHALL MAKE SURE TO GET HER SAFELY TO HER NEW LODGINGS.” 

You both tensed. “Papyrus. Paps. At least let things settle before ya drag er away. You saw Sans. I don’t trust him.” 

Papyrus looked a little sheepish at the accusation. “I UNDERSTAND YOUR CONCERN, BUT I HAVE FAITH THAT THIS WILL WORK. I MYSELF WILL KEEP AN EYE ON THINGS IF I MUST. He Means Well. NOT THAT, THAT IS AN EXCUSE FOR HIS TERRIBLE BEHAVIOR.” He came forward to place a hand on Axe’s shoulder, humble and pleading. “WON’T YOU AT LEAST TRUST ME?” 

You couldn’t place the look that crossed Axe’s face from the question, the red orb of his eyelight quaking until his free hand brushed the edges of his empty socket. “That’s cheat’n…” There was a heaviness to the silence.  

When Axe’s shoulders sagged, Papyrus gave him back his space. “All WILL BE WELL. I’M SURE OF IT.” 

You were uncertain as to what you needed to do, but before you could stand, Axe nudged you back down. With the reluctance of a stubborn cat, he then went about gathering items he had deemed yours, going so far as draping his favored blanket over your shoulders. When all was said and done, you were left with a surprisingly intricate box full of puzzles, Axe’s blanket, and an affectionate nuzzle to your neck.  

It was with a heavy heart and a glowing face that you eventually followed Papyrus back out into the darkness. 

You did your best to keep up with his long strides, missing Axe’s purposely slowed gait. You could feel the grinding strain on your pelvis and lower joints with each step. You focused on the clack of your feet to keep your mind off the aching. Papyrus was already several steps ahead of you when he got to the steps.  

Blessedly, he turned to wait for you. 

It was embarrassing how out of breath you had become from such a short distance, especially when you knew you didn’t technically need to breathe. You were even more so when Papyrus cocked his head to look you over with a contemplative hum. 

His smile was kind. “MY APOLOGIES MISS. I KNEW YOU WERE IN ROUGH SHAPE, BUT I HADN’T REALIZED…” He glanced up the steps. “PERHAPS IT WOULD BE BETTER FOR ME TO HELP.” 

Without so much as a warning, he picked you up and draped you across both of his arms. You almost dropped your box, squeaking in surprise as he ascended to the deck. Your mind and tongue had stopped working from the suddenness. Though Axe had carried you once before and had moved you a few times, you didn’t quite know what to think of this stranger picking you up so nonchalantly. It was as if it was the most normal thing in the world for him, smile just as polite and kind as before. 

With him carrying you, it took little time to cross the rest of the way back through the double doors and down to the end of the hall. Standing in front of the windowed doors, you were only jostled a little when he turned the knob. He used his boot to kick it open the rest of the way with a bang, making you flinch when the glass shook precariously. 

You thought you saw a flash of blue, but when you looked, there was nothing there but a railed raised platform with an extravagant-looking bed, windows lining the entirety of the back wall. 

You shuddered. It smelled overwhelmingly of snow and cold rain. 

Scrunching his nasal ridge, Papyrus walked around a heavy round table with a scattering of papers and a lantern. Stepping onto the platform, he carefully set you down, turning to furiously rip the blankets off the bed to ball and fling them across the room with a fwump. 

“FORGIVE MY IDIOT OF A BROTHER. I WILL BE HAVING A TALK WITH HIM ABOUT APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR LATER. FOR NOW, I’M AFRAID THIS WILL HAVE TO DO. AT LEAST THE BED IS EXCEPTIONALLY COMFORTABLE.” He put his hand down to pat the mattress. “IT IS A GIMBAL BED, MADE WITH LARGER MONSTERS IN MIND SO YOU WILL HAVE PLENTY OF SPACE AND WON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THE TIPPING OF THE SHIP.” 

When you didn’t move, he gently ushered you to sit before making his way to the windows. It was so dark now that the light from the lamp effectively turned them into mirrors. You were grateful, too afraid to look through them. To your relief, Papyrus closed the many curtains for each once. Once done, he gently took your box and stood at the end of the bed, bowing slightly from the waist. 

“I WOULD STAY TO HELP YOU SETTLE, BUT I UNFORTUNATELY HAVE OTHER DUTIES I NEED TO TAKE CARE OF AT THIS TIME. BUT DO NOT FEAR, I WILL MAKE SURE SOMEONE WILL BE BY IN THE MORNING TO BRING YOU SOME TEA AND BREAKFAST AND TO WELCOME YOU.” Walking away, he stopped to place your box on the table and extinguish the lantern. “SLEEP WELL MISS.”  

With a wave, he picked up the bundle of discarded blankets and walked out the door, closing it behind him. 

… 

It was frightening, alone in the dark.

Previous Next SOH Master Grandmaster