#i will take the time to flesh them out once i've wrapped up the many loose ends in eliane's story 🕺🪩💃

[meltypancake]

twins who joined separate houses. they can imitate one another perfectly, so they frequently switch places without anyone taking notice.

[subbmissivesuccubus]

I don't know if this kink has a name but I am just obsessed with super casual boob play lmao

Also!!?? Thank you guys for helping me reach 2K followers! It's so exciting and i've been having so much fun writing and reading the smut on this website. Here's to many more stories which hopefully give you the tingles <3

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"Alright, so that's the groceries we need for this week."

"Mmm."

"Oh, don't forget to buy flowers! It's my moms birthday tomorrow."

"Mmm."

"Are you even listening?" you asked, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at your boyfriend, the man simply staring at you.

"Mmm."

"Ok, so that's a no." you said, rolling your eyes before snapping your fingers in front of your boyfriends face, the man jumping and blinking a few times as he was brought back to reality.

"Can you pay attention now?" you asked sternly.

"Sorry. I was too busy staring at your tits." he said honestly, making you sigh. There he goes again with his very obvious boob obsession, your man having a clear fetish for your breasts.

"Well, if you continue to ignore me, you won't see my boobs for a week."

"Or, you flash them to me now, I promise I'll remember every single word you say."

"Oh my God."

"Come here, baby. Come here." he begged, hands reaching out to quickly grab you by the hips and drag you forward, his nails digging into the fabric of your skirt as he all but manhandled you onto his lap, smiling at you as he got your legs to straddle his waist.

"You're a degenerate." you snarled as you placed your hands on his shoulder, more than familiar with this particular song and dance.

"I'm your degenerate. And besides, this is your fault you know." he said, casually fisting the hem of your t-shirt before pulling it up, "If you didn't have such perfect titties, I wouldn't be like this!"

"So you weren't obsessed with boobs before you met me?" you questioned, allowing him to tug the t-shirt upto your chin, the man greedily looking at your bra covered breasts. Not having the patience to take the shirt off of you completely, he simply pulled it over your head so it looped around the back of your neck, your arms still in the sleeves but he didn't care as all he wanted was access to his favorite part of you.

"Of course not." he said confidently as he all but face planted into your cleavage, groaning in delight as he pushed his face in as deep as he could go, "I only got obsessed when you came into the picture."

You huffed, trying to fight the blood rushing to your face and between your legs as you fisted a hand through his hair, tugging at it a bit as you got his attention:

"Are you going to listen to me now?"

"Mmhmm." your boyfriend groaned, nodding a yes against your boobs, truly happy being surrounded by your plump flesh. Sighing, you once again told him what he needed to buy for groceries, allowing him to grope and kiss you wherever he wanted. His tongue ran over your skin, huffing and humming in response every time you asked him if he was listening.

He soon pushed your bra up as well, too eager to bother unhooking it as he placed it against your collarbone, the elastic of the band digging into your skin and making your tits look even more delicious than before. He opened his mouth and took a nipple in, closing his eyes as he started suckling gently, his arms wrapped around you and pulling you in closer.

"H-Hey..." you moaned, gripping his hair tighter as he suckled on you, "It's getting late. You need to leave before the stores close."

"Mmhmm. I know." he muttered against you, tongue coming out to flick at your nipples a few times before he moved to the other breast, giving her the same treatment, "Just- fuck- give me a minute."

You sighed, jumping as you felt his hands move down to your ass, taking greedy gropes of your butt as he lost himself in the sensation of your breast in his mouth.

Yeah, you were not getting your groceries today.

~~~~~

You slipped away from the group of friends in the living room to your bedroom, wanting to get your phone which had hopefully finished charging by now. As you were checking your phone and responding quickly to a few messages, you suddenly felt a hand on your waist that swiftly moved upwards and groped your right breast.

"Eh-hey!" you hissed softly, head snapping back towards your boyfriend, his touch so familiar that you instantly knew it was him, "Cut it out! We have guests!"

"I know but I just need one suck, ok?" he asked even as his other hand came up to start unbuttoning your shirt dress, "I'll be super quick, I promise."

"You- ah!" you squealed as he got the buttons undone enough to expose your bra, his fingers digging into the cup of the right side to pull it down, revealing your bare breast to the crisp air. He turned you around and quickly bent down and took the nipple into his mouth. Your head kept snapping between him sucking your nipple and the door, on edge as if anyone walks in, it would be very obvious.

Your man groaned as he suckled on your nipple, eyelashes tickling your skin as he closed his eyes. The sound of the TV and chattering was loud enough to thankfully drown out his groans, your boyfriend suckling you so hard it made your toes curl.

"Wh-you-" you hissed as his hand quickly pulled down the other cup of your bra and exposed your other breast, "You said only one!"

"I know but I can't not suck her too!" he protested, giving your left nipple a greedy lick, "she'll get jealous!"

"What the fuck are you talking abooouuttt!" you gasped as he suddenly took the nipple in and sucked on it as well, just as vigorously. You stood there for a few seconds, allowing your maniac of a boyfriend to suck and feel you up before he finally pulled away.

"Just what I needed. Thank you baby." he said, kindly helping you stuff your tits back into your bra and right your dress, giving your tits a final squeeze before he walked out of the room, leaving you a frustrated mess with your nipples tingling.

What a menace.

~~~~~

It was movie night, one of your favorite ways to spend time together. It was always a treat to just relax with your boyfriend, put on a random movie, eat popcorn and talk.

And of course, he also loved that he gets to play with your tits the whole time.

You huffed as your boyfriend pulled you onto his lap, his legs spread wide to accommodate you between them. Bowl of popcorn in hand, you munched away at the treat even as your man slid his hands up your shirt, aiming for your breasts.

"Ew, why are you wearing a bra?" he asked, clicking his tongue as his hands got in contact with the soft fabric.

"Sometimes I like having my boobs supported by something, ok? Fucking sue me."

"You don't need a bra to support your tits when you have my hands. I'm taking it off."

Before you could even protest, your man slid his hands to your back and unhooked the bra masterfully, practically an expert at it at this point. He was about to push the straps down your arms and pull the bra out from under your shirt but then he realized- why are you wearing a shirt? You might as well be topless as he was going to play with your boobs the whole time anyway.

So with your shirt and bra tossed onto the floor, you tried your best to focus on the movie playing on screen even as your boyfriend happily groped away at your tits. Ample flesh spilling out between his fingers, he squeezed you like a toy- like your tits were something he could use to alleviate stress. Occasionally, he'd flick his fingers over your nipples, working them up to stiff peaks before gently pinching them between his thumb and index finger. He'd place his hands underneath your breasts, cupping them before he bounced them up and down, loving the feeling of your heavy flesh landing on his palms, the ripple of your breasts on impact instantly making his cock hard.

And of course, as usual, once he was done playing with his hands (which was practically an hour long activity), he'll move onto his mouth. Your body automatically moved along with him as he lifted you up a bit higher onto his lap, looping an arm over his shoulder so he had the space to lean down and take a nipple into his mouth.

"Y-You're not even watching the movie, are you?"

"Mm-mmm" he responded, shaking his head no against your breast, his response making you shiver. You rolled your eyes and continued to watch the movie, failing at it even before he started sliding his hand into your pants.

~~~~~

Of course, your boob obsessed boyfriend can't sleep unless it's on said boobs.

"Take it offfff!" he whined, wrestling with you as he harshly tugged at your shirt.

"It's cold!" you protested as you tried to pull the fabric back down over you, "I'm going to freeze!"

"I'll keep you warm! You know the rules- no clothes in bed."

"You're wearing clothes!"

"Yes but I don't have a pair of delicious tits that are just begging to be suckled!"

"Oh my God- fine, how about this?" you asked, slapping his hand away from your shirt before you pulled up upto your chin, flashing him your bare boobs, "Just get in here and I get to keep the shirt on."

"...Why didn't you just say so?"

You grunted as you were tackled, pushed to lie down on the bed as your boyfriend landed on top of you, face first into your tits. You pulled your shirt over his head, covering the dopey smile on his face as he used his hands to push your tits against him, shaking his head from side to side as he motorboated you.

He thankfully still had some sense to pull the blanket over the two of you and you were able to dim the lights, whipping your phone out so you can get some screen time before you went to sleep. You felt wetness on your left nipple, your boyfriend finally done with shaking your fat tits in his face.

His tongue ran in circles over the hard bud, dragging it slowly as he knew he could take his time. He started flicking your bud harshly, his hot tongue making you shiver with each flick. Eventually, he sealed his lips around it, groaning happily as he started to suck. He was noisy- moaning like he was eating a delicious meal and the slobbering noises of him feasting on you making your ears ring, the pressure he used to suckle on you keeping you on your toes.

As he sucked on the left one, his hand came up to play with the right, toying with her as he got her ready to be sucked next. He rubbed the nipple around with his thumb before pinching it gently, giving her a few twists once in awhile. He was latched onto the same nipple for almost 30 minutes before he moved onto the next one, but not before dragging himself from underneath your shirt and pushing the fabric upto your chin.

Fuck it. You were falling asleep and now your body was running hot so you didn't really care.

"Baby... I want-" he gave your nipple a kiss before he snuggled his face into the fat of your breast before looking up at you, "I want to drink your milk. Make it for me."

"How many biology lessons did you fail for you to think that's possible?" you asked, your eyelids drooping and voice heavy.

"Why are you not pregnant yet? I cum in you like, everyday."

"...You know I'm still on birth control."

"I know but I'm confident I can defeat it."

"Mmkay, keep dreaming. Now shut up- i'm gonna sleep."

"...Stop taking your birth control."

"I'm not having a baby just so you can drink some breast milk."

"Of course not. We'll have a baby because we're in love and we'll be together forever!"

You opened one eye and looked down at him, letting him know you were not impressed.

"...And so I can drink your milk."

"Just keep sucking or sleep."

He pouted before he took your left nipple into his mouth.

~~~~~

Gojo Satoru, Haibara, Shanks, Sanji, Luffy, Ace, Kaeya, Kaveh, Childe, Cyno, Itto, Uzui, Sanemi, Eren, Jean etc. etc.

[itsbeeble]

Take My Soul, Take My Heart

SUMMARY: Seonghwa is a monster, this he knows. He is a monster, but he just can't help the obsession he has with love. You have taken his soul, staked your claim on his heart, and now he wants all of you

GENRE: smut, angst

PAIRING: pirate!Park Seonghwa x afab!reader

WC: 6,571

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn @flwoie

FIC TAGLIST: @sanaxo-o

18+ MDNI AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

WARNINGS: jesus christ yall im wishing you luck with this fic fr, lots of plot, violence (like a lot), many mentions of blood, weapons (knives, swords, guns), threats, swearing, alcohol, seonghwa is lowkey obsessed with love, Seonghwa and reader are both a bit psychotic, they kill a man (actually many men), bad depictions of pirates arrrrghhhhh, manipulation, murder, mentions of brothels, actually there are some scenes in a brothel so yeah, p in v sex, marking, oral (f and m receiving), poorly done dirty talk i fear, unprotected sex (please wrap it irl), this is actually kind of vile, mayhaps future hongjoong x reader but who knows, not edited so pls lmk if i forgot anything or if anything looks dumb as hell

A/N: HEYYYYYYY how y'all doinggggggg. thank you to @deobienthusiast for beta reading this IT TOOK ME SO LONG BUT RAAAHHHHHHH SHE HELPED MEEEEE. I've been wanting to do a pirate fic for so long but i never got around to it BUT HERE WE AREEEE PLEASE ENJOY AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKED IT PLSPLSPLS

Seonghwa learned a long time ago that love was nearly impossible with his life style. 

No matter his charms, no matter his will, no matter how he fucked, no one would stay. Not once they found out who he was, what he’s done. The crimes he’s committed are enough to sway those that he swore he would protect as he worshipped them under the light of the moon, above the swaying waves. Love, however, is nothing to him compared to the power he feels when on the ocean.

It was a choice hat he made a long time ago. A promise, really, that he made to Hongjoong the moment he’d stepped onto the wooden planks of the Blue Bird. He gave up the idea of love when he first drew a blade, when he felt the first drops of blood hit his skin and stain his clothing. The blood of men and women who threatened his crew, who threatened his lovers, who threatened him. He’d grown accustomed to the metallic stench, to the warmth of the red liquid against his skin. He practically bathed in it, relished in the feeling of it. 

Seonghwa doesn’t understand it, this feeling in his chest. This burning to be worshipped and loved. He cannot comprehend the longing, the desire in his stomach and in his heart. The longing that never leaves, lingering at the corner of his mind and at the tip of his tongue. Love is nothing compared to the power he feels with the weight of a blade in his hand, the metal of a gun at his hip. Love is a hindrance, love is nothing compared to the feeling of his weapon cutting through the air, through the flesh and bone of those who wrong him.

Seonghwa is soaked in blood still as he steps off the ship, his boots leaving wet footprints against the dock. Had the color of his clothing not been violently stained in the color, it could have been mistaken for the salty water that pushes and pulls against the rocky cliffs around him. A shoulder brushes against his, a hand pressing back against his chest to stop him in his tracks as Hongjoond looks up at him. That stern look is in his eye, one that the first mate had grown used to over the years.

“You know what we’re here for,” the captain’s voice is raspy. “Do us all a favor and don’t get distracted by any…side quests, if you will.”

Seonghwa’s tongue runs over his teeth, his shoulders rolling back and one of his hands coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. 

“When do I ever get distracted?” Hongjoong’s eyes are weary with travel, flicking from Seonghwa’s head down to his toes.

“Not what I meant, Hwa.”

“He means,” Wooyoung comes from behind the two, squeezing between them and throwing his arms around their shoulders. “Don’t fuck anyone. You know it never ends well for either party.” 

Seonghwa’s lip curls at the younger crew member’s words but he manages to hold his tongue. 

“Leave the man alone, Wooyoung.” San chides, pulling the cook back by the collar. “It’s not his fault he becomes blind when it comes to women.” Both men laugh, and Hongjoong folds his hands behind his back. 

“And this is funny to you two because…?” the captain’s eyebrow arches, his eyes glittering with a warning. 

“Well, I mean,” San stands a bit straighter. “Shouldn’t he know by now that ‘love’ doesn’t work with our lifestyle? Women find us, they fuck, take a bit of gold, and run off or try to kill us before the sun rises. Sometimes both at the same time. Love isn’t something that works with us. We’re blind to it, or it is blind to us.” 

Seonghwa pushes Wooyoung off his shoulder, his lips drawn into a thin line. Suddenly the bloody clothing that clings to his body burn like fire, uncomfortable and scratchy. 

“I have things to do,” he states with an eerie calmness. “I’ll be back by sundown.”

You take notice of the man the moment he steps into the tavern. Maybe it was his delicate features. Maybe it was the way the tavern went quiet with something similar to awe or fear or both. 

Or maybe it was the blood staining his clothing and dripping onto your freshly cleaned fucking floor.

You can barely hold your tongue as he approaches your counter, your jaw ticking and your eyes narrowed. His own, like that of a fox, are darting from person to person as if measuring how long it would take to strike them down. In a bar full of pirates, he is one of few that came alone. 

When his eyes land on you, he straightens his spine. I am powerful, I am a god, fear me. His body language is screaming the words, but you’re screaming right back.

One wrong fucking move and I’ll have your ass on the ground with a bullet between those pretty eyes before you can blink.

His lips twitch up into a smirk, yours deepen into a scowl.

“You got blood on my floor.” 

“I apologize.” 

“You don’t sound genuine.” 

He leans against the counter, eyes searching yours curiously. A glove-covered hand slides a gold coin toward you, your heart jolts. 

“I am sorry.”

“Apology accepted, gorgeous.” Your painted red lips curl into a delighted smile as you snatch up the coin before curious hands wandered a bit too close. “What can I get for you?”

“Mead, any will do.” His eyes seem to be searching you, sizing you up, and his tongue runs over his teeth. You do as he says, all too aware of his eyes watching you and staring you up and down. You weren’t a fool. You knew of your…features and what drew customers in. Men, women, you couldn’t care less so long as it got you what you wanted. Gold. Silver. Fuck, even copper would do sometimes. There was hardly a level you wouldn’t stoop to if it meant paying back your debt. 

You turn back to him, a mug of honey wine in one hand. He still watches you, curious and unashamedd of how how examines you. You let him, knowing deep down that you were doing precisely the same in order to ignore the man under your counter. 

“Anything else, gorgeous?” You lean forward, tongue dancing across your red lips. He watches the motion and smiles coyly. 

“Information.”

You kiss your teeth, arms folding on the counter as you watch him glance around the bar. “On?”

“A man going by the name of Socha.” 

Your body stills, fingers curling into tight fists. You feel eyes burning into your skull, and the gun barrel pressing into your hip grows tighter.

“I know of no one by that name.” 

The man searches your gaze, and you can’t find yourself wanting to look away. You want so desperately to scream out. He’s here, you want to tell him, there is a gun against my hip and a room filled with his crew all around you. Help me!

“Are you sure?” The man leans closer to you, tilting his head and bringing his lips close to your ear. “There’s a reward in it for you if you tell me where he is.”

“I know of no one by that name.” You repeat. “I would greatly appreciate it if you left my bar now, sir.”

He pulls back from you, pursing his lips briefly before returning to the malicious smirk. “If you change your mind, find Seonghwa on the Blue Bird.”

You don’t move a muscle until the door he entered through is shut. The tavern returns to its original volume, and the gun against your hip lowers. Your fists unfurl, and the gold coin hits the ground. 

Socha rises from beneath your counter, lips spread in a vile grin and a stench that makes you want to gag. 

“Maybe you’ll be useful after all, barkeep.” He leans in close to you, raising his gun to brush stray hair out of your face. Your throat tightens and your eyes squeeze shut, every muscle in your body screaming to run. “Loyalty isn’t something we take lightly on the Skylark.”

“I understand,” you choke out, praying to anyone who might listen that the gun leaves your temple. “Thank you for the…opportunity to prove my worth.”

Seonghwa doesn’t appreciate liars.

He also doesn’t appreciate the fact that the captain of the Skylark had decided to take an innocent woman hostage at his favorite bar in his favorite city. 

It was obvious what had been happening. Sure, it was typical for a port city to be filled to the brim with pirates, especially at the local taverns. What wasn’t typical was for the tavern to be filled to the brim with pirates wearing clothing the color of drying blood, a symbol that the Skylark crew had taken in the early days when Socha spilled blood across the ocean for miles and miles, his clothing stained so dark it looked black. 

He wasn’t stupid. He saw the fear sparking in your eyes the moment he said Socha’s name. Now it was time for him to wait for you to come to him. 

“You seem so sure that this barkeep will show her face.” Yeosang sits on the steps leading to the upper deck, twirling a curved blade between his fingers.

“She was terrified. Socha was there. Whether she wants to or not, she’ll be on this ship tonight with information we need.” 

Seonghwa leans against the railing, steadying himself against the waves that crash against the side of the ship. He’d changed out of the bloodstained clothing hours ago, washed the dried liquid off of his skin and let it run into the ocean. The sun is beginning to set, casting a golden light against his face that he soaks in with delight. The warmth of these last rays clings to him, and it’s when the sun has finally set below the horizon that he accepts that you will not be coming to the ship this night. 

