#rusted basin

[rainworldhourly]

[dalissy]

The Permian Basin Superorganism waking up after a lil nap and finding out all the shit Anodyne left inside its guts:

[thedailymobile]

“Basin Street Broods: Winne-no-go”

© EricBrazier.com

[heliosunny]

Your writing for Phainon is soon good 💖 How about something with a Dragon-shifter!Reader who kidnaps Prince!Phainon as dragons do - maybe to get a nice ransom from the royal family - the only problem is that he ain't interested in getting rescued. And may have just slaughtered the knights sent to free him and slay the dragon himself.

Yandere!Phainon x Dragon-shifter!Reader

The sky was dark by the time you reached the ruins of the castle, the stone walls jagged and broken from age, yet still standing against the weight of time. It was a place long forgotten, nestled deep within the mountains, far beyond the reach of any kingdom, perfect for keeping a prince.

“You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that.”

Prince Phainon mused, his voice calm despite the chains coiling around his wrists. His silver-white hair was tousled from the rough flight, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.

“Most would hesitate before daring to steal a royal away.”

You ignored him, dragging him forward. You had to admit, his lack of fear was… annoying. Maybe even unsettling. He hadn’t even screamed when you plucked him from his fancy palace, claws closing around him like a vice. He merely stared, as if daring you to drop him.

"Don’t waste your breath" you muttered, shoving open the rusted iron doors. Dust rose from the disturbance, swirling in the air. "You’re not here for conversation."

Phainon chuckled, unfazed. "No? Then why am I here, oh mighty beast?"

You tossed him forward. He landed on his knees with a grunt, but when he lifted his gaze, there was something dangerously amused about the way he looked at you.

"Ransom" you finally said. "Your kingdom will pay handsomely to get their precious prince back."

His laughter filled the place.

Your brow twitched. "What’s so funny?"

Phainon grinned up at you, shoulders shaking. "Oh, you poor, clueless thing. You really think they’ll come for me?" He leaned back, tilting his head. "Let me spare you the disappointment, they won’t. Not before they send someone to kill you first."

You narrowed your eyes. That was expected, of course. Kings rarely sent gold before swords. But it didn’t matter. You could handle any knight they threw your way.

"Then I’ll just have to deal with them." you said.

Phainon hummed, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering.

"You truly have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?"

You ignored him. The sooner you got him locked away, the sooner you could rest. The flight back had taken a toll, not that you’d ever admit it. Transforming, carrying a fully grown man in your claws, keeping to the shadows to avoid unnecessary fights… It was exhausting. And the moment you’d dumped Phainon inside the ruined halls of your abandoned castle, all you could think about was tending to your aching limbs.

Chains had been enough to keep him in place, or so you assumed. You doubted he’d escape, and even if he did, where would he go? You were deep in the mountains, miles away from the nearest civilization.

And so, you left him to his own devices, disappearing into one of the castle’s still-standing chambers. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting your disheveled form. You frowned, brushing dirt from your arms before pouring water into a rusted basin, splashing it against your face.

Just a quick rinse. Then, rest.

You didn’t notice the absence of chains.

Didn’t hear the soft, amused laughter echoing down the halls.

Didn’t realize your supposed prisoner had already slipped away.

Phainon rolled his shoulders as he strode through the forest, fingers brushing over the hilt of the sword he had so generously reclaimed from the ruins. His smirk widened. Really, he should be thanking you. It had been far too long since he had been truly entertained.

Ahead, the sound of armored footsteps drew his attention. He didn’t slow his pace, letting the knights spot him first. Their reactions were immediate- relief, determination, wariness.

"Your Highness!" One of them, a captain by the look of his insignia, rushed forward. "You’re safe! We came as soon as we heard-"

"Safe?" Phainon interrupted smoothly, tilting his head. "Was I ever in danger?"

The knights exchanged glances. "The beast-"

"Was nothing more than a misguided fool" he finished, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "I was just about to return, after dealing with my own business of course. No need for all this… concern."

The captain hesitated. "We can’t allow that, Your Highness. We must escort you—"

A sigh. Phainon turned his gaze to the trees, as if contemplating. "Ah, what a shame" he murmured. "I told you I would return."

He moved before they could react.

Steel flashed. Blood spattered against bark. The knights barely had time to scream before his blade cut through them like a whisper. Limbs crumpled, bodies fell. Their eyes, wide with shock, stared at him even in death.

Phainon exhaled, stepping over the corpses without a second thought.

"Now, then" he murmured, wiping his blade clean. "Where were we?"

With a smirk, he turned back toward the castle.

His little dragon was waiting.

Phainon pushed open the heavy wooden door, the creak echoing through the abandoned chamber. His eyes flicked over the dimly lit space, stone walls worn by time, a tattered bed of old furs, and there, lying in the center, a figure.

Not a dragon.

A human.

His brows lifted slightly, the only sign of his surprise. The realization came quickly, his captor was no ordinary beast. The dragon and this person were one and the same.

Leaning against the doorway, he observed you. Your breath was steady, though he noted the faint twitch of your fingers. He could slit your throat now, end this little game before it spiraled further.

But where would the fun be in that?

He stepped closer.

The moment his foot scuffed against the stone, your eyes snapped open.

Your instincts took over before reason could settle in, because your captive was free, because he had a sword again, because he stood over you with an unreadable smirk.

You moved in a flash.

Your hands shot out, grabbing at his limbs, forcing them down. Chains slithered from beneath the bedding, precautions you had set up, ones that now snapped into place with ease. His wrists slammed against the cold floor, and with a sharp twist, you locked his legs as well.

You pressed a knee against his chest, breathing heavy. "How did you escape?"

Phainon merely chuckled, entirely too amused despite his current position. "You should be asking yourself.. how did you fall for it?"

You narrowed your eyes.

His strength was not that of an ordinary man, you realized that when he shifted slightly beneath you, and your balance nearly tipped. He was holding back.

"You really are something else" he mused, tilting his head, the flickering firelight casting shadows over his sharp features. His blue eyes dragged over you, lingering, intrigued. "What should I call you? Or do you prefer ‘beast’?"

You didn’t answer.

His smirk widened. "You’re quite breathtaking up close, you know."

You scowled. "Spare me your empty words."

He laughed. "Oh, but I never lie." He shifted slightly, testing the chains, his muscles tensing beneath you. "And I never let myself be bound for long."

You barely had time to react before he tore free, a sheer burst of strength shattering his restraints like they were nothing. You leaped back, but not fast enough, his hands shot out, grabbing your wrist, flipping you before you could reach for another weapon.

The cold edge of his sword pressed against your throat.

For the first time, you truly looked at him, not as a mere human, but something far more dangerous.

His grip was firm, yet his touch was almost playful. His smirk was unreadable, a dangerous mix of amusement and something else entirely.

"You were saying?" he murmured.

Your lips curled, sharp canines glinting. "You assume too much."

Before his blade could descend, your form shifted- partly.

Your tail, thick with scales, shot forward, blocking the strike with an echoing clang. Sparks flew as his sword clashed against it, the force sending a tremor through the room.

Phainon’s smirk faltered for only a second before morphing into something else- pure, unfiltered intrigue.

"...Oh" he breathed, almost in awe. "Now this is getting interesting."

Phainon barely had time to act before you twisted, your tail sweeping low and knocking him off balance. His sword arm jerked, and you seized the opportunity, shifting back into your human form just enough to move swiftly, you grabbed his wrist, spun behind him, and yanked it up toward his back.

"Persistent" he said, amusement still lacing his voice, even as you forced him down.

"Annoying." you countered, your grip like iron as you shoved him to the cold stone floor.

The chains were still broken, so you resorted to something sturdier. From the corner, you grabbed thick, enchanted rope- strong enough to hold even creatures of great power. You looped it around his wrists, pulling them behind his back, then secured his legs in a way that left minimal room for struggle.

Despite being effectively restrained again, Phainon’s smirk remained, sharp and taunting. "You do like tying me up, don’t you? Should I be flattered or concerned?"

You yanked the rope tighter. "Be quiet."

A chuckle. "As you wish, my dear captor."

With a roll of your eyes, you stepped back, observing your handiwork. He was bound tightly this time, no easy way out, not unless he wanted to snap his own limbs.

But before you could relish your victory, he sighed dramatically.

"At least let me bathe before you keep me here like some caged beast" he drawled, his expression the perfect mixture of false suffering and noble exasperation. "I reek of blood. Is this any way to treat a prince?"

You scoffed. "You are a beast."

"And yet, I still deserve some dignity" he quipped, tilting his head. "Unless you enjoy the scent of dried blood and sweat?"

Your nose wrinkled. You didn’t.

Annoyance prickled at you, but you relented. He was still tied up. What harm could a bath do?

"Fine" you muttered.

Before he could gloat, you grabbed the ropes binding his limbs, dragged him up, and hauled him across the room.

Phainon let out a surprised grunt as you tugged him along. "Ah—so forceful. If you wanted to drag me somewhere private, you could’ve asked."

You ignored him.

The abandoned castle still had an intact bathhouse, a large pool of water fed by an underground spring. With one final tug, you yanked him forward and—

SPLASH!

You threw him in.

Phainon resurfaced with a sharp inhale, his silver hair now plastered to his face, water dripping down his broad shoulders. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he tilted his head up at you, his smirk both impressed and incredulous.

"You know" he mused, "when I asked for a bath, I expected something a little more… dignified."

You crossed your arms. "Be grateful I didn’t throw you off a cliff instead."

"Ah, but would you really? You seem far too attached already."

You grabbed a bucket and unceremoniously dumped more water over his head.

"Pfah!" He sputtered, shaking his head like a wet dog before blinking up at you again, lips curling into something downright mischievous. "If you wanted to get my clothes off, you could've just said so."

Your face twitched.

You promptly turned and walked out, leaving him tied up in the bath to deal with himself.

"Wait—! You’re just leaving me here?"

"You'll figure it out."

His laughter echoed behind you. "I like you more and more, little dragon."

The morning greeted you with an unfamiliar sound—soft, deep, and far too close. A hum. A HUM?

It took a moment for your groggy mind to register it. A gentle, unhurried melody, smooth as silk, drifting through the cool air of your chamber. You stirred, cracking one eye open, only to groan and bury your face into the pillow.

Phainon.

The silver-haired prince, your supposed prisoner, sat beside your bed, his arms resting casually on the frame as he leaned forward, watching you with the ease of a man who belonged there. He was freshly bathed from last night, his damp silver locks tousled slightly, his tunic loose at the collar. But what was most irritating was the absolute serenity in his expression as he continued to hum.

It wasn’t even an unpleasant sound. If anything, it was oddly calming.

"Shut up" you muttered, dragging the blanket over your head.

Phainon merely chuckled, his voice still low with sleep. "Good morning to you too, little dragon."

"Not a morning person?"

You groaned louder, pressing your hands over your ears.

His humming didn’t stop. If anything, it turned into an actual song, low, lyrical words spilling effortlessly from his lips.

