#near the end of ch5 now

[jaythes1mp]

4826 words, 27475 characters, 269 sentences, 122 paragraphs, 19.3 pages

All done in one night🙏 it’s 7:50 am and I haven’t slept, so if you don’t like this I might cry bro

Your secrets are ours, kid

Yandere BatFam x Reader — CH10 -> CH9 -> CH8 -> CH7 -> CH6 -> CH5 -> CH4 -> CH3 -> CH2 -> CH1

You quietly opened the classroom door, trying to draw as little attention to yourself as possible as you creep inside. You scanned the room, holding your laptop close to your side as your eyes darting around the space with slight panic. Your heart racing from the exertion of running from across campus to get here. Thankfully the professor hadn't started yet and your friend, who already sat near the back of the room, gives you a knowing glance. You give him a sheepish smile as you make your way through the rows of desks to him.

"You cut it a bit close this time." He gives you a cheeky grin. "I made it here though, didn't I?" You retort.

He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the professor clearing her throat at the front of the room, signalling class is about to begin. “Mister Wayne.” She warns, her calculating eyes boring into Tim’s frame. He sits up straight and gives her a sheepish smile.

You have to bring a hand up to muffle your laughter. “Mister Wayne.” You mock quietly, whispering so no one other than the boy next to you could hear.

He felt the eyes of the other students on him like burning hot plates, the majority of them were either envious of him or thought he was an entitled prick.

Of course the professor would call him out for talking when you were the one who ran in late.

Tim couldn't help but smile sheepishly as he was chastised, he had heard your quiet snickering behind. There was this fuzzy feeling in the back of his head at the thought that you were laughing because of him. He had made you happy. He could rub this in Damian’s face later.

The longer class went on the further and further consumed into your little project you got. You had finished the assignment for your criminology course a few days ago, not that Jason was aware. Instead occupying your time with your side hobby. You had over four thousand people following your reporters blog online and it earned you some decent cash. Now far too invested in the lives of the vigilantes of Gotham to really think about anything else. It didn’t help that the people you surrounded yourself with were all geniuses, so you couldn’t rely on them for help even with vague questions as they’d figure out that you’re the author for Blüdhaven’s top trending reporting blog. Maybe Dick could help you, he doesn’t portray himself as the smartest tool in the box when it comes to these things and he won’t ask too many questions.

Your train of thought is cut off as you feel the end of a pen dig into your side, glaring over at Tim.

He kept the pen pressed to your side, not at all being gentle about the small jabs as he tried to get your attention, silently gesturing to you to pay attention to the damn class, not whatever you were doing on your laptop. He’ll have to bug it, seeing as you’re not using your phone as much anymore.

You grimaced when you felt the pen being jabbed into your side again, a silent command to pay attention to the class and stop messing around on your laptop. You rolled your eyes and shot a glare at your friend, who was giving you a pointed look.

You begrudgingly closed the device, knowing that Tim would find other ways to get your attention if you didn’t stop being distracted. You sigh and silently resign yourself to actually paying attention to the class, although you made sure to shoot another glare at Tim for good measure.

Drake follows along quietly as you rush to pack up your belongings. The class seems to end faster than usual, and the moment the teacher releases you from the period, you grab Tim's sleeve and pull him along behind you, quickly making your way out the door with him in tow.

The hallway outside is filled with a mix of noise and chaos. Laughing groups of students chatter away amongst themselves, while others race through, late for their next class. The sound of sneakers scraping against the college’s floors loud and prominent. You push your way through the crowd, guiding him along as you make a beeline for the on-campus cafe.

As you enter the cafe, the atmosphere shifts to a more relaxed vibe. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods waft through the air, filling the space with a comforting scent. The cafe is moderately crowded, with students occupying the various tables and booths scattered throughout. Some chat amongst themselves while sipping on their drinks, while others are engrossed in their studies, textbooks spread out before them. There's a gentle hum of conversation that fills the cafe, blending with the soft music playing in the background.

As you scan the cafe for an available booth, your eyes roam over the cozy ambiance, taking in the various students enjoying their time. However, your search comes to an abrupt halt when your gaze falls on Dick Grayson, the young professor, sitting alone in the corner. You discreetly tug on Tim's sleeve and subtly gesture in Grayson's direction with a nudge of your shoulder.

You notice a subtle change in Tim's expression as his lips curve into a knowing grin. He doesn't seem all that fazed by Dick’s presence, almost as if he was expecting it. As if he was already aware that he’d be here. However, what you been blissfully unaware of was Dick’s impatiently bouncing leg, and the checking of his phone every few seconds.

You pull Tim along to the man’s booth, standing opposite him with a grin. Grayson’s face lights up at the sight of you, and he quickly places his phone face down on the table before standing up to greet you. Without hesitation, he spreads his arms wide, opening them in invitation for a welcoming embrace.

You eagerly accept Dick’s open arms, wrapping your own around his sides without a second thought. Seeking out the familiar comfort of his embrace. Your head fits perfectly against his chest, and you relish the feel of his warmth and the comforting familiarity of this act. Settling snugly against him like a younger sibling would to an older brother.

With your head snuggled against his chest, you're not able to spot the dark grins that spread across the brothers' faces as they exchange knowing looks, their gazes fixed on you.

You gradually untangle yourself from Dick’s embrace and slide into the booth, settling comfortably between the two brothers. Chuckling softly when the oldest Wayne seemed reluctant to let go of you.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He chirps, resting his head in his palm and idly tracing around the carved lines of the table.

You nod, settling back into the booth and intending to let the two brothers continue their discussion without interruption. However, you quickly realize that their intense stares are focused solely on you, their gazes unwavering and intense. The intensity in their gazes prompt you to discreetly clear your throat in an attempt to break the silence.

"You both are staring at me like you have something to say," you comment. Fiddling with a loose strand at the end of your sweater.

The brothers exchange a glance, seemingly communicating silently between them with subtle nods and raised eyebrows. Eventually, Dick clears his throat and turns his gaze back to you, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Ah, sorry about that. Got a bit lost in thought." Dick says, his voice tinged with a hint of humor.

Tim, on the other hand, remains silent, his steady gaze not leaving you. His expression is unreadable, though a small quirk of his lips suggests a hint of amusement.

“Right...” You look down towards the table, noticing it empty of any beverages nor sweets. Had Dick not ordered before we got here?

You blink, realising your mistake and sitting up. “Oh, sorry. You guys know each other right? I’m sure Timmy-boy has at least one of your classes?”

Dick snorts, but quickly quietens down by a sharp look thrown from Tim. “Yeah, we’re... aquatinted.”

Tim subtly kicks Dick’s leg under the table before turning back to you. “Are you hungry?” His blue eyes analysing you.

You shrug, leaning back and drumming your fingers against the table. “I could eat.”

Dick taps the table, leaning forward to get a better look at you. His eyes flicker with curiosity as his gaze roams over your form, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "What do you feel like eating?" he asks, watching you drumming your fingers against the surface of the table. Tim's expression changes to one of interest as he observes you as well.

The waiter, ever observant, takes this as a cue to approach the table. "What can I get you guys?" he asks, his voice cheerful.

Dick cocks his head, still watching you closely. "We'll have some coffee and some pastries to start," he replies, his gaze flickering back to your fingers tapping against the table.

Tim adds, "Make that two coffees and a basket of assorted pastries."

You nod in agreement with their exchange, letting your hands fall to your lap as you continue to follow the conversation. "Ah, I think I'll go for the milkshake of the day," you add, addressing the waiter who's been patiently waiting for your order. "And I'll take the café's specialty coffee as well, please." Dick almost coos at your manors.

The waiter smiles politely and nods, taking note of your order before hurriedly walking away to place the order. Meanwhile, Dick props his chin on his hand, a sly grin on his face. "Aren't you a polite one?" he teases you, eyes glinting with playful challenge.

Tim watches the interaction, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Have you had breakfast?” The question is thrown with an air of casualness, but you know he’ll give you that sad puppy face if you say no.

You sigh, nodding. “Yeah, my roommates big on the whole taking care of myself or whatever. He’s a hypocrite I tell you.” You cross your arms, leaning back.

Dick snickers at your comment about your roommate. "Sounds like a character," he remarks, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. A fond smile at the thought of Jason.

Tim, on the other hand, looks sympathetic. "I can relate," he says, shaking his head. "I've got a brother who's always nagging me about eating healthy and getting enough sleep."

A small huff escapes Dick's lips in response to Tim's words, though it's not loud enough for you to hear. His expression momentarily shifts, a pout crossing his features.

After a few minutes of quiet banter The waiter returns promptly with a serving plate stacked with various pastries. He places it on the table and then sets the drinks down in front of each of you. As the waiter walks away, Tim quickly grabs two of the pastries and places them on a plate in front of you. Pushing the white porcelain closer to you with his pointer and middle fingers.

Dick, meanwhile, takes a sip of his coffee, a pleasant hum leaving his lips. Watching the interaction fondly.

"Go on," Tim encourages, nudging the plate slightly towards you. "Make sure to eat." His gaze is firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

You glance down at the pastry, a feeling of warmth spreading through you at Tim's thoughtfulness. Before you can thank him, Dick interjects, a playful smirk on his face.

"Aww, look at that. Timbo's acting all chivalrous, ain't he?" he teases, elbowing Tim lightly in the side. Tim rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Can it, Dickhead," Tim mutters with no real heat behind his words, shoving Dick's hand off his shoulder. But it's hard to stay mad at Dick, especially when he has that charming smirk plastered on his face. He playfully ruffles Tim's hair, earning him a glare in return.

Dick just laughs, unfazed by Tim's retort. "Oh, don't be like that," he replies, a teasing grin plastered across his face.

Sensing the brewing banter, you take a sip of your milkshake, your attention flickering between the two.

Tim attempts to smooth his hair back into place, his gaze shifting to you. "Don't mind him," he says with another eye roll. "Dick's sense of humor never matured past the age of twelve."

Dick feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart. "Hey, I'll have you know my sense of humor is top-notch," he retorts, a playful glint in his eyes.

Tim snorts, taking another sip of his coffee to suppress a laugh. "Sure it is," he says dryly. "If by top-notch you mean 'borderline obnoxious.'"

You can't help but chuckle at their banter, hiding your smile behind your milkshake.

The sound drawing the attention of the Wayne brothers as they turn their gazes to you. They watch you for a moment, their expressions softening at the sound of your laughter.

Dick's smirk widens as he observes your reaction, his gaze fixated on you. "Ah, there it is," he murmurs, his voice low and soft.

Tim, too, can't help but smile quietly as he watches you, his expression warm. There's an almost admiring look in his eyes as he tilts his head to the side, studying you closely.

You pick up the chocolate croissant, bringing it to your lips the pausing mid-bite as they’ve turned their attention to you.

Dick's eyes remain locked on you, watching as you pause in mid-bite. He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand once more, a playful glint in his eyes. Something dark hidden beneath the ocean swirls of his irises.

Tim, too, observes you closely, his gaze lingering on your face. There's an intensity in his gaze that was absent earlier; it's calculating, almost. A subtle hint of possessiveness in the depth of his eyes. He seems to be analyzing your every expression with a keen interest, as if trying to uncover some hidden secret. He lifts the coffee to his lips, taking a long sip and averting his attention elsewhere.

"You gonna eat that or just stare at it?" Dick teases, gesturing towards the croissant you hold in your hand. His tone is light, but the intensity in his gaze belies the lightheartedness of his words. It’s a subtle warning to eat.

You roll your eyes at the gesture, taking a bite into the pastry. It’s warm, freshly baked. The chocolate drizzled over the top as well as placed inside. It practically melts into your mouth. You bring a hand up to cover your mouth as you eat, hiding the grin. “It’s alright.” You lie through your teeth. It’s amazing. But you wouldn’t give the overprotective guys the satisfaction.

Dick snickers, seeing right through your lie. "Just alright, huh?" he says, feigning disbelief. He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tim, a knowing glint in his eyes, takes another sip of his coffee. He can tell you're enjoying the croissant, as evidenced by the gleam of chocolate around your lips. But he decides to play along, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe you're just too picky," he comments. They’ll get you a life time supply of these once the plan succeeds.

You hiss, putting the half eaten pastry down onto the plate and elbowing his side. Unaware of the chocolate on your face which makes it hard for them to take you seriously. “I am not picky.” You huff, crossing your arms.

Dick suppresses a laugh as he watches you pout, unable to resist teasing you further. He reaches forward, swiping a finger across your cheek to collect a bit of chocolate that's been left behind.

"Oh really?" he says, a smirk on his face. He uses a napkin to wipe off his finger. His eyes never leave your face as he does so.

Tim, sitting to your side, watches the exchange. There's a hint of amusement in his eyes, but he keeps his composure.

You pause, an embarrassed flush coming over your face. How long had that been there?

"You've got a little something right here," Dick says, tapping the corner of his own mouth, indicating where the chocolate is located.

Tim can't help but smirk at Dick's comment, his eyes flickering to your mouth and then back up to your eyes again. He takes another sip of his coffee, leaning back in his seat.

You brush a hand over your face, wiping away the excess chocolate. Though the movement only seems to smear it further.

Dick chuckles, unable to contain his amusement. His eyes roam over your face, taking immense pleasure in the flustered state you're in.

"Here, let me help," he offers, grabbing a napkin from the table. He reaches out, gently taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head towards him. With a gentle touch, he slowly wipes away the residual chocolate with the napkin.

You felt more embarrassed than anything, resting your head against the table afterwards. Feeling like you just wanted to evaporate into the air.

Dick laughs, his amusement clearly evident as you hide your face against the table. He pats your head affectionately, his touch gentle.

Tim watches you, his expression more subdued than Dick's. However, there's a hint of a smile on his lips, a gleam in his eyes that betrays his amusement.

Dick relaxes in the cafe’s empty booth, leaning back slightly as he glances around the room with a touch of impatience. His foot taps rhythmically against the floor, a subtle sign of his restless energy. His grip on his phone tightens as his eyes remain fixed on the screen, watching the blinking red dot on the small map come closer and closer. His fingers tense around the phone's edges, his impatience growing with every passing moment.

As the blinking red dot reaches its destination within the bakery, Dick places his phone face down on the table and casually pretends to check over the menu’s items, feigning indifference despite his growing restlessness. He tries to act nonchalant, as if his mind isn’t anxiously anticipating your arrival.

Dick senses the familiar presence approaching, the shadows in the cafe becoming longer and stretching over his table. He manages to hide his growing excitement, attempting to feign nonchalance, but his giddiness is almost palpable. He looks up from the menu he was pretending to study, his smile betraying him.

He quickly rises from his seat, his body brimming with anticipation. Without hesitation, he opens his arms wide, the eagerness evident on his face as he waits for their baby birds embrace. Practically preening when you bury your face in his chest. He’s sure you can hear his heart going a mile a minute. You fit so snugly in his arms, like you were made to be there. His baby sibling.

He meets Tim’s crazed eyes, a dark grin crossing both of their features. He mouths slowly. ‘All good?’

His younger brother nods, fishing out his phone from his pocket to display the vitals silently. You were good, healthy. He hastily hides his phone once you pull away.

Dick almost lets out a whine. Why don’t you want to stay in his arms, baby bird? Can’t you tell you’re made to be there? Dick struggles to release you from his embrace, his arms reluctantly letting go as he allows you to squeeze yourself into the booth beside him. He manages to put some distance between you and himself begrudgingly, his eyes flickering to your face for a brief moment before shifting his attention to Tim.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He gazes at you with a soft smile on his face, resting his head on his palm as his thumb absently runs over the carved lines on the tabletop. Although he tries to hide it, there's a hint of a pout forming on his lips, clearly displeased by the fact that you've moved away from him. However, he brightens when you don't pull away and instead lean into him when his knee pushes gently against yours in a silent display of affection. Enjoying the proximity.

A comfortable silence runs over the table, a possessive smile on the brother’s faces as they watch you intently. Sitting there so perfectly, your nails picking at a screw on the bottom of your laptop. He shifts closer once you clear your throat, his baby blue eyes honing in on your form. His pupils dilated.

He lets out a content sigh at the sound of your voice. So melodic, it reels him in.

"You both are staring at me like you have something to say," Dick observes you intently, noticing the way you begin to pick at your sweater instead. He can see the anxious habit forming, and silently wishes he could reach out and gently grab your hands to stop you. However, he resists the impulse and simply watches you, his gaze filled with a mixture of concern and affection. He’ll help you with that destructive habit once you’re home, he promises, little bird.

Dick's gaze turns to Tim, a silent silent exchange taking place between the brothers. Dick raises a questioning eyebrow, his grin widening when Tim responds with a subtle nod. Their expressions betraying their shared excitement.

"Ah, sorry about that. Got a bit lost in thoughts." Dick speaks, his voice tinged with a hint of humor. Fondness evident.

“Right...”

Dick's eyes narrow as you sit up, shifting your position and inadvertently pulling your knee away from him. A wave of disappointment washes over him, and he has to bite back the urge to command you to put your knee back where it was. He tries to mask his frustration, his expression remaining neutral, but a subtle tension is evident in his body language. “Oh, sorry. You guys know each other right? I’m sure Timmy-boy has at least one of your classes?”

Dick relaxes a little at the sound of your voice, he grins at Tim's nickname, clearly amused by it. However, his laughter is abruptly cut off as he catches the disapproving look his brother gives him. Immediately sensing the tension, he composes himself, his grin quickly turning into a more subdued smirk. “Yeah,” Dick looks you over calculatingly for a moment, his eyes studying you intently as he tries to choose his words carefully. He pauses for a moment before speaking up, his voice measured and deliberate. “We’re acquainted.”

Dick's attempts to maintain a serious expression falter as Tim shoots him another pointed look and kicks his shin. He can't help but grin, finding his brother's disapproving glances more amusing than anything. He rubs his leg, the younger vigilante having not held back.

“Are you hungry?” His brother questioned, his gaze shifting back to you. You have to be hungry, Dick thought. Jason said you had eaten nearly five hours ago. They can’t let their little bird starve!

When you shrug their eyes narrow, the drumming of your fingers catching their attention. “I could eat.” Your voice broke the silence.

Dick coos. It’s okay, you don’t have to downplay how much you need food. We’ll look after you.

"What do you feel like eating?" Dick's voice comes out slightly breathless as he speaks, his words spoken with conviction. He knows your power over them, and he would do just about anything for you within reason. The cafe is no exception, and he knows that they would probably buy the place in a heartbeat if you so much as hinted at wanting it.

Dick glances at you as you silently scan the menu, his eyes locking onto Tim's right after. A silent conversation takes place between the brothers, their expressions communicating silently what their words can't. Tim then shifts his attention towards the waiter, gesturing for them to come over, while you remain focused on the menu options in front of you.

The waiter, ever observant, takes this as a cue to approach the table. "What can I get you guys?" he asks, his voice cheerful.

They wanted to cut the waiters throat out for the way you flinch at his unexpected presence. Too engrossed in the pictures on the menu to notice the world around you. Snapped out of it by his feigned cheerfulness. You probably hadn’t even noticed your own reaction, seeing how you instantly smiled up at him after.