“Maybe you need to do a bit more convincing than just giving a woman gold,” Yunho stomps up the stairs from the lower deck, a crate in his hands and a grin on his lips. “Maybe that’ll get you something in a brothel, but that was a woman working in a tavern. She knows better.”

“Shut up, Yunho.” Seonghwa spits out, whirling on his feet and stalking toward the gangway with burning ears and a boiling hot temper. 

He was pissed. He had truly believed that you’d show up. Was Socha still holding you in that tavern? Were you afraid of him? Were you afraid of what might happen if the captain found out? Were you loyal to the Skylark?

Seonghwa huffs, his hand finding the hilt of his sword again as he makes his way into the port city. It’s busier now that the sun is down, the streets crowded and filled with vendors of all sorts. Weaponsmiths, farmers, beggars, thieves. The streets became alive with everyone under the stars. It made it more difficult to maneuver quickly and quietly, but Seonghwa knew that he would only draw attention to himself if he moved any faster than he was. 

A delicate hand grabs his elbow and faster than the brothel worker could blink, there’s a dagger against her throat and her back is against the wall. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted with shock. Seonghwa drops the blade just as fast as he’d drawn it, his eyes lit with annoyance. 

“Care for a step inside?” Her tone, despite her previous shock, was sultry and enough to draw almost any many in. 

“I am not interested in what you have to offer.” Seonghwa begins to pull away, but her grip tightens. Her eyes are desperate now, and Seonghwa allows himself to pause.

“I believe you will be very interested to know that someone has paid good money to speak to you,” she speaks quickly, tugging at his arm to guide him to the door. “Please. Step inside. They will guide you to where you need to be.”

Against all that tells him to turn the other way and run, Seunghwa listens to the woman. She steps to the side, that seductive look plastered back onto her face as she guides him and other patrons into the building. 

The stench of sex is heavy in the air. It’s thick and nearly overwhelming his senses. Or, perhaps, it is the burning incense that overwhelms him. The smoke provides a haze, distracting him from the naked bodies all around him. Scattered across th4e ground, in chairs, on tables, in rooms that are only covered by a loose, sheer cloth overe the doorway. He avoids looking at anyone he can, but then his eyes find you. 

You’re tucked away in the corner farthest from him, your eyes watching his every move. His head tilts, tracing your body with his eyes. Nearly bare like the women around you, covered only by a shear cloth seemingly lined with gold. You tilt your head up, practically beckoning him toward you.

He follows you, putting up no fight against the primal urges inside of him that tell him to pin you against the wall and take you right there. 

His steps, careful and calculated, weave through the bodies on the floor, following you into the darkest corners of the brothel. You don’t let him get close, no matter how he chases you. It’s like a game to you, and you’re winning. Seonghwa lets it happen. 

“I’m sure you understand why I brought you here,” you murmur, your voice hardly louder than the sexual noises around you. A private room in the very back of the building and secured by a wooden door. “I had to speak to you where we could be…private, able to speak freely.” 

Seonghwa, for a long moment, doesn’t say a word. He watches the way your hips sway with every step, watches how you bend forward to light each candle. 

“You said you wanted information,” you speak again, coming to stand directly in front of him. Your breasts brush against his ribcage, your hands reaching for his. “I’m prepared to give you it.”

“In exchange for a quick fuck?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head at you. You only smirk.

“I had to bring you somewhere logical. Pirates love brothels almost as much as they love my bar. Besides, if anyone comes stomping in here, at least they’ll get a good show, won’t they?” 

You push Seonghwa towards the large fur-covered mattress with more force than he’d expected. He stumbles back, letting himself fall back until his spine meets fur. You’re quick to crawl over him, sheer fabric coming loose and allowing your breasts to come free. 

“Why are you looking for Socha?” You ask him, hips rolling down against his. Seonghwa stifles a groan, relishing in the feeling of your grinding hips and the way your nails digging into his chest. His hands grip the flesh of your thighs, squeezing tight enough to leave marks. 

“Why was he in your bar?” the pirate counters, eyes drooping in a lust filled haze. You click your tongue leaning down and nipping at the lobe of his ear. 

“I asked a question first.” Your lips trail kisses down his neck, a trail of red lipstick following you, and Seonghwa feels air brush against his chest as you undo the buttons of his shirt. “Answer me, gorgeous.”

“He has something of mine,” he says, annoyingly calm given the circumstances you have him in. “I want it back.”

You roll your hips down with more force, leaning back to admire his sculpted body. You shouldn’t be shocked. He’s a pirate after all. One with a gorgeous face, gorgeous body, and you’d be willing to bet his cock is equally as perfect. Your mouth waters at the thought, your body sliding back so you have easy access to his cock. 

“What does he have?”

Seonghwa sits up, leaning back on his hands as you work at his pants. A lazy smirk is plastered on his face, one that has your stomach churning and pussy dripping with need. 

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts. “My turn to ask a question.”

His hips lift as you start pulling his pants down, exposing his half-hard cock to your eyes in the dim candlelight. 

“Ask away, gorgeous.” Your hands inch forward, reaching for his cock in an act of near desperation. 

“Why was Socha and his crew in your bar?” Seonghwa watches as you wrap a hand around him, a breath of air hissing out of him as you stroke him gently up and down. Your eyes lock with his as you lean down to spit on his cock, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from losing his composure. 

You shrug at his question, letting a bit more spit drip from your mouth as you pump his now fully erect cock. “They wanted drinks, I suppose.”

“Bullshit and you know it.” Seonghwa grunts, letting his head roll back. You smirk, letting your free hand slip down to cup his balls. 

“Tell you what,” you dip your head down and place a kiss to his tip. “Let me please you, and if you aren’t satisfied I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“And if I’m satisfied?” He asks, reaching a hand to tangle his fingers in your hair.

“You take me with you out of this godforsaken city.” 

Seonghwa’s breath, for the first time, stills. He searches your eyes for something, anything to tell him what might be happening. 

“You…you want to come with…with me?” 

He’s confused. Why on Earth would someone like you want to come with him? “You have a life here. People who care about you, guaranteed safety. Why would you—”

“I have nothing here.” You spit out, leaning up to look him in the eyes. “I have misery and shame and misfortune. I do not care that I will not be safe with you.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Then we will make the choice later.” You kiss him gently, leaving him aching for more of you. “Let me satisfy your needs, Seonghwa.” Your hand pushes at his chest, urging him to lay back. 

“I don’t even know your name,” Seonghwa’s head hits a pillow, letting his gaze settle on the ceiling above him. 

“Do you need to?” He can feel your lips trailing down his chest, nipping at his skin and leaving marks he knows will not go away. 

“It would be nice to know who I’m speaking to.” Who I’m fucking.

“I suppose,” your lips touch his hip, right beside a trail of hair, and he can feel the way they curl into a grin. “You can call me Y/N.” 

Seonghwa can’t get a response out before your lips are wrapping around his cock. His fingers curl into the furs beneath him, fighting the urge to buck his hips into your mouth and force you to take as deep as you can. You could probably handle it, but he knows he needs to exercise restraint for himself if anything. 

Your nails dig into his thighs, leaving little red crescents in his golden skin as you take him. He can feel your throat constricting around his cock, trying desperately not to gag as his tip hits the back of your throat. Your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft as you pull yourself off of him, kitten licking the tip before taking him all the way back down again. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and Seonghwa can feel tears hitting his skin. Or, perhaps, it’s spit dripping out of the corners of your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him. 

Finally a pitiful groan is pulled from his lips. 

Deep and gravelly as if he’d been holding it in for far longer than his body wanted him to. Your eyes peer up at him, your tongue laving at his balls and your hand pumping up and down while your mouth is occupied. Seonghwa’s hips jolt, little drops of precum leaking from his tip in an endless stream. His back arches as your mouth returns to his aching cock, your pace fast and harsh as you swallow around him and suck as you pull back up, urging him to cum faster. 

His back arches off the bed, his jaw drop and hollow moans pouring from his lips. One of his hands finds your hair, holding you in place as he begins to piston his hips up. Your eyes widen, your hands flailing briefly to find purchase on something, anything to keep you somewhat upright. You’re gagging now, unable to help it as Seonghwa’s cock punches the back of your throat. 

You like it, though. You like how rough he is with you, the way he lets himself lose control and become blinded by his own pleasure. His hands yank at the strands of your hair, and a moan escapes you. The vibrations run down his cock, and suddenly Seonghwa’s hips stutter and thick, white hot liquid is spurting down your throat. You try pulling off of him, the liquid coming out too quickly for you to keep up with, but Seonghwa forces you back down, forces you to take all of it down his throat.

“That’s it,” he coos, breathless and mocking. “Take it all. Take everything I’m giving you.” The snide comments pull a whimper out of you, and you allow yourself to relax just enough to swallow all of his cum. 

When he finally releases you and allows you to pull off, there’s droplets of cum running down your chin. Your cheeks are burning, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and you’re pretty sure your hair is a knotted, uncontrollable mess. 

He’s smirking down at you. I am powerful, I am a god, fear me.

You raise yourself up, slotting your lips against his. You are powerful. I am not afraid of you.

“Are you satisfied, then?” You murmur, letting one hand come up to cup the back of his neck, the other slipping down to soothe the ache in your dripping pussy. Seonghwa kisses his teeth.

“You think my cock down your throat is enough to satisfy me, darling?” Your breath hitches at the vile nature of his words. It isn’t as if you hadn’t heard that before, however he says it so…condescendingly. As if you were a fool to assume that he would be done with you just yet. 

“Are you not…satisfied?” 

“I’ll make you a deal, darling,” The tip of a blade rests under your chin and your stomach churns, however it isn’t with fear. No…this is something else entirely. This is…lust? No…it burns too sweet to be lust. “Take me to Socha, kill him yourself, and fuck me in his bed while my captain kills the rest of his crew, and then I’ll be satisfied. Do we have a deal?”

“Will you let me come with you?” Your eyes gleam, and Seonghwa jerks your head up to kiss you. ‘Kiss’ being a very loose term. With his blade against your throat, he shoves his tongue into your mouth, and you push yours against him just as hard. Teeth clash, biting at each othe harshly in a motion that’ll leave you both bruised and bleeding. 

“I’ll let you come with me.” 

You weren’t expecting them to trust you. Hell, you half expected to be shot dead the moment you stepped onto the Blue Bird. Hongjoong stairs you down with curiosity and doubt in his gaze, but he says nothing as the crew argues over whether or not to trust you and your word. Or, rather, Seonghwa’s word. 

“You think we can trust her?” Mingi is eyeing you up and down, his lips curled into a sneer. “She’s a barkeep, she’ll say anything for some gold and a quick fuck.” 

You bare your teeth right back at him. “Is that not what a pirate is? Roaming the seas and sticking their cocks into the first hole they see and grabbing as much gold and ale as they can carry?” 

Mingi is far larger than you are, but you are not afraid. You cannot be afraid if you wish to be on this ship for the rest of your days. You cannot be afraid of the men Seonghwa sails with and commands. 

“And what of Seonghwa?” Jongho, the quiet one in the corner, chimes in. “Do we not trust him? Right hand of our captain, are you doubting that he has our best interest in his mind?”

“I think that he slept with the first person he saw and immediately became blind to reality.” Mingi snaps back. “How long before this one leaves you? How long before you decide you’re sick of her and throw her overboard?”

Your heart drops to your stomach and your head whips to look up at Seonghwa who has gone still beside you.

“What is he talking about, Seonghwa?” Your hand pulls from his, but he grabs it right back.

“He is speaking nonsense,” he snaps, eyes glaring at Mingi. “I know exactly what I am doing. I know who I can and cannot trust. She is loyal to us, not to anyone else.”

“And you got all that from having your cock down her—”

“Enough!” Hongjoong’s voice rises over the others. All it takes is that one word for all to go quiet, their gazes on him as he rises from his seat on the table. “Seonghwa is my right hand, if he says that this woman is to be trusted then she will be trusted by us!”

“But—” Mingi tries to argue but a pair of dagger-like eyes hone in on him. 

“Do you want to be on slop duty?” Mingi’s face goes green and the eyes are trained back on you. “And you— are you so certain that you want to join us?”

“I am certain, Captain,” you tell him, dipping your head into a nod. “I have never wanted anything more.”

“Then it’s settled,” Hongjoong declares. “We kill Socha at sunset tomorrow.”

There’s an odd sense of safety that you feel while you approach the Skylark. You can hear the chatter of the crew from the edge of the gangway, but you know that a crew of your own is watching and waiting for your signal. 

Your signal, of course, being Socha’s body being dumping into the harbor. 

“Hey! Look who it is!” 

A hand clamps down onto your shoulder and you grimace at the first mate’s disgusting smile. 

“Little miss barkeep came to pay us a visit!” The crew erupts into cheers, some calling for a drink and some calling for you to give them a show. Bile rises in your throat at the sounds they make. Suddenly the blade up your sleeve feels a lot lighter in your hand. “How can we help you, little miss?”

“I need to speak with Socha.” Your voice holds steady, thankfully. 

“Socha isn’t expecting you today.” The first mate clicks his tongue. “I’ll take a message.”

“This is urgent,” you argue. “I have information on the Blue Bird’s crew.” 

The first mate barks out a laugh, throwing his head back as he bellows. The crew joins him, and your cheeks begin to heat up. 

“You think we give a fuck about that measly little crew?” The first mate cries.

“What are those dumb fucks going to do to a crew of 80 men?” Someone across the deck cries. “We have ten to their one, they can try but they won’t fucking get past the gangway.”

“Now, now gentlemen.” A deeper, gravelly voice to your right grabs everyone’s attention. Socha leans against a railing closest to his cabin, lip curled at you in what looks like disguswt. “The little miss has information for us! We should hear her out.”

“Socha,” you breathe out andhe clicks his tongue. 

“I don’t believe we have rewarded you yet for your…loyalty, have we?” He’s five steps from you, almost close enough to stab him. His hand reaches for you, and you take it. Two steps, only a bit too far from the edge of the ship. 

“Can we…can we speak a bit more privately?” You look at him through your eyelashes, lips pushed out just a bit. “It’s a little loud out here.”

“Of course, little miss.” Socha’s hand on the small of your back makes you want to light someone on fire. It disgusts you, and the bile begins to rise in your stomach again as he guides you to his quarters. He lets you in first, keeping his eyes on your swaying hips the entire time.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you spin around to face him. 

He’s one step away.

The knife in your sleeves drops into your palm.

You raise your blade to strike him.

A gunshot.

Both of you go silent, your bodies going still. There’s something wet soaking your skirts, you stumble back. Your eyes raise to the man behind Socha.

The captain hits the ground, blood pooling around him. Blood stains your cheeks and your white shirt. 

There’s commotion outside the cabin. 

“I had it handled, Seonghwa.” Your eyes narrow, and your lover barks out a laugh.

“I know, darling. But he would have shot you the moment he saw that blade.” A body hits the door, wood beginning to splinter as Seonghwa takes the two steps he needs to reach you. Blood soaks the bottoms of his boots, but neither of you care. His hands come to cup your cheeks, blood smearing across your skin as he brushes over your cheekbones with his thumbs. 

“You did wonderfully, my love.” He murmurs, and you find yourself beaming. “I think, however, you still have part of your deal to hold up to.”

“His cabin is a bit far,” your lips are brushing his and you lift your head just a bit to try and kiss him but he tuts at you.

“A deal is a deal, my love. I will not be fucking you near a dead body.” His nose curls and he kicks Socha out of the way. 

“Fine. Have it your way, gorgeous.” 

You take his hand in your own, swinging the door of the captain’s quarters open to reveal the end of a blood bath. Hongjoong is watching from the upper deck as the other six members of his crew dump bodies into the harbor. You catch his eye as you move through the masses and down to Socha’s cabin and he gives you a small nod. 

You did well.

I know I did. You keep your head high, a proud smirk on your lips before you disappear with Seonghwa hot on your heels. 

Seonghwa’s lips are hot on your neck, his hands dancing over your body grabbing at everything they can. Airy moans pull from your lips, an addicting sound that has Seonghwa afraid that you may be a siren. He cannot get enough of you, cannot pull away even if he tried. 

In the center of the room, the two of you stand bare and ready for each other. A pile of clothes surrounds you, a bed behind you and a desk covered in papers in front of you. 

“You’re fucking addicting,” Seonghwa growls, grabbing at your hair and yanking your head back to bare your neck for him. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.” 

You can’t respond, hands shaking as they grab at Seonghwa just as harshly as he’d grabbed you. Your nails scratch down his chest, his back. Into his hips to try and force him closer to your body, but he keeps himself just out of your reach. 

“Mingi was right,” Seonghwa grunts as he spins you around, pinning you against the desk and throwing everything that was on it to the side to make way for you. He shoves you back, pinning your shoulders against it. “I became blind to reality the moment I saw you in that fucking tavern. Addicted to you the moment you spoke to me.”

His lips reattach to your skin, making their way down your throat, past the valley of your breasts and down to your navel. His hands grip the flesh your thighs, forcing your thighs apart to make way for him. You’re dripping for him, you can feel the liquid pooling at your center, dripping down your thighs and onto the desk below you. 

“Fuck, I will never go a day without looking at this pretty pussy.” 

Seonghwa’s hand rubs against your folds, spreading them and rubbing your slick around for a moment before pulling back.

Smack!

The sting is almost unbearable, your back arching as you wail and Seonghwa’s hand cracks down on your pussy once more. 

“So pretty for me, love when I get rough, hm?” You can barely hear him. Hell, you don’t think he can hear himself in this lust filled haze. “You’ve taken my soul, taken my heart from its confines. You have to pay for that, you know?” 

You whine when his lips touch your cunt for the first time. Soft at first, kitten licks and little kisses against your clit that quickly become harsh sucks and nips that have your back arching and legs thrashing over his shoulders. It’s easy for him to pin your body down, making heat growing in your stomach as he eats you like a man starved. His long tongue dips into you, digging in as far as it can go before Seonghwa drags it up to swirl around your clit, drawing figure-eights with the tip of it and making your body writhe before he repeats the process. 

A knot begins to form in the pit of your stomach, and you cry and beg for Seonghwa to please please please, faster, more more, god please. Fat tears roll down your cheeks as he focuses his attention on your puffy clit, digging his tongue into it and listening to the way you scream his name. Your back arches one final time before you’re coming undone beneath him, your body quivering and your hole clenching repeatedly. Your hands find purchase in his dark hair, yanking at the strands for some semblance of a grasp on reality. 

You don’t get long to recover before Seonghwa is flipping you over and pinning you down again, face down against the desk. You can practically smell your own cum, and you try to push yourself up just a little bit. 

“You’re not trying to get up, are you?” Seonghwa’s lips are right next to your ear. “You know what to say if you want me stop, darling.” His lips nip at your ear and you whine desperately, finally caving and letting your arms drop. “Good girl.”

His hands rub against the backs of your legs, massaging them gently before spreading them open once more. 

“You ready for me?” His hand traces along your dripping folds, waiting patiently for your response. 

“Please, Seonghwa,” you whine. “Please fuck me!” 