You flung a pillow at him.

He caught it easily, smirking. "Tsk, so violent. I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"You shouldn’t be here." You finally sat up, glaring. "How are you here?"

Phainon tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "You tied me up, threw me into a bath, and then left me. Did you really think that would keep me contained?"

Your frown deepened. He was strong, you knew that, but you had used enchanted rope this time. He shouldn’t have been able to slip free so easily.

As if reading your thoughts, Phainon propped his chin on one hand, smirking. "I’ll let you in on a secret," he murmured, voice dipping. "I’ve never been trapped. I just enjoy watching you try."

You hated how easily his words sent a flicker of unease down your spine.

But before you could reply, the distant sound of armor clanking and hurried footsteps caught your attention.

Phainon let out a sigh, stretching leisurely, as if the mere idea of more interruptions exhausted him. "Ah. Took them long enough."

You shot up, shoving him aside. "Stay here."

You didn’t wait for his response. Rushing down the stone corridors, you made your way to the castle’s entrance. The knights were already spilling into the ruins, swords drawn, scanning the area. Their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek—stepped forward.

"You there!" he barked. "We received word that Prince Phainon was taken by a dragon. Where is he?"

You hesitated. Your first instinct was to tell them you were the dragon, but something in your gut warned you against it. You had no love for humans, but you weren’t bloodthirsty either. You had taken Phainon for ransom, not war.

But before you could decide how to respond— Phainon let out a chuckle.

He stepped out from behind you, his gaze sweeping over the assembled knights like a wolf among sheep. His sword was already in his hand.

The captain’s face twisted in relief. "Your Highness! We came to rescue you—"

"Rescue me?" Phainon repeated, voice laced with mockery. "From what, exactly?"

The knights stiffened. "From the dragon—!"

Phainon then moved.

Steel sliced through the air, swift and merciless. Blood sprayed across the stone.

Silence.

Then, chaos.

The remaining knights recoiled in horror, some shouting, some scrambling to draw their weapons. But it was already too late.

You could only watch.

Your breath hitched as the last knight staggered back, his sword shaking in his grasp. "Y-Your Highness, what—?"

Phainon drove his blade clean through the man’s chest.

A ragged gasp. A final shudder. Then, nothing.

As the last body collapsed, Phainon exhaled, flicking blood from his blade. His posture remained relaxed, unaffected, as if he had merely completed a morning exercise.

Then, slowly, he turned to you.

His smirk was still there, unchanged, unwavering. But his eyes…

Cold. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He murmured, voice smooth as silk. "Where were we?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts. The scent of blood—fresh, thick, suffocating, filled the abandoned halls. Around you, bodies lay strewn, once armored knights reduced to mere corpses. And at the center of it all stood him.

Phainon, the prince you had kidnapped, the human you thought was nothing more than an arrogant, troublesome captive. Now, standing before you, bathed in crimson, he was something else entirely.

"You…" Your voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "What have you done?"

Phainon tilted his head, flicking stray droplets of blood from his blade. "What needed to be done" he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Your claws curled. You could feel the shift pulling at your skin, your instincts screaming at you to fight. "They came to help you."

He chuckled. "Did they?" His piercing blue eyes met yours, unblinking. "Or did they come to drag me back to a place I had no intention of returning to?"

You gritted your teeth. "You killed your own men!"

"And yet, here I stand." He took a step toward you, slow and deliberate. "And you, little dragon, haven’t run. Haven’t struck me down. Why is that?"

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had so many reasons. The problem was, you couldn’t pick one.

Because you were stunned. Because your mind still reeled from what you had just witnessed.

"You’re a monster" you snarled.

Phainon exhaled, his smirk softening, something almost fond flickering across his blood-smeared features. "I never claimed to be a hero."

That was it. That was the moment your restraint snapped.

You lunged.

Your tail lashed out, striking toward him like a whip, but he was fast. He sidestepped, blade flicking up just in time to meet your claws. Sparks flew as steel met scale.

"That’s more like it" he purred.

You growled, twisting, your tail sweeping at his legs. He jumped back, but you were already on him again, clawed hands gripping his tunic, shoving him hard against the stone wall.

"You think this is amusing?" you hissed, your breath hot against his face.

Phainon smiled.

"You’re magnificent when you’re angry" he murmured.

Your grip tightened. "I should rip you apart."

His smirk didn’t waver. "But you won’t."

Damn him for being right.

You hated that you hesitated. You hated that your instincts, your dragon instincts, were at war with something else entirely.

"You’ve fascinated me from the moment you took me" he confessed. "At first, I thought it was amusement. Curiosity." He tilted his head, the sharp edges of his expression easing just slightly. "But it’s more than that, isn’t it?"

"You could have killed me" he continued, as if weaving the truth between you both. "Yet you didn’t." His eyes traced your face, your form, like he was memorizing every detail. "And I could have killed you. Yet I won’t."

Your chest heaved. "Why?"

His fingers brushed your wrist, so gently, so deliberately.

"Because I don’t want to." His smile turned wicked. "Because I want you."

Your world tilted.

Your claws flexed, your mind screaming at you to reject it. To deny him. But Phainon only looked at you like he had already won. And you hated that you didn’t know if he was wrong.

You were still seething when Phainon led you toward the kingdom’s gates.

You should have run. You should have killed him.

But instead, you were here, walking beside the man who should have been your prisoner, yet somehow, you felt like the one who had been captured.

The city was alive with murmurs the moment the two of you entered. The scent of blood still clung to Phainon’s clothes, a stark contrast to his relaxed demeanor. People gasped, whispered, stepped aside as he walked through the streets with you in tow.

But it was nothing compared to the reaction inside the royal palace.

The moment the throne room doors burst open, the king and queen, seated on their ornate thrones, turned with sharp, wide-eyed disbelief.

"Phainon?" the king's voice was filled with stunned relief. "You're alive?"

The queen clutched her chest. "The knights said.." She hesitated, gaze flickering toward you. "Who is this?"

You barely had time to part your lips before Phainon slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him.

His next words sent a ripple of shock through the room.

"This?" His smirk was downright predatory. "This one belongs to me now."

The king's expression darkened. "Phainon!"

"You sent knights to retrieve me," he interrupted smoothly. "And they failed. Miserably." He glanced down at you, as if you were some prize he had won rather than a kidnapper-turned-reluctant-companion. "So I took something better in return."

Your lips parted in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Careful, little dragon," he murmured against your ear, low enough that only you could hear. "You wouldn’t want them thinking you’re protesting too much, now would you?"

Your body tensed. He was toying with you. In front of his entire court.

The queen’s hands trembled. "You’re injured—"

"A small price for something so valuable." Phainon mused, tilting his head. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

The nobles in the room exchanged whispers, none daring to speak aloud.

The king exhaled slowly, fingers tightening over the armrest of his throne. "What are you planning, Phainon?"

The prince's smirk widened. "Why, to keep them, of course."

The king finally spoke, his voice cold and measured. "Phainon, do you even understand what you're saying? You cannot simply claim someone as yours—"

"Oh, but I already have." Phainon’s grip on you was firm, his tone laced with amusement. "And I dare anyone to take them from me."

The challenge hung thick in the air, sending another wave of murmurs through the court.

You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. "I am not some trinket to be owned."

Phainon turned to you, unbothered by your defiance, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Of course not." His hand brushed against yours, a deliberate taunt. "You’re something much rarer than that."

You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, not from flattery, but from the sheer audacity of this human.

"Fine" you bit out, eyes narrowing. "But don’t think for a second that this means I belong to you. Make sure to keep your promise."

Phainon chuckled, tilting his head as if indulging a joke only he understood. Then, leaning in, he whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

"Oh, little dragon… you just haven't realized it yet."

And with that, the prince turned back to his stunned parents, still grinning like a man who had won everything.

You exhaled slowly. Knowing at least you won't have to live a miserable life anymore.

-----

[next]

[ambitiouspotions]

RUSTED PICKUP | JAVIER PEÑA | ONESHOT

summary — javier reconnects with his childhood best friend’s sister on his father’s ranch

word count — 4.1k

warnings — 18+ MDNI, language, smut

author’s note — too much stress, but not enough to not think about javi *sigh* i also promise i’m not avoiding my inbox

the cows in the pasture dunked their noses into the basin of water, softly mooing as water dripped from their mouths full of cud. the calves were enjoying the breeze, playfully jumping by their mothers who could be less amused with them and more focused on the herd. the steers were on the perimeter ducking their heads down to munch on the pillowy grass beneath their hooves. in a separate pasture, the bulls were content, sniffing in the breeze and roaming the open field. it was a pleasant sight to live within. the livestock of the peña ranch was thriving and part of that was thanks to you. calving season had ended on a successful note, and now the foaling season would begin; there was never any pausing for nature.

you were in the maternity ward, or that was what you had always jokingly referred to it as. the left side of the horse stables had the larger stalls for the pregnant mares, and your coveralls were soaked in various fluids having to help the mare deliver her new foal and after birth.

you were writing the care instructions and invoice for the ranch hand, luis, who had stepped away needing to tend to one of the horses in the pasture that was kicking up far too much dust and becoming too rowdy due to a loose piece of trash that had spooked it.

“javito?” you questioned in disbelief, your brows furrowing as you looked up from your clipboard when hearing shuffling to your side. it wasn't luis, but another mustached man hard at work. javier peña, son of chucho peña, the man who owned the ranch and also your brother’s childhood friend.

javier had left texas, gone out of the country, and brought down a major player in the war on drugs. you didn't follow javier's life, but you did follow the news. he had worked hard for years trying to control the narcos overseas and stop the importation of illegal substances into the united states. life for you had been simpler, but not any less busy. caring for large animals for the animals in and around laredo, texas. emergencies, minor injuries, uncommon questions or concerns, among other things. you had both chosen very different paths.

you had moved out of your parents’ ranch house only to move back in years later after breaking off your engagement. javier had been balls deep in more colombian whores than he could count and knocked the generic paintings off the walls in the apartment of the embassy while he bottomed out. you, well, you were fiending for a new unserious relationship after settling for the bare minimum while you were with your ex-fiance.

javier turned his head despite the heavy feed bag over his shoulder. that nickname would only ever surface from one person, you. he stared at you, his mouth suddenly dry. when has he ever stumbled on some witty remark or quick draw on a flirtatious introduction? he was acting as if he was seeing a ghost. he never knew his father hired you.

“vaquita,” he responded, taking the sack of sweet oats off of his shoulder. he approached you slowly, placing his elbows on the stall door, taking your presence in with uncertainty. “you're the vet.”

that ridiculous nickname, ‘little cow,’ from the time you were eleven years old because you had bought some injured little calf from the saturday morning auction with your pocket change that your father had given you for lunch. your older brother, ruben, and javier, his friend, who were five years older than you, had only looked away for a minute. you were holding your hand up so high the moment calf number twenty-eight was up for grabs. no one wanted that thing, the auctioneer practically gave it away for two dollars. he probably would've given it away for less if you didn't push the money into his hand so quickly.

you were so excited, you had gone up to the fence letting it lick your hand. it’s fur was missing in some spots, walked with a limp, and looked like it had been trampled by the rest of the herd, but it was yours. you named him kisses. when ruben saw you hanging over the fence to give your docile calf scratches behind the ear, your brother was complaining to javier about the lack of space in the horse trailer.

