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lighthouseshepard · 8 months ago

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ahhh been too afraid to pm you but hi from a silent mutual!!

writing prompt: john and yorick chat while arthur sleeps :))

HI HELLO!! im also always too afraid to pm everyone! thank you so much for sending this in and so sorry it took me a while! been a very busy few days (:

"Is he fully asleep, my king?"

John groans in annoyance among the relative darkness he'd been sulking within. Ever since Arthur's eyes shut once he fell into an exhausted, heavy slumber nearly thirty minutes prior, he'd been reluctant to try and exercise what little muscle control he possessed to squint them open again. Manipulating those muscles usually woke him regardless of how careful he was, leaving him with a splitting headache neither of them could explain. And at the moment, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the hard won sleep, as fitful as it was.

Yes, he's asleep, he hisses impatiently. Yorick's voice came from somewhere to their left, still attached by the chain threaded around their waist. Arthur's right arm twitches, fingers scrabbling for some imaginary thing, before falling still.

"Excellent," says the skull. "Our master requires much rest after that entire ordeal."

Our master? John snorts. The subtle stirrings of a cool night's breeze brush against the skin of his left hand, welcome after the wet, stale air of the cave. He's your master, not mine.

"He is master to both of us!" Yorick exclaims, far too loudly. "Just as you are a king to him and myself. An inseparable pair, the dies irae, intertwined inexorably, dominion over one another and all else."

Jesus fucking Christ, John mutters, wishing he could wince. What does that even mean?

“Exactly as I said. Would you like me to repeat it?”

No, no. Can you quiet down? You're going to wake him.

“Certainly, my king.” His reply drops to a tone only slightly less loud than before.

And stop calling me that, he adds irritably. I'm not a king.

"You were once a king," Yorick states matter of fact, jaw clacking solidly as he speaks, a peculiarly troubling imitation of human life. "I do not see the issue with proclaiming this."

Once, he emphasizes. I'm not... I'm not that being any longer. I don't claim to be any kind of ruler anymore.

"Fair enough! What shall I call you if not a ruler, then?"

John, he grinds out, the last droplet of water among the barren desert of his patience threatening to dissolve. John is fine.

"Alright," Yorick says, sounding pleased. "King John, how may I serve you?"

John heaves a haggard sigh. Unbelievable, he groans, and attempts to turn his attention away for a brief, blissful second to collect what surely remained of his sanity.

The thing that called itself vanguard spoke incessantly. Within the caves, climbing out into rain-damp earth and sky, walking to find shelter for nightfall in the hopes of catching at least a few hours sleep - it had not stopped talking the entire way. John had half a mind to untangle Yorick from Arthur's belt when he wasn't paying attention and throw him as far as his eyes could see. He'd never liked the thought of the vanguard anyway, had never wanted Arthur to take the head, keep the tooth. Something about a creature which existed simultaneously in the Dreamlands, the Dark World and their own reality never sat well with him.

A hypocritical perspective, possibly, considering. Yet that similarity alone made him nervous, straddling a razor's cautious edge. He knew what he was capable of. Yorick remained a mystery.

They'd found an oak tree, its canopy stretching out far enough to provide cover from the last stray rain clouds rolling by, so long as Arthur kept curled at its trunk. He had fallen under almost immediately. One or two words exchanged between him and that damned skull, and he was out, John's name half formed on his lips in what sounded like the start of a question. It would likely be forgotten upon waking. Already Yorick was taking time meant for him.

Regardless, John knew him to be valuable, an asset they couldn't afford to get rid of. Certainly not now, with nothing to their names except the clothes Arthur wore and the bag he carried, no money, no food. If Yorick could be a wealth of information like he claimed, they'd have to put up with him a while longer.

And then John could toss him into a lake.

In the stretch of thankful silence, Yorick apparently finally listening to his demands, he reaches over and inspects what remained of the wound. Dried blood coated Arthur's wrinkled shirt close to his heart, stiffening the fabric. Laying his palm flat and hesitantly across his chest, John takes solace in the flighty pulse tangibly felt there. Not too long ago there was none at all.

Arthur murmurs something wordless under his touch. John retracts his hand quickly, mildly guilty at having potentially disturbed him.

“You dislike when he sleeps,” Yorick says. Despite his position by Arthur's hip, rolled sideways where he'd come to rest as they laid down on dry grass, his voice still seemed to come from somewhere else around them.

John waits a second for more to follow. Nothing comes - it's a statement, not an inquiry.

I don't dislike him sleeping, he huffs. He has to rest, obviously.

“Yet it troubles you regardless? The absence of him.”

I don't, John sputters out, struggling to keep his voice level. I'm not… lonely if that's what you're suggesting. Will you just shut up already? We're both going to wake him up at this rate.

“Our master is blind to the world in multiple senses of the word,” says Yorick. “Deep within a dream. He will not wake for some time.”