You needed their protection, that was abundantly clear.

He clocks his head, not sparing the waiter a second glance. "We'll have some coffee and pastries to start," his gaze flickers back to your fingers tapping against the table.

"Make that two coffees and a basket of assorted pastries." Tim adds.

"Ah, I think I'll go for the milkshake of the day," you add, addressing the waiter. "And I'll take the café's specialty coffee as well, please." Dick has to hold back his coos at your manors. So polite.

He faintly hears the waiter’s descending steps. Dick props his chin back on his hand, a sly grin on his face. "Aren't you a polite one?" he teases you, eyes glinting. He’ll reward you for that later.

Tim watches the interaction, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Have you had breakfast?” The question is thrown with an air of casualness. As if the brothers weren’t already informed.

“Yeah, my roommates big on the whole taking care of myself or whatever. He’s a hypocrite I tell you.” You cross your arms, the childish action making Grayson want to squish your cheeks and hold you close. His baby bird is so cute, complaining about big brother. Not that you were aware that they were yet.

"Sounds like a character," He grins sharply, his eyes softened at the thought of Jason.

"I can relate," Dick’s attention is drawn to Tim as he speaks, the other boy shaking his head. "I've got a brother who's always nagging me about eating healthy and getting enough sleep."

He nearly squabbles. He does not nag. He huffs, crossing his arms at Tim’s words. A pout tugging at his bottom lip.

The rest of the conversation goes like a blur to Dick, coming so naturally to him, as if he was simply bantering with his family. Which he was. No one could tell him otherwise.

His attention is suddenly pulled back to reality as he notices the chocolate smeared across your face childishly, like a fussy child. You feel Dick's thumb gently wipe at your face, clearing away the smeared chocolate. There's something almost instinctual about his gesture, as if it comes naturally to him, like he's done it countless times before.

Dick chuckles as he responds to your surprise, a smirk dancing on his lips. He dabs at his finger with a napkin, his eyes fixed intently on your face as he cleans off the chocolate smudges. There's a hint of playfulness in his gaze.

Dick leans forward slightly, his gaze still fixated intently on your face. He notices the way your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, and his eyes gleam with amusement. A delighted smirk spreads across his face, his eyes never leaving yours as he observes your flustered state. There's no denying it - you were the epitome of cuteness as a younger sibling. Your chaotic charm and antics had Dick and Tim wrapped around your little finger, and the two brothers couldn't help but adore every single moment.

"You've got a little something right here," Dick says, tapping the corner of his own mouth.

Tim couldn’t help but smirk at Dick's comment, his eyes flickering to your mouth and then back up to your eyes again. He takes another sip of his coffee, leaning back in his seat.

Their gazes softening further as you attempt to rid your face of the chocolate only to smudge it further.

"Here, let me help," he offers, grabbing a napkin from the table. He reaches out, gently taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your up head towards him. It’s hard to think straight with you looking up at him with that pout and flushed cheeks. Like a little kid clinging to their old brother after having a nightmare. How he wishes he had met you as a kid. He slowly wipes away the residual chocolate with the napkin. Hesitantly to let go.

The brothers let out hearty laughter at the sight of you burrowing your head into the table. They could practically see you trying to will yourself to disappear. Tim grins fondly, shuffling closer. Dicks own hand moving out to pay your head softly. Their touch affectionate and gentle. They wanted to see you like this all the time.

No use of y/n, no use of any descriptive features for the reader, no gender mentioned.

I tried to make the POV’s show the difference in how they interpret things. For example, where you may perceive Tim’s expression as a smile, Dick sees it as something dark. You pay more attention to Tim so he’s mentioned more, Dick pays more attention to you so you’re mentioned more.

Tim Drake is mentioned as ‘Mr Wayne’ because I’d assume that he’d be judged based on his family rather than his actual name.

Should I make a tag list? Would anyone even want to be put on a tag list for this?

Comments and questions are really appreciated!

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Astray far Away Ch5

Adar x Reader | ch.1 - ch.4

Arrangements are made, research is done, a new chapter is started.

Adar let you roam around as you pleased, under the only rule of orienting yourself and deciding on a job.

The two of you had met on his request the day after your trip to the hot springs to formally discuss your future in the community.

“It has only been three days since you have joined our kind,” Adar returned to his seat at the end of the large table set up in his tent. “yet you walk among the uruk as if you have been a part of our ranks for years. I enjoy seeing your positive influence on my children.” 

When early this morning you were summoned to Adar’s tent you worried about the reason behind it, your mind immediately recalling the day before and how maybe Adar had decided later on that you had disrespected him with your words or actions. He had not mentioned a word of it in private on your way back home.

Apparently the uruk escorting you felt your discomfort and gave you a rather strong pat on the back, causing you to almost stumble as he spoke. “Dun’ worry. It’s job talks.”

You were relieved, smiling up at the uruk who had yet to give you his name. He did look familiar. He had been in Adar’s presence quite often so you assumed he was of a higher rank. 

On your way across the town you saw them again, the other mortals with their clear distaste of your treatment.

All except one spat curses at you that you tried your hardest to ignore.

“You don’t gotta listen to them. They hate us. They’re jealous creatures.” He raised his voice at the last part, happily directing his words at the rude mortals. Yes, his own kind wasn’t always the nicest and were known for their violence, but they at least treated folks the same way they were treated. 

Since you were kind to them, they returned the kindness to their own extent. 

The uruk changed paths near Adar’s tent and bid you a good day before leaving you to walk the last distance alone.

You arrived to Adar sitting across the fireplace. The fire cast an amber glow over his frame clad in just trousers and a black undershirt with intricate embroidered designs on its sleeves and collar. His hair sat tied in a braid over his shoulder and you wondered if he slept like that. 

Upon noticing your arrival he got up and came to greet you with a pot of hot water in hand. 

Sat at the table with both a steaming cup of tea, Adar started.

“It has only been three days since you have joined our kind,” He talked about his perspective of seeing you among his kind and how he enjoyed seeing your kindness reflect on them. His complimenting words felt warm, and combined with the tea he has given you this morning was close to perfect.

“I am glad you feel so positively about my influence on the uruk. I have to be honest and haven't noticed much change myself.” It was no lie, the uruk who you had actively spoken with had always been kind to you, or at least acted normal in their own gruff way. Of course there were exceptions, but Adar knew that as well. He casually shared the less positive words he had received as well, and ensured you they were nothing to worry about seeing the uruk sharing those words had always disliked outsiders and changes in their lifetime. 

“Now, I called you here to discuss your place in our community. With your wound healed and your basic knowledge learned I’d like it if you decided what you’d be willing to do to contribute.” 

Outside sounded loud construction noises. Yelling, hauling, commanding and it pulled your attention, having you turn your head towards it. Adar followed your gaze and took it upon himself to fill in your thoughts. It was clear as day there was a big difference between you and the other Southlanders, that thought never left you. Especially now while you sat comfortably at the uruk leader’s table with a fresh cup of tea and being given a choice while outside the sounds of forced work filled the air. 

Your full mind left your mouth empty, not a word to be spoken yet. 

“You are different. You showed interest in us and saw us as equal. That is why we will treat you as such.” Adar’s voice suddenly being behind you pulled you back to where you sat. While he poured you new tea in such a kind manner there was no underlying emotion to be found within him. This was nothing but a formal work meeting.

You sat to discuss plans for a while, listing options that would fit a mortal woman’s strength level and sent you on your way with one last request of keeping him informed of your choices.

You had paid visits to all kinds of places, spending two days in each one but none yet had stuck.

You had seen some wargs on a quiet day. Myko had taken you to the lot they were kept in, a modified structure that held some of the friendlier creatures that Myko was allowed to see by herself. “So sad, mister Borzu isn’t here now..” The young girl pouted as she pet one of the smaller kanine-like beasts. 

“That’s alright, I will gladly come by again when he’s here.” You gave her a soft pat on the shoulder and looked over the pens that held the animals. Surprisingly they resembled the dogs you knew of somewhat. There were clear differences in their shapes and sizes but all shared some same features you noted down as what made them Wargs. You adored the big, sometimes goofy eyes and floppy ears most of them had, and so did Myko if you had to go off how she was ruffling the fur on one of the smaller wargs. 

“You can pet one too, look! Friendly." You watched in horror as the child grabbed two fistfuls of slobbering cheeks and pulled them to the sides, showing off the warg’s scary amount of sharp fangs, and a second later opened its maw that could fit her whole head in between.

“I eh, I think I will pass on petting one for now. Maybe next time when Borzu is here.

Grasho had also invited you to come join her for a day too. With her usual level of enthusiasm she had practically dragged you back to her place after running into her during breakfast. 

You spent most of the first day sorting clothes and fabric and clearing space so you’d have an area to actually work in. 

“No no, that goes there! Have an idea for that one, so no scrap pile.” Grasho had called out from where she sat behind you. 

“But you said–” 

“No scrap pile.” She took the piece from your hands and tossed it onto a pile that had gotten bigger instead of smaller over time. 

There turned out to be more exceptions to her methods than anything else, and by the end of the day it looked like all you had done was move the piles from one place to another, but at least there was a small space to work by the time you were getting too tired and had to call it a day. 

“What do you wanna do today? I can show you many things!” Your over eager uruk companion rattled your early morning brain with a long list of possibilities that lasted almost longer than the walk from your place to hers. She did bring you breakfast, at least. So you listened to her ramble and kept the important ones in your mind. 

The two of you happily worked and yes, you did learn a bunch, but you were too easily distracted in her home. It was clear when she had finished her explanation and went to work on her own stuff while you practiced sewing sturdy leather, that you could not focus on work and simultaneously listen to her ramble on and on about everything that happened to cross her mind. 

You loved Grasho dearly, but working with her was not something that was going to function well enough. And with this day you were so mentally tired from all the talking that you barely felt your aching fingers until later at home after getting some much needed quiet time.

You planned to go see Krod now, hoping he had something for you to do that wasn’t related to the hunted animals you saw a group bring in this morning.

It had been a week already since Adar gave you the task and slowly you started to worry he’d grow impatient. 

You walked through the street, stalls of the blacksmiths and leatherworkers around you, all specialized in a different craft, be it armor or accessories. 

You strolled past a smith’s tent with all kinds of small trinkets out front, taking a look at the items when all of a sudden a large uruk brushed past you and hoisted you onto his shoulder in the middle of the street.

In a panic you yelped, but it went unnoticed with his chants in what you knew to be black speech. You just didn’t know what he was saying, and he entirely ignored your pleas to be placed back down again.

To make things worse others came closer and joined in as well. There was joy in their way of chanting and cheering. Even without knowing what was going on and why you seemed to be the centre of it you felt their happiness brighten your mood as well. 

The whole street oozed celebration. Vats of what smelled like alcohol rolled in, mugs were passed among the uruk and food was shared.

Adar was making his rounds when all of a sudden noise picked up. It wasn’t something strange so he kept going at his slow pace and changed direction to take a look, only start rushing if it was necessary. 

The noise got louder, and the streets he walked through were empty, save for a few uruk who weren’t interested and had just as little of a clue as him, shrugging at him as he gave them a look in passing. 

As he rounded the last corner he was met with a full blown party. The smell of alcohol and meat filled the air and he could barely hear himself think over the black speech cheers of–

“WHAT is going on here?” Adar’s voice boomed through the crowd. “Barzug! Put her down. And explain yourselves!” He had easily spotted you sticking up out of the crowd on the shoulders of the uruk and watched him set you back on your own two feet. 

“What did you do to prompt this?” Adar’s voice was stern and his stance was one of an authority figure scolding their lessers. His eyes held annoyance.

“I swear I have no clue. They chanted something in black speech. I don’t speak it..” Your hands were up in swear, open  palms facing him in a show of defeat.

Your little moment wasn’t enough to get a clear answer between the two of you as many uruk swarmed Adar, offering him mugs of brew and handing you different kinds of foods in a large bowl. 

“Lord Father! Adar! Can’t you smell? Come, sniff!” 

Voices yelled over each other and you ended up shoved into Adar’s chestplate with a dull ‘thunk’ when your head hit it right in the middle. 

Adar’s hands were on you to steady your wobbly frame and took the closeness to gently sniff at you. By now you had gotten used to uruk shoving their face in your personal space and commenting on what they learned, but now with this commotion happening you were filled with anxious energy. “Calm yourself, if it was something bad you would have been taken to the healers.” Adar spoke in the softest tone he could muster with his nose pressed into your hair. 

He caught a whiff of something, faint and not quite clear.

With his bare hand he brushed your hair away from your shoulder and continued on. How had his children figured out something before he had? Surely his nose was still working fine. He blamed it on not seeing you every day and not noticing the apparent change as swiftly.

He had his face in the crook of your neck now and you could feel his breath on your skin, sending shivers through your entire body. It was not yet finished, though, as he trailed further down with his brows furrowed in thought. 

He jumped back up then, realization hitting him with a soft “oh” and feeling like a fool for not making the connection sooner. 

Time to ask a question wasn’t given as Adar was once again being shaken by his kin throwing their arms over his shoulder, handing him drinks that this time he did accept and playfully shoving him in cheer. 

But Adar smiled. 

A genuine wide grin spread on his face as he looked you in the eye and pried himself free from too many arms. His hand came to reach for you and you wanted to take it, but all he did was take the cup you held in yours and gave it to someone else. 

“None of that for you, no more.” His gaze lingered and watched you pout and protest. You liked that wine last time and he had personally given it to you then, so why not now?

“You will not be allowed to drink any alcohol, not for a long while.” Instead he reached out to a female uruk passing by and taking one of the grilled meat sticks she offered, handing it to you. 

“You should, on the other hand keep up your food intake.” 

Again with the food, why? What was it with the uruk and food offerings? It had yet to be explained to you and you hoped someone would do it soon.

Still you accepted it and took a small bite, enjoying the taste of it. You really had been hungry.. 

How you, by now, still hadn’t added up all the things happening and come to a conclusion was a mystery to Adar, so with a kind smile and his hands on your cheeks he forced all your attention on him.

“I feel like a fool for not catching it immediately when we passed each other this morning, you mortals smell different than uruk females..” Adar wasn’t sure why his words seemed to fail him all of a sudden. Had he truly missed this feeling so much after ages of forcing himself to believe he could never do this again? 

With his forehead laid against yours he spoke, voice barely above a whisper among the eerily quiet crowd.

“You are with child, mylady.” 

[exhaslo]

Corruption Ch12

(Villain!Miguel x F!Hero!Reader)

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4, Ch5, Ch6, Ch7, Ch8, Ch9, Ch10, Ch11

Warning: Minors DNI, mentions of sex, violence, blood, murder, twisted thoughts, experimentation, language, wannabe fluff, established friendship/relationship?

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One Months, Twenty-Four Days until D-Day

An ominous wind blew against the city of Nueva York. It was a forearming for change. A change that many might not agree too. A change that you were slowly submitting too.

You sat at the edge of the Chrysler Building, staring down at the city below. Lately, you felt like your life was in a spiral of ups and downs. You were englufed in your love life with Miguel, but at the cost of your super hero duties. The people of Nueva York had started to hate you.

To abandon you.

It hurt, since you started this hero buisness to want to help them...You just wanted to help. It wasn't your fault that they kept asking and needing saving. It was as Miguel said, they just wanted more. You didn't have to risk your life for every little inconvience. You were doing your best.

But it still wasn't enough.

Miguel still had not had sex with you yet. You were being such a good girl for him, but it still wasn't enough. You were at wits end. What did you need to do to earn more of Miguel's love? What were you willing to do for him?

"KYAAAAAA!"

Slowly snapping out of your dazed state, you focused on where the scream came from. Swinging down towards the city, you scanned the area for anyone in distress. Upon hearing another scream, you stopped on top of a building.

Below you was your Green Goblin causing havoc. His laughter echoing as he threw some bombs.

"As far as I know, the next holiday for fireworks is in a month!" You called out, webbing one of his bombs to his glidar.

"You!? Go away! No one asked for you to intervene!"

"I'm sure the average citizen will disagree!"

You swing towards Goblin, giving him a swift kick in the gut. Green Goblin cussed and threw more of his bombs towards the crowd. You gasped and webbed each bomb, tossing them towards the sky. As you were distracted, Goblin fired more bombs towards you.

"You should have stayed in hiding!"

--------

Miguel sat in his living room, reviewing his notes from your blood. Now that he had everything he needed, Miguel just needed to start his testing. Taking a sip of his whiskey, Miguel hummed to the taste as he reviewed your file.

"Hm, soon....Soon, we'll be able to create the perfect offspring, (Y/N)." Miguel chuckled lowly.

"Miguel, there seems to be an altercation in Little Italy with (Y/N) and the Green Goblin."

"Que?! (What?!) Is she okay?!" Miguel spat, slamming his glass down.

"(Y/N) has taken some damage, but Goblin keeps trying to shake her off in fear of you." Lyla explained.

"He will have more to fear once I become more powerful." Miguel hissed, grabbing his jacket. "Lyla, I want Goblin to go flying. There should be a supermarket near where they are. Blow it up."

"Yes, sir."

Miguel's glare was prominent as he made his way outside. Of course he had to watch you even on your days off. Miguel needed to keep you on a tighter lease. And you were doing such a good job as his little pet.

"You better not have a single scratch on you, (Y/N)."

-------

You groaned lowly as you forced yourself up from a pile of rubble. Goblin was trying to run away. He seemed more frighten by something else rather than you. Not that you should be scary to anyone, but it made you concerned.

"Shit," You groaned, wavering in place.

It had been a while since you got into a good fight. Your body was aching all over the place. What you would give to go home and lay down. Hearing cries for help, you groaned as you went to aid them. You had to ignore your pain and be a hero.

-------

Miguel was disgruntled as he spotted you in the distance. He had parked his car in the middle of the destroyed street and made his way towards you. Why couldn't you listen to him? Why did your good natured heart have to play the hero?

"I might have to chain her up at this rate," He muttered to himself.

Miguel was not amused as he watched you whimper and struggle to help able people out of the rubble. Hearing a soft cry from under him, Miguel slammed his foot on the rock, silencing the voice. This was beneath you. This was not worth your time.

"W...Wait...I'm c-coming," You stuttered, missing a step and falling on your knees.

"Spider-Woman." Miguel called out, his arms crossed, "It seems as if you had forgotten about what we spoke about."

"Miguel?" You muttered, wavering in place, "I didn't...Goblin-"

"Look at yourself," Miguel sighed as he bend down to your level, "You are hurt. Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

"Four?"

Miguel sighed heavily, holding two fingers up. This was disappointing. Despite your advance genes, you were still too weak to fight on your own. You weren't a fighter. This was just a cute little hobby you wanted to pick up.

"I'm taking you home, (Y/N)."

"N....o....the people...I'm not-" You fumbled your words as Miguel caught you, "Mig...uel."

"Shh, behave."

Miguel huffed as he carried you in his arms, returning to his car. He ignored the cries for help. They could save themselves if they truly wished it. They did not need you. You had done enough for them already.