“how am i going to fit that ugly—”

“kisses is not ugly!” you defended the calf, almost immediately. yes he was, he was hideous, so hideous in fact that your brother was wondering if it might be easier to “accidentally” let it loose the moment you arrived home. your father was going to think that the calf was an embarrassment to the livestock they raised.

“he's a boy, cojones are hanging and his tag is white. you bought a lame cow and gave him a girly name,” ruben huffed, helping you off the fence. the cow let out a soft ‘murring’ noise shaking his patchy head, licking his leathery nose wet.

“don’t get mad at vaquita, she has more cojones than that bull,” javier teased, watching you climb onto the fence again as the cow’s tongue wrapped around your hand. “vaquita and her new friend are gonna have to ride in the back.

ruben was laughing at the name javier had settled on for you. vaquita you were, but not even a teasing nickname could dull your spirits seeing as you had a new companion to bring home.

you rode in the tailgate of the truck clutching the makeshift lead around kisses the cow. your father was confused the moment ruben pulled the horse trailer next to the barn. the two horses were there, but you and the cow were also there. it took him a while to get used to some ugly calf being integrated into the herd of healthy bovines.

that was the first animal you truly cared for. the vet that aided kisses was the reason for your chosen occupation.

“yeah, the vet,” you nodded your head once in agreement. you eyed the mare with her foal, unlatching the stall door. javier moved back, opening the door for you as you exited.

“i haven't seen you since ruben’s graduation party,” you began, looking at how his mustache had filled out, how his shoulders had broadened, how he was even carrying himself differently.

“i've been busy,” javier said casually, watching you strip your rubber boots and coveralls. you dusted your socks before dawning your leather work boots. you pulled down the sleeves of your shirt. that had been scrunched and out of the way from the shoulder-length gloves you had taken off to begin writing.

“i know,” you laughed softly, ensuring the latch to the stall was secure with the carabiner.

“you know, vaquita?” javier raised an eyebrow, as a smirk played on the corner of his mouth.

“everybody around here talks about you, but i didn't expect to see you,” you confessed folding the coveralls into a rough square so your hands wouldn't touch the grime the clothing had acquired.

“i moved back,” javier admitted, kicking the loose dirt with his boot. his eyes now darted to the new foal nursing from its mother.

“welcome home.” you didn't know if your tone was sarcastic or endearing when it came out. you thought he was moving away from his goal of being an agent, but in reality, he was done. working at the ranch he grew up on, was backwards for you, but he felt was contrary. it was time to rest his mind. he fought too hard. he worked too much.

“you grew up, vaquita,” he was trying to avoid the conversation about his absence. he was fixated on your body without being covered in the tan working overalls. he could really take in your figure now. the way the belt laid on your hips, the way your shirt was misbuttoned, how it wasn't tucked in straight.

“you could say that without staring at my tits.”

“no, i couldn't have,” javier chuckled, as you slid him the paperwork you were writing out for luis.

“i feel awful for the girls you used to hit on,” you rolled your eyes taking your bag off the peg, stuffing your clipboard inside the oversized sack.

“you only feel awful because it wasn't you,” javier quipped only to be met by your gagging noise.

“oh yes, i’m sure sixteen-year-old you would’ve been dying to flirt with eleven-year-old me,” you teased, knowing he never had much interest in you other than to bother you while being accompanied by your older brother.

“well, maybe i had no interest in you at all until now,” javier confessed to the truth you already knew. he picked up the bag of feed again. you could see his muscles flexing through his plaid shirt.

your pager was beeping on your belt loop, with a quick look at javier you gathered your rubber boots in your hand.

“i’ve got an emergency across town, but call my office,” you said, a smile riddling your face. “we can catch up more when we both have less work to do.”

“no problem, doctor vaquita.”

you hadn't known how the next few weeks had transpired after javier got a hold of your personal number. you and javier hadn’t done much talking. you had mentioned small things in passing: ruben’s whereabouts, your failed engagement, javier’s vague stories about columbia that he didn't want to dwell on, but most of it was asking how you liked to be fucked.

each time was like experimenting, javier constantly trying to make it even better than the last time. most of the time it was late at night with him covering your mouth or shoving your head into a pillow. moving the headboard away from the wall to silence the creaking and slamming it would cause. both of you were getting fed up with having a filter on your affairs.

what was more southern comfort than sliding your pants off in the back of a field?

you were in the farm truck, pulling to the furthest point of the peña ranch, watching javier hauling branches into the large bonfire. javier’s tailgate was almost empty.

the rickety truck you were borrowing was your father's, the newest thing about it was the tires. it’s rusted patches, sun-damaged dash, exposed wiring, and missing floorboard were all characteristics of a well-loved farm truck. the seats on the inside were caked with years of dust and dirt.

it had so many miles, but they weren't accurately kept seeing as the odometer and gas gauge were both broken. the truck had a list of rules that came with driving it. no going over thirty-five miles per hour, no driving it longer than thirty minutes without topping it off with gas, check the oil each time before it goes in the garage, don’t pop the tailgate without holding the left side, knock the side of your hand against the gear shift before switching gears.

when the truck had been clean was the day you came home from the hospital, other than that even your father couldn't pinpoint a time when the blue, now brown spotted truck was in a better condition.

you turned the ignition off once the truck was backed into place. javier had to clear the branches anyway. this was just killing two birds with one stone.

javier was flicking his cigarette butts skillfully into the fire. one after another you watched him smoke. there was a sheen of sweat that was noticeable on his forehead. he had his flannel shirt open revealing a worn wife beater. he was manspreading on your tailgate, one hand sitting in his lap casually as his shoulders were slouched.

“everything okay?” you questioned, your legs dangling over the side of the truck’s tailgate, occasionally having your boot heels click together.

“it’s hard seeing you, vaquita,” he confessed, spitting on the ground. the nicotine was suddenly leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “just wasted a whole lotta time and feel like i have nothing to show for it.”

you leaned back on your elbows looking to the stars on the cloudless night rather than javier who was next to you. “the first thing you have to do is to stop thinking that you've done nothing,” you sighed softly, the exhale clearing your lungs enough to breathe in the smoky scent of the fire. “we both know you worked hard.”

“easier said than done,” he wiped his hands against his thighs leaning forward, his head bowed slightly. “especially when i decided to come back home.”

you didn't know why javier was so occupied inside his mind tonight. you could only assume the only reason he was talking to you about it was because he had no one else to talk to about it. you figured he was talking to vaquita, ruben’s little sister, rather than sweetheart, the owner of tight pussy he ruined.

“truthfully, it makes me pissed,” javier mumbled, leaning back to mirror you. he was going to reach for another cigarette before you stopped him.

“we’re supposed to be here so we can relax,” you reminded him, turning to your side, uncomfortably being met with a sharp pain in your hip from the rivet in your jeans. you shifted again, now swinging one leg over his waist and toying with his belt. “let loose for tonight.”

the moment it was unbuckled, you were fussing with his button and zipper.

“no wastin’ time, i see?” he asked, laying back fully, a deep exhale leaving his body as he placed one of his hands behind his head to watch you. the firelight illuminating enough of the area to appreciate the view. you slid in between his legs as he lifted his hips to aid you in sliding his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion.

he spits in his hand, grasping his soft shaft, his muscle memory taking over. the way he grabbed his cock, his hand had just the right amount of slack and grip at the same time. his thumb rubbing over his tip on every upward stroke.

“we both have early mornings,” you murmured as your lips were pressed against the side of his thigh, teasingly moving to lick his balls.

“or is it because you think talking about our personal lives makes this too real?”

you lifted your head to respond, but javier had moved his hand away from his erect shaft guiding your head down his length. an easy and good way to silence you from possibly admitting the truth.

your mouth stuffed full with him, struggling to take every inch he provided. his hand caressing his cheek as he looked down on you. he was wetting his lips every so often as you continued to cover his cock with your saliva.

you only had more incentive to keep working his length as he let his lips part with a breathy moan.

“you're good at that,” javier praised, holding his hand against your cheek as your head went down further. his eyes shut for a moment feeling the back of your throat tighten around his tip. he bucked his hips making you pull back your head, a soft gag coming from your mouth. your hand was firmly against his thigh to hopefully prevent it from happening again.

catching your breath, you took to his length again, a hand around the base of his shaft you were unable to fit into your cramped mouth. as you moved your head, your hand followed, jerking more of his length upwards. your spit was on and under your fingers, ensuring all of his length was properly being cared for.

“just like that sweetheart, you know i like that,” javier’s eyes rolled back as he was met with the resistance of your hand on his thigh as he tried to move his hips upwards again, aching for more.

relaxation at its finest, warm fire accompanied by a warm mouth and soft tugs of his cock being pulled into your mouth. he could tell you were getting impatient by the way you were rubbing your thighs together, trying to match the seam of your jeans right against your clit to feel some sort of pressure or stimulation from something.

javier lifted your head from his shaft, holding your chin to speak to you directly. “you want my cock?”

you could barely focus when he held your face like that and he knew it. it made you melt, it made your head fuzzy, fuck, it made you wet.

“i asked if you want me to put my cock in your pussy,” javier repeated, shaking your chin lightly, watching your eyes flicker.

“yes,” the way he could easily flip that switch was one of the most attractive things about javier. when it came to pleasure he didn't want to play a guessing game. he wanted to be accurate and precise to absolutely ruin you.

“yes, what?” he tried to coax a longer sentence from his mouth as he sat up, only adjusting your chin when he was losing your attention.

his other hand unlatched the overly large belt buckle you had received as an award from a veterinary conference you went to. hearing the click of the buckle made you antsy, thinking about his cock about to be pushing into you.

“yes, javi, i want your cock inside of me,” you confirmed, making javier begin to slide your jeans down. his fingers met the outside of your panties, curling on the underside of the fabric.

his fingers slid inside of your walls so easily making him chuckle as your mouth fell open at the feeling of two of his fingers buried inside of you. your cheeks were flushed, as you moved against his hand.

he placed a gentle kiss against your cheek. “you gotta taste your pussy sweetheart, tell me if it’s good enough for me to have some,” he whispered the entire phrase, every few words he would place another kiss on your face. his digits moving so easily inside of your walls. your panties moved out of the way so he could have a clean exit.

he offered his slick fingers to your lips, which you accepted, licking them clean. once they were clean you took them back in your mouth again, your tongue parting his fingers and thrusting into their center.

“it’s the best pussy,” you said confidently. you expected him to pull you to his face, but that wasn't the case. he pulled your panties down to your ankles to mingle with your jeans. he was pawing in the pocket of his jeans for a condom as you somehow managed to get your boots and jeans off without tripping over him or on the bed of the truck.

when you saw the condom wrapper you were confused. he just asked you to taste yourself for his pleasure. he wanted you to sample the goods he was about to feast on, yet now he was getting his dick ready.