How do you know he's dreaming? he asks, perplexed. You can't… see into his mind, or-

“I know a great many things.” Another beat of silence, decorated by the cricket song in the surrounding brush shielding them from view. Again John waits for an explanation, growling agitatedly when none is forthcoming.

Such as? he prompts. What is he dreaming about?

“I do not know the specifics,” clacks Yorick. “Yet I'm aware of the turmoil of his thoughts. There is a string of piano keys tied like wire around his ankles, a bathtub overflowing, a yellow sun-”

Okay, I get the specifics! John mutters. So a nightmare, clearly.

“Precisely! Excellent conclusion, King John.”

He was starting to immediately regret accidentally adding John to that title. Is there a way we can help him, then?

As if on cue, subconsciously aware he was being discussed, Arthur lets out a low, pained breath of air. Instinctively John’s hand jolts to attention, fingers delicately skimming the wound like he would find answers or assistance there. His legs were twitching, again his arm reaching and then recoiling from something John couldn’t see or understand.

Nightmares were the only times he felt useful, whenever Arthur slept. Lingering in the corners of his mind, stuck between drifting into his own thoughts and keeping an active listen for anything that might hurt them while he was out - it wore him down in ways be couldn't explain. Yorick was right, even though John would rather revisit the Dark World than admit it. He did hate when Arthur had to sleep for the emptiness it left him with. Being able to wake him from a bad dream as soon as he caught the signs left him aware of a strange, disjointed sense of selfish pleasure. Even if it came at the risk of Arthur’s unhappiness, helping him out of a nightmare was one thing he could do consistently right.

“He will not wake until the nightmare is complete,” Yorick says nonchalantly. “He is too deep.”

Which will take how long?

“I know a great many things,” he says for the second time. “Yet this, I do not.”

Another whimper, softer than the last. John taps the side of his head, tugs at his shirt collar, goes so far as to flick his nose multiple times in a row, as hard as he could manage. Nothing caused him to stir. He could slap him, sure, but in this state he might break apart altogether.

Great. John heaves a sigh. So we just have to listen to this, then? Until he’s, what, done dreaming?

“That is correct. We could always pass the time discussing, my King.”

Discussing what? He snorts. The maggots we just crawled through? No thanks.

“Or,” Yorick adds, “you could always return your hand to his chest.”

What?

“Your hand,” he repeats, jaw clicking knowingly. “It is the one thing which calms the dreams. I’ve witnessed it many times before.”

You didn’t even have eyes, then, John says sardonically. What could you possibly have witnessed?

“I have no physical eyes now, but I can see you and the master. I was aware then, and in a way, I am aware now.”

In the shrouding blackness of Arthur’s slumber, John imagines the two points of white light where the prince’s eyes once rested staring sideways up at them, awash in tendrils of green smoke. Was this how Arthur felt all the time, kept in the dark, left to wonder how everyone was looking at him?

Carefully, he puts his hand back in the center of Arthur’s chest. Fingers splay out, one wooden pinky, the rest a thin collection of bruises and scars and broken, chipped nails. That fidgety pulse returns, a bird’s caught wing under his palm. The rhythm remains so for nearly a minute, stuttering and jumping to some melody John couldn’t follow along, and he’s about ready to give it up for nonsensical, stupid advice before he hears Arthur sigh.

It’s not the same troubled exhale as before. This one comes calmer, more even-keeled. As he focuses on his heartbeat he notices it begins to slow, calming bit by bit into a steady, softer pattern. Arthur’s movements drift to a halt. He shifts among the roots, mumbling something too quiet to comprehend, and eventually falls silent.

“He sleeps much like the dead in appearance,” Yorick states thoughtfully. “I believe the dream has come to a close, for now.”

Good, remarks John, at a loss for anything else to say. He wasn’t going to tell Yorick thank you; but it was tempting. The gentle rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing is a placid current, subtler than the new rain beginning to break through the clouds overhead in the night. He could plainly picture him, sprawled out uncomfortably, breeze touseling sweat damp hair, a downward curve in a mouth which always seemed to be frowning lately. Protected just enough beneath the oak, protected enough beneath John’s palm.

Well, at least one of us is content.

“I am much content, King John.”

That makes a total of two. Can you please shut the hell up now?

“If that is what you wish," the skull says amicably. "Then I will."

It is, John bites. Just thirty minutes of fucking silence. Please.

Yorick says nothing. Relief settles over him as the break distends. Minutes pass until he finally accepts his desire had been properly observed. Crickets sing around them once more.

Sleep well, he whispers, hand firmly over heart. Perhaps we can wait a little longer to get rid of him.