Placing you in his backseat, Miguel glanced at your pained expression. He was going to have to teach you again. Put you back in your place.

"Remember, (Y/N), you agreed to do whatever I say."

--------

Everything hurt. Everything felt fuzzy. Slowly coming back to your senses, you let out a low rumbling groan. Your body was crying out in pain as you tried to move even an inch. That fight sure did a number on you.

Recalling what happened before you blacked out, you sighed. This super hero life was hard. It was definitely not for someone who wasn't trained like you. Remembering Miguel, you opened your eyes slowly, hoping that he was just a figment of your imagination.

"Mhmm, Miguel?" You whispered, staring at the ceiling above you.

"I'm right here,"

Turning your head, you spotted Miguel sitting by his desk. He was working on his laptop while you laid down. You wanted to believe that everything was a dream, but then you wouldn't be hurting as much. So Miguel did come to your rescue...but that would mean-

"You...knew?"

"For a short while," Miguel hummed, scooting his chair towards you, "It wasn't hard to figure out."

"Sorry...for not...listening," You whimpered, tears threatening to spill.

Miguel knew your secret identity. He knew and didn't say anything nor did he experiment on you. This had to be a sign. He was changing for the better. Miguel cared about you enough to leave you be. He just wanted to protect you.

"Shh, don't cry." Miguel wiped your tears away, "You're still very injured from your last fight. I need you to conserve your energy."

"Mig-"

"What did I just say?"

"Mhm,"

You kept quiet, listening to Miguel's firm words. He meant well. Watching him return to his desk, you closed your eyes to get some more rest.

After sleeping for another few hours, you came too again. Your body still felt like a train wreck, but you could at least sit up. This time, you took a good look around where you were. To your surprise, you were not at your home, nor any of the Alchemax labs. Instead, this looked a lot like Miguel's place.

"Surprised?" Miguel questioned as he returned with a small meal, "I won't experiment on what's mine." He hummed, pecking your lips.

"Ah! Well...um, sorry." You muttered, trying to find an excuse. Miguel scoffed softly,

"Although, I should punish you for disobeying me, (Y/N). You were supposed to do as I say and not get hurt. Yet here we are."

"I couldn't leave those people to suffer, Miguel."

"Yet they left you too." He stated, feeding you, "They care not for you as you for them. Remember (Y/N), I'm the only one here for you."

"Mhm," You nodded, swallowing your food.

"I'm the only one who came to help you. You need to just rely on me and no one else."

"Yes, Miguel," You muttered.

"I won't punish you since you're already hurt. But, you will have to follow some new rules for me." Miguel demanded, giving you another spoonful, "First, you are to stay by my side at all times unless I say otherwise. Second, you are no longer allowed to enjoy this hobby of yours unless running by me first-"

"Mhmh!"

"Shhh," Miguel grabbed your cheeks, "Look at the state you're in. You really think you should be arguing? If you won't listen, I'll give you a reason to stay home."

Your eyes widen as your cheeks turned bright red. Miguel returned to feeding you as he gave a few more small rules. None of them were really any different than before, you just had to go through Miguel before doing anything.

Miguel was just looking out for you.

Miguel was just trying to protect you.

Everything Miguel was doing was for you.

It was romantic.

"Do you understand, (Y/N)?" Miguel asked, setting the empty plate aside. You nodded, swallowing your water,

"Yes, Miguel. I'm sorry."

Miguel glanced at you and smiled. You felt your heart skip a beat as he leaned down to kiss you.

"Stop apologizing. Just remember that you are mine."

You leaned towards his touch as Miguel stroked your cheek. He told you to rest before leaving the room. Groaning softly as you laid down, you felt a sudden wave of exhaustion wash over you. Laying down, you couldn't stay awake much longer before knocking out.

--------

Miguel waited a few minutes before entering the room again. He fixed the hair out of your face before setting up an IV. He grabbed a bag and tied your arm up before taking some more blood from you. This was all for you.

For the sake of humanity's future.

"Lyla, where are Goblin's whereabouts?" Miguel asked quietly.

"He is in hiding. I shall track him down."

"Since he wants to play games, I shall bring one to him." Miguel chuckled, watching your blood drop into the bag. "It's never too early to start decorating for Halloween."

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Next Chapter

@tojishugetiddies @miguelsfavwife @foulsharkheart @club-danger-zone @ivkygirly @jollystrawberrycycle @amber-content @weirdothatwritess @smartyren @mangoslushcrush @nyxzoldyck6 @migueloharastruelove @chaoticlovingdreamer @sukioyakio @killjoy-nightshadow @heyohalie @the-pan-liquid @bokutosprettylittlebimbo @kpopscoups17130000 @pochapo @killerwendigo @barbiecrocs @miss-galaxy-turtle @oscarissac2099 @lazy-idate @lauraolar14 @safixiovi

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Under the cut to read on Tumblr, here to read on Ao3 ch1; ch2; ch3; ch4; ch5; ch6

Les fleurs du mal ch7 rosquez, 3,2k words

The flight is not worth any kind of notice, the air inside the plane feels heavy, as if someone just put tons and tons more worth of weight on Vale’s shoulder just to keep him anchored to the floor and not let him fly away.

The hostess passes by a few times, asking if he wants anything, Vale barely acknowledges her presence, shaking his head and saying he’s ok.

It’s still half an hour to Barcelona. From there it’s less than an hour drive to Cervera.

God he’s really doing this. He’s- what the fuck is he even doing?

They won’t let him near the body, or the fucking funeral for that matter, let alone close to his grave.

But he needs to see him.

Even if it won’t be sunny, happy Marc he’ll look at, but this strange version of him.

Still in his selfishness Vale wants. He thinks he’s owed that. To see Marc. To look at what he did, because he thinks it’s a suitable way to pay for his actions.

He wants to be the one in the front row saying his last goodbye, wants to be the one carrying the casket, it should be him.

Not Lorenzo, not Dovi, not Pedrosa, not Alex.

If he could, if he only could, he would carry him into the church and from there to the graveyard all alone.

He’d cry. Beg for Marc to come back probably. But at least he’d be close.

Unbeating heart next to warm skin.

Vale doesn’t cry often, before this the last time he cried was for Marco.

God how much had he cried for him.

Uccio and his parents tried to get him out of his room for days, he refused to eat, or drink for that matter. He thought about staying locked in there until the same fate that got Sic got him too, so that they could still ride together in the clouds, like he said Marco to be doing.

Only Luca had managed to get him out, shake him from the dark and rotten place he caved himself a shelter in, and bring him back out, but it was a long and difficult task.

Marco, he. He never fully agreed to the version for which he died before. The one saying that the moment he fell and slid on the track without his helmet he was already dead.

No.

He barely agreed to the one publicly accepted, which is that Marco was there, 50/50 with a chance of never recovering and he just sped up the process.

The fact is he believed and still secretly believes to this day that he killed him. Ran him over, snapped his neck, and killed his best friend. Because maybe he would’ve survived, maybe he could’ve gotten better, maybe they’d have raced again.

For what concerns Marc there aren't even alternatives or sets of opinions about what happened, or whose fault it is, or if it could’ve ended in a different way.

He killed him.

And even if he did it unintentionally he feels like he did it on purpose. Revenge, what a sick fucking felling.

It makes you think and act in ways you didn’t think were yours.

He feels his skin itching, cutting into his muscle and he wants to tear it off, but doesn’t move in the slightest, he wants this to hurt.

Pain is a way to punish himself, though not slightly comparable to the one Marc felt, but it keeps him there, tied to reality and unable to escape the fact he hurt so many people just by being an asshole.

He thinks about the night after Sepang. It’s not a good idea.

He gets up and runs to throw up in the toilet, the alcohol and the few bites of food he’s digested are now out of his system, and he cannot think about eating anything right now.

The image of Marc standing before him, pleading and begging for a chance to be them again.

He remembers the almost-tears in the boy’s eyes, those same eyes looking at his souls trying to get a hold of it.

The image of them two makes its way in Vale’s mind.

If someone had walked in, he would’ve seen a 20 something kid getting his heart shattered, trying to pick the pieces up from the ground as Vale kicked them around, smirking with that sick fun he proved that night.

How could he treat the person who loved him the most like that? Leave him to the wolves as if it had always been like this.

Then a memory from Valencia comes up.

The one moment who revealed to him what Marc was going through.

“You like helping him uh? You sucked his dick too? Did you go to him and let him fuck you as a thank you for letting him win? Did he fuck you well Marc? I bet you enjoyed his dick so much given how you ran to me immediately after to suck me off”

“Stop it Vale please”

“Ah stop what? I’m having fun here aren’t you? Does he know how you like to be treated like the whore you are?”

Then Marc had thrown up. Those petals, horribly yellow and blue.

“I’m sorry”

But sorry doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t fix the hole in his heart shaped like a shot wound.

Sorry doesn’t bring Marc magically back and places him onto his plane, sorry doesn’t give him the chance to tell Marc he loved him still.

Sorry doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t even make him feel better. The only thing that could brighten his day is Marc’s smile.

Or a kiss from him, a hug, holding hands. An action that told Vale “I’m here, I’m here with you”

The only noise is the signal that tells him to fasten his seatbelt because they’re landing. No laugh, no “Vale you want me to hold your hand? I know you’re scared of flying”, no little yelp Marc did when they started taking off.

Vale never liked flying. Not private, not commercial. He doesn’t like lots of factors, height, pressure, danger, noise.

He hates taking off and landing most of all.

And when he’s alone he always grips the seat so fucking tight he had to replace armrests more than once. The jet company had told him he should be sure if he wants to have something so fancy he’s so scared of.

He hadn’t cared.

“Vale? Are you ok? You look a bit - a bit pale. Have you eaten? Do you want me to take you something from the bag?”

Vale shook his head, put on a reassuring smile and sat in his seat, Marc beside him smiling so much Vale though it had to hurt.

“Are you excited? For our holiday?”

Vale had gone overboard that time, something he never did for his past girlfriends, not for anyone but Marc. Marc. A shooting star that came into his life to stay.

He planned a 12 day holiday in the Philippines, just the two of them, in this apartment far from the rest of the world, where they could be just themselves without the fear of being discovered.

“I already told you amore no? Really excited, we’re gonna be in this very beautiful house surrounded by nature and near the sea for twelve days, and most importantly I get to have you all to myself for twelve days. I have already planned a few things I’d like to do once there, you know?”

Marc had blushed, looked away.

Of course he “planned” a few things as well, they were completely alone for more than a week, having sex is the most expected thing there.

And he really wants to spend at least two days straight without getting out of bed. Vale’s tension hadn’t worn down during their small chat, Marc could see how he kept on looking outside the window, and how the armrest of the seat Vale was on looked like a wild cat attacked it.

“Vale, are you nervous?” “Uh? No no I’m ok don’t worry baby” “You look strange” “No no I just am really excited about going there with you”

Marc had watched him again, until a particularly sharp noise came from the plane’s engine.

At that, Vale had shut his eyes and his mouth morphed into a thin closed line, even with his eyes closed Marc could feel the fear.

“Vale, are you scared of flying?” “No” “Amor I won’t judge you, but are you?” Vale opened his eyes, the plane was ready to take off. “Yes. I don’t like it” “Ok then uhm I can maybe hold your hand? To make you feel more secure?”

Vale also doesn’t like to ask for help, or make it obvious he needs it, but the way Marc was looking at him moved something in his chest, it made him vulnerable, but in a pleasant way. A sweet kind of it.

“Ok. Yeah yeah ok you can just-“ “Yeah I solemnly swear I will never tell Valentino Rossi wanted me to hold his hand because he’s scared of flying”

They had laughed, and Marc had brought him a kind of warmth and comfort he hadn’t felt in any other moment of his life.

Right now he’s alone. There’s an enormous emptiness beside him. An obvious lack of warmth and doe eyes looking at him with love.

Those eyes, God. How many times has he looked at them, how many times has he seen them open at the first lights of the morning in creamy white sheets they shared, how many times has he fell in love with them.

The memories are almost enough to distract him from the impending touch with the ground.

Maybe the plane will break, or crash. Save the others and leave him a carcass twisted below tons of metal sheets, unrecognizable at the sight.

Maybe this would be the right way to pay back Marc. Maybe just this could be enough. Dying of a horribly painful death, like Marc did. Alone. Cold.

The plane lands, and there’s no explosion or collision. Valentino is alive, and painfully so.

He never understood people who said they wanted to die until now. Because there’s something about thinking that it can all be over, that he can get away with it without having to face the others.

Lorenzo, Dani, Dovi.

They will be at the funeral. They will be on track. And they will know it was him.

The hostess comes up to him, tells him they’re securely landed and he can climb off the plane.

He gets up, a hoodie and a pair of du glasses on. Phone in pocket and some cash in the other.

He doesn’t need anything more, he reserved a car during the flight, it’s already there waiting for him.

He gets off the plane and in the car as fast as humanly possible, fingers tapping uncomfortably on the steering wheel, a tightening sensation in his throat.

He’s crying once again, at this point he’s surprised there’s even tears left inside him.

He stays there for ten whole minutes, then convinces himself he has to do this. He has to go.

He starts the car and gets out the airport, he doesn’t need a navigator, he knows the route by heart, him and Marc made it lots of times.

Once he’s twenty minutes away from destination he feels worse and worse about what he’s doing.

How will he even hide himself? Cervera is not a big town, and he’s not sure Marc’s family chose to have an open doors funeral.

He’s going there blindly, in the vague hope he’ll get to cast a glance at his body.

The graveyard won’t be as much of a problem, he can confuse himself with people who will want to say their goodbye. He’s sure he’ll find a way to sneak in, stay far from the family as he too mourns with them.

The town is packed, as he expected, tons of people gathered there to give their last farewell to Marc.

There’s flags,  cardboard signs, sheets, all in his honor. In the honor of the rider he was. They are mourning the icon, the sportsman he was. Not the man, the wonderful person he actually was.

And it hurts.

To them it’s an idol that died, an inspiration. To him and his family it’s a person, a brother, a son, a friend, a lover.

The square before the Church is barely noticeable, a sea of orange and red combing it whole.

Then he sees it, the side entrance Dovizioso in suing to get in. He can do it. He can get in somehow.

He squishes himself through the myriads of people waiting for Marc to come out, waiting for the men dressed in deep black to carry him out in a coffin.

But Vake knows they’ll never come out from the front door, no they’ll come out the side one, take another car with the corpse and go to the graveyard.

And he’ll find a way to follow.

He doesn’t manage to surpass the barriers tho, he has to just wait, wait until the function is over and he can follow them to the place where his love will be buried forever.

Once he notices the funeral procession, he’s the fastest he’s ever been, running back to his car and quietly following the one with Marc in it.

It feels shady, and it is, but that’s all he can do.

He parks fairly far from the spot where he knows they’ll place Marc, climbs down the car and makes the rest of the way by foot, quietly in the December freezing cold.

He’s lucky, he knows he is, he could’ve arrived too early, or too late, or be recognised and probably publicly executed.

The graveyard is gray, gloomy and unsettling. He can see Alex from this distance, and a priest reciting something.

He wants to be there.

He’s hidden behind a tree, a bit closer now, he can hear the sobs coming from the people there and the incomprehensible words said by the priest.

Alex is holding their mother, their father is just a few centimeters to the left, heavy eyes filled with tears.

Other family members gathered around the coffin crying as well.

Their colleagues stand a bit further, crying as quietly as they can, Dani especially seems broken, hiding his face in Lorenzo’s chest, while he strokes his back gently, Dovi has marks on his knuckles, red and blotchy.

He must’ve punched something at the news.

Once the person Vale supposes to be Marc’s grandmother moves out of the way he can see him.

Soft, pale and pure skin. Frozen, unable to move. Restrained in this position for eternity, It’s a sickening view, it’s unnatural for Marc to be like that.

He wants to come out of his hiding spot, under the soft and cold light of the December sun.

Walk to the coffin, say goodbye, say sorry, cry, beg for him to come back, then accept the truth.

He can’t think of leaving a flower, not with the way Marc died.

And now that he pays more attention he can see little flowers growing out of his mouth.

He’s heard of people whose ribcage got broken by roots and flowers growing out of it, and he’s glad Marc’s situation is not like that.

The unmistakably bright yellow being the only thing of his still attached to Marc.

He makes a small mistake, a little movement and Roser turns around.

He got caught.

Roser just saw him at Marc’s funeral and now he truly is doomed.

Vale begins walking away, wants to run between the graves and go back to his car. Once he’s almost out he feels a hand on his back. He stops and turns around, ready to face a blood thirsty Alex.

But he just sees Roser, eyes red and glassy.

And he feels even worse for it, feels like a fucking cancer once again. There’s hatred in her eyes, rightfully so, and anger, and so much pain. “Take the glasses off”

He doesn’t expect that, but it’s not a punch in the guts, so he takes them off. Icy blue eyes matching with the surrounding atmosphere, eyes Roser notices to be filled with so much more than she thought.

“Why are you here?”

Her English is tentative, broken, but it can transmit all her emotions well enough. Vale can’t answer, he wants to burn a hole into the ground and fucking disappear inside it.

Words are dying inside his throat, he just looks up at Marc’s mother to feel something close to that hate he has for himself.

And there is a lot of it. But there’s also - compassion?

Or at least something that is not just pure pain and anger.

“Rossi. My son loved you” “I know” “You not” “I did. I do now too. I came here to see him I - I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry”

The last part he speaks Catalan, which shocks Roser.

Valentino Rossi, the rider, the legend, the man who hurt her son so much is now crying in front of her, knees against the icy-cold soil of a graveyard, speaking her language, saying he’s sorry.

She would want to be strong enough to just leave him there. But this man is crying like a kid lost in the woods looking for someone to help him.

There’s anger in her heart, obviously, lots of it. There’s hate. But she will never not have compassion in her heart too.

The tears, the eyes, the words, they all seem genuine to her.

“estimaves el meu fill?” (did you love my son?)

“sì. no tant com es mereixia” (yes. not as much as he deserved)

“però ara ets aquí” (but you’re here now)

“ja és massa tard. ell és mort”  (now it’s too late. he’s dead)

“ell mai va deixar de pensar que hauries tornat per ell” (he never stopped thinking you would’ve come back for him)

“ho sento” (I’m sorry)

And vale just stays there, crying, but without a sound, Roser standing in front of him. And he wants her to do something, maybe call for Marc’s father, or for Alex, or the other riders.

Instead he receives pity. And a hand on his shoulder.

“Go away before they see you, if you want to speak to my boy you should go to Church, ask for forgiveness, ask for him to be well”

And then she leaves. The mother of the boy he killed leaves. Lets him go, as if he didn’t commit the most atrocious and horrible act towards Marc.

He gets up from the ground, dirt and grass staining his jeans, the cold has made its way inside his bones, under his skin, pointy, stingy. He puts the glasses back on, tears don’t stop falling when he does, the sensation of being observed doesn’t fade.