“don't look so disappointed,” javier taunted, as he pulled a condom over his thick length. “i’m going to eat this pussy when it’s dripping,” he assured you, guiding you onto his tip. “gotta play with my meal before i eat it.”

you closed your eyes tightly, as you sunk down. out of breath, wondering how you had managed to get so lucky to receive an ungodly amount of dick after breaking things off with your fiance.

you were barely settled on his length though your eagerness was showing because you had already started to bounce despite the tight squeeze.

“sweetheart, i promise i’m not going anywhere,” javier was holding up the edge of your shirt revealing just above your belly button, not pressing to remove it, only wanting the comfort of more of your skin as he had you on top. “take it easy,” he squeezed the edge of fat at your waist, slightly groaning as you were fully filled by him.

“it’s just so good,” you moaned, tilting your head back.

you had done it, finally soaking onto his cock, getting a good rhythm as you slid up and down. you were making him voice the sounds of pleasure that you usually spouted from your own lips.

“sweetheart, that pussy is gripping me,” javier confessed, mumbling as he pulled your clothed chest closer to his face. he couldn't deny him a few of his own unsteady thrusts upwards into you, mostly only to watch you grip his shirt.

his hands fumbled the grip on your waist having to find it again in between your relentless motions to stroke his cock in between your soaking walls.

javier had to stop you, shaking his head as he pulled his cock out of you. he helped you stand, placing one of your legs onto the raised wheel wells on the side of the truck. he was behind you, bending you forward slightly so you could grab the top of the vehicle.

he knelt down between your legs, having to slide his shirt off in the process. he was getting far too worked up to have anything other than you touching him. he craned his neck, having to steady you as his tongue began to explore your folds.

his favorite part was sucking at your clit after his tongue had been buried inside of you. you didn't know who was enjoying it more. the reactions you produced made it seem like you were the one who enjoyed it more, but the more you whined and begged for him javier continued to aid in your pleasure.

one hand was wrapped around his shaft occasionally, stroking it or gripping his base tightly, wanting his erection to be just as hard, if not more when he entered you again.

“god, fuck,” your legs began to shake as his crooked nose began to rub the same trails his tounge had taken.

“best fuckin’ pussy,” he murmured, taking a few more laps within your arousal again before he stood, guiding his solid shaft into you.

“javi, my dear god,” vocal, very vocal. you were both able to spew whatever nonsense you wanted. whatever needy desires you had. whatever overly audible moans you needed to vocalize, tonight would be the night.

javier had gotten in that disgustingly pleasurable deep thrust he had learned you loved. your eyes were fluttering, knuckles white as you gripped the rusted truck, feeling it rock beneath the both of you.

his hand slid up the bottom of your shirt, shuffling with the bottom of your bra as he gripped one of your breasts, fiddling with your nipple as he had to focus on allowing you to achieve your orgasm before he could think about his own. that was proving hard, your pussy was gripping his throbbing cock like it owed you money.

“you make this too hard,” javier lightly nipped at your shoulder as he pulled you against his chest, his position slightly squatted to continue his rail into your wet cunt. too hard to focus, too hard to not release before it was his turn, too hard not to want to stay in your pussy forever.

“o-oh, there!” you exclaimed, so high-pitched, he knew any second you would be unwinding onto his cock. he could hear his belt buckle hitting the bed of the truck as he slammed into you.

“yeah, yeah, yeah,” you whined as he pulled your chest closer, kissing just below your ear. your pussy held javier’s cock throbbing against him wildly as your orgasm surged through you.

“sweetheart,” javier moaned, tapping your leg to adjust its position on the truck. “i’m about to let you take this load,” he huffed, his eyes only now fixated on your eyes as you had turned your head to look at him as he kept pushing his dick in and out of you.

you were practically losing your mind, riding out the orgasm of your life, unable to clearly think as he was still inside of you.

“you gonna take it?” javier asked, only seeing a nod coming from your crooked head. “where?”

his movements were more ragged and uncoordinated. he was waiting for the answer impatiently, closing his eyes tightly trying to be as calm as he could in what felt like the longest three seconds of his life as he waited for you to respond.

“my mouth.” that was enough said javier was pulling his dick out of you, making you drop to your knees quickly. a bit of his seed spilling into the condom as he pulled it off. the warm cum shot into your mouth, and his dick twitched as you worked his length again, ensuring that he was drained.

javier was sweating, pushing his hair off of his forehead as he pulled up his boxers and jeans. you had crouched down to rifle for your underwear and untangle your denim from your boots.

“you really know how to take it, vaquita,” javier laid his head back against the old farm truck, his discarded shirt sitting in his lap.

“you know how to give it, javito.”

[vashwoo]

Routine

pairing: vash the stampede x gn!reader content: fluff cw: mention of injury and blood, mention of vash getting threatened with a gun a/n: mostly tristamp vash since the boots and arm are explicitly described, but it could work for the other vashs

Mundane routines can be grounding experiences for those living life on the run, and that certainly is the case for Vash the Stampede. Including you in his daily rituals made them a smidge more special.

wc: 1.3k

The Humanoid Typhoon lived a life where he wasn’t sure if dinner was on the menu in the evenings, or if breakfast was even an option when the twin suns rose. The outlaw was always left gnawing at his chapped lip, wondering if he’d even have the opportunity to make some quick cash the next town over to rest in a rickety bed.

When you live a life of uncertainty and guaranteed danger like Vash the Stampede did, you tend to grip and sink your nails into routine, mundane things.

The blonde unconsciously craved routine, even if the routine was as simple as brushing his teeth when it was dark out and spitting out the paste into a rusted basin. Even if his boring ritual was splashing uncomfortably warm and metallic-scented water on his wind-chapped skin and patting it down with his wrinkled shirt.

Routine is something he cherished to have. And he clung to any opportunity to keep them alive.

A routine was grounding. It was a reminder that he survived another hard day on this godforsaken planet. It gave him something to look forward to.

On the flip side, when a routine was interrupted, it unnerved him; it made his skin crawl. When you don’t have much to look forward to, tremors rattling a routine can feel like earthquakes.

The other week, after a terrible run-in with some bounty hunters, Vash shakily splashed tepid water on his face and reached down low for his shirt, only to miserably recall he tossed it aside after he used it to wipe down the blood from the freshly sewn wound on his leg. As water dripped everywhere, he released a shuddered exhale, only to feel a hesitant hand rest on his arm.

When injured man forced an eye open, he noticed you held out one of your own fresh shirts. Making no move to accept your kindness, you lifted it to his face to dry it yourself.

Despite snapping back to reality and fervently denying your offer, this was a welcome tremor against his nightly routine. You were an embraced earthquake.

“Vash?”

He blinks, snapping to attention as his gaze focused on the flickering embers in front of him.

“You havin’ a staring contest with the fire? Hope you’re winning.”

He heard you tease him under the shared sleeping bag a small distance away. His bright eyes squinted and peered over at you from his spot near the dying fire.

When he softly called back, inquiring what you needed from him, you sighed almost dramatically, draping your arm over your forehead like a fainting maiden. Vash snorts.

Hastily, you flung the fabric from your body and folded your arms over your chest, staring at him expectantly and petulantly. 

“Vash the Stampede. Did you forget that I sleep better when you’re right next to me?” You accuse lightheartedly, but he doesn’t miss the wobbly grin threatening to split your face in twain. For extra motivation, you sweetly pat the space next to you. His nose scrunches as he slowly raises himself from the simmering heat, kicking the flames out. Smoke wafts from the singed brush he collected earlier as he dusts himself off.

“Haven’t forgotten,” he reassures, keeping his voice low and light to not wake the others. The sound of his boots kicked up the sand as he finished his words, “…was just thinking.”

His routine before you came along and forcibly jammed yourself into his heart included brushing his teeth, spitting the foam into a basin or onto the sand, wiping the dirt from his face, ripping his boots off, diving into a sleeping bag on the unforgiving ground, and having yet another restless night.

It wasn’t like that these days.

Vash hoped he’d never go back to that old routine.

He liked his new one with you in it.

Your eyes softened at his words as you watched him gingerly undo his boots and holster. Your arms relax from their position as you prop yourself up to watch him. The silence between you two mixed with the desert air and the quiet hum of the worms around the campsite. Intimate.

The gunman swiftly undid the taut laces, tucking them into the boots.

Soon, Vash ruffles his tresses with a sigh and crawls next to you into the sleeping bag.

His routine, while delightfully altered since your loud arrival into his life, remained mostly the same.

He still spat his toothpaste onto the desert sands.

He still used the bottom of his ratty shirt to dry his face, and he still removed his boots at the end of the day before he buried himself into the bag. 

Nowadays, his routine didn’t end with him laying in bed, tossing and turning, praying for ‘no nightmares, please no nightmares—‘

He used to cross his fingers, hoping he’d wake up without hearing the sound of a clicking hammer and seeing up the barrel of a rusted gun. Early in his travels, well before he learned how to check his surroundings, he found himself rousing and at the mercy of desperate souls looking for life-changing money.

These days were better; he’d crawl into a sleeping bag with its seams screaming for mercy because he’d share it with someone dear to him.

These days, he’d train his eyes on you, watching your expressions as you rambled about the day, as if he wasn’t there to begin with.

He’d feel you shimmy yourself next to him, commenting about how warm he was and how good it felt when the rest of the world was so cold at night. You’d always face him, your breath colliding against his with how close you laid next to him. 

These days, he’d hear you whisper about whatever was on your mind as you brushed his hair back behind his ear. You’d repeat that soothing motion over and over. Your nail would gently scratch at his scalp on the way back around, and he’d sink deeper into the worn padding of the bag.

On harder days, the days that battered you down, you didn’t talk like this. You’d tiredly look at him, and he’d tiredly stared back. Vash would gently place his hand on your cheek and rub the apples of it, wordlessly offering his own affections.

On the nights when his flesh hand touched your skin, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut. He’d wipe any tears, and he’d wish deep down he could wipe away your troubles too.

On the nights when his mechanical fingers graced your skin instead, you’d croon at the chilled feeling, listening to the whirring of the motors and joints as he cherished your visage. You’d wrap your hand around his, stopping his ministrations.

Instead of crossing his fingers and praying he didn’t have to bolt the first thing in the morning, he would timidly cross his fingers with yours. When you didn’t pull away, he’d hold on a little tighter.

Currently, you were whispering about how ridiculous Wolfwood looked when riding a toma, struggling to balance himself and the obnoxious cross on his back. “I cannot believe he rides a toma like… like this…!”

When your arms excitedly shoot out and almost slam into his nose in the midst of mimicking and mocking the priest, Vash snickers and gathers your fidgety hands in his. Before you could grumble, he gives them a firm squeeze.

Today was a good day though. Even if limbs weren��t tangled under the bedsheets on a real bed, it was a good day.