So he does. 

The stretch burns as he pushes in, but he’s quick to soothe you, kissing your shoulders and down your spine so, so gently compared to what you know he’s going to do to you. Your walls clamp down on him like a vice, trying desperately to push him out but pull him in at the same time. 

“So tight,” he groans, biting into your back as he finally sheathes himself inside of you completely, engulfed by the warmth of your walls and somewhat reluctant to pull out again. “Fuck, you feel so good around me, darling.”

“Hwa,” you moan out, hands clawing at the desk as you try to push back against him, trying to get him deeper inside of you. “Please, please move!” 

His hips begin moving before you can finish your statement. He sets a fast, brutal pace, each thrust punching the air out of you and leaving you wailing his name. You scramble to find purchase on the edges of the desk, holding tightly so as to not slide off. Seonghwa grabs at your shoulder with one hand, the other gripping your hip as he slams his hips against yours. His cock reaches places you never believe one could, brushing against a spot inside of you that has your vision going white with pleasure, your hiccuped moans becoming nearly silent screams. The knot inside of you draws tight again, and Seonghwa is practically throwing you over the edge as your body seizes up once more.

“Fuck,” he grunts out. “Cumming again already?”

“I— I can—can’t help it!” You hiccup. “Feel—feels so—so good!”

“Yeah, I bet it does,” Seonghwa grunts, letting his head fall back and his jaw fall open as your fluttering walls force him closer to the edge than he wants to be. “Fuck, don’t wanna cum yet but this pussy feels too good.”

His body folds over yours, one of his hands slipping down to find your clit. Cries of overstimulation pull from your lips, your body shaking as he continues to rail you into the desk. Seonghwa’s hips begin to stutter, and the moment he feels your walls flutter around his for the final time, he’s cumming. He breathing is ragged, quiet whines pulled from his lips as your pussy clenches around his cock. 

You can barely move as he pulls out of you, your body covering in sweat and cum. Seonghwa runs a hand over his face, catching his breath and brushing his hair back. 

“You alright?” He crouches near your face, tracing a finger along your cheekbone while you recover. “Here, let me help you.” 

Seonghwa is quick to lift you up, shushing you when you whine, and carries you over to a surprisingly luscious bed. He sits against the wall, your body curling into his as you both recover. The steady rocking of the waves against the ship seems to calm you, your breathing evening out until you’re fast asleep in his lap. 

He’s almost asleep himself until the door of the captain’s cabin swings open and Hongjoong barges in. 

The captain’s eyes fall to you briefly, and Seonghwa swears he can see his tongue running over his lip before Hongjoong’s eyes are back on the right hand. 

“We gotta get going, soldiers from the upper city are on their way down to find out why there’s bodies in the water.”

Your body stirs, eyes fluttering open quietly and Seonghwa grins. 

His heart and soul belongs to you now. You, the first and only one to not run from the monster he’d become. 

“And so it begins.” 

© itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[revasserium]

hi! I've been reading your opla!zoro stuff and I wanted to tell you your writing is so gorgeous! it's truly breathtaking, you're really talented ❤️ i've looked through your prompts tag, im not sure how requesting works, but could I ask for "edge of falling" or "the spaces between us" (whichever one you like the most) with zoro and fem!reader? i'm a goner for longing and feelings realization and the prompts give me those vibes, but i'm sure anything you write will be lovely <3

reqs are open!

the edge of falling

opla!zoro; 7,475 words; fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, passing mentions of: cult!, physical violence, & trauma/cult-programming, ex-cult member!reader, strawhat!reader, traumatized!reader, protective!zoro, healing from past trauma, learning to trust etc, angst with a happy ending!, a metric TON of plot

summary: "Lie to me," Time said to Love; Love smiled and said, "I promise, I'll never let you slip away."

a/n: thank u for the request anon!!! i uhm idk what happened with this fic tbh. there's def uh -- longing of SOME kind here??? welp. pls read the tw list! there's some dark-ish content in this. but i promise it ends well u__u

prelude: in which a fox teaches you to speak

Time is the greatest liar, so you are told, over and over and over. For the longest time, you think it’s the only truth you’ll ever know.

But we will live forever…

So long as you do the things you’re told. So long as you make the Fox happy. So long, so long, so long.

There is no way to mark the passage of time in the compound; with no sunlight to guide the way, you are left to other, more primal ways of keeping track — that elusive, silver-fish creature — time — always slipping through your fingers when want to hold on most.

You measure it in wounds, in the time it takes for a fresh wound to seal over, for the scab to break and reveal the soft, tender pink flesh beneath. You measure it in gulps of water, in bites of cold food, in the droplets of artificial rain that they let fall through the ceiling sometimes. You measure it in rewards too, in long baths and hot meals, in the evenings when the Fox would tell you stories in his low, lilting voice instead of leaving you in his seething silences.

And he is ever so good with stories. If you stay still and keep quiet, and let his voice wash over you like a hungry tide across a rain-starved beach, you can feel the words seeping into your bones, ringing out till they feel like nothing but god’s given truth.

As long as you’re good�� I promise I’ll make you live forever.

Like this, you learn the weapon of words, the power of speech, how to listen for lies, and how to tell them, and tell them, and tell them.

The Fox is good at lying; you’ll just have to learn to be better.

act i: yet another sad, desperate soul

Roronoa Zoro has never been a man of many words, but it would be remiss to say that he isn’t a man of his word — you see, when he does speak, he speaks with intention. And always, with conviction.

“Hey. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

This, then, is the first lie he tells you.

“Liar.” You spit out the word, drawing back, your body a tangle of livewire nerves, your eyes darting back and forth, an entire life’s worth of fight and flight caught on the hair-pin trigger of his breath as he jolts back slightly and blinks at you.

“Y-you — you can’t know that,” you say, your voice still ragged. But Zoro sees it for the attempt it is — an olive branch, however tentatively extended. And he takes it, wordlessly.

He nods once, reaching out to help you up. The compound crumbles around you, and you unconsciously wrap your arms around yourself, as if to hold yourself together, to keep from shattering into a hundred million tiny little shards of pain and mistrust.

“The fox-guy’s dead! But it looks like this whole island’s gonna blow!” Nami races out of the massive, temple-esque structure just as it starts to collapse from the inside out.

Luffy slingshots passed, cackling as Sanji and Usopp bring up the rear. On the Merry, Robin and Chopper are waiting, and the second Zoro manages to hoist you onto the main deck, the ship careens off into the dark tumult of waves.

You skitter away the minute Zoro’s arm slips from around your waist, and he turns to find you pressing yourself back against the railings, staring at them all with wide eyes, your expression caught halfway between fear and consternation. He takes half a step back, crossing his arms just as Luffy bounds forward with a bright, unassuming smile.

“Don’t worry! You’re safe now!” He makes to slap one of your shoulders but you duck out of the way, chewing on your bottom lip.

Robin clears her throat gently and offers you a smile, “We’re not going to hurt you.”

You narrow your eyes, your gaze darting between them like a trapped animal, but after another beat of stillness (punctuated only by Nami swearing softly to herself as she steers the Merry around a particularly difficult formation of rocks), your entire body seems to soften, and Zoro uncrosses his arms again, resting a hand casually on the hilt of his blades.

“Th-thank you…” you bob your head once, swallowing hard passed chapped lips and a raw throat. Your white linen dress is stained with blood and dirt, a tear at your collar making it slip from your shoulder.

“’S alright now, darlin’ — how bout we run you a nice, hot bath? I could cook you just about anything y’like. Fancy a drink as well? I think a bubbly would be good for a —”

“Lay off, cook.” Zoro cuts Sanji off with a scoff, barring Sanji’s approach with an arm in the gut.

You watch them with dark eyes, your expression curiously blank.

“Will you let me look at your wounds?” Chopper offers.

You jump a little at his voice, piping up from your left side. You glance at Zoro once before looking back at Chopper and nodding.

Sanji tucks his hands into his pockets and watches as Chopper leads you beneath the deck, Zoro following a few steps behind. He lights a cigarette as soon as the trap door clanks shut.

A beat of silence, and then —

“Wow, that island really, really sucked!” Luffy says, turning back to his crew.

Sanji lets out a puff of smoke as Usopp slumps down against the main mast with a groan.

“You can say that again.”

“What happened?” Robin asks.

Sanji sighs, shaking his head, “Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”

Below deck, Chopper dabs at your wounds with expert ease as you sit very still on the kitchen island and Zoro watches from the sofa, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“These surface wounds aren’t that bad but…” Chopper trails off, his eyes running over the network of old scars that mar your skin, layers and layers of them — down your arms and along your torso.

“It’s fine,” you say, your voice smooth as polished marble, “I’m —” you swallow, “I’m fine.”

And if it weren’t for the hiccup, the slight hitch in your breath, you would’ve been utterly convincing. Your expression is flat, your voice, even more so.

Across the room, Zoro makes disbelieving noise, “If it hurts, just say so. Chopper’ll fix it.”

“I’m… I’m fine,” you say again, tugging at the sleeve of your torn shift, your tone now a bit more honest, your words tired and resigned. Zoro looks to Chopper, who gives a faint nod of acquiescence before Zoro stands up and jerks his head towards the door.

“Cook’s right — you should wash up before dinner.”

You follow him down the hallway, through a small door that leads into a washroom that’s much cleaner than one might expect a ship’s bathroom to be. A large, wooden soaking tub sits in the middle of the room, and a clean change of clothes has already been laid out on a bench next to the bath.

Zoro grunts after he takes a once-over of the room, satisfied that all’s in order, and makes to leave.

You tug at his sleeve, head lowered.

“Can you…” you lick your lips, “can you stay?”

Zoro glances down at your fingers curled into his shirt sleeve before his eyes flick up to find your face. You’re looking at some indiscriminate point over his left shoulder, but your lips are trembling and your jaw is set.

He lets out a long breath, slowly twisting his body towards the room and you.

“Sure.”

He makes a show of turning around to face the door as you slip off your clothes and sink into the steaming bath water. A long exhale and the light slosh of water is all the indication he gets that it’s safe to turn back around.

He leans himself against the door, his swords propped on his shoulder, his head lolled back, his eyes closed.

He listens to the soft sounds of the water, to the faint splashes as you rub the grit and grime from your skin, inch by inch.

“We were only allowed to bathe as a reward for doing a good deed.”

Your voice makes him open his eyes, his gaze focusing in on the shape of you, nearly submerged in the bathtub, your hair slick and sticking to your pale shoulders. Even in this dim lighting, he can see the patterns your scars make against your skin. Water glimmers along the contours of your face as you run your palms along your cheeks, rubbing at them till they’re ruddy with color.

Zoro ticks his tongue against his teeth, “Quit bein’ so rough,” he moves forward without thinking, reaching out a hand to help you with some of the more stubborn pieces of dirt but he pauses, realizing how utterly still you’ve gone.

You stare at him for a long moment before relaxing back into the water and shifting towards the edge of the tub to allow him better access.

He runs a callused thumb along your cheekbones, wiping away the remaining dirt there.

“What was a ‘good deed’?” he asks, letting the tips of his fingers skim the warm water’s surface.

You shrug, “Mostly anything that made Mr. Fox happy… so all of us would —” you take another breath, your hand opening and closing beneath the surface of the still bath water, “we’d spend all our waking hours trying to think of something — anything — that’d please him. No matter how small… no matter how… terrible.”

“This Mr. Fox… what was his deal, anyway?”

You stare down into the dark water, now rapidly cooling from warm to lukewarm.

You take a deep breath, lifting a hand out of the water to distort the image of your ghostly reflection.

“He… was a liar. Except… he could make all his lies sound like the truth.”

“It was uncanny, really,” Sanji says, now at full throttle in the kitchen prepping for dinner service, Usopp lounging on sofa, his feet propped up on the hanging table.

Chopper and Robin both frown.

“What do you mean?” Robin asks.

“It was like… the guy could say anything and make it sound like the truth — even though you knew somewhere inside you that it can’t be real. Like — he could tell you the sky was green and every single part of you would believe him, even though you’re outside and starin’ up at the sky.”

“Yeah! Like he said I’d never be able to beat him and… for a second, I kinda almost believed him!” Luffy offers, munching on a bushel of apples and spitting out the seeds.

Robin’s brows furrow, tapping at her chin with a thin finger.

“It sounds like the Uso-Uso no Mi…”

“Ugh, what a weird, scary power…” Chopper shudders, shaking his head, his tiny hooved hands coming up to cup his cheeks, “I’m sure it’d mess with people’s heads!”

“It sure did. But he also used it to feed false information to the Marines,” Nami says, slipping through the half-opened door to join the rest of the crew on the sofa, “ran a series of taverns that just so happened to be situated in major Marine towns.”

Sanji glances up from a huge, steaming pan of paella, a cigarette caught between his teeth.

“So what was his end goal then? Just to fuck over the Marines?”

Back in the bathroom, you run your fingers along the edge of the tub as if playing an invisible piano.

“Power, domination… I don’t think he had a goal or purpose… I think… he just got off on it…”

Your voice is light, conversational, almost as if you were talking about the weather. But Zoro sees the glazed look in your eyes, the tightness at the edges of your lips.

“You called me a liar,” he says, reaching into the tub and flicking you lightly with a bit of water.

You blink, a smile threatening the corners of your mouth.

“Yeah… guess I did.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

He pulls out his hand and wipes it on a towel, leaning back to stare at you.

You shrug, “Sometimes… people lie to others, and sometimes, people lie to themselves. It’s the ones we tell ourselves that are always the most convincing.”

“I don’t lie. ‘Specially not to myself.”

You let out a tiny laugh, “But I guess… sometimes, if you believe in something hard enough… it’ll just start to be come the truth.”

There’s a note of… something in your voice that Zoro doesn’t like, but he can’t put a name to the feeling so he stays quiet as you continue the laborious work of scrubbing your skin clean, till all the water in the tub’s gone cold.

The rest of the evening passes as most evenings on the Merry do after a big fight — with a lot of food and even more booze. With music and laughter, and new crew member, sitting in the corner, watching mostly and smiling occasionally. No one pushes you, though Sanji does make a valiant effort in getting you to admit to your favorite foods, and Luffy tries two or three times to drag you into the more raucous celebrations (mostly involving way too much meat being roasted on a spike).

No one questions the way Zoro never wanders too far.

No one questions the way your eyes track him around the room, or how, even when Robin and Nami finally get a laugh out of you, you still instinctively searched for Zoro’s figure till you’ve found it in the other corner, a bottle caught between his lips, his eyes half-shut but his gaze caught on you like a fish to a seaman’s hook.

act ii: everything and nothing

A week passes, and then another. And you slowly, but surely, come out of your shell — it’s a strange sort of blossoming, the way you reveal yourself in shards and pieces, jagged and jarring. The shrapnel bits of your personality peaking out amidst the flotsam and jetsam of all your manifold defense mechanisms.

You’re a brilliant liar, but even better at spotting a lie, and it’s a thing that none of the crew had ever really thought about until you’d come along, casually poking holes in their daily deceits.

“Mm! These pancakes are perfect! Just the way I like them!”

“The new dress looks beautiful, Nami.”

“I absolutely did not finish the last bag of popcorn… Luffy did it!”

You clear your throat.

“Okay fine… the pancakes were really good but… but I like them… sweeter.”

“The dress is… well, everything looks gorgeous on you, of course, you know that Nami! But — the color… clashes just a tiny little bit with your… hair.”

“I might’ve uh… taken a few bites out of the popcorn bag… last night… but I was keeping watch and I needed to keep my energy up!”

Robin titters, a sphinx-like smile spreading across her lips.

“Apparently, 60% of people lie at least once every 10 minutes,” she says, casually taking a sip of orange juice as Zoro runs through his daily training regime, seemingly unbothered by the chaos currently taking place on the main deck regarding the “popcorn incident”.

“Dunno why people bother,” Zoro says, working through a set of single-armed burpees.

“I suppose it’s just human nature. We want other people to like us… so we say what we think they might want to hear, instead of what we really think. It’s harmless, mostly,” Robin remarks, leaning back against a white planter box, basking in the shade of the tangerine trees.

“Till it isn’t,” Zoro says, finishing up his workout and pushing himself up for a long stretch. He casts his eyes once more towards where you’re now laughing as Usopp tries to think of some new tall tale to tell.

It only takes you half a second to turn your head, and Zoro wonders at the kind of life you might’ve led to make you so sensitive to another person’s gaze. What must’ve happened to warrant this kind of alertness? But then again, he’d been a hunter long enough to know exactly what being hunted looks like.

He caught a glimpse of it at the compound but — still, his fingers itch toward his swords, his jaw clenches tight enough for Robin to cock her head and raise a brow.

“Yes… until it isn’t…” she echoes, her eyes also trailing towards you.

Zoro holds your gaze for a second before rolling his shoulders and looking away, squinting at the far horizon.

“Oi. Looks like trouble.”

Robin straightens, and a second later, Chopper sounds the alarm from the crow’s nest.

“Marines! Marines!”

There is the shink of swords being drawn, the gentle echo of Robin’s voice as her arms multiply. There’s canon fire and a lot of yelling. But at the end, there’s only bodies and blood and the tattered remains of the Marine’s ship, bobbing in the stained sea below them.

“Should we go after them?” Sanji asks, lighting up a cig, watching as the tiny emergency boat rows off into the distance.

“Nah. We’ll be alright!” Luffy says, wiping a hand across his nose.

Zoro turns towards you, sheathing his swords.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice immediately taking on an unctuous sheen that makes Zoro take a step closer.

“You hurt anywhere?” he runs an appraising eye down your form and nods in the knowledge that at least you don’t look hurt.

“No… I —” you chew down on your bottom lip, fingers digging into the bare flesh of your arms. But you back away from him the moment he tries to take a step forward.

“Hey — quit that,” he taps at your wrist with the hilt of his sword, the touch hard but not harsh, forcing you to pull away.

“It’s — I’m — I’m alright,” you say, insistent and mollifying. Zoro runs his thumb against the hilt of his blades and scoffs.

“Liar,” he says, tossing the word casually back at you in a way that makes your breath hitch. Then, he turns, and marches below decks to tend to his own wounds.

A deafening silence rings out around you as you stare down at the ships blood-drenched planks before Robin places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“C’mon now — lets get your back looked at.”

Below decks, you find Zoro dabbing gingerly at a large slash on his right arm.

“Here, you’ve missed a spot —” you reach out to take the iodine soaked cloth from Zoro’s hand, only to have him jerk away. You flinch back, wide-eyed.

Zoro softens, if only ever so slightly.

“I’m fine,” he says, a harsh edge to his voice as he goes back to trying to twist around himself enough to see the spot he’s missed. You purse your lips, watching him for a second, two seconds, three — before you glance back at the place Robin had been only to realize that she’d gone.

“May… I?” you reach out your hand, palm up, tentative and imploring. But you hold yourself still, waiting for Zoro to make the next move. And he does, eventually, sighing as he turns back around to drop the piece of cloth into your palm.

You reach forward as he turns to his side, offering up his arm as you slowly start to wipe away at the bits of dried blood caking his skin to reveal the raw, red gash, the angry, raised flesh around it. You lean forward, blowing slightly as you daub at the wound, making your way down his bicep till the entire cut’s been coated in iodine.