The ride back is monotone, gray, and silent. The radio doesn’t work, and if it did Vale would turn it off anyway.

He gets to a lay-by and stops, he can’t hold it anymore, he gets out the car and vomits, it's almost just bile, maybe some alcohol still, no food. The image of Marc laying like that is too much.

It accompanies him until he reaches the airport again, leaving the car where he found it, it accompanies him while he climbs on the plane and when it takes off.

It fucking follows him to the bedroom door once he's home.

[acescorazon]

Changes

Chapter: 20

Title: Dreams

Rating: M

Word Count: 3197

Warnings: Language.

Chapter Excerpt:

Mihawk pulls Buggy closer, his body is hot and his hands are rough and calloused as they start to explore Buggy’s body. He caresses and squeezes any part of Buggy he can reach at the moment whilst trying to pull him impossibly close. Buggy feels himself melting into Mihawk’s embrace, it’s been such a long time since he was kissed so passionately, and – 

Buggy’s eyes shoot open, and he looks around quickly. He’s back in his bedroom and Mihawk is nowhere to be seen, but Buggy’s heart is still racing, and he feels an intense wave of mortification wash over him as he begins to come to his senses after waking up.

What the actual fuck?! Buggy thinks as he sits up in bed. Oh, no. Buggy’s fucked up little brain did not just make him have a dream like that. Oh, God, that felt so real. God, he thinks he’s going to throw up. Buggy puts his hand over his pounding heart and tries to shake the image of Mihawk kissing him from his mind as quickly as possible

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Wait, cute?

That one thought alone, the one where Buggy thinks that Crocodile’s actions are cute, shocks him to his core and snaps him back to reality. Cute? Did I just think that Crocodile did something cute? He wonders as he looks around panicked, like someone might have actually heard him thinking.

  

Just forget about it, Buggy tells himself as he hurries back to his own tent. It wasn’t cute. It was just a little funny seeing this big, tough guy trying to make friends with a lion of all things. That’s all. A moment later, a  near perfect image of Crocodile looking all serious as he tries to reach out and pet Richie pops up in Buggy’s head, and he chuckles softly.

 

Okay, it was kind of cute. People are often weary of Richie even though he’s harmless most of the time, but to Crocodile, Richie is probably nothing more than an oversized house cat and that fact alone is absolutely adorable, but he’d rather not admit it.

Buggy eventually ends up falling asleep not too long after finishing his cold meal and an even colder shower. These last few weeks, his dreams have been relatively peaceful since he’s put a lot of his problems with Mihawk and Crocodile behind him (or tried to). It seems as though the nights that Buggy would toss and turn, plagued with anxiety or nightmares, are behind him for now. However, his dreams are still anything but ideal:

… 

Buggy rushes across the island, panting and out of breath, as he tries to hurry to the meeting room. He somehow overslept, not by ten or twenty minutes but by about two or three hours. Shit, shit, shit. They’re going to kill me, he thinks as he picks up his feet and hauls ass.

He’s not even sure if Mihawk and Crocodile will still be in the meeting room, but he has to check just in case and apologize to them. Buggy heads through the door to the meeting room and almost instantly collides with someone. 

Buggy lets out a groan and looks up to see who he just smacked into. He finds a pair of  soft golden eyes looking down at him and instantly feels his face burn hotter than magma, “Oh, there you are,” Mihawk murmurs before he wraps his strong arms around Buggy’s waist. “You can never show up on time, can you?”

“I overslept again,” Buggy replies sheepishly, “I’m sorry.” 

“Mm, Don’t you always?” Mihawk asks with a soft, affectionate chuckle. “I’ll forgive you just this once but only because I have a soft spot for you.” The statement makes Buggy’s stomach flutter. “You don’t have to worry about Crocodile, either. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll protect you like I always do.”

Buggy lets out a nervous laugh, “Keep joking around like that and I might think you like me for real or something.” The mere suggestion makes his heart accelerate slightly. 

“I do like you.” Mihawk replies without missing a beat. “You’re just trying not to acknowledge the full extent of my feelings because it makes you feel uncomfortable.”  he sighs quietly, “But it’s the truth. I have genuine feelings for you and the only thing I want is for you to truly forgive me and open your heart to me.”

Buggy swallows a wad of spit. “You must have had a drink or two. The world’s strongest swordsman has a crush on a cowardly clown? HA! Get real, you’re just pulling my leg. You hate my guts, just admit it already.” 

“You’re infuriating.” Mihawk says with a scoff, “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m being genuine with you before you finally get it?” He asks. “I’m tired of these childish games. Let me show you just how genuine I'm being right now.”

Before Buggy can ask Mihawk what he means, Mihawk leans down and presses their lips together. Buggy freezes for a second and rests his hand against Mihawk’s chest as he tries to process what’s going on and decide whether he should push Mihawk away or not. Mihawk’s lips are so soft and warm as they brush against Buggy’s though, and against his better judgement, Buggy gives in and closes his eyes before he slowly begins to return the kiss.

He doesn’t know whether he should be embarrassed or not that Mihawk just decided to kiss him out in the open like this. Anyone could walk into the meeting room right now and see them, but for some reason that only makes Buggy’s heart beat faster. Does… Does he find the idea of being caught kissing Hawkeye exciting? Oh, boy. 

Mihawk pulls Buggy closer, his body is hot and his hands are rough and calloused as they start to explore Buggy’s body. He caresses and squeezes any part of Buggy he can reach at the moment whilst trying to pull him impossibly close. Buggy feels himself melting into Mihawk’s embrace, it’s been such a long time since he was kissed so passionately, and – 

Buggy’s eyes shoot open, and he looks around quickly. He’s back in his bedroom and Mihawk is nowhere to be seen, but Buggy’s heart is still racing, and he feels an intense wave of mortification wash over him as he begins to come to his senses after waking up.

What the actual fuck?! Buggy thinks as he sits up in bed. Oh, no. Buggy’s fucked up little brain did not just make him have a dream like that. Oh, God, that felt so real. God, he thinks he’s going to throw up. Buggy puts his hand over his pounding heart and tries to shake the image of Mihawk kissing him from his mind as quickly as possible. 

Oh, he thinks that dream was worse than the one he had where he had a drunken make out session with Shanks. Oh, gross, why did he even dream about kissing Mihawk? Wait, wait, wait. Buggy didn’t kiss Mihawk in that dream, Mihawk kissed him, and he was extremely close to shoving his tongue down Buggy’s throat. 

Buggy rubs his arms, feeling the goosebumps that are forming across his skin, and gets out of bed. It was just a dream. Calm down, it was just a dream, he tells himself over and over again, but if he closes his eyes he can almost remember exactly how Mihawk’s lips felt against his in the dream. Oh, that’s scary. Why did that dream feel so real? 

Buggy glances over at the clock he keeps at his bedside – 5:34AM. Talk about a wake-up call, he thinks bitterly. Part of him wants to go back to sleep but another part of him just wants to take a shower to calm down and try to wash away all the gross sensations he’s feeling. 

… 

That dream was just plain gnarly. Buggy briefly considered telling someone about it, maybe Cabaji or Mohji, but he decided against it because he’d rather get shot than admit that he had an actual dream where he kissed Mihawk of all people. 

A shower does nothing for Buggy nor does a good breakfast before he boards Cross Guilds’ flagship. He watches his men run back and forth and load the ship with last minute supplies, but his attention isn’t really on them. He keeps thinking about that damn dream he had last night, or, well, this morning.  Jeez, why did he have a dream like that? Why couldn’t he have dreamt about finding the One Piece or beating up that annoying little brat with the straw hat instead?! 

Buggy’s momentarily brought out of his thoughts when he hears a gruff voice below him. “Can’t believe I'm getting on this thing.” Crocodile complains as he and Mihawk head down the docks and towards the ship. “It’s ugly as fuck.” Buggy rolls his eyes at the comment, already well aware of how much Crocodile hates their flagship.  

“You complain too much,” Mihawk replies with a small scoff, “We’re only going to be at sea for a week, maybe a week and a half anyways. Quit being so noisy first thing in the morning.”  At the sound of Mihawk’s voice, Buggy’s face suddenly heats up as he yet again thinks about that God awful dream he had. 

“You just don’t get it. This thing is so damn tacky, and I’d rather get arrested again than get on this ship. ”

“You would know a thing or two about being tacky.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

Oh, this is going to be a long trip, Buggy thinks as he watches his two fellow members of Cross Guild bicker, knowing that they’ll probably just exchange snide remarks and insults until they get bored and stop talking to each other. Honestly, he still wishes he didn’t have to go on this dumb trip, but he’s Cross Guild’s handy, dandy human shield.

Buggy presses his lips into a thin line as he once again remembers his status as Emperor of the sea and ‘leader’ of Cross Guild. Man, he misses Orange town so much. This isn’t the kind of power Buggy wanted. Buggy wanted the type of power that would allow him to be able to live a peaceful, yet very corrupted life while simultaneously not having to be afraid of being blown up on a random Tuesday or publicly executed. He misses bullying small towns and being under the government’s radar so much.

Then again, it can’t be helped, can it? After all, Buggy was part of the king of the pirates’ crew when he was nothing but a little twerp. Oh, and he single-handedly led a prison escape and even won a war too. He supposes this is the price he has to pay for being so unbelievably powerful and flashy. Sigh, how he misses Orange Town and being a little less known sometimes, though. Maybe Prickly Pear Island will be alright, maybe he could antagonize a town or two if he gets the chance to. Yeah, that might make things a little better, it’s been ages since he got to use one of his muggy balls after all. 

… 

Cross Guild sets sail for Prickly Pear island before midday. Since he and Mihawk had previously decided that they wouldn’t need to bring too many men along with them on the trip, they only take about a dozen men with them when they leave Emptee Bluffs Island. Mihawk had deemed the trip relatively low risk, so Buggy had no problem leaving most of his men at home and putting Mohji in charge of the island while he was gone. 

It feels a little strange leaving Cabaji and Mohji at the island, but Mihawk believed they would be better off staying at home and running things instead of helping them scout Prickly Pear Island, and Buggy kind of agreed with him. They expect to be back before the month’s over with anyways, so there’s no point in bringing more people than necessary with them. 

Crocodile didn’t even bring Daz with him, which makes Buggy feel a little better about his own decision to leave his most trusted men back at the island. If both Mihawk and Crocodile don’t see the point in bringing heavily armed men with them, then this is probably going to be the easiest trip of their lives. 

For the most part, Buggy finds himself bored and staring out at the ocean ahead of them when he’s not giving out instructions or directions to his men. He always finds the first few days at sea to be tedious, especially when he doesn’t have a huge crew by his side. 

His men are busy, and it’s not like Crocodile and Mihawk are the best company in the world. Crocodile disappeared into a cabin as soon as he got aboard the ship, claiming he wouldn’t be caught dead walking around the main deck.

As for Hawkeye… Buggy glances over his shoulder and finds Mihawk sitting against a barrel with his hat covering his face as he takes a nap, presumably. He probably wouldn’t talk to him unless he was forced to. Their last dozen or so conversations have been incredibly awkward and Buggy kind of just wants to avoid him for the time being, especially after last night’s dream. 

However, Mihawk must have a sixth sense or something because he ends up lifting his hat up and locking eyes with Buggy right as Buggy starts thinking about him. Crap, look away, look away. He thinks as he quickly spins around and pretends like he wasn’t just… staring at Mihawk? No, no, he was just looking at him for a moment, he wasn’t staring.

Lord, what is going on with Buggy today?

Buggy leans against the ship’s railing as his inner struggle continues. His stomach feels all weird but he swears that it’s just some sea sickness, and as he debates whether or not to go lie down, he hears gentle footsteps approach him.

Oh, God, why?

“Are you excited for our little trip?” Mihawk asks as he stands next to Buggy. Buggy doesn’t hear shit, though, he’s much too busy freaking out over how close Mihawk decided to stand next to him. He’s talking to me in that weird voice again, Buggy thinks as he begins to feel a little antsy.

“Buggy?”

“Huh?! Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Are you excited to be going to Prickly Pear Island?”

“Uh, Yeah. Sure.” Buggy replies quickly, hoping this might be the end of their conversation. There’s a long moment of silence that makes Buggy actually consider jumping overboard because nothing’s being said and Mihawk is still just standing extremely close to him. He doesn’t have anything to say to Mihawk, and Mihawk doesn’t seem to have anything to say either, which just makes things more uncomfortable. He hates that they’re at a point where they can’t even stand next to each other quietly without things feeling weirdly tense. So, Buggy just pretends to admire the scenery until Mihawk decides to speak up again.

“Your hair looks rather soft today.” 

Buggy has to resist the urge to bash his head into the metal railing in front of him. It’s so weird hearing anything other than insults coming out of Mihawk’s mouth, and when Mihawk says sappy shit, it makes Buggy want to scream. He does know who he’s talking to, doesn’t he? Read the room, dumbass. “Oh, shut up.” Buggy blurts before he can stop himself. “Go try and flirt with someone else...” 

Mihawk stares at Buggy for a long moment, “Can’t I just flirt with you, though?” he asks, his tone flat and completely serious. “You’re the one I have feelings for, after all.” 

“Of course not, idiot,” Buggy mutters under his breath. Another moment goes by before Buggy speaks up again, “I just want you to cut the crap and act normal,” Buggy adds as he pretends to pick a piece of lint off of his sleeve, “It’s really weird to have you go from hating me to being all… I don’t know … sweet and sappy? I don’t even get how you managed to develop feelings for me in the first place.” He glances at Mihawk before quickly looking away again, “I’m the same annoying coward from before, remember? What the hell happened? Remember all those times you wanted to kick my ass?” 

Mihawk heaves a sigh, “I don’t know how it happened either.” He admits, “I don’t believe in things like karma, but the irony of the situation isn’t completely lost on me.” He laughs quietly. “After all I’ve done… To end up developing feelings for you, it’s painfully ironic, isn’t it? I tried to fight it, to ignore these feelings, but they continue to get stronger by the day.” 

God, stop saying things like that… Buggy thinks. He still isn’t sure how to properly address Mihawk’s feelings, and somehow not knowing what to do feels wrong in its own right. He shouldn’t have to think about something like this, he should easily be able to reject Mihawk, but... 

“I suppose, it couldn’t be helped, though.” Mihawk tells Buggy, “You naturally draw people in and make them want to stay by your side, don’t you?”

Buggy groans and buries his face in his hands. What a guy. He thinks, not sure if he should be annoyed or flattered by Mihawk’s praise. “What the hell do you want from me, Hawkeye? What did you think would happen if you confessed to me?”

“I’m not the best at this sort of thing… if that wasn’t already obvious.” Mihawk confesses, “But I really just want to put the past behind us and for you to be able to put your walls down around me…” He tells Buggy, “Asking for something like a relationship with you, especially right now… would be a selfish and very foolish request, yet… part of me wants to ask for it anyways…” 

Oh, and there it is. Buggy sucks in a shaky breath and shakes his head, “Look, I have to go. I have to… just leave me alone, okay?” He mutters as he hurries away from Mihawk. God, he’s the absolute worst. Buggy hates him. He hates him so much… 

… 

Buggy lies in bed, feeling restless again, as he listens to the rain outside. He’s thinking about something, or rather someone, that he really shouldn’t be thinking about right now. It’s almost annoying how much that man is on his mind at this point. This sort of thing was supposed to stop once he forgave Mihawk and Crocodile. He wasn’t supposed to have any more nights where he would just lie awake and think about everything they’ve done or said to him during the day or week even, yet here he is, doing that very thing.

‘Asking for something like a relationship with you, especially right now… would be a selfish and very foolish request, yet… part of me wants to ask for it anyways…’ Buggy scoffs quietly as he hears Mihawk’s words from earlier replay in his head. 

How dare he say such sweet words to Buggy after calling him things like a gutless coward? And what makes him think he has the right to pursue Buggy after all he’s done to him? Mihawk should just be happy that Buggy wants to be in the same room with him, he shouldn’t go wishing for the impossible.

Buggy rolls over and is just about to close his eyes when he feels the boat rock violently. He sits up, worried that they might have hit something. That shouldn’t be possible, though, they’re in the middle of the sea right now and the nearest stretch of land is hours away from them. 

“Sea king!” One of his men shouts, panting as he frantically tries to wake up the rest of the ship. Sea king?! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Buggy thinks as he hurries out of bed. A moment later, he hears the first cannon go off, and his blood goes cold. Running into a sea king in the middle of nowhere seems just like Buggy’s luck, doesn’t it?

[snekatiemainy]

GODDDDDD

OHH GOING INSANE <- KNOWS THINGS

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch5

chapter five: surrender

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 5, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-4, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: the usual fare (canon-typical violence, gore, murder), death (of children and adults)

Several Years Later… 

Jack Crawford and you stand over the table in his office, which is nearly buried under newspapers and physical materials. Two photographs lie in stark contrast to the black and white newspapers, bursts of horribly vivid color amidst the monotony. You look at the first one: a photo of the crime scene at the Leeds’ residence. You shake your head, thinking back to your investigation of the eerily silent home. 

There had been too much to look at. Too many bloodstains. Too much dust. Not nearly enough substantial evidence. You gleaned far too much about the daily lives of the Leedses as you investigated that house. The simplest mundanities were demonstrative of their ordinary lives before their deaths. A normal family with no enemies. (As it usually happens). Death doesn’t discriminate between good and evil, deserving and undeserving. You have to come to terms with that lesson every time you approach a crime scene. 

The pendulum swings before your eyes once more—a familiar greeting. You blink and you’re standing in the Leeds’ residence, sneaking through the dark hall until you reach the master bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Leeds slumber peacefully, with no indication of the horrors they will soon experience. You hover at the end of their bed, listening to their measured breaths. In, out. Your gloved hand is steady on your gun and you round the side of the bed, towering over Mr. Leeds. He exhales slowly. You fire and a bullet carves its way through his temple. Mrs. Leeds rouses at the noise, her face paling in the near darkness as she sees her husband’s blood spilling down his face and coloring the pristine white sheets. The woman tries to get up and you shoot her in the abdomen, before making your way out of the master bedroom and walking down the hall to the children’s bedroom. 

Their boys are awake now, too. They sit upright in bed, staring at you with wide eyes and thinly-veiled fear. You raise your gun and shoot the first in the temple. The other boy scampers away, falling to the ground and attempting to crawl under the bed. It doesn’t take you long to break the distance between you and grab at his ankle, yanking him back out and flipping him onto his back. A swift shot to the head drains the light from his eyes. You turn your back on the children, your attention captured by the master bedroom. You think you hear ragged breathing. Perfect. 

You take a deep breath and push the pendulum away, looking down at the photograph as you try to make a coherent timeline of events. The husband was killed first. The wife went next—was shot with a bullet through the abdomen. The two boys were shot and killed too. Then, the smashing of the mirrors. And… the strangulation of Mrs. Leeds, which proved to be the true cause of death. 