“Thought you called me over to sleep, mayfly.” He chided without bite, hesitantly brushing his lips against the knuckles of your hands. You snicker and explain that nighttime is the perfect time to gossip about your sleeping companions. Thus, you continued but moved on to the next exhilarating topic.

All the while, the man in the nearly ripped sleeping bag admires the crinkles forming at the corners of your eyes. When you shook with laughter, he felt his own lips quirk up as well. 

By now, the moons were high in the sky.

As you continued to chatter, your words slowly melded into one another. Vash felt his eyes grow heavy, and he was hoping for good dreams.

What a nice routine.

[qedavathegrey]

Writing Will into Water

While most of us are familiar with burning and burial as means by which to make physical then manifest our wills, there is another method that I employ with some frequency: writing will into water.

It's a simple process (and made more complicated, if so desired). All you need is: a basin, water, and a writing implement (a finger works perfectly fine). With the water in your chosen basin, take your instrument and write on the water's surface just as you would on paper. Employ word, symbol, or what have you, imparting your desire into the water.

To the water, you might add any number of herbs, curios or other liquids. Wine or spirits make a good medium if you would like to impart your will into the very offering itself. For something more nefarious, you could add herb and/or scrap, cover and let the admixture ferment/rot, then leave it for the sun or otherwise release it. If your mixture poses no threat to the local environment, pouring your water into a lake, stream or river is a good option. Especially if your water came from that same source. Also, being mindful of modern water treatment and waste management systems: the water we pour down the drain is collected, treated and returned to us. This method might be used to affect persons who share the same treatment facilities as we do in nigh a direct way. But then, as we know, all water is connected at the end of the day, so perhaps that layer adds very little...

Even still, imparted water can be used much more directly on both self or others: as consumable, either as drinking water or as ingredient in food/beverage. Tea is, of course, a great option what with the endless possible inclusion. But then, that's all Kitchen Witching 101, isn't it?

Personally, I like the evaporation method the most. I enjoy the symbol of it: my will being reduced to its most potent form, then taking to the air to join with the clouds and the heavens, finally returning as precipitation. I think it suits my nature. But I think returning water to its source is also a powerful image. Joining it back with the current or body now carrying your will with it.

Just as with water, you can match the instrument and basin with your desire or the specifics of your practice. Perhaps you'd like to carve a stylus out of a certain wood, or use a rusted nail, or a feather, or bone. All perfectly fine options. Perhaps you'd like to use a cauldron or a ceramic bowl or your 1990s glass, promotional Batman Forever mug featuring nipple-suit George Clooney from McDonald's. Do whatever, do you.

None of this is likely new to most of you, but just something I wanted to speak on as I leave my cup on the table out back for the sun to drink.

[twist-shout-and-shells]

So, here's a little peek at that odydio fic I've been talking about here. Is this anything? I'm kind of uncertain about the characterisation.

Content warning: blood, nsfw

Context: year three, after a battle

Sthenelus lets him in with a suspicious glare. The ox skin that serves as door to Diomedes’ tent falls closed behind him, trapping him in the stifled room. The whole place rinks of post–battle rush.

“What do you want?” Diomedes asks without looking at him. 

Odysseus stops in his tracks. He’s seen Diomedes naked before. He’s seen Diomedes covered in blood before. Both at the same time—that’s new.

“I…” He clears his throat. “Someone mentioned you got hurt. I just wanted to…”

To see how you were. To make sure you’re alright. 

He could brush it off as a cordiality between commanders if they didn’t have a past—short as it is. But as he stands there, faced with Diomedes’ temperate indifference and his marble-sculptured, blood-soaked back side, he realises it looks a bit too much as if he cares.

“I’m not. It was just a scratch,” Diomedes says, shrugging one shoulder to show off a shallow, diagonal cut. A stray arrow, probably. 

The rest of the blood is obviously not his. The Argive scrubs at his chest with a wet rag, accomplishing little. There’s dried blood on his thighs, his arms, even on his face, sticking to his stubble, which is longer than he usually allows it to grow. 

Diomedes wrings out the rag and dampens it again. The water on the basin is stained pink.

Odysseus, like a suicidal lamb walking straight into the mouth of a hungry lion, steps close to him. Diomedes’ turns with a frown, and he deftly takes the cloth from the Argive’s fingers.

“You missed a spot,” he drawls, eyes fixed on Diomedes’, and rubs the cloth down his chest. 

He wants to clean him up with his tongue, press his face to his pulse point, and smell the number of casualties on him, feel the strong beating of his heart against his skin.

Diomedes watches him. His coal eyes darken when Odysseus’ hand travels to his back, leaving his skin damp on its wake, and then lower.

“Tired of keeping yourself company, Laertiades?” He asks, giving him that snarl-like smirk of his.

He brushes his nose to Diomedes’ dagger-sharp collarbone.

“Leave my father out of this.” 

Before he can dip his hand between Diomedes’ thighs, the Argive seizes his wrist.

“We tried this, Odysseus. It didn’t work.”

He turns his best smirk up to Diomedes, the one that usually makes people tremble in anticipation of whatever disastrously clever schemes he has in mind. Diomedes meets it with a stern eyebrow.

“Well…” His free hand cradles the nape of Diomedes’ neck, fingers brushing his blond-soaked curls. “I hear mistakes are better the second time you make them.”

Diomedes shakes his head slightly, moving Odysseus’ hand to his thigh to rub at the blood on it. Odysseus pictures what happened by the shape of the stain—a Trojan soldier on Diomedes’ arms, a knife to his stomach, his guts spilling out and soaking through Diomedes’ tunic where his pterygia didn’t cover it.

“I’m not your wife,” the Argive says, more softly than the last time, but by no means sweetly. “I won’t be nice to you.”

“That’s good.” He drops the rag. “‘Cause I don’t need you to be nice to me.”

Diomedes pulls him in by the waist. Their mouths clash like two beasts in the wild—untamed and hungry and far too keen on devouring each other. Diomedes tastes like dried sweat and rusted copper. His skin is a furnace under Odysseus’ hand, and his grip on Odysseus’ waist is bruising.

There’s a rather fine bed in the tent, but they end up on the leather hides on the floor beside Odysseus’ ruined tunic. 

For a moment, he thinks Diomedes will have his way with him, and it makes him dizzy with want as his blood flows south too fast. But the Argive straddles his hips, and Odysseus holds onto his thighs and stares up at him—glorious and wild and covered in the blood of the innocents they travelled all this way to slaughter over someone else’s wife. If Diomedes wanted to strangle him to death right now, he wouldn’t be opposed. At least he’d be free of the war. 

Diomedes’ teeth graze his neck. He bucks his hips up, desperate for friction, and moans when those canines dig into his skin. It’s harsh, and it’s mean, and Odysseus tilts his head to the side to give him more room to bite and lick and suck to his heart’s desire.

There’s an utter lack of control in it all that he’s never seen in the young man before. Diomedes is their most experienced commander, and while he is a terrifying sight on the plains, he fights with god-like discipline, with the confidence of someone who has trained his whole life to yield a sword and throw a spear. Like a perfectly contained flame. 

As he pins Odysseus’ shoulders to the floor of his tent and rides his hips until pink rivulets of sweat roll down his back, it’s like a torch dropped onto an endless, dry field. It spreads, and it spreads, and it spreads, and all Odysseus can do is let the flames lap him up. He holds onto Diomedes’ waist and lets him take what he wants from him. 

For once in his life, Odysseus has no clever words to say. Diomedes grunts out his pleasure, framed above him by the dim light of the tent like a divine vision. There’s blood on Odysseus' skin, blood that doesn’t belong to either of them. They’re not hurt, not yet. An arrow scrape to Diomedes’ shoulder is nothing compared to how much they could hurt each other.

[chelseeebe]

three’s a crowd.

this is just porn with absolutely no plot if i’m being completely honest lollll i was at a festival this weekend and wanted to ease my brain back into writing and then this happened?? i do have part 1 ready to go for shattering expectations but am waiting to post

18+. voyeurism. perv!eddie i guess. unprotected sex hehe

imagine sneaking off to the bathroom with steve at some event you didn’t even want to come to because he just can’t keep his hands off of you.

they’re grabbing onto your supple thighs to hoist you up onto the sink, moving between your legs, lips not living yours as his large, hardened hands roam your body. dress yanked up over your thighs revealing a damp patch in your lacy panties.

he’s growling into your mouth, feeling his erection nudging perfectly at your sensitive clit. pulling him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his waist.

murmuring words of encouragement to tell him to hurry up. you need him now.

his pants coming undone, cock springing up against his stomach as you shuffle forward, hips tilted as you wait impatiently for him to fill you up.

trying so desperately not to make any noise when he slides inside, forehead resting against yours with the tinges of a smirk on his lips. he can feel just how soaked you are for him already, stretching your pretty pussy around him.

finding it too difficult to keep your mouth shut when he hits that sweet, spongy spot deep inside, mewling into his ear with a breath chorus of stevestevesteve.

you’re not sure if you’re hearing things but you’re sure the door creaks and your eyes flit over to spot eddie stood gawping, one hand still wrapped around the rusting door handle.

you startle a little at the sight, squeezing steve’s shoulder to grab his attention, ‘steve.. steve,’ different to the similar sounds you’d been making.

he looks back over his shoulder without much concern, tsks quietly before continuing to thrust his hips, the sounds of your wetness filling the tiny room.

it’s so fucking hot. it shouldn’t be hot.

knowing he’s just stood there watching, you should feel weird. it was. but it was just so sexy, encouraging you in a way you’d never known possible.

your stomach twists, averting your eyes as your head rolls back against the dirtied mirror. heels digging into his back when his thumb moves to circle your clit. using the opportunity to bury his head into your neck, suckling at the taut skin, littering the empty space in a plethora of purples.

head lolling to the side as you once again making eye contact with the other man still stood at the door. dropping to the obvious tent in his pants, hand twitching, just absolutely fucking desperate to touch himself.

eager to please, you steve in by the collar of his shirt, lazily connecting your lips. tongues and spit. eddie’s chest is heaving, near enough drawing blood from his teeth dug into his bottom lip.

your stomach twists, too blissed out now to care about one eddie munson stood at the door. steve’s hand is balanced on the porcelain basin, slamming into your cunt mercilessly, feeling you tighten around him. he knows you’re close, the sweet sounds rolling out of your mouth are indication enough.

‘fuck..’ you’re whining, thighs trembling as the coil snaps, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm overtakes your limbs. white hot flashes explode behind your eyelids. clinging onto steve’s neck in fear of falling off the flimsy sink.

steve grunts, burying himself to the hilt as thick ropes of hot cum paint your walls. leaving wet kisses along your jaw and down onto your already marked neck before pulling out. his pants back around his waist before you have time to even digest what had just happened.

he’s a gentleman, pulling your dress down and helping you from the basin. finding it so insanely hot to know he’s dripping out of you as you land on wobbly legs, cheeks burning when you catch sight of eddie again.

it’s a silent exchange between them but it makes you giddy all over again. steve nodding at the boy before taking your hand and pulling you out of the bathroom with as much haste as he’d pulled you into it.

the lock clicking as soon as the door is shut again.