“There. All done.”

You lean back to toss the cloth into the sink but Zoro stops you. He catches your wrist in his good hand and with a slight tug, has you toppling forward towards his chest.

“Turn around.”

His voice is soft, but firm. And it leaves no room for protests as you stare at him for a long moment before sighing and resigning yourself to your fate. You turn to show him your back.

A disgruntled huff is all you get before you hear the distinct sounds of Zoro rummaging around the first aide kit for a fresh piece of cloth, and the pop of the iodine bottle opening again.

“Who did this?” he asks as he slowly reaches out to tug a thin spike from your skin, small as a needle and just as sharp. You bite back a wince.

“The porcupine guy…” your voice trails off as Zoro grunts.

“Right.”

He tugs out another spike; it tinks against the metal of the sink as he tosses it away. A brief sting, and then the cooling feeling of the iodine cloth.

After a few minutes of working in silence, Zoro sighs.

“Geez, he really got you bad, didn’t he?”

“Not really,” you say, and you feel Zoro’s hands pause.

“No?”

You shake your head, “I’ve… been through much worse… and lived to tell the tale so…”

Zoro doesn’t need to ask to know that you’re talking about your past on the island, inside that windowless compound. He can see it in the scars that mar nearly the entirety of your back, the criss-cross lines of what looks like knife-wounds, the occasional puckered marks that look suspiciously like burns. He steels himself then, and continues to work — plucking out a spike and cleaning out the wound.

“You were right,” he says, when he finally finishes cleaning up your back and you both straighten to face each other. He wipes his hands clean and winces slightly as he flexes his newly bandaged arm.

“Right about what?” your voice is innocent, but the flash in your eyes tells him that you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“That first day — I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t… make sure that no one ever hurt you again.”

His fingers curl into fists at his sides and you can see the muscle ticking in his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

You reach out, tracing a thumb along his jawline. When you pull back, there’s a small daub of blood on your finger and you wipe it away without breaking his gaze.

“No, you couldn’t but… you tried.”

Zoro scoffs, “Tryin’s not good enough.”

“No,” you jerk up to glare at him, your voice harsh in a way that he’s only ever heard right after they’d rescued you, the edges of your words raw and ragged as a serrated blade, “trying is everything.”

interlude: truth or dare

It gets better after that, and you grow and bloom and grow some more. Zoro does too, though in his own way — he gets stronger, gets faster, hits harder. And though you two never quite agree on anything, he is always by your side, and you’re somehow always by his.

“’M not even a lil drunk —”

“Liar~” you singsong, giggling as Zoro shakes his head, tipping the remains of a bottle of sake back down his throat before wiping at his lips with the back of his hand.

“Mm… ‘s that all I am to you? Just another guy who lies?” Zoro swings lazily on the hammock hung on the main deck, his eyes half-lidded and alight with the dancing firelight.

“Stupid question — drink,” you answer, bringing our own bottle up to your lips.

Zoro laughs, quiet and pleased as he reaches for a new bottle.

“Alright then — truth or dare?” he asks, uncorking the new bottle and reaching out to offer you some. You bat him away, your movements languid and heavy, your back pressed against a heavy wooden barrel, one leg propped up to support your arm, the other stretched out long and lithe in front of you.

“Truth,” you say, your voice easy, your smile even more so.

“Alright then — do you trust me?” Zoro’s voice dips, and your eyes flash up. There’s a sobering light somewhere behind the alcohol soaked haze clouding his gaze and you can tell by the steadiness of his hands that he’s not nearly as drunk as he might seem.

“What do you mean?” you ask, casually evading the question.

Zoro tuts, “’S not an answer.”

“I’m asking for a clarification.”

Zoro shakes his head, taking another soft swig, “Simple question — do you trust me?”

You purse your lips, mulling over the myriad answers you could provide and make it sound like the truth. But that’s not really how the game goes. So instead, you take a deep breath.

“I — I want to,” and it’s the way your voice breaks that makes it honest, the way you can’t hold the truth in by the seams of your careful cadence, no matter how hard you try to smooth out the ragged edges.

“So… that’s a no,” Zoro says, keeping his tone even. You can’t help reaching for him — imploring.

“Not yet but —”

“Why?”

“Why… what?”

“I guess…” Zoro leans back, casting his eyes up at the wild, dark sky, careening above the ship in an ecstatic spread of stars and, long sinuous, moon-silvered clouds, “why d’you want to trust me? Doesn’t seem like something you’d be eager to do after… y’know, everything.”

You lick your lips and stare into the empty bottom of your glass.

“Honestly?” you say, “because you’re kind of a shit liar —”

Zoro lets out a soft, rumbling laugh, but doesn’t deny it.

“But… also because you’re the only person I’ve met who… who treats words so carefully — I mean…” you swallow, leaning forward slightly as Zoro drops his gaze back down to you, “it’s like — my whole life has just been people saying things they don’t really mean, and never meaning what they say, and then trying to figure out what’s really happening — trying to say the right thing, not the thing you mean but the thing you think they’d want to hear —” your breath quickens, “and — and if you don’t or if you’re bad at it, then bad things happen to you and the people you care about —”

“Hey.”

A hand presses down on your shoulder and you gasp, your breath knifing through your chest as you clasp your shaking hands to your sternum.

“Breathe. You’re okay.”

You nod, unable to say anything as Zoro sits in front of you, his hand like an anchor in a summer storm, keeping you tethered.

You breathe and take stock of your limbs — feet, legs, hands, arms. It’s then that you realize Zoro’s crouching in front of you, your drink glass resting by his side.

“Thanks,” you say, nodding as he gives your shoulder a slight squeeze before pulling away. Physical touch has never been one of your strong points, and it seems Zoro’s learned that without you ever having to tell him.

It’s strange — the sudden knowledge that somehow, his understanding of you has been wordless and implicit. Complete, from nearly the day the Straw Hats had picked you up on that island. You’d never had to explain, never had to draw your boundaries.

And yet somehow, he knew. As if he’d always just known.

“Truth or dare?” you ask him, your voice barely a whisper, shifting to make more space for him on the dark deck of the ship’s forecastle. Zoro sits down in front of you, crossing his legs.

“Dare.”

You don’t fight the grin as it lifts the side of your lips.

The quiet pulses between the pair of you like a heartbeat.

“Tell me a secret.”

“Gotta be more specific,” Zoro’s grin lilts to mirror your own.

“Any secret,” you say, “something you… something you wouldn’t otherwise say out loud.”

“Isn’t that what a secret’s supposed to be? Something you don’t say?”

You laugh, tasting the sound like a mouthful of champagne, bubbling up through you and spiraling towards the endless summer’s night.

“Quit stalling!”

“Think I wanna kiss you.”

A gasp slices through the air between you. You feel the weight of it in your throat, the white-hot flicker of his gaze as he glances down at your lips. You wet them without thinking, and as Zoro lean’s in, you can sense the night around you slowly coalescing into something warm, something solid. Like a marble clutched in a child’s palm, or a pearl held on an oyster’s velvet tongue.

“Truth or dare?” he asks.

He stops just short of your lips, his nose almost grazing yours. You can nearly taste the sweet sake on his breath —

“Dare.”

“Close your eyes.”

Your lashes flutter and for a second, an eternity revolves in the space between your heartbeats. Faintly, you register the gentle rocking of the ship as an indolent wave catches her starboard side.

You close your eyes.

For a second, there is space. For a second, there is breath. For a second, there is gravity. And then — all of that disappears. All of it eclipsed by the kiss. And then, the kiss is all there is.

All there was, and ever will be.

There’s a graze of fingers against skin, the bump of legs against legs against thighs against knees — there’s knuckles and noses and hair falling, hair being tugged into closing fists. There’s the clink-clink-clink of earrings, and the clatter-clap-clat of swords and hilts and rough, wooden planks.

There’s the dull thunk and baseline rumble of a glass being knocked over and rolling away.

But all of that is afterthought. All of that is supplement, a postscript, marginalia and footnotes.

Because there, then — there is only the kiss, and nothing but the kiss: a catastrophe of inevitability, smooth as a secret, and whisper-sweet.

When the pair of you pull away, there’s a chaos of wings against your ribcage.

There’s the honeyed, lambent light in Zoro’s eyes as he grins down at you.

“Truth — or dare,” a breathless gasp punctuates your words.

Zoro’s grin only grows as he tips your chin back between his thumb and forefinger.

“Dare.”

It’s only then that you realize his cheeks are wine-flushed, his chest rising and falling nearly as fast as yours. You swallow slow and track his eyes as he watches the pale bob of your throat.

“Kiss me again.”

act iii: fool’s gold

It takes all of three hours for Sanji to get something out of Zoro, and three days before Robin and Nami manage to wheedle something out of you.

“No seriously! Things have been different since that one party we had —” Nami presses her palm to the kitchen table, here eyes wide. Robin sits on the couch, her expression one of mixed amusement and near academic interest.

“Different how?” you reach into the cookie jar and fish out a crumbled corner of what used to be a double chocolate chip cookie.

“Ugh! You know what I mean!” Nami turns to Robin, motioning towards you, “Help me here!”

Robin laughs, tossing up a graceful hand, “I suppose something does seem… changed.”

“Something?” you ask, licking at a smudge of chocolate on your thumb.

“Well…” Robin says, drawing out the syllable and making to examine the nails on her long, thin fingers, “it’s definitely not nothing.”

You allow yourself a smile, “Something’s definitely not nothing.”

Nami lets out a frustrated groan, but she’s smiling too.

It’s been long enough that you’d learned to relax around them, and you’d since also learned that nothing is so sacred as the sanctity of sisterhood. That bonds between friends might be forged in fire and brimstone, but bonds between women are forged in cinder and smoke — in the wreckage of after, when the fighting’s been done and all that’s left is the mending.

“What’s all this giggling about?” Zoro ducks into the half-ajar door, staring at the three of you.

Nami cocks an eyebrow; Robin shrugs.

You, for your part, smile and bat your lashes.

“Oh nothing,” you say.

“Just girl-talk,” offers Nami.

“Nothing to interest a legendary swordsman like yourself,” Robin polishes off.

Zoro’s eyes narrow, his gaze jumping between the three of you before it lands on you and he scoffs.

“Yeah, whatever. We’re docking soon.”

And that’s all he offers before sauntering back out of the room, leaving the door swinging behind him, but not before you catch sight of the redness at the tips of his ears as he hurries away.

You give it a beat of three seconds before pushing to your feet and following after, humming to yourself. Behind you, Nami and Robin share a knowing look.

“Definitely not nothing,” Robin says as she stands to follow you.

The island, if it can even be called that, is nothing more than a rough conglomeration of steep cliffs strapped together by a thin band of land barely wide enough to be categorized as a beach.

“Well! This is something!” Luffy declares, his arms akimbo on his hips as he stares at the island.

“Yeah… it’s uh… something for sure,” Usopp agrees, making a face as he squints at the cluster of rocks that look more like the jagged edges of a broken bottle than any kind of proper land formation.

“We’ll just anchor here for the night… get some good rest, and then...” Sanji’s words trail off, interrupted by a ghostly wail that rises from the gathering of dark cliffs, turning them into an echo chamber until it seems to rumble through the sand beneath them.

“… gold, all gold! — no, not a liar — please!”

A shiver etches itself up your spine and instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself.

Zoro steps out in front of you, as if to shield you from whatever might come. His thumb presses against the hilt of his swords, his shoulders tense as corded wire.

“Uh… everyone else heard that too, right?” Chopper asks, peaking out from around Robin’s legs.

“Yep. Definitely not just you,” Sanji confirms.

Luffy grins, “Seems like there’s someone else on this island! Maybe they can show us around!”

Time passes by strangely on the island — one minute, the sun is still hanging low on the far horizon, and the next, the sky is the color of a bullet wound, darkness seeping in around the horizon.

“Whoever’s here on the island — they sure aren’t making it — easy —” Sanji grunts as he hoists himself up a slippery piece of rock face, sweat glistening on his forehead as he squints into the looming blackness.

“Luffy? You sure you know where we’re going?” Nami shouts, her voice ringing back in a way that makes everyone wince and cover their ears.

Zoro grabs your elbow a second before you slip, fingers digging into your flesh even as you steady yourself against him.

“Sorry — thanks,” you say, unsure of which one you really mean.

“Yeah! I can smell something — like a campfire! And… cooking!” Luffy’s voice calls back from somewhere in the gathering dark. Everyone shares a glance before bracing themselves and trudging on.

By the time you all catch up to Luffy, no one is certain of what time it is, only that it’s dark. But the kind of darkness that seems to cling to the skin — a darkness so dense it starts to take on shape and weight.

It presses in around you and you feel your breaths shortening in your chest.

Beside you, Zoro reaches out to brace a hand at the small of your back.

“Oh! I see a light ahead! C’mon!” Luffy’s voice rings out from somewhere up ahead, followed by the patter of sandals on stone. The rest of you follow, and then all too suddenly, light flickers to life in what seems to be a huge, subterranean cave deep within the cliffs of the island. It casts stark shadows against the slick, cavernous walls.

You frown, goosebumps rising along your arms and legs.

But before you have time to dwell on the wrongness of something there, Luffy’s voice snags your attention like a thread on an errant splinter.

“Hi! Oh, wow — that looks delicious!”

You turn a corner to find Luffy hunkering down over a blazing campfire and the silhouette of someone sitting opposite him, a sharp spike held out in front of them, turning slowly over the flickering flames.

“Oh… please… come join me — sit and listen to a story — I have so many stories — so many adventures to share!” the figure across the fire seems to quiver with the dancing flames, his voice filling up the whole of the cave, loud and boisterous and eager. But strange and hollow too.

You frown, chewing on the insides of your cheeks.

Ahead of you, Usopp and Chopper both take tentative seats next to Luffy, who had cheerfully plopped down next to the fire.

“Wow, this looks great! Are you here by yourself? I’m here with my crew! Are you a pirate too?” Luffy asks, his endless enthusiasm pouring from him like a spring.

Robin, Nami, and Sanji all hold back, but you take a step forward, and then another. Something compelling you towards the voice, pulling you closer. There’s a desperation, a loneliness with which you’re all too familiar — you inch closer, and then closer, till you’re almost level with Luffy, and you lower yourself to the ground next to him, Zoro dropping down beside you, his knee pressing against your leg in a silent reassurance.

“Come… come closer! It’s a good story — I promise!”

“Truth,” you mutter, just beneath your breath. Beside you, Zoro lets out a puff of breath, though his stance doesn’t loosen.

Behind you, you can hear the distinct sounds of the rest of the crew drawing just a step closer.

“Once upon a time… there was a city on an island where everything, and I mean everything was made of gold!”

The figure across the fire sounds cheered, elated even. Behind you, you feel Nami take half a step closer. Cold seeps into your veins despite the warm, dancing flames, and your fingers dig into the hard packed earth beneath you.

“I found it — I did! With my crew — the best sailors and seamen around! But the king… he was greedy! And he wanted his own men to take the treasures, so he forced me to lead them to the city again —”

“Truth,” you say again, but something in the tone of the figure’s voice makes you frown.

“Except… the city had gone… and there was nothing left… nothing but lies!”

You shudder back, swallowing hard. All around you, the darkness presses in with long, thin tendrils like so many loving fingers. The fire flares up, casting sparks up towards the cave’s ceiling, where stalagmites hang like broken teeth in a petrified monster’s maw.

“Oh… don’t be scared… come back — I won’t hurt you —”

“Liar!” you spit, the word scraping its way out of your throat.

Zoro leaps to his feet just as Luffy does the same. The fire flares again, a second before snuffing itself out, but in that second, you finally catch sight of the figure, hooded in shadow, sitting across from you — it has the shape of a man, tall and broad, but the limbs of a spindle-legged monster. It wears the darkness like a cloak, with beady, red eyes and a too-wide mouth.

“Don’t! Call me a liar! That’s what they called me — that’s what they called when they killed me! KILLED ME FOR TELLING THE TRUTH!”

You scramble back, Zoro nearly lifting you off the ground in his haste to pull you away. Luffy whips back his arm and swings it forward but all it catches is tendrils of shadow.

“Hey! That’s not nice!” he shakes off his fist, frowning as he stares at the bits of wriggling darkness still clinging to his skin.

“Run!” you shout as everyone bolts for the lightless path you all took to get to the heart of the cave.

“NOT A LIAR! NOT A LIAR! I FOUND IT! THE CITY! BELIEVE ME! BELIEVE ME!”

You clap your hands around your ears and race for what you hope is the exit. Behind you, you can hear the distinct sounds of Zoro’s blades whistling through the air*.*

“Damnit! How’dyou fight a shadow? There’s nothin’ to hit!”

“Quit tryna hit it and just run!” Sanji’s voice answers a second before he breezes passed you.

“Why don’t you believe me? Why?!”

“We — I believe you!” you shout, your chest a thundering mess of footfalls and scrambling bodies, and against all instinct, you turn around to face the darkness again, cupping your hands around your mouth, “I believe you! I know — I know you’re telling the truth!”

“What’re you doing?” Zoro asks, leveling himself by your side, his arm pressing against yours. Behind you, the thinnest sliver of light is creeping into the cave from what you assume is the entrance.

Morning. Has it really been that long?

Time is the greatest liar, you remember, suddenly, violently, the thought tearing through you like teeth.

“I — he’s telling the truth,” you say through gritted teeth, even as you take a few steps back. Inside the cave, the figure seems to shrink back from the encroaching light.

“What truth?” Zoro asks, his blade held aloft, his stance wide and ready.

“All of it,” you say, forcing your voice to be gentle, turning your face back towards the darkness, “I know, I can hear it — I know you’re telling the truth — about the island, the city — all of it!”

“Yes… all I wanted was to get back to the city… but… no one believe me… and I died… I died for it!”

“I know, and I’m sorry… no one should be punished for telling the truth —” your voice cracks.

“I tried!”

“I know…” you say as the figure shrinks and shrinks and shrinks and the light behind you grows and grows and grows, until you can feel the warm seeping into the skin of your back.

“And trying is everything,” you say, biting your lip as Zoro wraps an arm around your waist.

“Come with me… I’ll take you to the city — we can go together!”

You shake your head, heat prickling at your eyes as you turn away from the darkness of the cave and towards the light of the oncoming day.

“Liar…” the word falls from you like a rock, or a tear, cast off the cliff that greets you and Zoro as you both stare over the edge. The rest of the crew is nowhere to be found, but Zoro’s arm is still around your waist, and you can feel his warm breath by your cheek.

“Hey — do you trust me?”

You look up; in the dawning, morning light, Zoro, with his sun-kissed skin and dark moss hair appears to be limned in gold.

And maybe it’s the air, or the sea, or simply the angry pieces of this jagged, left-behind island of shadows like broken teeth trying to tear apart the sky, conducting his voice into a cacophony of echoes that sing and scream through the crags and eves of the valley beneath — but the whole island seems to reverberate with the question —

Do you trust me?