The two boys and the husband were positioned to observe Mrs. Leeds, to watch as the killer drained the life from her eyes, imprinted his teeth onto her skin, snapped his bloodied maw, guts and gore slipping onto his tongue and down his throat- 

“They found a film,” Jack says, breaking you out of your self-imposed trance. He grabs the tape and pushes it into the television in the corner of the room. “Mr. Leeds had purchased it three weeks prior to his death.”

The two of you move your chairs to sit in front of the television. For an awful and tense moment, the screen stutters in static. Time is an utter drag, mocking you for your unfounded patience. Will this film really be of any significance?

You don’t think so, and your suspicions are soon proven correct. The film is a recording of a few simple moments in the family’s ordinary life—relaxing on a beach with shimmering water, laughing around a dinner table. 

When the film is finished, Jack retrieves it from the television and returns to his seat. “What do you see?” He asks. You’re not sure you want to answer. And, really, what do you see?

“A happy family,” you remark. There’s something idling in your mind—a key component not yet realized. There is significance in the discrepancies between Mrs. Leeds and the rest of the family’s deaths; there is significance in the attention paid to the matriarch and the matriarch alone. You ruminate on the film you just watched, trying to connect the seemingly unrelated pieces. Something must’ve drawn the killer to this family. 

“Do you think Mrs. Leeds was beautiful?” You hear yourself asking. You remember the shimmering blond hair flowing down her back, the charming smile she aimed at the camera. You think of the way the killer defiled her corpse, the intimate way he killed her and only her. 

“Sure,” Jack remarks, clearly unsure where you’re going with the conversation. You’re not sure you know where you’re going, either. You just know that you can’t seem to move past Mrs. Leeds.

“He thought she was, too,” you say. “He paid her special attention. The cause of death was strangulation, remember. The killer was somewhat fixated with Mrs. Jacobi in a similar manner—he bit her, too.”

You frown. “What do we know about the killer, at this point?” You have to ask. There have been so many conversations, so many discussions laden with the smallest and most insignificant of revelations. It is an arduous task to connect this killer to a person. 

Indeed, Jack takes a deep breath. “He’s right-handed and has blond hair,” your boss recalls, crossing one leg over his knee. His eyebrows furrow as he evidently searches through his memory. “Size eleven shoes.” 

“He’s strong, evidently,” you add with a frown. Although, how strong, you can’t be sure. After all, he didn’t seem willing to take the chance of confronting Mr. Leeds, instead disposing of him before he could resist. Strangling Mrs. Leeds, on the other hand… That required both an immense urge to touch her—even with gloved hands, as the lack of fingerprints showed—and a fervent strength. Yes, this killer is strong. “Anything else?” You don’t expect much. 

“Semen and saliva show his blood type is AB positive,” Jack finishes. Your stomach turns with disgust, a white-hot rage flaming down your spine for the briefest of moments. This job never gets easier, you think to yourself. You just slowly become numb to the world’s horrors. 

“Let’s review the timing of these again,” you suggest, eager to continue with the conversation. You cross one leg over the other and stare at the dark television screen in front of you. “The Jacobis were killed on the full moon last month. The Leeds were killed almost a month later, a day before the full moon. That was… a few days ago, now.”

“The Jacobis were killed in their home in Birmingham; the Leeds were killed in their home in Atlanta… Both white, middle-class families. Nuclear families.” You recount. 

Jack nods. “They’re calling him the Tooth Fairy,” he says, getting to his feet and walking over to the table once more. He grabs a newspaper and studies it with disinterest. It’s clear Jack isn’t fond of the childish nickname, and you don’t think you are, either. 

“From the biting,” you sigh. “Clever.” You scoff, standing up and returning to your spot at the table. The two of you regard the haphazard pile of papers and photographs. You’re starting to feel a bit frustrated—this conversation is yielding no new information, and neither are the ongoing investigations in the homes of the victims. 

Jack stares down at one of the newspapers, his lips pulled in a thin line. “No clear motive,” he frowns. “Random selection.” 

“Every killer has a motive,” you remind him. “And there has to be something that connects these two families.” There needs to be, otherwise you’ll be exploring more houses laden with dust and picking apart more corpses. Jack nods in agreement. He knows as well as you do: there is nothing truly random about this killer’s behavior. It seems random now, because there have only been two instances. If there were more, you could deduce a pattern more easily… but you don’t want to manifest more death. 

“No witnesses,” you remember. Jack nods, a grimace on his face. The killer slipped in and slipped out with frightening ease, managing not to alert even a single neighbor to his presence. You went around and did some door duty back when you visited the crime scene, but you hadn’t had much luck with any of the neighbors. “Has Alana taken a look at this?” Jack confirms your suspicions with a nod. “And?”

Jack just shakes his head. You’re sure Alana provided some valuable insight, but there’s little that hasn’t already been thoroughly examined. There are only so many times the same people can scrutinize the same set of information. “We’ve spoken to all the typical suspects.” By ‘the typical suspects,’ you assume Jack means Alana, Beverly, Jimmy Price, Brian Zeller, and the local police department (although, you’re not sure they were able to provide you any helpful information; your relationship typically works the other way around, with the FBI providing the local jurisdiction with more information).  

“We don’t have much time,” you say. The words cling to the air with vigor. If the killer continues to follow his pattern, he will kill another family on the full moon of the next month. That leaves you… not even four weeks to track him down. Not to mention, there’s an utter lack of meaningful evidence. All you have right now are shadows—traces of the killer’s movements,  a smattering of physical traits that millions of people could possess. You fear that, in three weeks, you will still be at the same roadblock you’re at right now. Perhaps that fear is what motivates you to continue speaking. 

“Maybe we need to reevaluate our approach,” you say, the words traitorously crawling from your lips. The remark casts a tense silence across the air. You both know it’s true; if there’s anything you know about Jack Crawford, it’s that he is one to rely on the tried and true methods. Thinking “outside the box” is not an idea that Jack typically embraces. But you fear you don’t have any other options. 

“What do you suggest?” Your boss asks. His agreeableness is demonstrative of how little information you have, and how desperate you are to get a lead on this guy. You take a deep breath and try to organize your thoughts. 

The BAU has thoroughly evaluated all the available evidence. Perhaps, in order to make new connections, you need to speak to new professionals. You need more eyes on this case. Thinking about the killer, you realize that you need a more tangible psychological profile in order to contextualize his behavior and get closer to discovering his identity. 

“We need information on a killer,” you start. You pause, questioning your own judgment. There’s a solution staring you straight in the face, but… It’s far from your brightest or safest idea. Then again, you’re desperate—and you know Jack is, too. You take a deep breath, ignoring the whispers haunting the back of your mind. “Who better to consult… than another killer?” 

“Another killer,” Jack repeats, staring at you as if you’ve gone crazy. Hell, maybe you have gone crazy. But, sometimes, you need crazy ideas to catch crazy people. That’s what you like to tell yourself, anyway. The truth of the situation may be a combination of honest desperation and something more… unsettling.

Because, truthfully, this other killer’s voice has never left your mind. This other killer is just as brutal as the Tooth Fairy, if not moreso. 

“You don’t mean-” Jack cuts himself off, a brief disturbed expression flickering across his face before it morphs into indifference. “Dr. Lecter. Of course.”

Both of you are rather uncomfortable with the notion. But, if Hannibal could provide you with new answers—or, hell, new questions… “He would know,” you admit. “After all, this killer and the Ripper are rather similar. They both left behind little evidence—practically untraceable.”

Jack is quiet for several moments. You can see the gears whirring behind his eyes, as he weighs the potential benefits against the numerous risks. Eventually, he seems to come to an impasse, and he shakes his head. Jack then looks at you. “You would speak with him?”

To your knowledge, Alana is the only one who has actually spoken to Hannibal in the years since he was imprisoned—and from what she told you, their conversation was unhelpful. You would be the best person to speak with him now, realistically speaking. An entire minute passes before you can find it in yourself to respond. “...Yes.”

“Do you realize how dangerous this is?” Jack asks, searching your expression for something. You try your best to maintain your composure. 

“High risk, high reward,” you say. “He could know something. And even if he doesn’t, he’ll probably have a good educated guess.” 

Jack studies you for another minute, before exhaling and murmuring something along the lines of “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”  You don’t blame him—you’re also surprised he agreed. Perhaps more surprising is the fact that you were the one to suggest visiting Hannibal in the first place, after everything he’s done to you. A part of you is terrified that your history with him… has only just begun. 

You summon some courage and head for the door. “Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can leave. You turn back around to face him. 

“Yes?” You ask. 

“Be careful,” Jack says. “He’ll try to get in your head.” 

You nod, knowing words will betray you. Really, what the hell are you doing? Why did you sign up for this? Is there a part of you, however small, that hopes to see him again? These thoughts haunt you for the rest of the day and well into the night, until the point when you’re snoozing your alarm and blinking blearily as you realize that you didn’t get a single minute of sleep. 

The drive passes in the blink of an eye. The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane hasn’t changed much in the years since your last visit; the building is still somewhat of an eyesore, with dirtied brick and grimy windows. You haven’t walked down these halls for years. The last time you traversed this path was to speak to Abel Gideon. Hannibal Lecter was there too—that time, on the other side of the bars. Things look almost exactly the same, and you nearly feel as if you’ve been displaced in time. You turn around the corner and step into Chilton’s office. He’s preoccupied with staring at something on his laptop screen. You wait patiently in the doorway for a minute, but nothing happens. 

“Dr. Chilton,” you decide to greet him, finally pulling his attention towards you. You immediately wish you could un-notice the way his eyes sparkle when he looks at you, the mad glint in his eye as he practically pulls you apart in front of him. Chilton is far from your favorite person on the planet, but he isn’t evil, you remind yourself. Misguided, yes. But not evil. 

“Hello,” Chilton greets you in response, closing his laptop and regarding you with his full attention. “It’s been a while. A few years, at least?”

You breathe slowly, trying to calm your racing heart. “Yes, it has been a while,” you say with a smile that only feels a little forced. “I saw you published a book.” Hannibal the Cannibal, you recall. Not the cleverest of titles. 

“Ah, yes,” Chilton responds. Amazingly, he doesn’t take the gifted opportunity to talk about it. It seems that the man has changed a little, in the years that you’ve seen him. How much he’s changed, still remains to be seen, however. 

While the small talk is a nice distraction, you know you need to get down to business. “I need to see Hannibal Lecter,” you say, handing Chilton the forms that Jack signed for you. You’re not making that mistake again. Looking at those signed forms catapults you back in time once more, to a tense first encounter between Frederick Chilton and Hannibal Lecter, to an even more tense discussion with Abel Gideon.

“Have fun,” Chilton remarks wryly, after checking over your papers. He pulls one of his desk drawers open and files the paperwork away, before returning his attention to you. “Lecter has been… disagreeable. Nearly silent.”

That’s interesting. You ask Chilton to elaborate, not realizing your error until you see his eyes light up as he begins to speak. Around the two-minute mark, you have to cut him off. “Okay, thank you,” you interject, before he can go on for any longer. There were a few morsels of helpful information buried in that giant monologue, but it’s not nearly enough to make you feel adequately prepared for talking to Hannibal for the first time in years. 

Chilton seems to sense your unease, because he gets up from his desk to guide you towards his cell. When you stand up too, he claps a hand on your shoulder. A shiver travels down your spine, but you try your best to ignore it. Chilton is the least of your concerns at the present moment. 

“What have you been up to?” Chilton asks as he leads you through the maximum security level of the prison. He seems entirely unbothered by the jeers and taunts the prisoners are directing at both of you. Meanwhile, you have to resist the urge to clap your hands over your ears. All the noise distracts you from his question, and you don’t remember to provide an answer until Chilton is politely coughing to get your attention. 

“Oh, right,” you remark. “Well, the usual, I guess… I’m back in the field. I’m teaching the new recruits, too. Sometimes I visit Abigail.” You fiddle with the tape recorder concealed in your jacket pocket. You have no doubt that Hannibal will notice it immediately, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You suspect you won’t have enough time to take notes—instead too busy trying to stay afloat amidst the verbal traps Hannibal lays for you.

“Oh, Abigail Hobbs,” Chilton says, his eyes alight with recognition, “How is she doing?”

“She’s doing well,” you answer, thinking back to your past few interactions. She’s happier than she used to be, but you fear she’ll never be quite the same. Not that you blame her—if you were in her position, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. “About as well as a person can do, in her situation.” 

“That’s understandable,” Chilton hums, frowning in sympathy. For once, you think the expression on his face may actually be genuine. Although, once you remember that Chilton had tried to get Abigail confined to these dark halls, you have to second guess that notion. 

Hannibal is rather far down the hall, you realize as you continue walking. At some point, you come across a door leading to yet another hallway. Chilton comes to a stop before the door, turning to regard you with an unreadable expression. 

“What exactly are you hoping to get from Lecter?” He asks. There it is—the question you’d been waiting for him to ask. It was only a matter of time before Chilton’s curiosity got the best of him. Honestly, you’re somewhat impressed that he kept his lips sealed this long. 

“Have you heard of the Tooth Fairy?” You ask. 

“The folktale?” Chilton asks with furrowed brows. “The fairy that puts teeth under children’s pillows when they lose them?” You blink at him once, then twice. 

“I- not that Tooth Fairy,” you choke out, feeling a laugh bubbling out of you. Leave it to Frederick Chilton to assume that the FBI is investigating an imaginary creature. You take a deep breath and manifest more patience. “The man who killed the Jacobis and the Leedses—the killer who bites his victims.”

“Oh, yes,” Chilton nods. 

“He’s been eluding us,” you explain, “Leaving behind little to no evidence. It’s been a while since someone has commanded the FBI’s attention so masterfully.” You raise your eyebrows pointedly, and understanding flashes in Chilton’s eyes. You don’t have to expand on that statement—the remainder of the remark floats in the air, unspoken but omnipresent. It’s been a while… since we’ve seen someone as perplexing as Hannibal Lecter. 

“Ah, I see,” Chilton sighs, pulling his identification card from his pocket. “Very well.” He holds his badge up to the badge reader near the door, before covering the pin pad with one hand and typing in a passcode with the other. A green light flashes on the pin pad and the door creaks open ominously. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, truly,” Chilton continues, as the two of you stroll down the hallway. Your heart is roaring in your ears, making it a bit more difficult to comprehend what the man’s saying. “I can’t promise that Lecter will be any help, though. As I said earlier, he’s been… uncharacteristically quiet since he first arrived.” 

“Thanks for the warning,” you answer. “I’ll see what I can do.” Somehow, you get the feeling Hannibal will be a bit more talkative with you. At the very least, you’re not Chilton. Besides, wasn’t a motivating factor behind his imprisonment the fact that you would be forced to know where he was? You wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal has been lying in wait, anticipating the moment you’d need to interact with him. 

“The visitation limit is fifty minutes,” Chilton reminds you. That must’ve changed since the last time you visited—you remember it being an hour in the past. Ten minutes doesn’t seem like it will make much of a difference, but if it’s a matter of life and death… You sigh. It shouldn’t get to that. “He’s at the end of the hall, on the left.”

You nod and thank him. Chilton regards you for one last moment, before retreating back down the hall and into the shadows. You’re left lurking awkwardly in the middle of the hall. One of the prisoners jeers at you, saying something about you looking better with your eyeballs gouged out. You ignore the remark and continue walking. 

You’re nearing the end of the hall. Ten steps. Your breaths sound ragged. Nine steps. There’s someone rattling the bars of their cell next to you. Eight steps. Your shoes make small clicking sounds against the floors, alerting everyone to your presence. Seven, six, five, four steps. You’re biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood. Three steps. Your cuticle stings. You pick at the skin, welcoming the pain. Two steps. His cell, his cage, falls into view. There’s a sweeping glass wall covering the entirety of the space, with small holes carving through the glass at rhythmic intervals. There are elegant white bookshelves stacked to the brim with tomes of all shapes and sizes. A break in the glass reveals a metal slot, likely for food and mail. In the corner of the room sits a desk, near a dining table and chair. A domed window sits on the ceiling, ushering in the afternoon sunlight.

The privilege of it all… It makes you sick. Most prisoners aren’t nearly so lucky. Minor offenders get treated far, far worse than this—with grimy, shared showers and cement walls in lieu of windows. Most prisoners get a single, paper-thin mattress and nothing else. 

But Hannibal Lecter is not the same as most prisoners. He is a serial killer with a distinguished mask, crafted with swooping elegant lines and laced with pretense. The Chesapeake Ripper remains prominent in the eyes of the public. There have been countless documentaries and articles about him. Everyone wants to get inside his head; everyone wants to determine how someone with exquisite table manners and a penchant for elaborate dinner parties—someone in the upper echelons of society—can fall so far into criminality. 

One more step. 

You’re frozen. You don’t want to cross the threshold, don’t want to surrender your camouflage. You’ve spent years trying to get this man out of your head, and you know that the moment you take that last step forward, he’ll be roaming the halls of your mind palace once more. 

Then you think of the Jacobis and the Leedses, and remember why you’re here. The Tooth Fairy has escaped the FBI for far too long, leaving little in the way of evidence save for crumpled corpses and mutilated bodies. The man needs to be caught. You think of all the victims you failed to save, of all the times you were confined to the aftermath of gruesome murders.

Selfishly speaking, you don’t want to move. Hell, you’ve had your moments of selfishness—moments when you’ve prioritized self-preservation. It’s a skill you’re often told you need to embrace more. Jack said as much to you all those years ago, didn’t he?

“You can leave this behind,” Crawford had said to you after your first assignment, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He had pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him.   

You surrendered desire, forfeited comfort long ago. Preference bends to the whims of necessity. You never really had a choice. You take a step forward, the fluorescent lighting above seeping into your skin. There’s a figure sitting at the ornate writer’s desk in the corner of the room, clad in a white jumpsuit. You take another step forward, despite your apprehension, and the noise draws his attention. The Chesapeake Ripper turns around, his eyes gleaming with life when his gaze falls on your form. 

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” you remark.

It is far too late to go back.

next chapter

endnotes

Hannibal is backkk!!! idk why the mf took so long to appear 🙄

as always, thank you for reading! feel free to reblog or drop a comment if you're enjoying this story so far. :3

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[wakacreations]

Zevlor's Bizarre Cocoa Adventure (Ch. 4)

Author's Note:

I was planning on breaking this chapter into two after seeing the word count but as I read it multiple times, it needed to be read as one chapter. Thank you for your patience and it is a long treat for those who waited. There is a lot of things going on this chapter. If anyone has any questions I don't mind answering them.

@falcatamandarina The next chapter is out.

Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5

Word Count: 2932

Summary:

Zevlor's interesting full day in the Underdark.

His eyes adjusted to the dimness of the Underdark. Though he did have dark vision, the absence of a sky overhead felt unnerving. Large stalactites hung overhead like a large maw of a great beast waiting to close. “To be trapped here would prove to be a disorienting nightmare,” he took note. Psionic murmurs radiate from this place. Mushroom-like beings hoveled around this encampment. A faint warm breeze brushed his temple. “Maybe not this place,” the hilt of his blade met his palm.