[rainworldhourly]

[themareverine]

A KING & HIS CASTLE ▹ MORE THAN ROCKET SCIENCE

TEASER

—oldman!Logan x fem!OC

SERIES SUMMARY: Breadwinner. Bring-Home-the-Bacon. King of the Castle. He's heard it all before, but it's never been true of the Wolverine. Until her. Coming home to her is the only thing to live for, the only thing keeping the heart behind his ribs spinning.

SYNOPSIS: In another time, another life, it wouldn’t look like this. She’d be everything she isn’t, everything his running hasn’t made her. Society, wealth— all at her feet. Maybe even with someone else. But, she stays. With him. His head knows why, but it’ll always be a little more than rocket science.

warnings: pregnancy, marriage, age-gap relationship, Charles catches feelings for nameless OC, hint of pre-existing Charles-offered feelings, angst, I was going to write this from Logan's POV but it didn't quite shake out that way, I may add him in here somewhere....

a/n: ya'll loved In You, My Fortress thank you SOOOOOO much. here's a little sneaky at what's coming next. roughly based on a what-could’ve event I had planned for my series—but. not sure it’s gonna happen so I’m gonna fit it into a drabble attempt. we’ll see how it it goes.

SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

TEASER TEASER TEASER

Drug-hazy eyes weld her into place, hand hanging in open space. Pills all but melt in the heat of the lava that seems to eke from the lines of her hand. Sweat pearls at her temples, holding her curls ruthlessly against her skin—she can breathe, barely. Or, so she thinks—she hasn’t recovered fully from his statement.

They’re heavy. Too heavy, bouncing off the walls of a hardly-there water basin rusting with age and time. Baring the weight of the sun would be easier than these words from Charles Xavier—mentor. Father figure. Friend—lifeline.

I’ve always loved you—

And, maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s mythos—Charles always did love Shakespeare, and one couldn’t get much more Shakespearean. Or, maybe it’s just rocket science to a third grader looking up at Orion, making sense of Pleiades.

Softer, now. Like a whisper. Heartbeats. “Perhaps, in another time—another unfolding of the universe, my dear—“ Charles—

“Charles,” oh God. Don’t, please—

“—dearest. Please, do allow me to finish. Perhaps, in a proposed other time; another world, another universe—it would be me,” his eye drop to the swell of her belly, which grows seemingly by the minute. Heavy with child, somersaulting with life—Logan’s little life.

Eyes hit with hers again, the little hitch of breath in his throat so unlike him. Never has Charles Xavier fumbled a word, a thought—an act. If he’d lost the ability to read minds, the pyramids would be easier to know.

Older eyes soften, the lightest smile teasing on too-chapped lips. And Charles very easily slips into thought, thought that could raise hell from the depths of the earth. Little more is terrifying than such a thought, this not far removed.

“Perhaps in another time, you’d be standing there, carrying my child. Loving me—just as you so wildly love him.”

[solarissttee]

03 | CONFRONTATION

summary ; after the boar hat owners nurse the wandering rust knight back to health, they being their interrogation. however, they’re met with more unruly customers; the holy knights.

wc ; 3.6k

tags ; attempted murder / treason, abuse of power, heavy dialogue and plot change, elizabeth has been aged up to 19, liones’ national drinking is 21 which implies that meliodas and the reader look anywhere between 21 and 28.

catalogue

instead of giving a response, the person tips backwards and slumps to the ground. their helmet rolls off on impact.

you look down at the mysterious person, eyes widening at who was inside the suit of armour. it was a young girl, no older than sixteen if you had to guess.

her long silver hair is sprawled out against the tavern floor as she naps peacefully, or as peacefully as she can in that uncomfortable looking armour of hers.

you notice how her breaths come out in short puffs, how her pale cheeks were; rosy from the heat, and a noticeable sheen of sweat that coats her porcelain skin. she has a fever, no doubt about that.

“this girl... isn’t she a little too young to be one of the eight deadly sins?” hawk inquires, observing the girl cautiously.

neither you, nor meliodas provide a reply. instead, you set the bags of flour down by the door, clapping your hands to get rid of the little flakes coating them so they don’t stain the girl’s skin. you drop to your knees next to her and feel her forehead. your eyebrows furrow at her temperature, it’s higher than you’d expected.

“she’s burning up. a fever most likely from exhaustion.” you state as meliodas helps you haul her onto her feet.

“she’s clearly been walking around in this armour for a while,” meliodas remarks as you guys turn down the hall and go up the stairs to your bedroom. once she’s situated on your bed, the both of you make quick work of stripping her out of the rusted armour.

“it’s a wonder how she managed to move around in this thing,” the blond pokes at the heap metal that is now discarded in the corner, while you rummage around your room looking for a clean washcloth.

“yeah, she looks a little frail to be walking around in such heavy armour, and with all that rust too,” you saunter over to the washroom, filling a basin with cold water to help bring down her temperature.

“maybe she’s stronger than she appears to be, we never know. she might be a holy knight for all we know.” he shrugs and turns on his heels, leaving the room to get the medicine you’d made for situations like this. hawk is left alone with the girl, watching over her until either of you get back.

when you reemerge from the bathroom after a short while, you set the basin down onto your nightstand and dip the washcloth into the cool water and gently place it onto her forehead afterward. meliodas lightly kicks open the door then sets down a glass of water and the medicine on the table. you three leave her to rest for a bit.

while waiting for her to regain consciousness, you head off to put away the flour and tidy up the bar area. there were a few tables and chairs that had gotten knocked over when the customers had vacated the tavern, ultimately messing up the floor with either food, alcohol or broken plates.

meliodas is glad that things had turned out this way, at least you wouldn’t kill him for the earlier altercation with those three customers. that is, unless hawk decides to run his mouth and snitch to you of course.

a few minutes pass, about twenty or so, and one of the girl’s finger twitches slightly. her eyes flutter open and she slowly sits up, blinking tiredly when the washcloth falls into her lap. “um... where am i?” she mutters to herself, looking around the unfamiliar bedroom in confusion.

her ears perk when she picks up your voices downstairs and she immediately begins to sweat uncontrollably. ‘h—have i been found out? whose voices are those? where even am i?!’

she notices her armour in the corner of the room and feels her anxiety build. she needs to escape, now. getting up from the bed, she sneaks out of the room, trying to find a way to leave without either of you knowing. at least, that’s what she had planned to do, but...

“hey there, how’re you feeling?”

the girl lets out a shriek, her heart thumping violently in her chest as she turns around to face meliodas. he blinks, not expecting her to react so strongly. had she not heard him coming? his footsteps weren’t that quiet.

silence falls between the two of them. she looks like a dear in headlights while meliodas is mildly worried.

“are you feeling okay? you were really burning up when we found you. did you take the medicine at the side of the bed?”

“u—um, i’m m—much better, thank you,” she replies timidly, fidgeting with her fingers.

‘i didn’t even hear him come up... i can’t dally here for too long. if i don’t leave soon, the holy knights will...’

further worried by her silence, meliodas decides to change the topic to something more lighthearted. “hey, you must be pretty hungry right about now. how ‘bout we head downstairs? my friend’s making food right now, and you can take the medicine she left for you afterwards.”

“n—no, thank you, i’m perfectly fine—“ the girl is cut off by her stomach growling and feels heat rush up onto her cheeks, much to her horror. meliodas on the other hand, chuckles and beckons her over, leading her to the stairs. “c’mon, let’s get some food into your belly. you need to get your strength back.”

when you hear footsteps getting closer to the bar area, you plate up the food for the girl and leave it on the counter. “hey, hey! looking better, i see,” you wave over to the girl. she waves back shyly.

she takes cautious steps over to you and slides onto the barstool. “um, thank you. but, who are you and where am i?”

“straight to the point, huh? well, i’m y/n, that guy over there is meliodas.”

her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she takes in your features and then shifts her gaze to meliodas. her eyes flicker over to the wanted posters on the board and concludes with disappointment that you’re not who she was hoping for.

‘they look nothing like them... i suppose it’s just a coincidence then...’

“you strolled into our shop and then passed out cold,” meliodas tells her, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“your... shop?”

“this is the boar hat. it’s our bar,” you gesture to the barrels of alcohol behind you.

“you two are... the owners?” she questions uncertainly. the both of you looked like you had just reached the age to be allowed to consume alcohol, she hadn’t expected you guys to be owners of a whole bar! maybe this is why they say not to judge books by their covers. she can’t help it though, not when the both of you look to be only a couple of years older than her.

“is that so strange?” you chuckle, finding her expression cute. she frantically shakes her head, sputtering out an answer. “n—no!! well, maybe. but, i saw the sword on his back, so i just assumed...” she trails off, pointing to the dragon shaped sword hilt on meliodas’ back.

“oh, this old thing?” he reaches for the hilt of the sword and pulls it out, eliciting a small yelp from the girl. he laughs at her jumpy nature.

“did i scare you?” he grins. “if i flash the handle, it does looks like the real thing, so i don’t really blame you for having suspicions.

and just as quickly as he had pulled out the broken blade, he placed it back into its scabbard. “call it a deterrent against people skipping out on their tab.”

“and i wonder why that is, you moron. it’s only thanks to y/n that it doesn’t happen often and we haven’t gone out of business yet” hawk snorts, giving meliodas a pointed look to which the blond responds with a middle finger.

the girl’s eyes widens when she hears hawk speak. she leaps off the counter immediately and goes straight to engulf the pig in a hug, rubbing him and giggling happily. you place your hands on your hips and smile at the interaction.

“it’s a talking piggy!” she squeals excitedly but who could blame her, really? it is a talking pig! you don’t see something like that everyday.

“the name’s hawk. pleasure to meet you.”

“oh, you’re so adorable!! long ago, i pestered my father to give me one as a birthday present!” she shares, hugging hawk tightly. the pig stands unfazed, like this has happened many times before.

“did you get a pig?” you question and almost regret it when her smile slowly fades and she responds with a small, downtrodden ‘no’.

“hey, how about you get to eating? you can hug hawk as much as you want afterwards,” meliodas offers a smile.

“alright,” she murmured as she gets back onto the stool and stares down at her plate. she feels a little bad about suspecting you guys to be working with the holy knights now... but she can’t let her guard down, even though you’ve taken care of her out o the goodness of your hearts and the food you’ve served looks really yummy.

“first you nurse me back to health, and now you’re feeding me... how can i ever repay you?” she murmurs, staring down at the food.

you chuckle and reach over to pat her head, softly tousling the silky silver strands of her hair. “don’t worry your pretty little head about it and just eat, okay? it’s on the house.”

“isn’t that bad for your business?”

“please just eat it.”

“okay. here goes.” she lifts her fork to her mouth and puts the food into her mouth. her eyes widen and she visibly melts as she chews and swallows.