You close your eyes and breath. When you open them again, your heartbeat is steady. And when you speak, the rising sun streaks the tips of the saw-toothed peaks in strokes of molten gold. The valleys beneath you conduct your answer into an entire single-syllabled symphony —

Yes.

You feel his arm tighten around your waist, the wind as it tangles soft fingers in your hair. All around you, everything is light, and light, and light.

“Jump!”

You close your eyes, and jump.

-----

footnotes/appendix

uso-uso no mi translates to "lie-lie fruit"; i made it up bc it would be too op to have in the actual animanga i think

the "acts" refer to a classical 3-act structure that most movies/plays/scripts are written in: setup, confrontation, and resolution... with a smattering of other things sprinkled in for ~vibes~

in much of classical japanese and chinese mythology, foxes are associated with trickers and lies, often turning into beautiful women to deceive men, luring them into forests and mountains before taking their lives

the "figure" in the last scene is... can you guess? noland! kudos to anyone who figured it out as they were reading *\ (>o<) /*

did i absolutely take the "do you trust me" line from disney's aladdin??? HELL YEAH i did !!!! tru trust is my kink u__u

[heartfullofleeches]

Ok, but can we talk about Erin with a darling who's just sweet as pie to him? Just, every threat or insult is met with kind words and love and our boi is conflicted. On one hand, he knows they love him, on the other, please just fucking step on him he's this close to begging for it

Imagine him opening up to them and off-handedly making a self-deprecating joke when he hears a snap. The pencil in his darling's hand is crushed and the hand that once held it is now wrapped around his throat "If I hear any more of that talk about my wonderful boyfriend I might just have to beat some sense into you"

is this anything? Fuck if I know, but it was in my head and now it's in yours!

[Male Yan Bully + G.N Reader] (warnings: choking, masochism)

Erin knew he wasn't the greatest guy around.

Petty theft, belittling and fighting with his peers, and his tendency to fly off the handle for the smallest issue already gave him a poor rep with locals. Things only got worse when you came into the picture. Everything about you was the polar opposite to himself. When he insulted you upon first meeting you asked if he was feeling well. When he finally came to accept his feelings and told you the two of you were dating without any previous attempts to win you over, you just smiled and asked him where to meet him for lunch.

Threats towards yourself and others where brushed off with a laugh. They toned down once you began dating, but Erin couldn't help but press you at times out of sheer confusion that you actually seemed to be enjoying time spent with him. It's not let you had many others with him harassing anyone who gets too close, but you never complained- even liking the silence. You patched him up after every scuffle and didn't ask how the began or ended. He doesn't understand you at all, but finds it hard to function without you. He can't wrap his head around it.

"Why do you like me?"

Heart printed bandage in hand, your passive expression scrunches with worry over your boyfriend's words. You place it over his blistered knuckles. "What are you going about now, Rin? I don't just like you and you know that."

Erin chews his lips, shying away from your concerned scare. "Yea, I know, but it just makes even less since if you ask me. It's pretty common knowledge that I'm not exactly a model citizen. For Christ's sake I've been hard on you before and still am. I can't control these things about me and when I see you around other people I just.... You're probably better off with someone else.

"Soooo.. what I'm hearing is you're saying I'm not good at choosing partners?"

"Ugh- this isn't about you, Y/n. I'm trying to be serious for once. Hrk!- "

Spit and a choked string of obscenities fall from Erin's lips as a hand clasps firm around his throat. Your nails stab his beating flesh as his pulse increases. He struggles for a word, but is unable to form his lips to speak as he gasps

"Oh yes it is. If my boyfriend is doubting his position I'm obviously not doing something right. I thought loved me too Rin."

His eyes shoot to the protruding veins of your wrist as your fingers lock in place, pressing down on his trachea. He blinks away tears - broken by you even thinking you're part of the problem. You snap your fingers to regain his fleeting attention.

"Hey!- Eyes up here. It's true you could use some temper adjustments, and you think with your fist but you have a good head on your shoulders and such a big heart. I've seen it when you knocked on every door in my neighborhood because I was out sick and you forgot my address. I've felt it everytime you've kissed and held me. You're my boyfriend, Rinny. Don't make me knock some sense into you - got it?"

Erin dips his head to signal a nod. He longs to take your words to heart, but it's easier said than done with you fulfilling a fantasy he wouldn't confess to even on his death bed. He dreamt about what it would be like to have such caring hands be the cause of his destruction. He couldn't pry himself out of your grip even if he wanted to. It was better than anything this fucked mind could make up.

"Rinny~ I need words. You're gonna make me cry if you keep bullying me like this."

His heart jumps at the playful nickname. " 'm yours....promise... all yours."

Your smile returns - pressed to his cheek as you kiss his skin. "Good. Now that that's over, want some help with that?"

Erin holds his knees together, pulling his jacket over his crotch. "Shut it."

[vilhelios]

-; I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU. / IT'S ROTTEN WORK.

(NOT TO ME, NOT IF IT'S YOU) ; in which wriothesley lets you tend to his wounds after the dramatic affair with the beret society.

CW: not beta-read. cerberus chapter spoilers! gn!reader, slight hurt/comfort, fluff, mentions of blood, injury, and violence. mention of scars (+ my headcanons of how wrio got some of them), & finally, lovesick loser wrio!

"i'm telling you, sunshine, i can handle it myself."

at his words, your hands still, pristine rolls of gauze and bandages already soaking in red blood. a frown breaks across your countenance as you glare up at wriothesley, eyebrows furrowed. there will be no stopping this, you know; there will be days where your beloved duke returns to your arms with a new wound that you're sure will scar. days he brandishes blooming bruises on his knuckles, and you'll eventually press butterfly kisses to them. perhaps, he will crawl into your loving embrace, his warm home, with blood dripping from his fingertips. (grimly, you wonder how much of it will be his own. you know you'll thank the archons when it's not all his.)

with a sigh and a dab of the alcohol-soaked cotton against his exposed side, you mutter: "you always say that. look where that's got you now."

"it's just a scratch."

"wri, it's a bullet wound. you're lucky it only just grazed you."

"so... what i'm hearing is that it really is just a scratch."

now that earns him another glare (which he sheepishly smiles at).

"look, as stupid as it may sound," he sighs, clear blue eyes finding your own, "i didn't think dougier would have a gun with him." the duke's expression contorts ever so slightly, a weak hiss slipping from his gritted teeth, as you rub a cooling ointment against his angry, red wound. "didn't think he'd have that many gardemeks either."

(another comment, much quieter: "and i thought it'd be cool, really.")

and with that, you both fall into relative silence. the classical music playing from the office gramaphone, your steady breathing, and the occasional pained hiss from wriothesley (followed by your whispered string of apologies) permeate the space between. in the quiet, your mind eventually runs rampant with thoughts of your love getting injured. wriothesley may have proven to you time and time again that he would always return to your side, but he wasn't invincible. your gaze wanders, frowning further when you soak in the sight of the scars that mar his chest. they do nothing to comfort you.

"hey," wriothesley starts, when he notices your stare on the claw marks etched into the skin of his neck. they stretch downwards, the cruel tally marks stopping right above where his heart would be. you try not to think about how they could've easily torn out his throat. "i know you'll still worry about me, but i've been through much worse." he raises his own hand to trace the scars, playing with the black wraps around his neck; "and, as you can see... i fought and won."

( you know he has. he's told you all about them, once. on a sleepless night, where you two lay in bed and traced designs on each other's skin. his calloused fingers against your softer flesh, your touch along the lines of his many scars. some were from fierce sea creatures, he tells you, with a teasing lilt in his voice that makes you giggle. others from his time serving his sentence, fighting for his life in the ring. when you trace one along the back of his arm, smaller than the rest, his voice gets a little softer — he got it on the day he spilt his first blood. you had kissed along all his scars that night, and he had returned the favour with a shower of kisses along your cheeks.)

"promise me you'll be more careful." you say, as you unroll a new roll of gauze and begin wrapping it around his torso. it's a beat, and then two, and when he doesn't respond you turn your gaze back to him.

wriothesley frowns, now. he could do cheeky proclamations of victory, tell you he'll always crawl back to your side alive... but he can't promise you that. not with your current lives in meropide. "you know i can't—"

"wriothesley." the syllables roll off your tongue and he quickly seals his mouth shut—it's been a good, long while since his full name has graced your lips. (he much preferred wrio, or sweetie, or darling; something from you that made him kinder. softer.) "please?"

the silence comes back for a heartbeat. you think you feel tears pooling at the corner of your eyes—

"alright, alright. i'll try." he says, quickly relenting to your teary-eyed gaze. and when that's not good enough for you, highlighted by the pout of your lips and the slightly-aggressive tightening of his bandage wrappings, he says: "fine. i promise to be more careful. as best as i can."

a smile graces your lips. (wriothesley thinks he's seen the sun. you, his darling star, whose mere presence lights up his gloomy underworld.)

"sigewinne and i will keep you to it then."

he can't help the way he leans into your warmth as you press a quick, gentle peck to his temple nor can he help how he almost whines when you step away from him. his gaze is on you even as you pack up the first aid kit and make your way to the stairs (how cruel you are, leaving your lover while he toils in pain!) wriothesley stands from where he leans against his table, just as you reach the bottom of the stairs. he stands up a little straighter, smiles as you shout out:

"oh, and i heard from the traveller! your stunt did sound pretty cool."

a/n: happy birthday wriothesley! here's a very short, indulgent, not beta-read thing to celebrate his birthday and his c1 coming home during his banner! sorry if he's a little ooc or this is just. a really oddly worded / structured fic — this was very much so written in a haze after seeing his story quest cutscene... he's so dreamy. . ..

[ppupkit]

how are you doing after the last 3 episodes of arcane

full spoilers for act 3 , long rant ahead ( sorry ദ്ദി (ᵒ̴̶̷᷄﹏ᵒ̴̶̷᷅) ). apologies if this is incoherent i ended up pulling an all nighter to watch act 3 and have had a busy few couple of days so i am a very gleeby little maddie atm..

i'm mostly upset and angry about it because it was just handled so poorly... like it was genuinely so ( ._. )"" i've talked about it elsewhere but i don't even really know what to say. i'm so upset about the way they sidelined the important character arcs and actual plot for timebomb sillies and a goofy over the top mel arc that was extremely rushed and didn't even bring the closure it was meant to about her dad and all of that. also 90% of the act being jayvik and it completely ignoring isha , sevika , and for the most part jinx , caitlyn , and vi... it's so disheartening i'm honestly not taking it well i feel just sort of upset and overall down. arcane has meant so much to me and it feels like all of the characters who i love so much just didn't even matter like i went on this journey with them all for nothing. there's so much more i could and would like to say but this is already getting long and i just feel an overwhelming amount of negative emotions at the moment. i'm going to continue making content for arcane ( mostly focusing around maddie , maddiecait , and maddiecaitvi because autism goes crazy ) but i might need a day or two to gather my thoughts and process everything. this act was super disappointing in every way. like i love mel and for the whole rest of the season was curious about her arc but it went from 0 to 100 so fast and was so campy it just didn't even feel like arcane. i think it's so insane that sevika didn't even speak once and that isha wasn't even mentioned like i just can't get past that. also they rushed caitvi's relationship so badly like we needed to see caitlyn's arc fully wrapped up with her coming to terms with all that she'd done , taking responsibility and apologizing to vi. we didn't get any of that though which is baffling to me..... also the implication of vi being a cop , sevika being on the council , vi just brushing over jinx's death ? it's so out of character. also with maddie , i have mixed feelings. i was hoping she'd do something big and i think i can definitely get behind the idea of her being a spy but it just doesn't line up with what was shown onscreen ? it felt like a major copout idk. i have many maddiecait and maddiecaitvi thoughts that i'll post on my main having to do with it but i'm just REALLY wishing we got to see more of maddie behind the scenes and that she got to be more fleshed out onscreen and not just through implications. like i like timebomb they're cute and all but episode 7 just felt so pointless and wasted like we could've used that time to actually be able to flesh out maddie or focus more on caitlyn / caitvi or on jinx and isha. i just don't see the point at all of that episode and i can't get past them just pretending isha never existed in favor of having a cute little timebomb au episode. : \

[kryptid-writes]

Chapter 8 - Clipped Wings

Ashamed that Dean has discovered her wings, Y/N takes matters into her own hands to fix the problem.

(2.2k)

TW: This chapter contains self mutilation of wings that may be triggering for those that struggle with the topic of self harm. I am not trying to romanticize the subject, please don’t be afraid to seek help if you feel unsafe. 

American Mental Health Hotline (1- 800 - 622 - 4357)

Global Hotline (212 - 673 - 3000)

My head spins as I clutch at my chest, willing myself to breathe in ragged breaths. My body shivers from the uncomfortable cold sweat that clings to my skin. My hands, feet, and tip of my nose goes numb, the feeling much like the buzz of a static TV.

I wobble to my feet and hastily pop open the buttons on my shirt with shaky hands. I shove the fabric off my shoulders and let it pool around my feet. Once again, I’m completely vulnerable. Staring myself down in the mirror, my eyes full of resentment at the twisted version of myself staring back at me.

How could you be so careless? Now he knows how much of a freak you really are! I scold myself, gripping the edges of the sink and hang my head in shame.

Taking a piece of bandage from the front of my chest, I carelessly rip it in half with the sudden strength arising from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I hastily unwind the wrap of musty bandages, revealing the tattered skin underneath which is now a blotchy red color from the lack of circulation. I cringe as I feel my wings pop free from the restrictive binding. Unsurprisingly, they’ve grown since the morning, reaching nearly a foot in length that now fall just above my hip. More feathers have filled in, some of them small, fuzzy, and gray, hugging the bone. And others that are long and white with a golden shimmer at the tips. They stretch out as far as their length will allow, trying to soothe the aching feeling from being confined for so long.

I glare at myself in the mirror, disgusted at how far I've fallen from the simple human I once was. This is what Lucifer wants. He wants me to become a monster just like him, trapping me into a life bound to my captor. This has been his plan all along.

I shake my head, my knuckles turning white from gripping the porcelain sink with the strength of a bull. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision and clouding my mind.

I know what I have to do.

Carefully, I grab the powerful angel blade off the bathroom floor, hugging it to my chest. If this is the only thing that can kill an angel, surely it will get the job done.

 I turn on my heels and tilt my head back to see my wings clearly in the mirror, and with that it’s decided: they must be removed by any means necessary. I take a deep breath, gripping the angel blade, just as Dean taught me and press the blade to the top of my wing, just a few inches from where they distend from my back. I hesitate for a few seconds, my body shaking with fear and doubt that lasts for a fleeting moment. With one swift motion, I slice the blade across, cutting through the thin layer of flesh.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath. I’ve been hurt before many times in my life and I have the scars to prove it, but nothing compares to the pain that radiates from my wings. They’re more sensitive than I ever could’ve imagined.

Blood dribbles down from the wound, staining the white feathers surrounding the area. The sound of quiet droplets hitting the tile floor below cuts through the silence of the room.

My breath comes in ragged and my heart beats a thousand miles per second. With renewed determination, I bite my lip and hover the blade, just above the incision.

“Y/N?” Dean asks from the other side of the door, startling me out of my trance. His voice is low and caring, but very clearly concerned.

“Go away Dean,” I reply weakly, biting back the sobs that so badly want to spill out.

“Let’s just talk about this,” he says in a kind voice. I hear a soft thud, presumably from him leaning his head on the door.

Part of me wants to stop what I'm doing and open the door for him, let him come in and comfort me like I know he can, but I don’t. This is how it has to be. This is how I break Lucifer's hold on me. This is how I reclaim my humanity.

Ignoring his pleas, I drag the blade further down the weeping laceration, sawing until the bone is exposed. I involuntarily hiss and drop the blade to the floor as agonizing pain surges through me. It makes a loud clattering noise that rings out like the chime of a bell. This time the results are much more severe. Blood pours out of the wound, drenching my entire wing in a sickening crimson coating. Feathers flutter to the ground in clumps, landing in the forming pool of blood below. The feathers that were once pure and white, now stained in my misery, forever corrupted by sin. 

“Y/N? What are you doing in there?” Dean asks in a distressed voice.

I don’t respond, partially because I don’t want him to know the answer to the question, and because I’m unable to make any sound besides weak groans. My knees give out and I fall to the ground, slumping forward and tucking my head into my knees. I can’t stop the heaves of sobs that shake my body as the pain and torment becomes too much to handle.

“Y/N OPEN THIS DOOR!” He demands, knocking incessantly.

A whimper escapes my lips as the world slowly starts to spin. Every ounce of energy in me feels as if it's draining rapidly. My whole body feels light and the need to keep fighting slowly fades away, the pain grows dim and my mind becomes a blank slate, the emptiness feels warm and inviting.

The quiet clicks and jingles of the doorknob fill the silence, becoming more imperative by the second. With one final tick, the lock gives in and the door swings open with a bang.

I cusp my hand over the injury in a pitiful attempt to hide what I'd done.

“Oh fuck,” Dean gasps, immediately rushing to my side. He pulls me close and takes my head in his hands, panic taking over his features.

 My eyes are unfocused and my skin is pale as a ghost.

 He peels my hand away exposing the mess of flesh, feather and bone. His face drops.

I want to resist but I'm too weak to fight him. “Dean…” I groan softly, using all my energy to look him in the eye. Suddenly my eyelids feel heavy and my pupils drift to the ceiling.

“It’s me. I need you to stay awake, can you do that?” He says in a serious voice, lightly squeezing my jaw, keeping me grounded to reality.

I can’t manage a response as the words get caught in my throat. I blink slowly, widening my eyes as much as I can, trying my best to shake the sleepiness that so desperately calls my name.

He swiftly moves me to lie on the floor, dragging me away from the puddle of blood that stained my feet and hips. I should feel embarrassed that my half naked body is completely exposed to him, but it’s not even a concern that crosses my mind at this moment.

“I have to call Sam and Cas.” He states, fumbling for his phone.

“No!” I cry, “Please don’t tell them.” I meet his eyes with a look of desperation, silently pleading with him.

“Y/N -” He furrows his brows.

“I said no Dean!” I snap, followed by a soft, “Please….”

He thinks for a second before nodding his head and getting to his feet. With a sense of urgency he rushes to the cabinet and grabs the first aid kit, yanking it open with such haste that the flimsy plastic cracks and breaks under his touch. He rummages through the supplies, pulling out a needle and thread, as well as a travel size bottle of antiseptic. 

“You’re gonna need stitches,” he explains. “This is going to hurt a lot.” He looks at me sympathetically, then guides my head to lean on his shoulder. “Bite down, it’ll help with the pain.” 

I nod my head against his broad shoulder, trying to distract myself from the anticipation and anxiety riddling my mind. I can feel the nausea building in my stomach. I barely register his arms moving behind my head with precision as he threads the needle.

“Take a deep breath,” he orders.

I do as he says, attempting to control my breathing. The needle enters my sensitive skin, it feels like searing hot pain as he drags it through to the other side of the injury, pulling the thread taught. I can’t stop the scream that rips through my body. My wings tense up and fan out, trying to escape the pain.

“Shh, I'll make it quick,” he assures me, running a soothing hand down the feathers of my wings. The feeling it leaves is a pleasant surprise of soothing pleasure. I’m thankful for the contrast in sensations that temporarily distracts me from the searing pain.