Zevlor’s stare not wavering from the fungi drawing near. Their pitch black eyes met his infernal orange gaze. The being’s psionic chatter became a whisper as they continued on their path. “Is that why my fellow Hellriders had worried about being sent into the Underdark?” Their words echoed into his mind, “there are far worse beings than devils and demons at least your mind can conjure them, but some things are ever more stranger and haunting than the things you see in the Underdark”. For what his Hellriders were referring to, he himself had experienced worse and far worse. If they are psionic in nature then he had much more experience than his now fallen comrades. 

Zevlor wandered for a ways assessing the inhabitants (of these spore creatures). From what he could gather from these sentient mushrooms, they may seem peaceful but they are not harmless. A singular fungus creature hunched over what appeared to be a small lifeless figure. He watched and observed in horror as the corpse of a duergar grew spores, mushrooms pocketed their skin. The corpse that laid lifelessly on the cold stone just moments before drew breath, their limbs writhing as if a fever consumed them. The body radiated with psionic hum soon sat up as if it had just arisen from slumber, limping over to the choir of other singing fungi. “Where was he truly! And in any case, staying here past necessarily was non-negotiable,” a slight tremor runs through him. The encampment was not large by any means but where would a hobgoblin and a mindflayer run off too? Zevlor quickened his pace. They should be close by. He made his way to one of the entrances of the encampment. 

A pair of five and two toed tracks laid in the soft dirt. “At least my hunch was correct. They won’t be too far outside the encampment,” Zevlor sighed with a bit of relief. A small twinkling light caught the corner of his vision. Soft blue petals danced in the air as the path of the tracks continued. Curious. “These petals are quite lovely. To think such beauty exists in such a dreary place.” The petals shimmered a faint blue glow as it illuminated the path. “These are much more beautiful than the fireflies of the surface,” touching the cool petal with a clawed finger, a cold shiver ran down his spine. The fluorescent light grew brighter the closer he neared the end of the trail. The air grew cooler as Zevlor was bathed in the blue aura. A small orchard came into view. There stood a tall dark figure floating idly as a much smaller figure darted about the tree line. As Zevlor drew near their voices were audible. “I am quite surprised these plants are growing so rapidly” said a deep raspy voice. “As am I, it is most curious. It shall be noted in our report.” said another. Crates upon crates filled to the brim with red fruits littered the pathway.

“Omeluum? Blurg?” Zevlor called out as he traversed the maze of crates. “Ah, it seems you've found your way. We were about to depart back to the encampment,” Omeluum floated around a tall pillar of crates. “Chocolate?” the mindflayer extended an open palm to him. Neatly placed in the center of their palm laid a wrapped silver foiled square. Zevlor popped the chocolate morsel into his mouth. It was rich with deep cocoa flavor with a sharp bitterness. The bitterness lingered on his tongue longer than he expected. Too strong of a dark chocolate for his liking. A kind gesture nevertheless. “We're still working on the recipe but we've been finding the denizens down here prefer a strong dark chocolate. It is very interesting to say the least” Blurg said, stacking the fruit crates. “These are the fruits of our labor,” the hobgoblin waved his arm gesturing around them. 

Zevlor took a moment to look up. Past the small canopy of the cocoa were magnificent silver sprawling branches. The blue leaves seem to shimmer as if they were fluttering butterfly wings. Large crystal blue flowers dotted the tree limbs. “Those would look beautiful on Tav,” Zevlor uttered aloud as the flower's blue light twinkled in his eyes as if the stars were just within reach. “You have a keen eye for beauty,” Omeluum chuckled. “They call this Underdark plant a Sussur tree. It is said to contain anti-magical properties. The bark is most coveted for its enchantment abilities. For whatever tool forged with the bark will grant the ability of silenced,” the mindflayer's claw traced the spiral bark of the tree. “It’s poetic in a sense. Something crafted with such beauty will leave you silent and later breathless,” Zevlor continued to stare with awe. 

“Indeed. The flowers emit an anti magic aura. To any magic users, their spellcasting abilities will slowly be drained into the flower,” Omeluum plucked the fragile bloom from the tree. The flower gently floated into his clawed grasp. “Observe.” In one palm flickered a fireball that wavered and danced but as the palm drew near the Sussur bloom, the flame grew dimmer and fainter till the flaming palm was left with only a smoldering ember, extinguished. “Are the effects of the flower permanent?” concern etched onto Zevlor’s face. “No, only in the vicinity of the Sussur bloom. The flower's magical property disappears in the presence of sunlight,” Omeluum grinned reassuringly. “Once in sunlight the flower will wither so does its brilliant blue color and glimmer. Do you intend to give one to your companion,” they eyed him with curiosity. “It seems he fully intended to Omeluum,” Blurg interrupts Zevlor’s stammering. The hobgoblin gave him a wink. Zevlor’s cheeks grew warm as did the tips of his ears. 

“For a friend,” he declared, his tail wrapping around his thigh. “One would be foolish to think otherwise,” his own thoughts nagged him, face growing warm. From within the arcanist's robes the mindflayer withdrew an intricately golden laced handkerchief. The mindflayer gently placed the handkerchief over the Sussur petals. The lace intertwined with the flower's petals as they melded together leaving the Sussur flowers seemingly undisturbed. Gold veins now lined the cool petals.

“The runes placed on this plant will keep the sunlight at bay but it is best for the bloom to avoid sunlight whenever possible. The runes do serve as a shield from the magical properties of the plant. Just remove the handkerchief if you intend to use its properties.” Omeluum gently places the flower in the palm of tiefling’s hand. “Thank you?” said Zevlor. The mindflayer resumed their work organizing the crates. He wasn't sure what to make of what just transpired. Such a strange mindflayer. “If you are feeling better, do you mind helping us carry a couple crates back to camp? Omeluum levitates most of them but we still have these eight boxes left,” as Blurg dabbed his brow with a handkerchief.

“So, those mushroom creatures at your encampment…” Zevlor began. “Ah, the myconids. They are interesting people aren’t they?” Blurg chimed as he grabbed his boxes. “That's one way of putting it,” Zevlor lifted his set. “Do you know about the corpses and their… transformation?” Being this far away from the creatures did bide his uneasiness but only slightly. “So, you have observed their sporeing process,” Omeluum floated near. “I. Well… Yes. How are you so sure they won’t pose a danger to others in the camp? If those who are deemed weaker or injured could they purposely turn them as well?” Zevlor pressed. The mindflayer hummed in deep contemplation. “How will we know if you pose a danger?” they answered. “What!? What are you insinuating?” a slight growl edged to his words. “I simply asked based on my observations.” they said calmly. “What are they if you will humbly enlighten us?” Zevlor's tail irritatedly waved. 

The hobgoblin glanced between his companions as they walked. “Umm… What they meant to say was this is just a hunch but what we don't know about others we deem them dangerous” shrugged the hobgoblin. Omeluum nodded in agreement. “Keen observation Blurg. We assess and hypothesize based on the behavior we observe. Though our perception can be clouded through experiences,” as the mindflayer swirled the boxes overhead. “I cannot pry into your thoughts unless willing but your mind is vocal. I can feel your mental anguish from a distance prior to your arrival at the orchard.” His infernal blood began to run cold, Zevlor’s grip on the crates slipped slightly. 

“There are many things you fear I have taken note of. For there to be peace among our Underdark denizens, we simply extend our trust. We the Society of Brilliance choose to understand and have faith in one another. Isn't that what you yearn for Hellrider?” they stroked their own chin. Zevlor attempted to refute but he remained tight-lipped, the words dying in his throat. “We are here. As for the myconids, Blurg and I have witnessed their sole interests are to commune among themselves. The vulnerable remain unharmed. For those who don't wish to live in peace, paladin. There will be order maintained by what is necessary” the mindflayer purred. Zevlor stood in silence as he watched the illithid slink back to the tent. “You alright?” Blurg nudged his arm with their elbow. “I am fine. Thank you.” his stare unwavering from the tent. “I'll get started on making dinner. It's about that time already. If you want, you could get started on making the fire.” The hobgoblin smiled apologetically and walked off in the direction of the mindflayer. 

Zevlor tossed himself upon the seat of a crate. He neatly piled the stack of logs onto the center of the campfire. “Was that a threat from them or is it my mind?” he thought. In the palm of his hands, he bundled twigs and wood shaving tightly wrapping in cloth. “Are my emotions that easy to read or am I just acting on instinct?” steel striking the flint catches the kindling alight. With a steady hand he cupped the bundle, blowing on the tender flame coaxing them to bloom. “Maybe I'm acting within my natural disposition.” he took a deep breath. “Maybe I'm living within the habits I've always known” tossing the flame onto the fire pit.

“Do we have to make a fire by hand Commander?” His private huffed as she slid her blade against a rock. Small sparks trickled at the bundle of dry brush, their eyes glowing bright in frustration against the moonless night. “Yes, Private Tilses we can't always rely on a firebolt to catch our fires ablaze.” Zevlor peered over their shoulder. “Less drunken wildfires at that as well,” he winced at the memory. “Hey Private Zevlor, come here for a second. Bet you can't cast a firebolt from there” his drunken superior beckoned him. “If you can backflip off there onto this stump while lighting the bonfire. You’ll get tomorrow off.” they slurred patting at the stump. Celebrations were in order as the last of the vampiric hellrider's legion was vanquished. Not one to avoid a challenge or lose his pride among his fellow peers. He stupidly but happily accepted. Zevlor took another swig from his bottle. The young Hellrider peered down from his perch among the tree canopy.

“Do you have the paper signed? You know how my challenges work. ” He eyed his commander. “Yeah, yeah Zev. It's an official order. Look, your fellow private got the report,” he pointed to his second private holding up the signed document. “Alright if it's a roaring fire you request,” Zevlor standing at full attention on top of the tree limb. His back facing away from the pit. “Then a roaring bonfire to the heavens it shall be.” he jumped. When he awoke half the camp was burnt to smoldering ash. Hellriders stumbled as they ran back and forth extinguishing what little flames remained. From the cheers at what’s left of the breakfast table, he did complete the task beautifully but with all the spilled alcohol about… things went up in flames... There needed to be a written report of the incident about the state of the outpost. Also the singed forest around the vicinity. He did not work that day due to being reprimanded instead along with his other fellow Hellriders.

“Commander Zevlor? Commander? Commander, sir?” Tilses called, snapping his attention to the present. “Umm… yes, Tilses very necessary. Whatever energy that would be reserved in casting a firebolt could be used to staying alert.” he coughed, clearing his throat. Even the darkness couldn't hide the side eye his new private gave him (though having shared abilities of dark vision did not help in this instance). He knelt beside her. "You're on the right track Tilly. Just flick your wrist and then” the kindling came a blaze. “I did it! It's finally over.” Tilly slumped down onto her bedroll.

“Mighty fine work there. Good job private” Zevlor chuckled, placing a couple of twigs onto the fire. A sniffle came from the bedroll. “Tilly, are you alright?” the older tiefling's ears perked up. His eyes fell upon his young private, back turned away. “No one has ever told me that Commander, sir,” she mumbled. “Told you what Hellrider?” he asked, straining to hear. “Said I did a good job or just cared… sir,” Tilly choked out between sniffles. “Not anyone at all or even your fellow Hellriders?” Zevlor turned to fully face them. “No one. Honestly, I thought I would quit after this private rotation. I am no Hellrider,” she whispered, clutching the pillow to her chest. He knew of that sentiment. “Whatever lies we tell ourselves are easier to listen to,” he began. The flames licked at the edges of the shadows. 

“You know you are impressive in your own right, Tilly. You try your hardest. You do what is right and just when the need arises. You strive to learn where you can. I would say that is something worthy of a Hellrider’s acknowledgement.” he said with utmost confidence. The night air began to chill. He raised a clawed finger. “First, you have arrived and found our meeting place. Second, you were able to successfully navigate and locate the targets. Third, you did complete today's mission of extinguishing the gnolls. Fourth, you set up a base camp with a roaring fire. Fifth, is yet to come to pass but it is to achieve a long rest.” Zevlor tossed Tilly a blanket. “When we awaken tomorrow, you will have confirmed your first completed field mission as a Hellrider.”

“But Commander I was late. I passed by their den multiple times, lost. You had to save me from being attacked and the fire, I only achieved it with your guidance.” his private stared at him wide-eyed as tears began anew. “And at the end of the day private Tilses, the mission was completed regardless. That is what matters in this line of work.” Zevlor said firmly. “Now, again it was a good and successful mission by my standards,” hands on his knees he stood to his full height. “Now, what would you like for dinner? I'll have you know with the chill in the air tonight, I am more partial with either a soup or stew.” 

“Stew, please sir. Thank you for the kind words” as her palms wiped away the tears. “If we are to be working together Private Tilses, you can address me by title and name. I only stated the truth so a thanks is not necessary but I'll accept it for only acting as a reminder of your potential.” Zevlor handed them a handkerchief with a nod. “You know Commander Zevlor, you are more kinder and gentler than the other commanders.” Tilly yawned. “Especially working with a new private. You have me worrying for my commanding officer. If you are so busy saving and helping everyone, when will you have time to live?” She said, tucked herself snug into her bedroll. “Well private's are still learning the ropes. Unnecessary fear of their commanders will lead to mistrust down the line. I live through my actions in service to others. It is rewarding work,” he took their finished dishes. 

“That sounds nice Commander Zevlor but will you still be living when you make mistakes? Like if you held regrets over your actions? I don't know if I would call that living. It sounds like a nightmare,” she mumbled. “I will assure you I will still be alive, Private Tilses. Even if the Hells were to come to Elturel, I won’t regret the lives that I have saved in the meantime,” as he wiped the dishes dry. “You didn't answer my question Commander Zevlor, sir. But you'll have to answer that question some day. Good night, sir,” she waved him off, turning over in her bed roll. “Good night, Private Tilses. See you at sunrise, Hellrider.” 

Tilses was right as always even in their early rider years. Some things never change. “I suppose these next couple of days are to answer that single question” he stared longingly at the campfire. 

[unironicallytes]

So there are some intentional timeline differences in Dear Brother, which you might have noticed if you're as weird about these things as I am LMAO. I feel like yapping so we'll talk about some of the ones pertaining to Mathieu and some of their subsequent effects on the story and his actions. Some spoiler talk for the fic under the cut.

In the actual game, according to Traitor's Diary, Mathieu's killing of Blanchard occurs after he's promoted to Silencer, and we do not know which Silencer Mathieu actually replaces. I think the general fan consensus is that Blanchard was his Speaker, but I changed Blanchard to the Gold Coast Silencer in this version. We also know that Mathieu's vague plan is "destroy the Brotherhood and murderize the fuck out of Lucien". However, I write the Dear Brother version of him with two wolves inside of him: oftentimes, his plans are well-laid in theory, but they swerve into new impulses in practice.

So, in this fic, he kills Blanchard, then is advanced to Silencer as a direct result.

Here, he hadn't actually intended to kill Blanchard - he had been trying to identify other members of the Hand and learn their routes before he started picking them off. But he was caught tailing Blanchard near southwestern Lake Rumare, who was already en route to the Hand meeting in Bravil. He killed Blanchard to avoid his cover being blown. However, the Gold Speaker, Bahar Al'Rihad, was most definitely nearby and witnessed him fleeing.

Killing that fool Blanchard was the worst mistake I've made so far. I was seen! I was cloaked and hooded, and escaped into shadow, so no one learned my true identity. But now the Black Hand is suspicious.

Cue Bahar immediately sending a crow to Ungolim, followed by the mistaken realization that no one other than fellow Claws would know the routes each of the others take. Now Ungolim's having a fucking panic attack ("Void take me, it's happening again, please not again") and accusations are already flying. Then their comms fucking drop lmao.

Meanwhile, Mathieu hadn't actually accounted for the possibility that he would be assigned to take Blanchard's place across the damn province. From his POV, he's only ever seen advancement to Silencer from intra-Sanctuary, not inter- (he was around for Lucien's, then Zathiril's). By the beginning of ch5, he's scrambling a little about that. By the middle of ch5, he's raised Zath's priority level even higher on his docket to "Little Shit Bastard In My Godsdamned Way". By ch6, he's already impulsively rummaged around in his drawers for some half-finished status effect poisons that he'd been experimenting with.

By the end of ch6, he now knows: 1) that Zath is actually in a perfect scapegoating position; 2) that his poison works pretty well for #1 ngl; 3) that he doesn't actually need to worry about the Wrath showing up; and 4) the names and descriptions of the other two Silencers.

[abitohoney]

All I Want for Christmas Is You

Chapter 1 of 6 - Decorating With Sevika AO3 link

CH1 || CH2 || CH3 || CH4 || CH5 || CH6

Sevika x female reader

Rating: Explicit, MDNI, 18+, NSFW

Tags: Sevika/Reader, AU - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Lesbian Sex, Cunnilingus, Teasing, Humor, Vaginal Fingering, Orgasm Delay (nothing extreme), Begging, Strap-Ons, Face-Sitting, Corny & Cheesy Dialogue, kinda sappy

Word Count: 2.7k

Fic Summary: It’s your first year spending the holidays with Sevika, and though the two of you couldn’t be any different in your level of holiday spirit or view of the traditions that come with it, your shared adoration (and sexual attraction) for each other is more than enough to get both of you through it together.

A collection of little holiday-inspired scenes, technically chronological, but really could be read in any order or as stand-alone oneshots. Includes a nice blend of sugar (fluff) and spice (smut).

Chapter Summary: Being a holiday enthusiast, you spend the day decorating the home you share with Sevika. However, your less enthused scrooge of a girlfriend has other ideas. (A small dose of smut.)

AN: Another fic already complete on AO3 that I'm bringing to Tumblr. Guess it's Xmas in April. 🤷‍♀️

Despite standing on your tiptoes on a small stepladder, you still can’t quite reach the top of the Christmas tree to place the sparkling gold star. After spending the entirety of your morning decorating your home, putting up the massive tree -including strings of lights, shiny baubles, sparkly tinsel and garland- and doing so by yourself , you find your holiday spirit starting to crack. Your grumpy- albeit gorgeous and perfect in nearly every other way- scrooge of a girlfriend had outright refused to partake in any of your festive decorating. Instead, she had chosen to spend her day making repairs and improvements to her Shimmer fueled arm, claiming it was necessary that she be ready for something Silco had planned days from now. So now here you are, feeling utterly exhausted -not to mention lonely- and at your wits end.

With a frustrated sigh of defeat, you climb down the ladder. Grumbling under your breath, you make your way to the kitchen where Sevika sits at your small dining table. Parts, tools, and cleaning supplies litter the table, alongside a small glass that had- at one point during the day- presumably contained whiskey.

A cigarillo hangs from the corner of Sevika’s mouth. Her attention is focused on her arm as she tightens a tiny screw near her wrist, not taking notice of your presence at her side.

You plant your hands on your hips and start tapping your foot impatiently. When that still doesn’t get her attention, you clear your throat with an exaggerated, “Ahem.” You do, in fact, gain her attention, but not in the manner you’d intended.