#malevolent #caspost #malevolent writing #is this a fic? i dont know #it was supposed to be 500 words but like #clearly i cant do drabbles i just can't #so it ended up uhhh #like 1.5k or more i think #ANYWAYS #yorick is challenging to do but fun!!#hope you like it (:#ellamenop #also how did i not realize you were the left arm #i fucking love that blog it has srsly made me laugh so hard as of late❤️#just so so good #going to tag as #malevolent 42 spoilers #just in case #malevolent fic

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camels-pen · 1 year ago

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I'm still thinking about vampire Usopp w/sanuso btw, just like

Sanji insisting Usopp come to him whenever he's hungry, for multiple reasons, but primarily bc he's the cook, it's his job to keep his cremates fed above everything else. And Usopp going along with it, asking for blood around the same times he used to ask for food. Thinking Sanji would tell him if he ever took too much.

Sanji, however, is a fool. A very kind, but large fool. He doesn't tell Usopp when he's taking too much or too frequently. In fact their whole arrangement barely lasts a few weeks before Sanji collapses in the middle of food prep.

Like, just the idea of the guy who gives and gives and, yeah it feels nice to give, but can't fathom the idea that there are others on the crew able to do the same. That he doesn't have to give until there's nothing left.

Idk just. Physical manifestation of his problems with accepting unconditional love without having to give anything to earn it. As in, the more he gives without bounds, the more he's literally killing himself.

And then. And then.

Usopp coming into the galley, ready to sheepishly ask for a snack, just like before this whole thing, and finding Sanji on the floor.

And he yells for Chopper before looking Sanji over. Coming to the realization that this was him- this was his fault. He took too much. Asked for too much. Asked too much of Sanji.

And he's just kicking himself the whole time, telling himself it was stupid to ever think Sanji- Sanji of all people- would ever deny him a chance to fill his belly.

He comes to the conclusion he can't ask Sanji for blood anymore. He can't ask anyone for blood anymore. He couldn't risk this happening again. To any of them.

After Sanji got a transfusion and isn't at risk of falling over anymore, he and Usopp begin an agonizing back and forth routine.

Sure, Sanji can't give blood for a while- doctor's orders- but there are some rather big fish in the aquarium, and Usopp has always loved the taste of fish. He drains the blood out of a few, stores the excess in the fridge, and offers a glass to Usopp to make up for the lunch portion he never got.

Usopp says something or other about grabbing a bite from a sea king earlier and waves him off. Sanji frowns but doesn't say anything.

And this same bit continues and continues and continues, until Sanji puts his foot down. Literally.

Kicks Usopp's ass to the galley. Has an infuriating conversation with him. Continues to try and get him to drink. Ends up coming to a conclusion that Usopp only liked drinking blood from the source. A passing thought making him consider that there was only one source- one person he'd drink from.

Usopp- tired and fuzzy and hungry, so so hungry- is trying his damnedest to keep Sanji satisfied with lies he doesn't have the energy to make believable. He's trying and trying but Sanji is bulldozing through each one, not taking no for an answer and-

Is it me? Sanji asks, his voice far, far too hopeful. Do you only want to drink from me?

And if Usopp wasn't tired- wasn't literally starving and finding it hard to keep his thoughts from slipping away- he would examine that voice. That tone. Run through his own daydreams with different words, different contexts, being implied with those words.

But he is tired. And he is starving. And he needs to get a grip before he wavers even more in his resolve.

And so, it's surprising yet all too expected when Usopp declares Sanji's blood as the nastiest thing he's ever tasted. Says he never wants to get within smelling distance anymore, it's that bad. Too late, he realizes his smelling distance, now, covers the entirety of the ship and then some.

Sanji stays silent. Usopp contemplates taking it back. He doesn't.

Casually, Sanji reaches over to his knife block. Despite his current status as a member of the undead, Usopp fears for his life. He wonders if Sanji was just as skilled with a knife as Zoro was with his swords and desperately hopes that's not the case. Aloud, he tries to calm Sanji down while subtly trying to put distance between them.

Without any warning, practically without sound, Sanji tilts his head and cuts a thin line near the juncture from his neck to his shoulder. And all of a sudden, Usopp's filled with another, far more terrifying, kind of fear.

It's just like Boin, Usopp, he thinks to himself, eyes glued to the spot where dark red beads of blood well up on pale skin. Just like Boin.

#one piece #vampire usopp #sanuso #sanji #usopp #nemotime #ye this is related to the other drabble thing i wrote #i dont have explanations for chopper uhhh #maybe they both got embarrassed about being found by the crew like that and just kept it a secret that they kept doing it #like sanji would assure chopper that he had pigs blood or smth for usopp but in reality. foolishness #ohhh chopper is So gonna let them have it though #Sanji: i always have juice and bread after-#Chopper: YOU CANT FIX EVERYTHING WITH JUICE AND BREAD!#luffy and brook fixing themselves up with milk is different bc they're. hmm. theyre something else #i took out the last bit bc i couldnt find a way to end it nice but Sanji wipes the blood on his finger and sticks it in Usopps mouth #and Usopp is trying so damn hard not to give in but his knees are very much shaking at this point

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