I screw my eyes shut and bite down on his shoulder hard enough that I probably broke skin through his shirt as he continues to stitch me up. I sob in his arms, my tears stain his signature red flannel, but I'm too far gone to care. 

When the stitches are finished he opens the bottle of antiseptic and pours a bit onto the wound. It should hurt like hell, but at this point my body is too tired to even register the burn.

“All done.” He strokes my hair, letting me rest my head on him for as long as I need. “You made it sweetheart.” He places a tender kiss on the top of my head. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

I lean back, a disheveled mess, allowing him to stand up.

He grabs a fresh towel from the closet, running it under the tap until it's soaked in clean water. He takes a seat behind me, tucking his knees on either side of me and tenderly touches the rag to the bloodied area around the wound.

I hiss at the contact, it stings, but I bite my lip and let him work.

Carefully, he drags the towel down each feather, mopping up the crimson mess that paints my damaged wings like a gruesome crime scene. He takes his time, working his way from the top to the bottom til the feathers are nearly clean, leaving just a tint of pink behind. Without exchanging any words, he runs his fingers through the soft plumage, correcting the placement of the messy crooked ones until they lay neatly. 

I  can’t stop myself from sighing at his touch. His fingers radiate pleasure throughout my wings.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters under his breath, placing a soft kiss between my shoulder blades. 

“Th- thank you Dean,” I whisper, turning my head back to look at him, but still feeling a twinge of doubt.

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice sweet and caring. He takes the excess of medical wrap and carefully wraps the cloth around the stitches, biting off the end with his teeth and tucking it away securely. He stands up and plops the dirty towel in the sink and washes away the blood that soaks his hands until the water runs clear, drying them on the sides of his jeans. Turning back to me, he lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing to him and brings me to my bed, carefully laying me on the mattress, being mindful of my butchered wing. He scoots in next to me, pulling me close and wrapping his arm around my waist.

I rest my head on his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing instantly calm me.

“Why?” is all he can say.

The question hangs in the air as I scramble for the right thing to say, but it’s difficult to explain.

“I tried to get rid of them. I had too,” I try to explain, but the words become lost in translation. “I’m tired of being a freak…” I say in a hushed tone.

“You’re not a freak Y/N.” His hands wander to my wings, carefully tracing each feather. “You’re beautiful,” he coos. “Promise me you’ll never do this again,” he says in a more serious tone, his eyes brimming with tears.

I falter for a moment, the thought of living like this for the rest of my miserable life leaves me feeling sick. But, perhaps one day I could also learn to love the wings that Dean finds so utterly beautiful.

“Promise,” I reply, tucking my cozying my head into his chest and wrapping a damaged wing around us. 

He strokes my hair and I melt into his touch. 

Despite the disaster I had just subjected us too, I feel protected in his arms, like nothing could ever hurt me.

“Sleep” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

And with that I drift off into a peaceful slumber, thankful for the safe haven that is Dean Winchester.

Series Masterlist

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[ritikajyala]

Can you write something about soulmates?

Aunt Maya showed me her old photographs one night, decades of her life divided in stacks. She had a black bob in the 80s and wore long pants dripping with youth. I was so pretty then. She sighed. Aunt Maya is 52 now and lives with 3 cats- Bob, Leah and Metatron. But she was 25 once, and had a blonde shag in the 90s. She rode a motorcycle. Oh, who's this?, I ask. The picture shows a man, young and tall, on a black harley, my aunt wrapped around him, a brunette this time.

"He's Connor, an old friend."

I wait for her to continue. She doesn't, so we move to the next page. I see the same man with her, in bars and beaches, at home and in a garage. They look good together, I think. And I look up at her, her eyes lost somewhere else, some other time. I flip the page again, and he's there again, in group pictures, alone with my aunt, with her best friends, lan and Sherly. A drop falls on the album and I see her face again, sketched with wrinkles and smile lines, a tear rolling down her left cheek.

I know what he is to her and what he means, a part of her past buried in albums becoming a part of her life once again.

"Look at him, he looks so happy here", she points to a picture of him in a cabin. He's holding her hand and they're giggling, her hair longer with blue tips.

"When I look at him, I'm 19 again, and he becomes everything, my past and my future. I always wondered what he'd look like when he was old. I wondered if he thought the same for me, I still wonder sometimes."

"Do you still love him?" I know the answer.

She's lost again, in old restaurants that have shut down, forests that don't exist anymore, in moments she has guarded as memories, refusing to forget them. Slowly, she pulls herself back to me.

"I did, once. I don't know, memory is a faulty thing and the past moves in circles. I don't think about some things for months, only to obsess over them for a week. Also, I don't think I know him now. I did once, and I loved him, loved who he was and who he could be. But I know he's a different person now, I am too."

We stay quiet for a while.

Quietly, she begins to flip the pages again. We silently watch her life, their life together. Seasons go by in minutes, hair changing from the brightest yellows to purple streaks, a glorious technicolor of Aunt Maya. I realise a while later that Connor stops showing up in her photographs. New men and women take his place, stay for a while and then disappear. She looks older now, and her friends change, people moving in and out of her life. The photographs change too, become more clear, vibrant, sharper. At one point, her hair stops changing, a tuft of grey emerging at the roots, getting longer and finally taking over. She still rides motorcycles and goes out with her friends, gets Metatron first- an entire album to his name. Bob and Leah follow.

At a point, the pictures stop. Mobile phones take over the empty pages in the albums. We sit still for a while.

"Was he your soulmate?"

She stared at me for a while, then smiled.

"That's just a word." She laughs, a hearty, full chuckle, her eyes shining with life. "Can I live without him? Yes, I already have. Did I love him the most? That's absurd, there's no scale for loving. Also, I think I love Metatron the most." Another chuckle.

"I think we loved each other with the kind of love that lasts lifetimes. But I've loved many people with different kinds of love that would last lifetimes. We had our time and we lived a beautiful life. Is that enough to become a soulmate? I don't know. 

"I guess that's it. You love someone in the moment, and you make more of them and then you hope those moments will last forever, knowing that they won't. So you gather those moments in your memory, hold them close and cherish them and make new ones.

"I think that's what soulmates are, moments of your life that you want to keep forever."

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned

[eyesxxyou]

Monster

Miguel O'Hara x FEM!reader

rating: mature

word count: 2.9k

warnings: biting, aggressive sex, creampie (wrap it up y'all), porn w/ a little plot, size kink, mentions of bodily fluids (saliva and blood)

synopsis: you and Miguel work on a serum to help him escape from the clutches of Alchemax but your efforts take a turn

or

Miguel finally lets you know how he really feels about you

Note: this is based off of what I've read about Miguel's origin story but it's only a vague version and not entirely comic accurate so don't try to pick apart the details. This is for the horny ones out there.

“Miggy…are you sure this is gonna work?” You stand in the middle of your and Miguel’s shared Alchemax lab, watching your co-worker pace about his workspace with stress written in big, bold letters across his face. You’ve seen him like this before. Many, many times across your many years of working together. Sometimes, you were there to calm him down, other times you had to stop him from destroying his life’s work.

“No,” his voice is gruff and strained behind his frustration. He’s frantic and you’re not sure if it’s from withdrawal or the risk of what the two of you are about to do. “But I can’t be a slave to them.” Miguel looks at you, his eyes that were always brooding and stressed were now softer, a tad more desperate. “You know I can’t.”

You had your reservations in helping him make this serum. It was all so hasty and rushed, made on such short notice after Miguel chose to quit. Alchemax was doing human testing on an inmate, leading to their painful death, and he simply wouldn’t stand for it. So Alchemax drugged him, got him hooked on this drug only known as Rapture. And the only way for him to get it was to stay working at Alchemax. He was one of their best researchers after all.

He came to you for help. You were his closest friend, his greatest confidant. You two have spent years together, always bordering on something more than just research partners but never fully crossing that line into unknown territory. The two of you worked together to create a serum that would jumpstart his body in a way, reset it to its natural state. A secret kept just between the two of you, shared between stolen glances across the room.

You come to him and force him to sit down which is a difficult task on its own. Miguel was something otherworldly. Well over 6’5” tall, he towered over everyone in any given room, including you. Broad shoulders, small waist, and frankly, an amazing ass, you can’t help but find yourself admiring him from afar every once in a while. “What if you die? We don’t even really know what this will do to you.” It was slapped together using some of Miguel’s blood, spider venom known to neutralize a key element in the Rapture’s chemical makeup, and some other haphazard ingredients. The most testing the two of you ever did was injecting it into some rats. All 5 of them had fallen into a deep coma, almost resembling death before awaking with red eyes and ferally tearing away at their cages.

They all killed each other.

Miguel didn’t answer you. His jaw clamped together, teeth grinding. “What other option do I have?” The answer was clear. The both of you were silent for a moment, both staring at the syringe full of the serum.

“Let’s get on with it then.” Miguel began to roll up the sleeve to his button down shirt until the soft flesh of his inner elbow was exposed to you. He watched as you pulled on your gloves and grab a wipe to sanitize the injection sight. Your hands were trembling with terrible anxiety for how horribly this could all go.

You look up at Miguel one last time, hoping that he might change his mind about all of this, but he only nodded for you to continue, clenching his fist so his veins would pop to make things easier on you. God, why did he always have to be so determined like this? Even at the cost of his own life? Maybe even the cost of your life. But he gave you the choice. “I can do this by myself,” he told you. “You reason for you to be involved in this at all.” He was asking you to jeopardize everything just for him and you said yes regardless of the risk you were about to take.

You proceed, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you place the needle against a vein. You steady your hands before you inject the needle and push the plunger down until it could go no further. You’re quick to remove the needle and move away from him, just as a safety precaution. “Ar– Are you okay? Do you feel any different?” He doesn’t look any different, still as large and intimidating as ever. Miguel doesn’t respond to you.

“Miggy?” You ask slowly, timidly, with worry laced in your voice as he slowly stands from his chair. He’s bracing himself against the desk, fingers gripping the edge as he takes a unstable step forward. “Y/N.” He let past trembling lips before suddenly collapsing to the floor in a harsh, dull ‘thud’.

“Miguel!” All your reservations wash away as you run to him and drop to your knees beside his body. Your hand is against the thick column of his neck, feeling for a pulse. It was so faint, you almost missed it, but it was there. “Miguel, Miggy. Wake up, come on. I need you to get up now.” You began to gently pat his cheeks but that was doing nothing. He was out cold and working up a sweat against his hairline. You ran your fingers through his hair more to calm yourself than anything.

How is it that you’re in the most technologically advanced building in Nueva York and still feel so powerless to do anything to help him? The most you can even think to do is to grab a cold rag to place on his forehead to bay his growing fever. He’s alive. That’s all that matters right now. You just have to keep him that way. You can deal with whether he was going to attack you once he woke up later.

You kept checking his pulse, pressing your ear to his chest to ensure his heart was still beating, hovering your hand over his nose to ensure he was breathing. Everything seemed to be okay. You could give yourself some peace of mind after half and hour of making sure he would be okay. What would you have done if he had died, right then and there? Known that you contributed to his death? The toll that would have taken on you. You didn’t even want to think about it.

You stood up with the most exhausted sigh you’ve ever let out in your entire life. Who knew one person could cause you so much stress? It was usually you playing jump rope with Miguel’s nerves, not the other way around. You should be more lenient on him from now on if your piss poor jokes made him feel anything like this.

You sat at your desk, drawing rough circles against your temples to soothe your stress. You wondered how long this would last. It was the dead of night. Neither of you were supposed to be here. The building was mostly empty besides a few janitors. Push comes to shove, you don’t want to have to drag his limp body out of the building and into your car.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, or how you even could at a time like this. You only realized you had fallen asleep when you were awoken by a loud crash. It startled you awake and you leaped up from your chair. Your eyes immediately strayed to where Miguel had been only to find that he was gone and the cloth you had placed on his head was lying on the floor. Immediately, you searched for him and looking for someone so big shouldn’t have been a problem, but he was gone.

“Miguel? Where are you?” You called for him. It seemed illogical to look up, but you did. Something in the far recesses of your mind told you that you were being watched. You looked into the dark corners of the room where the light didn’t reach and in one of the corners, you saw two red, glowing dots, eyes unmistakably.

You began to back up until your back hit the wall. “M-Miggy?” Your heart was in your throat and as you watched the shadow in the corner dropped down from the ceiling to the floor, you thought you might just cough it up. Somehow he seemed even bigger, his usually slicked back hair falling in his face and covering the wilderness in his eyes.

Miguel seemed to move at lightning speed. He was across the room and then he wasn’t. He had you by the throat, claws pressing into the soft flesh of your throat but not yet breaking skin. His breath dusted your skin, your trembling lips and glazed-over eyes. “Please, please, please. Miguel, it’s me. You know me.” Begging for your life was not something you’d ever expect to do staring at Miguel O’Hara. Sure, he can come off a bit rough around the edges, but you’ve never felt unsafe around him.

There was something feral in his eyes, animalistic almost. His lips, the lips you always wanted to trace with the tips of your fingers and kiss softly in the middle of the night, curled, revealing giant, sharp fangs where his otherwise nonexistent canines would have been. Miguel leaned in close to you, the tip of his hooked nose tracing your jawline. Your breath caught in your throat and your body completely stilled.

“Mía.” He whispered, voice deep, almost growling. “Mi amor. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you.” There’s something dark in his voice, something attempting to claw its way out of him. “You always come into work with that tight pencil skirt on and those heels you know I like so much. You know what you’re doing, Y/N.” That serum had brought out something carnal in him, desperate with desire.

His tongue was against your throat, his fangs just barely pressing against your pulse. You swallow. “Miguel…what’s happening to you?” His body is pressed against yours, warm and solid, pinning you against the wall. Your toes barely even touch the floor.

His nose was against yours then as his eyes burned holes into yours. Those were not the eyes of the Miguel you knew, scarlet red, blood red. But you know he’s in there somewhere, you just have to coax him out.

You bring your hand up slowly, unsure of what he may do if you move too fast. He let you place your hand upon his cheek and stroke the curve of his jaw. “Miggy.” You curl some of his hair around your finger. His lip twitches softly so you whisper again. “Miguel.” You don’t expect him to kiss you. It’s aggressive and seeps at the seams with lust. You don’t fight him, don’t even try because you know deep down you don’t want to.

You melt into him, let his tongue prod at the seam of your lips and you open for him while your fingers run through his silky brown hair. His hands are on your thighs, shoving your skirt up your legs so he can hoist you up. Your legs wrap themselves around his narrow waist, the heels of your pumps digging into his firm ass.

“Miguel, Miguel, Miguel.” His name is a prayer on your lips as he places sloppy kisses down the the length of your neck, his fangs always threatening to sink into your supple flesh. You weren’t against the idea, the exhilaration of it all, of this beast you’ve created. You pull him closer if that’s even possible, exposing yourself to him and his wild whims. It seemed he liked it as a satisfied grumble left him.

“Mi corazón.” You could feel him, his growing erection pressing against where your warmth concentrated itself. He was rutting himself against you, like he’d somehow make his way past all the fabric that prevented the two of you from becoming one in the middle of the mess you’ve made. Miguel hated it, you could tell and he made it very apparent.

He began by tearing open your blouse, forcing a gasp to break from your panting lips as buttons broke away from their assigned positions and clattered across the floor. The speed with which he shredded your clothing with those large, monstrous claws of his. Your bra, your skirt, your panties. They hang off of you, ruined entirely.

Miguel let you down. “Turn around.” You weren’t about to disobey him now so you turned, back facing his towering frame. He had a hand on your back, pressing, forcing you to arch for him. You were all exposed, hands pressed flat against the wall, your breathing stalling as it was. It was almost embarrassing how wet you were, how ready you were to accept him even now. You shuddered when he dragged his fingers between your soaked lips, from your puffy clit all the way to your gushing entrance, desperate to be filled. “Miguel, please–”

“Shhh, mi amor.” He grabbed a fistful of your hair and whispered in your ear. “I gotta make sure you’re wet enough, sí?” There was no doubts that you were. You know, full and well that he could hurt you. You didn’t know what was going on, what was happening to him, but you knew that if he wasn’t intimidating before, he certainly was now. The anticipation of it didn’t help, the idea of not knowing what he was going to do next, the idea that anyone could walk through that door at any second.

You could hear the jangle of his belt buckle as he undid it, the zipper of his slacks that hugged his thighs in all the right ways. You began to turn around to look, but his hand pressed your cheek against the wall, his hand so big that it nearly covered your entire fack. “I didn’t tell you to turn, did I? Stay right where you are, mi amor.”

Miguel placed his foot between yours and forced you to spread your legs further. You shuddered at the feeling of the cold air against your exposed pussy, the way he held you in place and slowly dragged the tip of his leaky cock against your clit. He was rough and you liked it, cruel and you liked it even more.

He was not gentle with you. He didn’t prep you. He had you just the way he wanted you. You whimpered again as he began to press the tip of his length against you entrance, guiding inch after inch into you constricting walls. His intrusion was more than welcomed, the way he thrust himself into you like he’s been waiting for this all his life, for you all his life.

He was so big, so torturously big. He stretched you out, forced you to take all of him until your legs were trembling. It’s alright, he supported all your weight with ease, wrapping a strong arm around your middle to hold you up. “You’re taking me so well, mi vida. Just like that. I knew you’d let me have my way with you.” 

“I…ah~” Your’re choking on your own words, unable to conjure up any sort of coherency in that foggy brain or yours. There’s something feral about the way he goes about it, like this spawned from something far deeper than just lust. He fucked you like it was a necessity, like he’d simply die if he didn’t.

He bit you, let his fangs sink into you until they punctured skin. You cried out and suddenly it felt so impossible to even speak. Miguel was brutalizing you, showing little mercy in his tender licks to the wounds he made. Bite after bite, lick after lick, until your neck is covered in bruises and puncture wounds, framed by the marks of his flattened teeth.

Your strangled moans echoed off the four walls that seem to make up your entire world at the moment. You could feel him deep within you, touching parts of yourself you didn’t even know were there to be felt. Your feet where no longer touching the floor, heels hanging from your toes before clattering to the floor beside his feet.

Miguel groaned into your neck. “So good, so good, mi amor. Keep taking it.” His fingers were in your mouth, claws weighing against your tongue until you were drooling. You wished you could watch the way he split you open and you could only imagine what you looked like to him right now, letting him shove his cock into you without so much of an inch of resistance. You wanted this for so long, fantasized about this after so many long days of the two of you working side by side.

Miguel tells you how good you’re doing as your saliva dribbles down his fingers. Your eyes are half open, face hot and flushed, tongue swirling around his digits while bracing yourself against the wall like he’d ever let you fall. You got rougher the closer he was to cumming, leaving you quivering into your own orgasm that makes every muscle in your body seize.

You could feel him twitch with the effort of his orgasm, the way he grunted and growled with his teeth sinking into your neck so hard it draws blood. It’s the way he thrusts himself as deep into you as he can before coating your walls in white that drives you crazy. How feral and primal it all is. You’re warm, your mind is all cloudy, and all you can feel is him, him, him.

What a monster you’ve created.

[joshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh]

I was actually just playing Forces to work on 100% completing the game on Steam since I haven't actually done so yet, and part of working towards that is getting max medal honours with all different species of animals. I didn't really put any thought into the types of characters I was making when I did that on Switch, but this time I tried to think a little bit harder about what I was making, and you know what? It clicked. Like yeah the appeal of a canon Sonic OC maker is obvious in theory but I've never really cared about that type of thing myself, but something about this specific instance of me making characters in Forces just made me come to actually understand the appeal myself. Like I felt myself being warped into the mind of someone that genuinely enjoys the process of OC creation and stuff, and I feel like I get why, even despite the limitations, the Forces OC maker really is a dream come true for some sorts of people.

To that end, here are the characters I put slightly more thought into! Since I'm still working on 100% completion I don't have every fashion item so even though I don't necessarily want to turn these into like full blown OCs or something I can at least say their in-game designs might not be finalised yet and whatnot.

This one isn't really much of anything per se, but I unlocked the black and white gothic lolita fit right around when I needed to move onto a new animal for medal honours, and decided to make a female dog and throw her in it. Spotted the spotty body wrap thing and it made her look like a dalmation and works well with the gothic lolita fit. Not the most creative one in the world and definitely not one I'm very attached to relative to this whole thing but it felt fun to do and I think that's why I ended up putting more thought into the others.

When I was making a bear I decided that, since the bear's ability basically makes their homing attack better, I'd give them a weapon that had the two homing attack upgrades on it. That gameplay thing led me mentally to imagine this bear character I was making was like very strong and serious, perhaps even silent and stoic - and I started playing around with the clothing to give him a somewhat similar vibe. Experimented with the more military aesthetic stuff but it didn't feel right, and I was imagining that whoever this bear guy is he probably doesn't want to be like a rank and file sort, so the military gear is whatever. Again this isn't actually like a character I'm desperate to flesh out or see more of or anything like that but I just had a moment while making it of "there can actually be a personality there" and I think that's neat.

And lastly we've got a female bird. I sort of knew right away that I wanted to give at least one of the species I'd make the camera, because I like photography a ton. Female bird gets the big ponytail thing at the back that I thought matched that well. Think the vibe I sort of ended up wanting to go for here is like, whoever this girl is she's probably "pretty" and values her appearance and stuff, so we get like the flower crown and bows on the gloves and stuff, nice colour combo too in my mind. But then also the photography stuff and ofc the setting of Sonic Forces more broadly being in the middle of a war. So she's a war photographer? At least currently? But still has time to look after herself a bit. Something like that.

So yeah I mean, none of these are fleshed out and I can't necessarily say I want to flesh them out either, but I mean the fact that the Forces OC maker is getting me to play around with character concepts at all is kinda wild to me, especially since I basically ignored it the first however many times around. I did make one for every animal although these are the only ones I was really happy with the output for, and even then I can take or leave the dalmation. Maybe I'll have an updated selection once I've 100% completed the game and have all fashion stuffs. Who knows. Will say that while writing this I like passively had the thought of like "what if bird lady is from Spagonia or something" so maybe I'm fully cooked and about to just get into Sonic OCs thanks to playing Forces again 7 years after release. Who can truly say. I think that's the post though. Goodnight gamers.

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 22: One Tough Broad

Summary: "I just needed to be someone else for a bit." A/N: I have not spoken French in about three years now, so Gene's dialogue might be completely wrong. But at least I tried 🤷🏻‍♀️ Also, while I've never seen raspberries growing on Currahee, there are so many plants, who's to say they're not somewhere along the trail? Warnings: mentions of war, injury, hospitals, language Taglist: @latibvles @lady-cheeky @liebgotts-lovergirl @lieutenant-speirs @ithinkabouttzu @hxad-ovxr-hxart

Belgium, 1944

Full of purpose, Gene leads Zenie from the Jeep to the town’s large church. (Perhaps it’s not very big – she’s just used to the small, white, wooden churches of the South where congregations squeeze together in hard pews to sing and renounce.) He hustles her right past the crowds outside, only sparing a glance at the piles of bodies lined up against a low wall. The scene steals the breath from Zenie’s lips, but there’s no time to stop.

“J'ai besoin d'une infirmière,” Gene announces when they enter the church. Some other medics glance up, but none answer. If he had wanted their answer, he would have asked in English.

Instead, it’s a young Frenchman’s voice that replies, “De quoi avez-vous besoin?”

“J'ai besoin de parler à une infirmière. C’est urgent.”

When the young man – Is he a doctor? He doesn’t wear an armband or uniform of any sort. He might be just a young man – rushes off, Gene once again guides Zenie. This time, he starts her toward the back of the church, to a more isolated area.

He finds a small room and leads her into it, shutting the door behind her before rushing back to check on Skinny and his leg. For a few moments, Zenie is alone in the dim room, waiting. Her only companion is the patch of wintery sunlight coming from a small stained-glass window on the wall above her. Some old crates stacked in the back corner provide a place for her to sit. She practically falls onto them she feels so exhausted, though the morning has just begun.

When Gene returns, a young woman follows him into the room. Zenie jumps up as the door quickly opens and shuts. The action makes Gene’s brows furrow.  

“Thought you might feel better if you had a, um, a woman to help out with the stitchin’ and all.” When Zenie blanches, he rushes on. “Don’t worry. I trust her.”

The woman is young, maybe the same age as them. Kind eyes survey her as she looks between Gene and Zenie. Though Zenie can’t understand what she says to Gene in French, the question in the woman’s eyes is clear: Who is this soldier, and why are we alone? Whatever Gene tells her, her realization is just as clear.

The woman approaches her the way that one approaches an animal that they are afraid of startling. She motions for Zenie to take a seat and then does the same, settling in on a box across from her. Her hands are folded in her lap when she nods to Zenie’s jacket and asks, “May I . . . ?”

“Yes.”

Zenie assumes that Gene has told this nurse about her situation, but the woman still starts slightly when she pulls back Zenie’s jacket and sees the bandages wrapped around her chest. Her shock is momentary. Her face quickly settles into a mask of concentration as she and Gene inspect Zenie’s arm.

She bites her lip to keep herself from flinching every time they pick a small fragment of shrapnel from her flesh. When she offers her a flask to draw from, she gratefully accepts it and downs the firewater, grimacing at the taste, as the nurse begins stitching up the long gash on her arm.

Before she knows it, it’s all over.

“Très chanceux.” The nurse pats Zenie’s good shoulder and helps her shrug her jacket back on. From the pocket of her apron, she removes a strip of bedsheet that she uses as a sling to secure Zenie’s arm. “Could have been much worse. Could have . . .” She doesn’t have to finish. Her eyes flick upwards, toward the stained-glass window behind Zenie’s head. “Someone is watching over you.”

“You won’t tell?” Zenie blurts out.

The nurse offers her a small smile and shakes her head. It’s all the reassurance that she needs.

“Thank you.”

She nods, then turns her attention to Eugene. “J'enverrai des fournitures avec vous.”

Zenie breathes a sigh of relief when the nurse leads them out of the room, back into the makeshift hospital proper. She hands Gene a small box and begins loading it with what she can. Not able to understand the French words they exchange, Zenie’s eyes wander, taking in the scene around her.

Wounded men are everywhere that she looks, some far worse than others. A feeling that Zenie cannot bring herself to name clings to them, its grip growing stronger with every breath that they take, waiting for its moment to strike. Weary and worn medics weave their way through them. Nurses hold hands and offer solace when and where they can.

Passing through them, she catches a flash – ever so brief – of dark hair rushing by with a man on a stretcher. Zenie pauses for a moment to stare. More nurses and medics follow, and Zenie loses sight of who she thought that she saw.

“How are you feeling, Skinny?”

Her fellow paratrooper looks up at her from the cot they have him situated on as he waits for his turn to be helped. Pain is evident on his face. His eyes are hazy with it, and glassy with that expression that she’s come to know from seeing him in bars and pubs after he’s had a little something to drink.

“They gave me alcohol, but I don’t think it’s doing any good.”

“You’ve built up a tolerance to it with all your partying.”

Skinny grimaces. “I guess. Hey, how about you? They fix up your arm?”

“Yeah. I’m going back with Doc Roe.”

“Oh.” Skinny settles back onto the cot, his body loosening with the action. “You’re getting out of here pretty quick, then.”

“The nurse said I was lucky.”

“You are,” he grumbles. He lifts his head a little, making sure she’s still there. “Hey, Tommy. Do me a favor, yeah? If you see Shifty and the rest of the guys, tell them that I’m gonna be okay.”

“I will.”

“Tommy!” Gene clutches the box of supplies tightly as he rounds the corner. He nods towards the door; time to go.

“Bye, Skinny.”

“Bye, Tommy.” For the sake of her friend, Zenie pretends not to notice the frown that tugs at his lips when she steps away, leaving him alone in a place so full of pain and suffering . . . and death.

Father Maloney is holding mass when they return. A good number of Zenie’s friends are kneeled before him as he speaks Latin. Bill and Babe tried to explain it all to her once, but she can’t figure out if they’re being blessed or reprimanded for their sins.

She thanks Gene for everything and then makes her way towards the group. “Go,” she can hear Father Maloney saying as she approaches. “and fight bravely for your country, and for your God.”

Well, she thinks, that answers that question.

The men stand. There are sighs of relief and a few laughs.

“Well guys,” Skip Muck says with a grin. “If we die now, we’re dying in a state of grace! Isn’t that right, Babe?”

The Philadelphian laughs, starts to say something, then stops short as Zenie and Gene approach. His eyebrows disappear underneath the rim of his helmet.

“You’re back?!”

Zenie can’t help but smirk. She might have a sling on her arm and a nasty looking scar where the nurse – or Renée, as Gene says her name is – stitched her up, but she’s back with Easy Company where she belongs. What was it that Bill had said when he made his glorious return from the hospital?

She claps Babe on the shoulder, smiling when she quips, “Had to come back and keep your ass in line, Heffron.”

Beside him, John Julian laughs. Babe, on the other hand, still looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Boy, Bill will be glad to see you,” Julian says. “None of us knew what the hell he was gonna do when we heard you got hit.”

Me neither, Zenie thinks, remembering how her friend had reacted upon learning her secret. Not badly, but . . . She wasn’t exactly around long enough to deal with any fallout. Beads of sweat appear under her helmet at the thought of what might have happened after she left – or what might happen now that she’s back. If Babe and Julian are joking around with her, then Bill didn’t announce her secret to the world the second that Gene swept her off to dig the shrapnel out of her arm. She hoped that he wouldn’t. Maybe she won’t be court martialed or sent home – today, anyway.

For a moment she stands frozen. Not for the first time, blood rushes in her ears like roaring ocean waves as she considers her options. Should she return to her foxhole? Or find someone else to share one with? She could always try her luck wandering to the outpost to find Shifty, could hide out there for a while.

Fate decides for her.

If there’s one thing that Zenie has learned in all the time she’s known Bill Guarnere, it’s that his insistence that you should never volunteer for anything is a lifesaver. With a sling on her arm, she shouldn’t be on a patrol. Sergeant Martin’s eyes pass over her, not even considering taking someone who’s injured his dominant arm. She slips away as Gene, Julian, and Babe all gather around for their sudden orders, her heartbeat still echoing in her ears.

Grey clouds and the branches of barren trees block the wintery sun that hangs somewhere overhead, out of reach. Its position is impossible to find, and the time is just as impossible to calculate. But if she had to guess, Zenie would wager that Bill is out doing his rounds right now, making sure that everyone is okay – or as okay as they’re able to be in this place. That will give her a minute to figure out what to say when she sees him. Or at least to give her a moment alone where she can breathe.

Her foxhole comes into sight. At almost the same moment, a helmet appears over its rim, shadowing eyes that latch onto her with suspicion. She stops in her tracks.

“Tommy?” Bill jumps out of the foxhole and stands before her in an instant. Over and over again, he looks her up and down, his mouth agape. “You’re back!”

Slowly, she nods. No one else is around, but she asks in a quiet voice, “Should I have stayed in the town?”

Bill’s eyebrows knit together. “Should you – what?” Understanding dawns on his face. “Oh!” He lowers his own voice. “I didn’t turn you in, if that’s what you mean.”

He didn’t say anything. Zenie’s heart slows a bit. Her secret is out, and so far, he’s kept it.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Bill repeats. “Jesus, Tommy. You’re my friend, that’s why!” He drops back down into their foxhole. When Zenie doesn’t move, he gestures for her to do the same. They sit for a moment, staring out at the line, neither of them speaking.

When Gene learned her secret, he had called her brave. He wanted nothing in return except for her to take better care of herself so that her secret wouldn’t get out. Shifty had also called her brave, back when he uncovered the truth. He had promised not to turn her in, to be in her corner. So far, Bill has said that he hasn’t turned her in. But what happens now?

She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He’s looking straight ahead, out into the nothingness of the snow.

Ages later, Bill sighs. “So . . . Can we talk about . . . this?”

This. This lie, this charade. This secret.

“Okay.” She didn’t have this conversation with Gene; he hadn’t asked why or how she did any of this. With Shifty, she had made the first move by asking what he wanted to know. But with Bill . . . He’s a wildcard. There’s a reason that wild is part of his nickname.

“Okay,” Bill echoes. Silence, for a moment; not something Zenie is used to experiencing around him. When he finally speaks, his voice is much softer than usual – another change of pace. “So you’ve been pretendin’ to be a man this whole time?”

Zenie’s own voice is nothing but a whisper. “Yes.”

“How much of it all was true, though?”

Most of it, she realizes for the first time. She never lied about where she was from. And other than using a fake name, she’s never lied about who she is. Everything that she’s ever said about her family, her early life, her likes, her dislikes – it was the truth.

“My name isn’t really Thomas Driver, obviously. Other than that . . . Almost everything else has been true.” In all the times that she’s wondered how her friends would react if they learned her secret, she never got as far as imagining how she would explain what she’s done or why she’s doing it. Now she’s grasping at straws. “I just needed to be someone else for a bit.”

Still looking out over the rim of the foxhole, Bill nods. “What is your name, actually? Can I ask?”

“Zena,” she admits. The name feels different in her mouth now and fits strangely in her ears. For years now, the only person who has called her by that name has been Shifty. “Zena B McGlamery. But almost everyone back home calls me Zenie.”

“Zenie.” For the first time, Bill looks at her. Like Shifty before him, he’s looking at her for the first time and seeing Zenie instead of Tommy. He tilts his head. “What does the B stand for?”

“It’ll stand for Beat Your Ass if you tell anyone.”

Laughs burst forth from them both. Good; despite everything, she can still make him do that, at least.

“Beatrice,” she amends. “It was my Granny’s name.”

“Granny. God, if she could see ya now!”

Oh God. Who knows what she would say.

“Is that why you did all this?” Bill asks, his voice quiet again. “After she died – Wait! That letter from your ma, right before the jump. Christ! You really did run away! This is why they didn’t know you joined the army.” Half of his mouth quirks upwards as his eyes flick over her, taking her in in a new light. “You know, for someone so quiet, you really got a rebellious streak, huh?” He punches her playfully on her uninjured arm. “Shoulda known you were one tough son of a bitch that day with the raspberries. Er, one tough broad, I mean.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t remember that?”

He squints at her, like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world that she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “When we first got to Toccoa, when they were makin’ us walk up Currahee to get us used to it, Luz pointed out some berries along the trail. Everyone was worried they were poisonous – wouldn’t take a chance with ‘em, especially since there were briars everywhere. But you said ‘They’re black raspberries!’, shoved your hand through the briars, and picked a handful for all of us. Your hand was covered in juice and blood from where the thorns snagged your skin, and you didn’t even care. It was only the second day I’d known ya, and you’d already stood your ground against me and gotten covered in blood just for a few berries.” Bill makes a noise that’s half laugh, half scoff. “I just remember thinkin’, ‘This goddamn shortie is tougher than he looks.’ And I was right – I just didn’t know the half of it back then.”

Granny had taken her out to pick black raspberries when she was young. Of course she would recognize them, try to pick a few if she had the chance. But try as she might, she can’t place this specific story in her memory. She’ll just have to take Bill’s word for it.

The Italian shrugs. “Anyway. God, I still can’t wrap my mind around the whole thing.”

“Well, now maybe it all makes more sense.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Doc Roe and Shifty. That’s it.”

“Since when?”

“Since Toccoa. But Shifty didn’t confront me about it until England, the night that you tried to give me that pin-up.”

He winces. “Sorry ‘bout that. I probably look real stupid now.”

“No,” Zenie assures him. It just makes her look like more of a liar.

Before she can tell him as much, Bill’s eyebrows knit together. “Your ma,” he says, his mind back on the letter from the day of the jump. “She really has no clue. You gonna go back to her when the war ends?”

Zenie hesitates. Mama promised she would protect her. Yet her father . . .

“Probably.”

Bill tilts his head. “Probably?”

“My father,” Zenie explains. “I don’t know what he would do if I came back. Running away, everything I’ve done . . .” She makes a vague gesture, like that explains everything.

“Ah.” Bill leans back against the packed earth of the foxhole, his gaze once again wandering out to the expanse of snow before them. He shakes his head, the action causing his helmet to make a scraping sound against the dirt behind him. “I said I was gonna get you home to your ma, remember? That still stands. Even if I gotta put your old man in his place.”

The mental image of Bill escorting her back into her home, of such a wild young man getting in her father’s face like some sort of brave prince facing the wrath of a dragon, is enough to make her smile. Something she could never hope to do, but that her friend could do without batting an eye.

“You said that you needed to be someone else for a bit,” Bill notes. He falls silent again.

“Yes.”

“I dunno, Tommy. If anything, maybe this whole thing allowed you to be more yourself.”

More herself? Tommy is a role she plays. Someone who’s brave and who has friends and who does all the things that Zenie herself could never hope to. They’re completely different.

When she doesn’t respond, Bill shrugs again. “Just a thought.”

“Your first one ever?” She teases.

He grins. “You know, kid? I think you’re gonna be okay.”

[thegodemperorsmycopilot]

Dramatis Personae

The Inquisitorial Agents

Ezekyll Krinn, "Hollow"

Jeziree M'Bannyon, "Dust"

Rezika Kastalani, "Rush"

Sabin Zimnyadova, "Frost"

Uhlaxendra Oktano, "Lex"

4

A lithe form barged into the chapel, autorevolvers in firm grips as the guns swept across the ruined chamber.

The gunslinger saw 3 different gunsswing toward her as a pair of large dogs growled. She slowly let her arms sag downwards, guns pointing at the marbled floor.

"What the hell did I miss?"

"You're late, Frost," the rail-thin scout deadpanned as he lowered his worn laspistol.

Frost holstered her guns as the scout half-carried and half-dragged their unconscious markswoman towards the doorway, her long gun slung on his other shoulder. "What the pike is with all y'all, bein' late all the pikin' time."

"Got here as fast as I could, Krinn," came the tired reply as she held up her trenchcoat with fingers poking out of bullet holes. "Got a little held up."

She looked over at the pilot in their faceless helmet and dark flight jacket and noticed that they were standing next to a corpse on the floor in a pool of dark coloured blood. She walked over to the body and crouched down to have a closer look.