She turns to regard you. Her eyes travel up the length of the tiny little elf dress and hat you’re donning, silly pointy ears and all. Removing the cigarillo from between her lips, she blows a plume of smoke from the corner of her mouth before dryly asking, “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I’m an elf,” you point out matter-of-factly. You grab the hem of your short skirt and do what you would consider to be a cute little shimmy.

“You’re disgustingly cute, you know that?” she chuckles and shakes her head before tapping the ash from her cigarillo into a small tray.

"But I am cute, right?" you ask, cocking your head to the side and flashing her a sweet smile. When she merely quirks a single brow, your smile turns down into a disappointed pout, hands returning to your hips.

Sevika, however, seems amused by this, given how her lips curl into a tiny smirk. She sets her small cigar down in the ashtray and shifts in her chair to face you. “Come here,” she says in a deep, teasing voice. Her hands snake around your waist to pull you down onto one of her spread thighs.

Placing your hands on her shoulders, your attempt to uphold your frown falters when she takes your chin in her human hand, gently forcing you to look at her crooked little grin, the one that makes you weak in the knees every time. When she pulls your face closer to hers and leans in for what you assume to be a kiss, your walls- a façade of disappointment- crumble completely. Eyes fluttering shut, you feel her soft lips graze along yours before passing them entirely and pressing against your ear.

“You know I love the way you look, babygirl," she purrs.

Her raspy voice, those words, the pet name… It all sends shivers down your spine. When she pulls away and releases your chin, you can’t hide the playful smile her compliment brings to your face.

“You know,” you start slowly, absentmindedly dragging the tip of your index finger down the center of her chest, “with me sitting on your lap like this, you’d make a real sexy Santa with a little red and white hat on your head.”

“Not gonna happen.” Though she’s denying your request, she keeps that sexy grin of hers in place.

“You wouldn’t wear it even for me?” you ask, doe eyes and pouty lips out to hopefully convince her otherwise. “I’ve been such a good girl this year.”

Lips curling just the tiniest bit higher, she lets her hands wander to your hips. She pulls you closer and drags you across the top of her thigh.

Biting your bottom lip does nothing to withhold the soft moan that motion withdraws.

She raises that damn brow again, but this time with one of her cocky little taunting looks, releasing a short chuckle. “You and I both know you’ve been a very… naughty… girl,” she replies, accentuating each word with a bounce of her leg and tug of your hips.

Nails digging into her shoulders, it takes every ounce of will power to ignore how your body aches for her, to focus on what you came to her for in the first place. Just when you think you’ve got your head clear enough, she gives your hips one final tug, closing the gap between your bodies, her delightfully soft and warm chest pressing into yours. “Sevika,” you whine pathetically and try to lean in to steal a kiss, only for her to move her head to the side of yours.

“Did you need something?” she asks, a deep hum resonating from her chest as she runs her nose along the edge of your ear.

Even though in the back of your mind you know she’s just trying to distract you from whatever you came to her for, you still can’t break free from the spell she’s put you under. It’s clear to you that she knows exactly what she’s doing. “You. I need you,” you mewl, grinding against her thigh and pressing open mouth kisses down the side of her neck.

“You can have me. I just need you to be patient. I’m almost done,” she replies, pulling back and putting a stop to your advances.

Pout back in place, you relent with an exaggerated sigh and stand, but when you turn to leave, the sudden smack or her human hand against your partially exposed ass makes you yelp. Beyond flustered with how turned on she got you, only to turn you away and then smack your ass, you shoot her a glare over your shoulder as you walk away. It’s pointless though, as it always is, since it only serves to make that cocky grin of hers grow wider.

Back in the living room, you realize that not only did she distract you to the point of completely forgetting to ask -or, rather, demand- what you had initially gone to her for, but also that your underwear is now uncomfortably damp with arousal. Rather than changing into a new pair, you decide to simply toss the old pair in the laundry, opting to go commando and use that to your advantage later, when you exact some revenge.

Back up the step ladder, you take one last shot at putting up the wretched star on your own. This time, you place one foot on the handle several inches above the last step and it seems to give you just enough reach to get it up there. The sound of something moving behind you catches your attention and you glance over your shoulder to find Sevika leaning against the wall that separates the kitchen and living room.

“You’re done?” you ask, straining to keep your balance as you turn back to the tree and attempt to straighten the star.

She hums an affirmative.

“How’s it look?” you ask, unable to really tell from how close you are and at such an odd angle.

“Needy.”

Brows pinching together in confusion, you take a moment to process that statement before asking, “What?!”

“Tempting.”

Okay. You’re certain you heard her right this time. And there is definitely nothing needy or tempting about the damn star on the top of the tree. Turning your head, you glance down at her from over your shoulder again as she approaches you. You’re about to ask her to clarify what the hell she’s talking about; however, your mouth hangs silently open when you catch her heated gaze focused on the apex of your thighs.

Oh. That.

“That’s not what I meant,” you chastise her, but there’s no hiding the way your face flushes under her hungry gaze. Arousal blooms low in your belly.

She steps closer, ignoring your statement entirely, instead running her hands slowly up the back of your bare calves.

“What are you doing?” you demand, but your voice shakes as her contrasting cool metal and warm flesh fingers snake higher up over the backs of your thighs.

“Just making sure you don’t fall,” she says in a low, sultry tone, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes remain glued on the sight beneath your skirt and her hands climb even higher until they reach your ass. Gripping a cheek in each hand, her thumbs slip between your thighs, forcing them to spread wider.

“S-Sevika!” you whine, legs trembling as her digits dip dangerously close to your now visibly wet slit. “You- You’re going to make me fall!” And as she steps even closer, the realization dawns on you that her head is at the perfect height to-

“Bend over for me, sweetheart,” she purrs.

“W-what?” you stammer, knowing there’s absolutely no way you could keep your balance up on that ladder if she starts putting her mouth on you like you know she plans to do.

“Isn’t this what you wanted earlier?,” she asks, human thumb swiping just over your entrance and drawing a shaky moan from your parted lips. Stormy gray eyes flit up to yours, making sure you’re watching as she licks your arousal from the pad of her thumb.

“Not while I’m on a ladder!” you manage to choke out despite your mind scrambling at the sight of her eyeing you so… hungrily .

“I won’t let you fall,” she assures you. Though she says it gently- without malice- it’s clear that this is not open for debate.

So, you obediently bend over, placing both hands on the handle of the step ladder on either side of the foot still resting there, leaving you fully on display for her. Unable to allow her to watch your face, you turn your head away from her. You catch your bottom lip beneath between your teeth, preparing yourself for what will certainly be your undoing, albeit a pleasurable one. Your other leg remains flat on the top step of the ladder, but as you feel the chill of her gently blowing across your wet entrance, that knee threatens to buckle.

“Sevika, please” you whine when she teases you further, slowly dragging her tongue up along the inside of one thigh, then the other. The short, raspy laugh that pulls from her chest sends another rush of air over your skin. You instinctively clench around nothing. You're aching for her -any part of her- to be inside of you. When her hands -which are still firmly gripping your ass- spread you wider, you can feel the blush in your face spread down your neck. The knowledge of how vulnerable and exposed you are for her right now only makes you wetter, but her sweet torture doesn't end there.

“You really should wear this little number more often,” she husks. Her lips ghost along the soft, round flesh of one of your cheeks before suddenly being replaced by her teeth in a delightfully hard bite.

The squeal that leaves your throat dies quickly as you suck in a breath when your body lurches forward and you nearly topple over into the tree, but Sevika’s grip on your ass tightens hard enough to keep you in stable -which is certain to leave marks to match those left by her teeth. “Sevika!” you scold, but it only earns you another low chuckle.

She waits until you’re steady before relaxing her grip. Then, she traces over the bite marks with the tip of her tongue.

Her mouth hovers a mere hairsbreadth away from where you need her most, warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. You know she’s intentionally waiting as long as she can, getting off on the torture it brings you. The anticipation has every muscle in your body tensing. Your toes curl against the step, and your fingers wrap tightly around the handle of the stepladder. You squeeze your eyes shut. You’re at her mercy- waiting, aching, and wanting.

The moment her tongue makes its first drag through your folds all the breath in your lungs escapes through your parted lips a long, drawn out moan. The low hum of approval that resonates from behind you is almost just as pleasure inducing as the second slide of her tongue that follows shortly after. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to push back into her face as she continues to lazily lap at the gradually building wetness between your folds.

“God, yes,” you groan when she wraps those plush lips of hers around the hood of your clit. 

Then she gently flicks it with the tip of her tongue and any remaining strength you had is gone in an instant.

“Fuck!” you cry out when your leg finally buckles at the overwhelming pleasure that shocks your system.

Miraculously, Sevika manages to catch you, her hands slipping beneath your shoulders to keep you upright. She quickly -albeit carefully- turns you to face her, and your legs instinctively wrap around her waist. Swiftly carrying you to the couch, she drops you down on one end rather unceremoniously before swatting at your silly festive hat and knocking it onto the floor.

“Sevik- aaah” your complaint dissolves into a moan the instant she’s kneeling between your legs and shoving your thighs up and apart, soft lips back in place around your cunt and tongue already working blissfully firm circles around your clit. Your hands immediately thread into her hair, grabbing fistfuls as she quickly works you towards your climax. You writhe uncontrollably as the familiar burning sensation grows deep in your belly. Using the leverage of your heels against the couch and your grip on her hair you grind against her face. You can feel her metal and flesh fingers digging into your thighs as she tries to halt your movements. The intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure only drives you closer to orgasm, only makes you more desperate for release. “I’m so close, Sevika!” you cry out, thrusting up into her face in earnest.

And then she growls.

The sound reverberates through your tight bundle of nerves, straight to your core. You throw your head back, arch your back, and dig your nails into Sevika’s scalp as pleasure courses through your body. Through the loud thrumming of blood in your ears, you swear you catch the sound of Sevika releasing a long, wanton moan from between your spasming thighs, apparently equally satisfied with her work.

As the last wave of your orgasm washes over you, you finally collapse against the couch. Your hands slip from Sevika’s hair to lie limp at your sides. With each deep breath you take, your chest rises and falls. You blink blearily as Sevika rises from between your legs. She braces her hands against the couch cushions, one on either side of your shoulders, and gazes down at your fucked out face. Her mouth is coated in your release, and as your eyes come further into focus, you realize her pupils are blown wide and fixed on your slack mouth.

You try to speak, but her lips encase yours in a passionate kiss. Her tongue delves inside your mouth, rolling aggressively around your own. The taste of your own slick fills your mouth and you can't help but moan. You can already feel arousal building up in your core again. But, before you can recover enough to return the kiss, she pulls away.

“My turn to decorate you ,” she purrs, the corner of her mouth pulling up into a smirk.

It takes a moment for those words to register in your post orgasm state of bliss, but even as they do, you’re clueless as to what the hell she’s talking about.

That is, until she rises on her knees and starts to undo her belt buckle.

Oh.

Oh!

next chapter >

[literaphobe]

hello. it is walking up the walls like a spider anon. chapter 5 made me feel like [car crash noises] [cartoon spring sound effect] [train rushes by] /pos. the PARALLELS!!!!!!! ladybug and chat noir being possessive but in different ways...... im losing my mind. the inner conflict you crafted for chat noir is literally so good. like. he wants to sleep with her so bad. but he knows that if he does he'll be even more infatuated with her. and he is so afraid that it'll be a one time thing that he keeps putting it off. "His dreams are the only place where they've ever been in love" ? WRECKED ME. my eyes bulged out of my head like a cartoon character and i heard the BONK sound effect so vividly i may as well have heard it in real life.

like god. chat noir thinks that this is the only way that he'll ever be able to be that close to ladybug and KNOWS that it will kill him because he's a romantic and wants to share everything with her but he STILL goes along with it because (see above reason).

as always. the dialogue and descriptions are banger. you have such a knack for fast-paced, witty, dynamic dialogue that makes reading such an engaging experience. the flow is so great that sometimes i'll be reading, then look at my scroll bar in despair (😦) because i realize i'm nearing the end of the chapter. i'm spinning tvl ladybug and chat noir so fast in my head that i think i can become a new source of clean renewable energy. the way that ladybug is quick to figure out plans and chat noir is quick to figure out ladybug. like they both try so desperately to fix things but in different ways.

literaphobe i am ur number one fan thank u for posting this fic 🫶

OH SPIDER ANON… im afraid IM your number one fan actually…

tvl chat noir’s inner conflict seems very confusing and convoluted to ladybug but it’s very simple really. he responds best and loses his inhibitions most easily WHEN she shows signs of yearning or potential feelings for him. aka when she gets jealous, when she reveals her desire to sleep with him ISNT reckless/she’s been thinking of it for a while/wanting it all for a while Blah Blah Blah and similarly he pulls away when he’s reminded of the fleeting, one-off nature of their arrangement, or when he’s aware that other romantic prospects exist in tvl ladybug’s life……… and he’ll keep doing this until he gets some form of confirmation or they come to an agreement about a more Indefinite arrangement

at the end of the day tho. he’s still Very weak for her. so if push comes to shove he could very easily Give In to her whims at the right moment, wrong time, etc etc etc

GIVES YOU SUCH A TIGHT HUG ANON… you make writing this fic so worth it :) thank you for your lovely remarks i reread and cherish them dearly -> as always to anyone reading this ch5 of tvl is out now!! im replying to my ch4 comments soon (SORRY) and I can’t wait to see what u all have to say :D

[coconox]

my whb progress 2

as of apr 7, 2024

since whb's half anni has passed, i thought i'd do a progress check to reflect on how much has happened btwn now and this post

general info

lvl: 47

status: 🤨 mostly f2p

i say mostly cause i just recently broke the f2p status and bought bp for ppyong

i refuse to buy packs and in the future i'll prob be very selective over who i pick for bp (aka i wont buy every bp), so for the most part i'll just be having the f2p experience

when i started: launch (10/03 my timezone)

ver: erolabs

team setup

i finally have levi now lmao

sometimes i'll switch out one of the levis for attacker satan but this is what i use generally

everyone's lvls and artifacts

skill lvls (normal atk-ult-passive)

attacker mammon: 1-3-1

selfie mammon: 4-5-4

selfie satan: 4-4-1

selfie beel: 4-4-4

bloodshed levi: 3-3-1

selfie levi: 3-3-1

secret club

i only work on completing mammon's unholy board

stuck on needing attacker mammon's sig atm :'))

materials

too lazy to screenshot it all but im basically broke on pies, tears, pretzels (tbf i dont play the minigame whatsoever), red keys, yellow keys, and seals

everything else im either ok in supply or overflowing w it

overall thoughts / reflection

this section is for me to look back on in the future when i do progress posts. i'll break down this section into multiple parts similar to my prev post for consistency

STORY

honestly, its interesting in concept. since sadly only 1 chapter has released btwn now and my last post so thoughts havent really drastically changed

ch5 imo wasnt really a full on hades chapter. yes, it takes place in hades and yes we get some intro abt hades, but i think this was supposed to act more like a bridge to tartaros, which is prob why we didnt have any h scenes w any hades chars aside from levi. ofc we'll get back to it being hades-focused eventually, but the story for a while is most likely gonna pivot to tartaros bc of that big lore drop abt mammon at the end

i assume we'll prob be introduced to the cherubs in tartaros bc of selaphiel txting us near the end + it being mentioned at the end that theres a hub of angels in the lab, and hopefully part 2 of mammon's h scene. it was strange at first for mammon to only have 1 h scene, compared to satan or levi that had 2, but w him implying theres probably gonna be a part 2 in his h scene + we'll most likely see him again in ch6 (or however many chapters tartaros will be played out), we'll prob experience part 2 in his home country. tbh that prob just me inhaling MASSIVE hopium since mammon isnt rlly that popular but i can dream ok-

i hope us being in tartaros doesnt last for just 1 chapter. you cant condense the experiments tartaros went through to create a clone of mammon only for them to fail + bring up the fact that the seed is prob also in tartaros in just 1 chapter. well— technically you can, but not at the pace chapters are at atm. chapters have roughly 15 parts of story on the main branch, and imo that much info abt tartaros cant be condensed into 1 chapter unless if they make the story bits like WAY longer than what they normally do

GAMEPLAY

tl;dr as an endgame player, its too easy 💀

working on the spreadsheet ever since the games 1st month of release and now just recently testing multiple team comps, the "meta" is so monkos HSHFJDJ

this game is INSANELY dependent on you having more than 1 dps/tank light card. light is also just an unstoppable element and i wish the game was balanced a bit more to let other elements shine

enemies are now way too easy to defeat. ik i prob shouldnt be complaining abt this but pls im a pgr and neural cloud player at heart I NEED SOME CHALLENGE

ch3 and ch4 were prob the most tedious and awful chapters, but at least they actually made me think when it comes to battles. now i just place down chars and let it play in the bg while i go do smth else. ofc this may just be bc i have a team that im comfortable w using everywhere, but id like to see at least a bit more "challenge" outside of holy coin portal

also, for weekly achievements, lvling artifacts is not a great requirement

i only pull when theres a new s rank or when mammon is moved to standard, so its very, VERY rare compared to avg users. having the artifact req is essentially forcing me to pull during those gaps just so i could fulfill a weekly req which sucks. i also dont need to lvl anymore artifacts in general for my team comp. lvl 15 is the bare minimum i need to get through all content w ease, anything after that is just a small boost tbh

on the note of daily/weekly requirements, there needs to be more of them

i mean in a sense of theres still gonna be 9 daily achievements, but you get more options on HOW you get to the 9 daily achievement req. most gachas that ive played always have more options than necessary to fulfill the overall requirement to get all rewards, so having this strict number w strict reqs is rlly not that great tbh

RESOURCES

thoughts from last time still havent rlly changed. pies and candies especially are still rng dependent which sucks, and now there gonna revamp pancakes while also keeping the old pancakes ???? theres way too many currencies (w some even having very little to no use) atp which can and will get overwhelming for new players

GACHA

i hate solomon seals. you can tell that red keys were supposed to be the main gacha currency if you ever look at old packs, but smth happened along the way and now we have seals

pity is also way too high for what we're earning atm. based off of f2p earnings, every week we get roughly 1 pull of red keys, maybe 2 pulls of yellow keys (red and yellow keys are more dependent on the key boxes which again, dependent on rng), and 1 pull of solomon seals. this doesnt include the stuff earned outside of dailies/weeklies, and i think there should be more ways to earn said currency through dailies/weeklies and not be so dependent on either paying or pulling chars

speaking of pity, i wish we had pity for both of the standard banners

i also wish theyd separate char and artifacts into their own banners. that way, if someone has a char but needs their sig, they can just pull in the artifact-only banner and try to get said sig

tl;dr in general i wish everything wasnt so strict and rng dependent, also wish numbers made sense like why do we get at least 5 red keys a week when 1 pull is 3, JUST GIVE ME 6 KEYS ATP

so yeah thats all for now lmao. im pretty sure i have a lot more to say abt this game but my minds at a blank atm, so ig thatll be saved for the next progress post which will be around 1st anni

[futureseaempress]

HERE IN SEARCH OF YOUR GLORY

Chapter 1: boycott love

Two rival bands, lumped together in a brand new genre, forced to share the stage at an unofficial alien versus human battle of the bands. An ongoing feud between juggalos and punks. All culminating during "Star Warped Tour 2005."