“what do you think? good stuff, right?” meliodas grins, nudging you playfully. “n/n’s one of the best cooks i’ve ever met, y’know? she’s a total goddess in the kitchen.”

a single tear slides down her cheeks and more followed suite. you exchange a worried look with the other two, not expecting her to start crying.

“hey, you okay?” you ask softly rubbing her shoulder in comfort.

“yeah, i’m fine… it’s just that i haven’t had a proper meal in a while and this is really delicious,” she smiles, wiping her eyes, continuing to eat.

“…say, what were you doing, walking around in that armour?” meliodas inquires after a moment of silence, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“oh, that’s...” she hesitates, not knowing if she could entirely trust you with her reasoning, but decides to tell you guys anyway. “i’m searching for the eight deadly sins.”

“we gathered that much when you stumbled in here calling out for them,” hawk huffs.

“shut it, porky. anyway, why on earth would you be looking for eight deadly criminals?”

“yeah, not to mention that nobody knows if they’re even alive or dead. those guys are seriously fucked in the head, aren’t they?” meliodas leaned against the countertop, his chin resting on his palm.

she goes quiet for a moment, contemplating what to say in response to that. she knew that questions like these were inevitable but still, she’d like to not have her decisions be put under scrutiny for once. when she opens her mouth to speak again, she’s interrupted by a series of loud knocks to the door.

“open up! we got a report from some villagers! we, the order of the beard of the mountain cat, serve under the holy knights and are stationed at the mountain’s base!” a male voice proclaims.

“we’re here to arrest the rust knight, potentially one of the eight deadly sins!” he continues on. “come out peacefully!”

“again with the unruly customers?” meliodas sighs to himself. “and what’s with that ridiculous order name? the beard of the mountain cat? really?”

meanwhile….

“look allioni, are these eight deadly sins even all that dangerous anymore? surely they must be a couple of old geezers by now,” one of the knights outside speaks up, annoyedly crossing his arms.

allioni glares down at him. “take this seriously, will you? the eight deadly sins were the ones who massacred a dozen of holy knights ten years ago, the holy knight’s grand master included! i saw just how bad it was with my own eyes! it was a blood bath!! if we don’t catch these fiends, the realm will be in danger!”

“yeah, but—“

“there should be no buts if you understand the implications of our responsibility! it’s our jobs as holy knights to make sure that the kingdom is safe, even if it means catching the eight deadly sins and putting them down or dying in the process!”

the knights go quiet after allioni's passionate rant. one of them sighs and steps forward, and bangs on the tavern’s door again.

“what the hell are you doing!? come out here!”

you put on a smile as you open the door, wanting to be as polite as you could in order to get them off your backs. “sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. is there something i can help you with?”

“and you are?” the third tallest of the bunch asks, a condescending eyebrow raised at you, your eye twitches. holy knights and their egos.

“i’m one of the owners of this establishment. you are holy knights, yes?”

“where’s the rust knight? send him out!”

“being polite wouldn’t kill you, but whatever.” turning back into the tavern to avoid their angry glares, you gesture for the rust knight to come forward.

the knights tense at your easy compliance to their demands, but when hawk comes through the door in bits and pieces of the armour that was discarded in your room, they deadpan.

“you called? i am the great sir hawk, the rust knight!”

“th—this pig is one of the eight deadly sins?!”

“of course it isn’t, moron!”

you stifle your laugh as they stare at hawk in bewilderment. their expressions are amusing, but you know better than to laugh out loud. the sensitivity towards their egos is something you've come to face many times while dealing with holy knights in the past.

“h—how dare you! i’m the captain of the order of scraps disposal!” the pig states proudly. wow, he’s really playing into this role, not that you’re surprised. the pig did have an ego problem.

“there is no such order!”

you accidentally let a laugh slip, but cough to cover it up when you're given an annoyed glare. “so, is this the person— err, animal you were looking for?” you question innocently, smiling.

one of the knights steps forward and stares up at you, damn you are tall for a woman. although you’re many inches taller than this knight, that doesn’t make him back down in trying to establish his dominance (or whatever bullshit holy knights typically do when their egos are threatened).

“you’ve got some nerve, making sport of knights,” he scowls. “i’ll give you one more chance, bring out the rust knight.”

“but—“

“hey! a woman just ran out the back!” one of the other knights interrupts you. allioni’s head swivels back to his fellow knight and you curse under your breath.

you move to run after her, but you’re stopped when the biggest of the bunch grabs onto your arm. “so, this was your plan all along, huh? did you really think you could get away with fooling holy knights, you wench?”

your eye twitches at his insult. the nerve of this guy. who does he think he is talking to you like that? you ought to knock him down a peg or five.

“what did you just call me?”

“oh, so you’re deaf too, huh?” he yanks you into him, spinning you around and holding your arms behind your back.

“didn’t your mother ever teach you guys how to treat a lady?”

“shut it, woman,” allioni glared at you before turning to the others. “inform sir twigo at once! and take this one back with you.”

by this point, you were pissed off. with a sharp whistle, a low, menacing hissing sound is heard from within the tavern as it steadily creeps closer to the door.

“what’s that noise? a snake?”

a few seconds later, a massive, black ball python with intense vermillion eyes emerge from the door way, looming threateningly over the group, freezing them in their spots. you take this opportunity to free yourself from the knight's vice grip. you lower your body, shifting your weight and lowering your centre of gravity, which tilts the knight forward. you then flip him over your body and onto the ground and he lands with a harsh thud and a grunt. you promptly sprint into the forest to catch up to the girl immediately after.

allioni curses under his breath. “don’t just stand there like idiots! two of you should fend that thing off, the others and i will chase after those two. that first woman must be the rust knight! after her and the other one!”

“yes!”

you dash through the thick forest, jumping over and ducking under the tree roots. the girl was no longer anywhere in sight, leaving only you to shake them off.

“i order you to stop in the name of the law! any further attempt to evade us will bring about serious consequences!” allioni yells at you as he and three others pursue you deeper into the forest. you grunt at how you had forgotten to bring something to fend them off with. you hadn’t wanted to raise suspicion by walking out with a weapon, but you’re starting to regret that now.

however, a sudden, loud shriek from behind catches your attention and allioni’s.

“what is it? what happened!?” he doesn’t turn his head back. man, he really is determined to capture, huh?

“th—the pig is charging at us!”

“if its not the damn snake, you shouldn’t have a problem fending it off!”

“wow, you’re quite harsh,” you comment loud enough for him to hear you. he scoffed in response and yelled at you to shut up once more.

“hey, hawk, if you get these guys off my ass, i’ll triple your scraps. deal?”

“you ain’t gotta tell me twice!”

allioni yells at hawk to get away from him after he’d succeed in knocking his two comrades into opposite sides of the forest. the young knight speeds up to hopefully outrun him but then skids to a stop to keep himself from going off the cliff’s edge when he reached the forest’s clearing. allioni looked around for you or the girl in confusion as neither of you were in sight.

“they’re... not here...? how—“ before he could properly grasp the situation, he gets knocked off the cliff by hawk. you watch from above as he falls into the clearing of trees below. ‘it’s a shame, he was kind of cute, but he’s got a horrible attitude.’

you then turn to face meliodas and the girl who was sitting between you both, offering her thanks. the snake from earlier materializes beside you and hisses softly. you stroke the underside of his chin as he makes himself at home on your shoulders. “one of them got away, huh? that’s alright, you did your best.”

the girl looks at your snake curiously as meliodas helps her out of the tree. you both lead her out of the forest and onto the clearing by the cliffside.

“you’ve stirred up quite the trouble, miss. now would be a good time to tell us exactly why you’re looking for the eight deadly sins.”

she takes in a breath to work up the courage to come clean. it’s the least she could do after you guys saved her... twice...

“...it’s just so that i can stop the holy knights.”

whatever you were expecting her to say, it definitely wasn’t that. her answers keep surprising you by the minute.

“stop the holy knights? do you hear yourself, lady? what’re you trying to stop them from doing? the holy knights are the knights who protect liones, they’re heroes!” hawk huffs out.

“but what if these ‘heroes’ were preparing to start a war in this country?” she refutes, sarcasm dripping from her tone when she says ‘heroes’.

“miss, i beg your finest pardon?”

“you probably don’t know this, nobody does actually, but not too long ago, the entire royal family except for the former king were arrested and imprisoned by the holy knights, even the queen who’s supposed to be on the throne,” she recounts, turning away from you all.

“the royal family was what!? so you mean the queen isn’t tending to the former king that’s laid up in bed, sick?” hawk gasps. she shakes her head.

“that’s a cover story that the holy knights have been circulating. her majesty has been imprisoned in the west tower where only the most gruesome criminals are held. the only person that has control over the government now is the king consort and the two holy knight grandmasters.” her expression is one of sadness and your eyes furrow. that’s quite a bit of information which leads you to conclude that she’s either a royal or a holy knight that is still loyal towards the royal family.

“war, huh? who are they planning to fight? and what’s the reason for this war anyway? is it so important that they would launch a coup and imprison the royals?”

“i don’t know who they intend to fight or what they intend to accomplish by starting a war, but... they’re already conscripting people from the kingdom and surrounding villages, making preparations slowly but surely.”

“seriously?” hawk muttered, aghast at the news.

“damn, that’s rough,” meliodas tucks his hands into his pants, speaking nonchalantly.

“why do you never take anything seriously?” the pig scoffs at him, shooting a nasty side eye.

“but, if they’re planning to start a war, i still don’t see how any of that ties in with the eight deadly sins. they’re wanted criminals and are despised by all,” you fold your arms. “it would be illogical to seek out betrayers of the country, no?”

“no, you’re wrong, if there is any hope of stopping the holy knights, it lies with the eight deadly sins, and them alone!”

“alright, let me get this straight. you’re looking for the eight deadly sins knowing what kind of people they are?” meliodas raises an eyebrow at her. “what makes you think they would provide you with their help. what makes you think they’re even alive? pretty dumb plan, i have to say. but props to you for the effort.”

“the eight deadly sins... they the mightiest, most vile order of knights in the kingdom, composed of eight terrible criminals, each with the mark of a beast branded on their body. ten years ago, they were attacked with full force by all the knights of the realm on suspicion of attempting to overthrow the kingdom and were scattered to the four winds,” she narrates before looking at you three with a blazing intensity in her pale blue eyes, “that’s what everyone says, but i fully believe that what happened ten years ago wasn’t their doing! they wouldn’t have betrayed the country like that!”

“you have a surprising amount of faith in people who were all criminals before being grouped together. everyone should’ve seen their treason coming from miles away. besides, i heard rumours saying they’re all dead,” meliodas scratched his nape. you look down at him. he was intentionally egging her on but for what reason, you’re not sure.

“such amazing people wouldn’t die that easily!”