The corpse's face was twisted in a rictus of pain and hate, its throat violently ripped out. Three arms were splayed across the floor, one throughly mangled. Suppressor-equipped handguns were still gripped tight in its hands.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she noted the pair of large dogs had returned to quietly nosing at the mutant corpse. Since their scout had a tendency to frequently bring strays of all kinds back with him, this didn't surprise her at all.

Over her shoulder, she asked, "Fill me in, Hollow, what'd I miss?"

"Gunman over there pikin' ambushed us. Didn't even hear 'im slip in from the front till it was too late. Dust's pikin' lucky to be alive an' nothin' broken. Bodyglove stopped the pikin' bullet. Lucky it wasn't las," he grumbled as he gingerly laid the markswoman on a pew that was mostly in one piece. "Still knock'd her right outta her pikin' perch, no mistake', righ' splat on the floor. Pikin' lucky to still be breathin'."

While Hollow was speaking, the pilot took off their helmet, pulled off the wrap holding their hair in place and shook out their hair with a sigh.

"Dogs tore into the gunman before we could stop them," the pilot picked up from where Hollow had left off. "Don't think he was expecting them. However, Mister Mutant down there brings up a few questions and, more importantly, an urgent need to vacate the premises."

Frost stood up and dusted her pants off out of habit. She looked at Hollow and their pilot.

"So, Hollow, Rush. Is this dead guy related to the cultist gangers you dealt with?"

"Not wearing their colours, no similar identifying marks, and dissimilar equipment from the Flesh Bringers. But he could be an affiliate or a hired gun," answered Rush softly, looking down at the floor before looking up at Frost. "A retaliatory hit? Revenge?"

Hollow spoke up, squatting next to the corpse, "Nah, I've seen enough of their pikin' kind in the last few years."

He paused, fixing everyone with an empty stare.

"This confirms that there's a pikin' genestealer cult on-planet, and they're active. Might've been scared up by you lookin' into those mutant cult rumours."

Frost covered her face with a hand.

"Great. Of all the Emperor-loving luck. A cult of Chaos worshippers taking over violent underhive gangs and, now, a genestealer cult. I dunno which is worse. All we need now is the damn zombie robots to show up and we'll have a full hand of just-kill-us-now."

"Could always be worse," a dulcet voice chimed in.

Frost whipped around, finally seeing the blonde-haired girl. She took her in with a cocked eyebrow. Right, the dogs had to have come from somewhere.

Her nose may have been pretty once upon a time, but it clearly had been in one too many fights. That close-cropped hair must have been a sin against some saint or God as she imagined it be like pure woven gold when grown out. She also appeared taller than most of their present company despite being crouched on the floor.

Frost realised that she was ministering to a third hound who seemed to have taken a through-and-through in its foreleg, blood and hydraulic fluid had soaked its fur. And then belatedly noticed the battered law enforcement armour she was wearing.

"Alright, who brought the Lex?"

Section prev

Section 1

Section next

[androphagos]

Exclusive content only available with tier subscription on DeviantArt (from 1st week).

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Ready to serve

Who doesn't love a freshly roasted torso carved into thin slices and served on bread or in a wrap like a kebab?

Well... this chef from Armenia has made this his full time job. He always roasts men in their 20s with excellent physique, and then places their cooked bodies vertically on display, as people queue up to buy a wrap or sandwich with thinly sliced carved meat.

This man was a soldier, who lost a leg in a battle. His girlfriend broke up with him, his family was fed up with taking after him, so they decided to just sell his body to be used for another purpose.

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Traditional wedding soup

At a traditional wedding in Crete you will always be served a bowl or two of gamopilafo (wedding soup). The soup is made exclusively out of the broth of men who are boiled alive in large cooking pots. The soup includes rice, lemon juice, olive oil, onions and of course chunks of tender meat of men.

The traditional way to do the soup is to surprise the "chosen" man or men, by restraining them on the spot. The men of the groom's family will make sure the chosen man is stripped naked and prepared in less than an hour from the time they arrive at the wedding, so that once all the guests arrive, the chefs can put on a show.

The choice is usually made by the couple themselves. At this wedding, the bride's twin brothers were chosen. The family had no objection to this, as they were both causing trouble for many years. They were just 21 years old, and they had already been arrested for petty crimes more than 5 times each...

(more at deviant art)

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Fresh (alive) Meat on Display

I love it when I go on holidays, and the taverns and restaurants put their glass display cases out in the streets to show what (or who) is on the menu. My girlfriend likes getting closer and examining the poor men, sometimes even joking in their face about them being cooked.

This dude saw us laughing at him and my girlfriend was rubbing her belly and licking her lips. He got so embarrassed, he started crying. In the end we decided to just continue our stroll through the town until we get hungry.

When we came back an hour later, he was still in the display case, but this time he was just reduced to pieces of meat. His cute severed head was there, next to some of his ribs, a thigh, a shoulder and an arm.

If his feet had not been served to others already, I would have definitely have them for dinner. But oh well, we just looked elsewhere around the town, which was full of displays filled with guys like him ready to meet their fate.

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Memories from past Easters 3

Have you ever been at a Greek Easter feast? For me it's been a yearly goal to find a welcoming family or friend to experience and enjoy the abundance of spit roasted and grilled male meat. This was one of the first ones I've been to 10 years ago. I was a teenager back then

I will never forget this lovely man who was more than willing to offer me his son's foot and head on a tray like that. He saw me drooling over the feet and head throughout the day, so he decided to just gift them to me. The son was 25 (my age now), and I had only seen him when he was already prepared and seasoned on the spit. A butcher had delivered him for the party, and the men of the family carried him over the fire...

(more at deviant art)

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Don't forget to toss the meat halfway through

For better roast results it's suggested to toss the man over on the tray halfway through cooking. And while you are at it, make sure you make a few cuts on the flesh before adding more sauce and seasoning. You'll want the meat of those buns to absorb as much flavour as possible, while the skin becomes crispy.

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Mocking the meat

Imagine losing your head and being made fun of for crying...

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Post-decapitation selfie

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Failed Balkan model roasted and sold on the street

He thought a modelling career would save him from being sold as meat. Unfortunately he failed badly in this direction and couldn't even sustain his own life properly. It seems like good looks are not always enough to guarantee a man's survival in this world. His appearance ended up being more of a curse than a blessing.

Out of desperation he signed a deal with an agency that was actively involved in the male meat industry. He's been in adverts for male meat farms, restaurants and supermarkets, always posing as meat in various photoshoots. It paid well and he was okay with it, as it was just a few hours of roleplaying as meat in front of a camera.

But for his last photoshoot, he was required to play something a bit more than a simple role... Maybe he should have been more careful when reading the contract and the script of the photoshoot before he agreed. It was clearly mentioned that it would involve spit roasting, but his naivety led him to believe it would simply involve being tied temporarily on a spit with rope.

... (more at deviant art)

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Fresh college meatFresh college meat

The best college in the country found a way to sufficiently fund itself by selling a proportion of 10% of their male students as meat. The lowest performing 10% of young men at this college, ends up becoming meat which later gets sold at markets, restaurants and school cafeterias.

The amount of extra funding coming from this practice, has allowed the college to reach the top of the rankings, with the most pioneering programs, best facilities and research opportunities. The prestige of having a diploma from this specific college, is what leads young men to enrol there anyway, hoping that they won't end up in the bottom 10%. You can imagine how competitive it can get for the male students. It's no surprise that the successful male graduates of this college are all employed in high positions right after college.

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No man cheats on his daughter!

A father would never let his daughter be cheated on and heartbroken by a man without any consequences. Bill found out the hard way, when his in-laws abducted him and prepared him for their daughter's birthday. They made sure he was washed, shaved, cleaned up, marinated, trussed up and roasted alive, all before their daughter had arrived at the surprise party. They wanted the meat to be ready for her to dive in. Revenge is sweet and it's best served HOT.

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Memories from past Easters 4

Some restaurants in Greece choose to spit roast imported meat from abroad on Easter Sunday. Many locals love tasting exotic flavours too on this special day. Also some businesses and individuals see this method as one less complication when it comes to dealing with the meat, as meat is usually unable to communicate in the language, causing less trouble and making the process much more straight forward.

This man was imported from neighbouring Turkey, where the male meat industry is thriving, and the two countries have established an unprecedented trade and cooperation between them, with thousands of men being exported as meat annually from one country to the other.

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Cooking class

Yesterday I joined this cooking class/workshop, where I was shown how to roast a whole man in an electric oven. The organisers provided the man, and all the participants contributed towards his preparation. The meat himself was very upset about it, as he would turn 36 next year, meaning he would have been a free man forever after that. But maybe he was just too tasty-looking to allow him to become a free man. His wife was there too as one of the participants, and she was glad she managed to sort this out in time. She wouldn't be able to live her whole life with regrets for not eating him when she had the chance.

The class took around half a day, because apart from preparing him and shoving him in the glass oven, we had to wait 4-5 hours for him to finish cooking. The price included unlimited drinks, snacks, and of course a piece of our own creation once he was fully cooked. If you can ever join such a class, it is absolutely worth it.

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That's what I call a centrepiece!

Every time I get invited to a dinner party at friends' or relatives' house, I make sure to double check and guarantee that they've got the meat already sorted, just to be safe. I usually ask them to send me a receipt of purchase or a picture/video of the man. Even when it's people I trust and respect, I still wouldn't wanna risk ending up butchered and cooked randomly just because I wasn't careful enough.

This guy in the picture was obviously NOT doing that. His step-mom's parents invited him over for dinner, and he ended up becoming the dinner for the whole family. How do I know that? Well, I was there myself and I took this picture of his delicious feet and cute head once it was served on a platter in the middle of the table. The rest of his body was stuffed and oven-roasted, like a trussed-up turkey. They used his fresh raw feet and head as the centrepiece, which was dominating our view while we were waiting for his roasted body to be served.

Unfortunately the family was not interested in offering or selling us his feet or his head, as they had other plans for those cuts for the weekend. Oh well, after all it was their meat, their choice... Glad I was able to at least take this picture of this delicious specimen.

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When in Argentina...

When in Argentina, do as the locals do... Find an asado where they roast men alive, and enjoy the whole experience. When I was there for a week I went to an asado every single day. And this was one of my favourites, cause this dude just tasted like HEAVEN. If you are wondering where his legs had gone by the time this photo was taken, let me just tell you I had just devoured a whole calve and foot of his with my girlfriend, and the rest of the lower body was already reduced to bones in people's plates. We rushed back for more cuts before all of him was gone. I'll never forget how good his meat tasted. 10/10

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Passing down family secrets to the next generation

My friend Mark knows how much I love feet. His dad is a podiatrist-turn-chef, so you can imagine how well he knows the foot anatomy and how easy it is for him to spot the best pair for each occasion.

In this photo he was showing us what to look for on a foot when we want to buy some from a butcher's or a market. He pointed out that the toe-nails can tell more about the meat than we can imagine. And the toes themselves can demonstrate how meaty or tender a foot can be. The flat soles are great for grilling, and higher-arches are perfect for roasting. Also hairy feet show that the man had good blood circulation. Smell can also indicate specific qualities, and different foot smell intensities can really make a difference in the final result of a dish.

He also bought this delicious foot himself from his favourite butcher shop. The previous owner of the feet was an old patient of his when he had the podiatry clinic. Mark's dad remembered how he was drooling over this pair of feet back then, and he was glad to see that the young man had looked after his feet for all those years.

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Crispiest crackling

This dude was presented in the online menu of this restaurant as the roast of the day. When I saw his pictures and videos from his preparation in the man farm, I knew I had to book a table. This place roasts their meats to perfection. I need to find out their secret for that perfectly crispy skin crackling... and the meat under that heavenly crisp is always tender, juicy and full of flavour. The feet and hands are sometimes too crispy for my taste though, I would personally remove those parts and cook them a different way. But as this restaurant only specialises in whole roasts, they want their men to enter and exit the oven without any prior adjustment to their bodies, apart from, of course, shaving them and cleaning them.

[blackjackkent]

Lacking any other obvious path, Rakha and the others follow Baelan's hectic path northward away from the bibberbangs. He leads them at a fast trot into an even more mushroom-heavy area; Rakha is once again distracted from destroying all of them on sight, this time not by Wyll but by a voice that rings through her head.

"((*more are coming*))"

All the hair on the back of her neck stands up. Rakha is no stranger to voices in her head - but this one is different. It is not the cool contralto of the dream guardian or the ringing authority of the Absolute or the hoarse growl of the beast... in fact it sounds more like several voices at once, a rumble like thunder coming from within her skull. It makes her teeth ache.

And it is not only in her mind either.

"Hush," Lae'zel mutters. "Do you hear it?"

"((*they're coming.*))" insists the rumbling voice. "((*they're coming...*))"

"That voice," Rakha says slowly. "It... doesn't sound like the [beast]. The [beast] doesn't give warnings."(*)

"No," Lae'zel agrees grimly. "And it's unlike any I've yet heard."

"((*they're coming. *you're* coming.*))" The strange voice rises to a painful crescendo... then falls to a brief silence.

And then suddenly the grotto fades away entirely, and the voice is all that is left.

-----

Narrator: You are swallowed by a chorus of turbulent music. Through one creature sing many voices, the harmony of an entire collective.

The sound is overwhelming, all-encompassing. She is dimly aware that out of the shadows are rising strange figures - almost humanoid, but also somehow like the mushrooms she has been destroying in all directions since they arrived. And she is dimly conscious, too, that they are the ones making the sound.

"((*Sovereign...*))" they wail in strange harmonic notes. "((*she has come... she is here...*))"

Narrator: The choir fades. A single melody rises above the others, brassy and commanding.

"((*I AM SOVEREIGN*))" declaims this new central voice, resonating among the others.

Narrator: You see a vision - your lifeless body, wrapped in fungal tendrils. The sovereign is threatening you.

"((*state your purpose*))"

Rakha stiffens and her eyes narrow. She does not feel fear of these creatures, whatever they are - but they opened with a threat. She has killed many humanoid creatures for less already; she will not be mocked by a walking mushroom.

And yet...

There is something here that rouses her curiosity. The voice resonating in her head is transmitted by something other than sound. There is a magic that resonates between these fungal creatures; she can see the way the Weave hums from spore to spore through the air. It is mesmerizing.

What is this place? Who are these people? What are these people?

[INSIGHT] Seek understanding. Focus on the sovereign's song.

Narrator: You detect a distinct quiver in every note. These creatures have experienced recent tragedy.

An attack, perhaps. The dark dwarves on the beach below? This explains the opening threat, then - they believe Rakha another attacker.

Not always a poor guess, with Rakha. But the Weave shimmers and shudders around her with every syllable of their song and she cannot take her eyes off it.

[INTIMIDATION] "My purpose is private," she growls. "Let me pass and I will leave you unharmed."

Probably.

(A/N: Rakha rolled a THIRTY on this DC5 check, holy crap. And... this conversation also appears to be bugged. This is supposed to take you into the same conversational branch as a successful persuasion roll, but instead repeats the same line from the insight check. Fudging slightly for the intended behavior. XD)

Narrator: Fungal roots weave through your mind, seeking your true intent. Then the sovereign drones a new melody, cautious but welcoming.

"((*descend to me. let us speak in flesh.*))"

Narrator: The persistent music coaxes you forward. The sovereign expects you.

-----

Rakha lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, releases fists she hadn't realized were clenched. She catches sight of Wyll watching her sidelong, and he grins as he meets her eyes.

"Nicely negotiated," he says sincerely. "And everyone still alive."

Rakha shrugs. "Early yet," she mutters. But she can't help feeling slightly pleased.

-----

(*) In-game dialogue here of course says "Urge" rather than "beast." Rakha always thinks of it as the "beast," though, and has said as much out loud to the companions already in my writing. So... dramatic license. :P We also had an alternative Durge option here to freak out and wonder if Sceleritas is back, but Spaw sounds nothing like Sceleritas, lol.)

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Untitled

Ship: Anton Chigurh x Salem Nickle Newman

Word Count: 582

Summary: A technically unfinished piece I've been writing off and on for a few months, now. Not really sure what more to do with it so I decided I'd post it as is. What's nuanced about this particular piece is there is no dialogue, which is a bit off the beaten path as I feel I tend to write a lot of talking. (Though I do so very much love to write detailed descriptions of scenes and emotions <3) CW for implied murder and the violence that comes with working as a hired gun, semi-detailed descriptions of blood, non-sexual nudity.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife @rexscanonwife

The blood clung to Salem's shirt. It seemed to seep into his skin and stain his hair. The stench followed him like a mangy dog. Go home, Sandy. He shuffled to the washroom, behind him Anton was in a similar state, but better off. Today had been a messy job.

Neither spoke as they began the ritual; Salem peeled off his shirt and threw it in the trash bin. Then he removed his jeans and examined them for a moment before draping them over the back of the toilet, maybe they could be salvaged. Anton removed his own shirt, standing in front of the mirror while Salem leaned over the tub and turned on the faucet. After adjusting the water to his preferred temperature, he reached up and turned on the radio that sat on a shelf above the toilet. Anton signalled for him to face him, taking a dampened washcloth to the deep cut on his forehead. Salem leaned into the tender touch, inhaling sharply at the sting of the cloth on the tender flesh, then sat on the closed toilet to remove his socks. Finally, when he stood again, he discarded his underwear next to the socks and slipped into the tub as it finished filling up. He sighed loudly as he turned off the faucet and sunk below the surface.

Anton knelt beside the tub and gave Salem a stern look when he noticed the steam coming from the water. Salem briefly opened one eye to answer him.

I know, I know, cold water for blood, not hot. Can you blame me?

Anton, sighed, too. Not as loud or as heavy, but with fondness and tiredness. He reached for a plain bottle of shampoo and tapped on Salem's shoulder. They reluctantly sat up straight, but they knew Anton just didn't want the water to get cold now that they were so comfortable. He poured the clean-smelling solution onto his calloused palms and began working it into Salem's short hair. Salem relaxed, little sounds of content flowing from him. After the shampooing, Anton rinsed Salem's hair out with a plastic cup, then soaped up a sponge to cleanse Salem's lightly tanned skin. Though he had seen his body many times, Anton never took it for granted, going slow and memorizing the patterns in his skin for the fifth time this week. Salem looked fit to drift off right about then, eyelids heavy. Once his skin began to clear up, he sunk back down into the water to wash away the soap, staying there for a long moment before sitting straight again. He blinked slowly and stood, Anton backing up so he could step out of the tub, already shivering from the temperature difference between the air and the water, though the room wasn't cold in the slightest.

Anton wrapped Salem in a fluffy towel; they sat on the closed toilet once more while his partner stripped away his thick pants and boxers and slipped into the tub himself. Anton needed no assistance in washing up and preferred it that way. Now it was time for Salem to do his own admiring, stifling a yawn as Anton efficiently scrubbed away the muck of their work. Despite the film of filth on their bodies, they had mostly come out unscathed, other than the cut on Salem's head and the two bullets that had graciously grazed Anton's right arm and side. Above Salem’s head, a Johnny Cash song played faintly from the radio.