Hateflirtations and summertime sadness ensues.

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here in search of your glory: Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | ?

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this davekat fic has been my baby since last september. I remember joking about it all last summer and now I’m finally nearing the end. 7 and 8 are blocked I just gotta get busy and write em

I commissioned @katetorias for this image of Karkat and have been plum obsessed ever since.

[zemkzone]

That Rare Arctic Thunderstorm: Ch5 (on AO3)

Holy hell, May’s been shit so far, but with The Flash ending two days ago... I had to post this.

FULL FIC LINK HERE

It was one thing to know Barry ran hot, and it was another to feel that heat radiating so close to his back after so many months of freezing inside. Len’s amulet was over-warm too, but that was a different kind of heat. It reminded him why he shouldn’t have volunteered to take Barry home. He’d meant it as a simple gesture, but he shouldn’t have done it.

And yet here he was, driving past the nameless convenience store with the small but surprisingly good beer selection, Nina’s Diner, a Big Belly Burger, and the twenty-four-hour pizza place with a squeaky pick-up window. Six minutes, fifteen seconds and counting, and he was nearing the familiar street with red-bricked apartment buildings that looked the same except for the colors of their front doors. Six minutes, seventeen seconds and counting, and he was trying not to be hyperaware of the warm hands clutching tight at his hips. He could feel Barry’s fingers twitching to wrap around his waist. It was the way they’d always ridden before, but if they were going to establish new boundaries, he couldn’t let the speedster do that again.

Seven minutes and three seconds after leaving the Waystation, he parked in front of Barry’s apartment building. But Barry’s hands wouldn’t leave his hips. Barry wouldn’t move or speak at all.

“You’re home, Scarlet,” Len said, staring at the street up ahead. “The sooner you take a shower and get in bed, the better you’ll feel.”

Sixteen seconds passed before Barry spoke. “I don’t live here anymore.”

Len twisted in his seat, staring at him incredulously. Barry’s face was flushed red with embarrassment and his gaze was directed at the pavement. “Since when? You could have said something earlier.”

“I gave my dad the apartment. All the press after he was released made it hard for him to go to viewings and stuff. Most landlords didn’t want to deal with the… mixed publicity. Joe offered him a room at his house, but Dad—he needed a place of his own, somewhere that didn’t remind him of Iron Heights.” Barry shook his head. “It was quieter this way. My landlord okayed me transferring my lease agreement and, well, Dad’s been living up there ever since.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t say anything earlier. Or where you’re living now.” The amulet had grown even warmer, and Len had to ignore how irritable it made him feel.

Barry’s reply came in a whisper. “The rest of the team doesn’t know where I’ve been staying. You’re the only one who does.”

READ THE REST OF THE CHAPTER HERE

[acescorazon]

Changes~

Chapter: 17

Title: Roses.

Rating: M

Word Count: 2478

Warnings: Minor Violence, Language, Crocodile.

Chapter Excerpt:

“It’s part of my apology.” 

His apology? His apology…? Buggy looks up at Crocodile again and gives him yet another puzzled look. What the hell is he even apologizing f- Oh, wait. Buggy thinks as he suddenly remembers his chat with Mihawk and Crocodile from not too long ago... 

"Yes, we're sorry. We're sorry. I'll have gifts sent to you first thing in the morning." 

He was serious about giving Buggy an apology gift? Not only that, but he chose to give Buggy a bouquet of flowers? Oh, the irony of the situation isn’t completely lost on Buggy. 

(He should throw these in the nearest trash can.) 

|Ch1|Ch2|Ch3|Ch4|Ch5|Ch6|Ch7|Ch8|Ch9|Ch10|Ch11|Ch12||Ch13||Ch14||Ch15||Ch16||

Buggy ends up roaming aimlessly around Emptee Bluffs island after he leaves Mihawk's tent. He's not sure if what just happened was real or not if he's being completely honest. Mihawk is developing feelings for Buggy? What kind of fucked up joke is that?! There's just no way that's true, it just can't be true.

But it is true, a voice in the back of his mind tells him. He said he was being genuine and had no reason to lie, didn’t he? Fuck.  

Buggy's mind was already a mess before Mihawk went and admitted that he might be catching feelings for him, but now it's in a state of complete and utter chaos with Mihawk's blunt confession at the forefront of all said chaos. For fuck sake’s, what does he mean he has feelings for Buggy?!

Buggy walks past dozens of his beloved subordinates who all want him to stop and talk to them, but Buggy doesn't think he can even form a coherent sentence right now, so for the most part he dismisses his children with a quick, "Sorry… I … I have to go." and continues on his way.

'I think I'm developing feelings for you, as crazy as that sounds.' 

What the hell? How did that even happen? At what point in time did Mihawk stop and go, 'Hm, Buggy's actually kind of cute. I think I might like him'? Oh, God. What is Buggy even supposed to do about something like this? How is he supposed to feel about all of this?

He should be mad and disgusted, shouldn’t h– 

Buggy barely registers that he's passing by Crocodile until said man clears his throat. "Did you and Hawkeye make any progress today?" He asks, and the mere mention of Mihawk makes Buggy's brain short circuit. 

Buggy stops in his tracks and stares at Crocodile, confused, "What?" He asks, looking around nervously. All he heard was Hawkeye’s name truth be told.

"I asked if you and Hawkeye made any progress today." Crocodile clarifies, "He seemed so determined to help you out, so I was wondering if you two made any progress."

"Yeah," Buggy confirms, "Yeah, we…I'll tell you later. I'm not feeling good right now." He replies quickly. He doesn’t want to talk to Crocodile, he wants to go to his tent and try to figure out what the hell is going on with his life right now. 

"Alright. I'll see you at tomorrow's meeting, Cl… Buggy." Crocodile mutters as he takes another drag of his cigar. Buggy’s just about to leave when Crocodile calls out to him again, though, “Oh, shit. Wait!” He exclaims. Jeez, what now? 

“I have something for you. Just give me a second.” Crocodile mutters. More work? For the love of God, can he not just have someone else do it?! Buggy thinks as he tries to control his nerves. At the very least, could Crocodile not have waited until morning to give Buggy any additional work?! 

Crocodile disappears into the tent he’s standing in front of, and it’s then that Buggy finally realizes where he’s actually at. How the hell did he end up outside of Crocodile’s tent of all places? He tries to avoid this part of the island at all costs. God, he must be in worse shape than he originally thought if he ended up going anywhere near Crocodile’s private dwellings. 

Buggy thinks about just fleeing the scene, but before he makes any final decisions, Crocodile reemerges from the tent with a bouquet in his hand. “Here.” He says before he shoves what appears to be roses into Buggy’s arms. 

What?  

What the fuck?! 

Buggy doesn’t properly process the situation, that much is obvious. 

“I…” He looks down at the flowers in his arms and then back at Crocodile, then repeats the process at least two more times. Okay, what the hell is going on on this island. His tone is a combination of exasperation and confusion as he asks a simple question, “What are you giving me flowers for?!”  

“It’s part of my apology.” 

His apology? His apology…? Buggy looks up at Crocodile again and gives him yet another puzzled look. What the hell is he even apologizing f- Oh, wait. Buggy thinks as he suddenly remembers his chat with Mihawk and Crocodile from not too long ago...

"Yes, we're sorry. We're sorry. I'll have gifts sent to you first thing in the morning." 

He was serious about giving Buggy an apology gift? Not only that, but he chose to give Buggy a bouquet of flowers? Oh, the irony of the situation isn’t completely lost on Buggy. 

(He should throw these in the nearest trash can.) 

“You don’t want em?” Crocodile asks, sounding slightly annoyed, “Because if you do–” he pauses, stopping himself. He exhales a deep sigh and changes his tone slightly, “Look, maybe it ain’t the best gift in the world, but it was the best I could get for right now. I’ll get you something while we’re at Prickly Pear or after that.”

“No…No the flowers are fine. Thank you.” Thank you?

“I’m trying, okay?” Crocodile murmurs softly, “If you really don’t like the flowers, then… Tell me what you do like and I’ll buy it.” He pauses again, “And don’t go saying some bullshit like ‘If i have to tell you what to buy me, then what’s the point in buying me a gift in the first place?’”

Little does Crocodile know, Buggy has no problem telling people exactly what he wants. To be honest, he would ask for money or treasure but there’s no point in doing that. “Anything’s fine,” Buggy says instead, “Just get me a bottle of whiskey. It’s the thought that counts anyways.” Ew, when did he start saying such cliche, sentimental things?  

Crocodile stares at Buggy, and...Buggy stares right back at Crocodile for a long moment. “The fuck you want whiskey for? We got whiskey on the island.” He runs his hand over his face, “I’m offering to buy you anything you want. Anything, regardless of the price tag, and you want whiskey?!”

Buggy feels a headache coming on. “Then…Then, get me more flowers!”

“That ain’t enough!”  

Why isn’t it enough?! Buggy wonders. “Fine, buy me whiskey and some more flowers.” He replies, trying to bargain with Crocodile in a weird way. This feels like such a stupid and trivial thing to argue about, but he shouldn’t be surprised by any of this.

Crocodile sucks his teeth, “Whiskey and flowers, huh? You want me to take you on a goddamn date while I’m at it?”

“What?!” Buggy exclaims, confused as hell. Where the hell did that come from?! Crocodile was probably just joking or making a weird sarcastic remark, but needless to say, it catches Buggy completely off guard. What a weird thing to say to a man you’ve spent weeks hating. 

“Nothing.” Crocodile replies and waves his hand in a dismissive fashion. “Pick something better.” He instructs, “Think it over and then let me know what you actually want after tomorrow’s meeting. Deal?”

“Why can’t you just get me the whiskey and flowers?!” 

“I’m trying to show you how sorry I am. Why won’t you just let me get you something nice that shows you that I care?!” 

‘That shows you that I care.’

This has been one hell of a night already for Buggy. First it was 'I think I'm developing feelings for you, as crazy as that sounds.' ringing repeatedly in his head, but now it’s: ‘I’m trying to show you how sorry I am. Why won’t you just let me get you something nice that shows you that I care?!’

What the hell? It feels like Crocodile and Mihawk are joining forces to pull one giant prank on poor Buggy. If that’s the case, their practical joke is working because Buggy has never been more baffled in his life. “What…?” Buggy repeats, this time in a shaky voice. “You don’t care about me.” 

Crocodile closes his eyes and exhales a heavy sigh. He pauses to think of his next words, and for a moment, the only thing that can be heard is the sounds of crickets chirping in the distance. “I am trying to care. I am trying to be a different person.” He finally says as he slowly and carefully chooses his words. “I’m trying to make things better between us, but you don’t see that because you’re more stubborn than I am! I have been trying to apologize for weeks and trying to show you how regretful I am, but you just won’t give me a fuckin chance!”

Another pause. “I am sorry. I’m fucking sorry, i don’t know how to do this. I’ve never had to do this.” Crocodile laughs, and his laughter sounds cold, bitter even. “You want me to push aside my pride and get on my fucking knees and beg for forgiveness?!” Would that even be something Crocodile would be willing to do? “I’m asking, man to man, what will it take to get you to see my apology as genuine? What will it take for you to forgive me so we can just move on with our lives?!”

What would it take for Buggy to actually, wholeheartedly forgive both Crocodile and Mihawk? The answer evades him. The truth is: He’s not sure if he could ever truly forgive them. But if there were one thing that would warrant forgiveness, what would it be?

“You want to punch me?” Crocodile suddenly asks. “You wanna give me a black eye or a busted lip?” What? Buggy would think that Crocodile was joking if it weren’t for the tone of his voice. “Is that it? You want revenge?” 

Well…

“I’ll give you a free sucker punch if that’s what you want.” Crocodile tells Buggy, “Hit me as hard as you can, but make it good because you only get one free punch. After that, you have to fight my ass for real.”

A strange feeling of deja vu washes over Buggy as he stands in front of Crocodile on this chaotic evening. Even if he did punch him, what would that accomplish? A small punch is nothing compared to the bullshit Crocodile has put him throu–

Just kidding. Fuck Crocodile.

While still holding his bouquet of flowers in one hand, Buggy wastes little time before he punches Crocodile across the jaw. For once he acts without truly thinking or weighing in the consequences of his actions, which is something he’s gotten so good at recently. Plus, he actually manages to catch Crocodile off guard it seems because said man makes a shocked noise and spits out his cigar as soon as Buggy strikes him. “Ow, fuck! You little fucker!” he spits. Buggy may not have been able to hack Mihawk to pieces, but maybe that’s because he was being all nice and honorable. Crocodile’s different, though. He's okay with hitting Crocodile.

Crocodile hunches over for a second, if that, before he straightens up and laughs. “Oh, that was a good one. I’ll admit it.” He says as he points at Buggy, and looks like he’s trying desperately not to beat Buggy within an inch of his life. “That was real good. I didn’t think you would…” He trails off before he starts to laugh again.

Should Buggy start running?

“Are we even now?” Crocodile asks as he rubs the side of his face, “Can we finally move on with our lives?”

Buggy wouldn’t call them even by any extent but he’d be lying if he said that it didn’t feel good to punch Crocodile in the face. His heart is racing right now as an almost forgotten sense of happiness washes over him. “One more.” He says, holding out a finger. He’s pushing his luck, and he knows it. He should be shitting his pants now and begging for forgiveness, and knowing Buggy, he’ll regret this all in the morning. Regret is a problem for tomorrow’s him. though.

Crocodile laughs and looks at the night sky, “Oh, you’re feeling ballsy tonight, aren’t you?” A little, and maybe that’s partially because he just left Mihawk’s tent not too long ago and has been nothing but nerves and adrenaline since. “One more. One more and th– Ow! You motherfucker. You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

All Buggy hears before he punches Crocodile is ‘One more.’ After that, his body reacts on its own again and he punches Crocodile across the face one more time, this time putting as much strength into his strike as possible before he lands it. 

Oh, that was good. He feels like he just won the lottery on his birthday. 

That same adrenaline that tells him that it feels good to finally gets his hands on Crocodile without having to deal with any repercussions, is telling him to keep on going. It’s saying ‘You can totally beat this guy’s ass, Buggy. Keep going, keep going!’

However, as soon as Crocodile straightens up again and then gets in his face, Buggy loses a little bit of his courage from earlier. “You…” Crocodile touches the corner of his mouth where it’s bleeding a little with his tongue and laughs. “You…throw a good punch, don’t you?” Well, Buggy has been in his fair share of bar fights…

The words ‘I’m sorry.’ are on the tip of Buggy’s tongue, but he keeps them in. He won’t apologize, not this time. Instead he exhales a shaky breath,  “Yeah, well… I wanted to take full advantage of my two free punches.” He admits.

Crocodile nods. It’s almost as if he’s reluctantly agreeing with Buggy and telling him he’s made a good point, but with his body language. “Good for you. Are we even now?” He asks yet again.

“No, that wasn’t enough.” The words leave Buggy’s mouth before he truly processes what he’s saying. It shocks not only himself but Crocodile as well. He thinks he sees Crocodile’s eye twitch under the dim lighting illuminating the island, but he's not sure.  

“What?” Crocodile asks.

“That…That wasn’t enough. Why would two measly punches make up for all that you’ve done to me?!”

“...”

Crocodiles expression twists and contorts as he processes Buggy’s words.  He looks frustrated at first but that frustration morphs into something more. He narrows his eyes at Buggy, “It’s not enough?” He clicks his tongue. “If you think I’m going to stand here and let you beat my ass, then you have another thing coming.”

Oh, he’s no fun.

“You’ve done way more than just punch me in the face a couple of times.” Buggy counters. 

“I mean, yeah, but…” Crocodile reluctantly agrees, “We might as well just fucking fight, then.” he says as he shrugs off his coat, “C’mon, then. No bullshit or devil fruit powers. Let’s just fight and - win, lose, or draw - move the fuck on.” 

[rhaenyyras]

snippet from ch5 of my steddie fic (where eddie gives himself a new tattoo + hates it, and steve is extra af about it) 🖤

"I'm being honest, it looks awesome. Totally metal."

Ugh. Eddie sinks deeper into the blankets.

"You don't have to say that to make me feel better."

"I'm not, I promise. It's really cool."

Eddie disagrees. There's just something off about it, the tiny sailboat on the inside of his forearm. Eddie thinks he tattooed it as a way to commemorate what they went through. So he'd have more than just scars to show he survived. Sure, they didn't technically use a sailboat to row onto Lovers Lake, but Eddie liked this version better.

Or he thought he did until it was on his skin. Now he hates it. Eddie rolls his eyes and throws himself down again.

Steve laughs. "Dude, I swear, it's cool. It's just.."

Eddie cracks open his eyes, intrigued. "What?"

"It's missing something."

Then Steve stretches off the bed, grabs one of Eddie's bed markers and returns. Carefully, he takes Eddie's arm and starts drawing. Not near the tattoo which is still healing but just nearby. Steve draws the same sailboat just to recreate it, then he draws tiny little waves underneath it. Surprisingly, he's pretty good. He even draws a little anchor hanging off the side of the boat, and yeah Eddie doesn't mind that at all.

Wonders if that's what was missing.

Then Steve goes crazy.

He starts drawing stick figures near the boat, along with what vaguely looks like demobats (or possibly seagulls), and then a sun wearing sunglasses and yeah, that's enough. Eddie tries to steal the marker away from Steve but he holds on, laughing as he makes a total mess of Eddie's arm.

Eddie ends up with marker all over his arm, face, and neck, while Steve comes out of it mostly unscathed. Eddie vows to get revenge but tonight he's having too much fun, laughing so hard his ribs ache. When Eddie finally gets his hands on the marker, he hurls it across the room.

It clatters to the floor.

"God, you're such an idiot," Eddie laughs, inspecting the freshly drawn art. "Wait, is that us in the water? You drew us in Lovers Lake?"

"What, you don't give it 10 stars?"

They both laugh and Eddie pretends to be serious as he flops back down onto the bed. He doesn't consider his most traumatic memory worthy of any stars.

"Darling, it's a very firm 0 stars from me."

Steve giggles and joins Eddie on the bed. He lays down next to him, but also kinda on top of him too. He reaches for Eddie's arm, turns it over so they can inspect the art together. Then Steve looks at Eddie with so much warmth that Eddie suddenly wants to give Steve all the stars.

"Come on," Steve whispers, between quick kisses. "I think I deserve at least two stars."

Eddie gasps. "Oh! You're bribing the judge. That's minus two stars."

"What? I'm in star deficit now?" Steve laughs against his lips. "Oh, come on!"

"Don't try to confuse me with fancy words, mister. I'll keep deducting stars."

"Okay, fine." Steve pouts. "But did you at least like the waves?"

"Yeah, the anchor was cool." Eddie concedes. "You showed some real artistic promise there before you went all marker crazy."