“again, woman, these guys are criminals. they’re bound to be dead by now or at least caught... and you seeking out their help is a large act of treason, no?”

the relentless interrogation your friend suddenly sprung upon her caused tears of frustration to form in her eyes. she was clearly getting overwhelmed with his questions. “why can’t you understand!? get it into that thick skull of yours it’s the holy knights who are really causing people to suffer!”

you three are stunned to silence at her outburst. her usually soft voice held such strong emotion that it came out a lot sharper and harsher than she probably would’ve intended.

she quickly backtracks. “apologies, i didn’t mean to snap at you… i just got so overwhelmed and— eek..!”

whatever the girl was about to say dies in her throat as the cliffside you four were standing on suddenly crumbles beneath your feet, sending the lot of you pummelling straight to the forest below.

“oh, give me a break!” hawk groans.

“oops, i forgot to confirm if they were the people we were looking for or not. that’s my bad. oh, well, i guess that’ll be three deaths tallied.”

[reds-writings]

Hi😊

I love how you write and since you were asking for writing requests I have one (for 2012 Rust ofc):

It's possible a combination of 2 prompts?

If it is then:

1-Angst prompt(keeping things from the other to spare their feelings)

And 8- soft kissing prompts ( kissing them while cleaning their wounds)

Thank you so much for writing for us and don't feel pressured to write this if you don't want to!

( by the way have you heard Experience from Ludovico Einaudi? I think it's perfect for the jj series and for TD in general)

“I didn’t know for days.”

“I-”

“Days, Rust.” You cut him off, voice cracking jaggedly as you took in his appearance. Never had he looked so beaten and small, so physically fragile. 

Every part of your nervous system felt as if it was breaking down. You hated being in hospitals more than anything and you were due to crumble any minute now. 

What a fucked couple of weeks. 

“I’ve done enough. Couldn’t bother to ask you here…” He rasped. It was a weak as shit excuse and you both knew it. The scoff you offered in reply was a harsh lashing to his already feeble resolve, 

“You say that yet here you are. Always doin' more and botherin' me more than I can put into words.” 

That was mean. He deserved it. 

Partly. 

You pushed down the rising bile soured with devastation in your throat. You weren’t here to fight, even if that's all you knew how to do now.

“I don’t know if it’ll breach your thick skull but…when Maggie called me about what happened…my heart just about gave out. I mean that.” You said solemnly, shaking hands starting to bunch at your sides.

God, you didn’t know the last time you cried over this man but you remember just how easy he made it.

“Maggie called?” It was almost funny how bad he was at tampering down his shock at that information.

“Yeah. Imagine that.” You huffed dryly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you took a seat in the flimsy chair opposite his hospital bed. You continued,

“I almost didn’t answer. But I figured she wouldn’t call after all this time for nothin’. I made sure of that years ago…” You looked anywhere but him. His window seemed like a portal to nothingness with how dark it was outside. Like reality didn’t exist beyond these four walls. 

Clearing your throat you shifted back toward him, 

“Marty said you need a place to stay so I set up a room for you.”

“No that won’t-”

“I wasn’t askin’.” 

Rust makes no move to speak further.

“Plus if I get sick of you fast enough…I’ll just hand you off back to Marty. Just figured you’d want more breathin’ room than his bachelor pad.”

That gets a wry wheeze out of him, though he looks on the verge of breaking. Marty mentioned something being different now. That something within Rust had shifted during this whole experience that couldn’t quite be explained. 

You’d keep your questions for later.

Sitting in a charged bubble of silence for what felt like forever, taking each other in to the fullest extent, you break it to reach for a clean rag and soak it in a basin that rested close by in the room. 

The care you took in dotting at his marred, tender skin could’ve had him worshipping you at your feet but he wouldn't ruin this with words. A feeling of warmth and hope he hadn’t known in over a decade encased him at your gentle action, leaving him feeling like an exposed livewire.

There was no telling where you’d end up. If things would ever be as they were before. 

But with a barely there kiss to his hairline, it felt like a start to the repairment of a soul tie left buried too long ago. 

[llondonfog]

⚔ living weapon verse ⚔ | a friend and i have been tossing around an au where silver is a literal "living weapon"— he's been transformed into a sword due to being cursed by maleficent and forced to serve the many fae generals throughout the centuries who wield him. eventually, time finds him in the hands of the most recent general of the right, a certain lilia vanrouge :) there's so much more to this au and i hope that i can express more of it through upcoming drabbles. but in the meantime please enjoy this snippet below! <3

The water in the basin almost instantaneously rusts into an ugly, mottled brown, the kind of stinking, brackish water that Silver has only seen in the most polluted of swamps. It makes sense, he supposes, twitching his fingers idly beneath the surface to watch the resulting eddies with a glazed stare— he is a tool of and for destruction. There is nothing that remains sacred and innocent for something like him, not even the bathwater warm like a hearth against his phantom, aching bones. 

A clawed hand takes his chin and grips it firmly, the pressure a welcome distraction from the encroaching abyss sinking its poisonous tendrils into his mind. He allows it to guide him, unable to resist even if he wished, and it tilts his head up until his dulled gaze meets blazing crimson, the sight stirring a long-dead emotion in his still and silent heart. “Focus,” the general murmurs, and the order is a kindness, a mercy he knows he does not deserve. “Eyes on me.”

These simple, straightforward commands are part of their ritual, and Silver clings to them like the last anchor in a tempest-tossed sea. His handler’s hold on his chin lingers a moment longer, the fae eyeing him impassively to ensure his compliance as if it were possible for Silver to disobey, before removing itself to reach for the damp rag draped along the basin’s side. Silver mourns its loss like a child yearning for a comfort toy, but his features do not betray his thoughts. They do not betray much of anything at all, the need to emote drilled out of him from centuries of cruelty and callous objectification. After all, what does a sword need a smile for, what use is a blade that weeps?

Instead, he centers himself along the pain, one of the only constants he’s come to know as intimately as any true love. His handler is quick, another one of those unnecessary mercies, but thorough— the rag glides along his bruised and blood-stained skin, sweeping away the gory evidence of mere hours ago. Idly, Silver wonders if it would truly be so easy to wipe away the memories. To cleanse what is so ingrained within him: the dying wails of his own kind, the wet heat as he slices through their flesh and beating veins, the fear wide and white in their eyes. 

“Silver.”

His head snaps up, a dull burn of shame creeping beneath his skin as the fear of disappointing the fae, a compelling need sewn viciously into the very nature of his being as part of Maleficent's curse, floods his mind.

The general has paused in his ministrations, for how long Silver does not know, and instead is crouched by the basin’s side with an inscrutable expression on those delicate features. Without a word, he reaches out, and Silver’s eyes all but close as a passive tranquility spreads like treacle through his trembling limbs at the touch of those warm fingertips against the curse mark branded along the back of his neck. His handler need not look to find the recent addition of the bat flitting above the floral-wreathed sword emblazoned on Silver’s skin, and he feels the tips of those claws press lightly against it— he’s never heard of a curse mark changing over time, and he cannot forget the strange flash of possessiveness that flickered through the general’s eyes at the sight before being smoothly buried under his usual narrowed gaze. 

He cannot forget the odd churning of his heart when he first caught sight of it in the broken mirror hanging in the general’s tent. 

“Silver,” the general repeats, and Silver flushes at having drifted off once again. But instead, the fae brushes his thumb over the length of the curse mark, from the nape of his neck to the top of his spine, and stares at him like he’s something deserving of tenderness. 

“You did well today, boy. Rest now,” his handler’s hand shifts forward to cover his eyes, the darkness beneath his palm warm and inviting and nothing like the cold and miserable nothingness that Silver returns to when he’s outperformed his usefulness. Another kindness, for swords do not sleep, or eat, or drink— his body, what little humanity it has retained, no longer is tethered to such mortal requirements. But his general has given him an order, and a good weapon obeys the will of its handler. 

Silver sleeps— swords do not dream, but what else could it be, when he feels the ghost of lips brushing against his forehead?

[despondentnuzzy]

Alright fuck it I want to ramble analyze characters more. I've been stuck on who so I opened to a random page. Saw Marasi first and now I am going to see what things my brain will inform me about her as I write this post.

Spoils for Era 1 and 2 of Mistborn

I've seen Marasi compared to Vin, both in the text and in some posts online, but let's take another angle.

In Mistborn if I asked you which character

Is the socially inconvenient child to an upper class house

Has a half-sibling that gets romantically involved with the main protagonist

First bonds with our earring wearing protagonist at a high society function

Has an education that leads them to believe they can fix the whole world if you just let them do it

Oh my gosh it's Elend Venture in a wig!

But now that I think about it, there is a lot of similarities between Elend and Marasi beyond surface level plot.

Marasi and Elend of course share the traits mentioned above but also share a similar problem. Theory works in theory, practice doesn't always work in practice.

Both of these characters would achieve far greater success if they just didn't play by the rules they said everyone should agree to on the basis they know better.

However while Elend relents at the end of his era, becoming a mostly benevolent tyrant.

Marasi gives up her opportunity to circumnavigate her rules. She rejects the offer to join the Ghostbloods. An organization she could likely do far more with than any regular position within The Basins policing system would ever afford her.

Now in Wax's epilogue we find out she's running for Governor, which would give her greater ability to enact her reforms but she is still working within the system, which realistically will greatly limit her ability to solve problems. (Although I'm sure come Era 3 we'll find out she did plenty of good for the people of Scadriel.)

I mentioned previously that Wayne is toxic preservation while Wax is literally stated to be a force of ruin.

In this view I would see Marasi as Harmony. Unlike Sazed, who is Harmony due to his duplicitous (but not decietful) nature, Marasi is a true balance.

Rusts I feel like I said very little with too much in this post? OH FUCK HER ALLOMANCY!

Umm fuck, Marasi probably has symbolic traits tied to her Allomancy let's see.

You could argue that it plays into how slowly she feels like she grows, that everything can happen so fast around her and that if she was only given the right tools (allomantic grenades) her skills would become invaluable?? Idk I probably should make another post about her sometime. Feels like I didn't do her justice here haha

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 24

why did this chapter kick my ass?? damn!!!

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

soz for the unexpected delay i was moving + starting a new job + lost my grip on byakuya's slippery psyche

playing with my own headcanons for hiro and his backstory actually. bc. well. the original just is not very good at all now is it

tyyy @digitaldollsworld as always!!

Content warning tags: blood, mention of razor (not in intentional self-harm context), minor injury, nausea, panic attack, toxic obsessive stalker Toko, insecurity, mentions of self-starving

< previous - from start - next >

Byakuya drops his straight razor, and it splashes into the basin of his sink. Followed by a few droplets, hot and ruby-bright as it tracks down his jaw, vanishing almost instantly upon contact with the water.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, frozen, one hand still half-raised to his face, still curved in that loose grip. Then he braces his hands against the porcelain edge, knuckles tensing as he tries to keep them from shaking. The cut on his jaw stings, still slowly welling blood; his razor, silver and distorted, warbles in and out of sight with the water’s ripples, his eyes struggling to track its shape. He makes no move to fish it out of the water.

This was his second attempt at shaving. The evidence of his first attempt still throbs on the opposite cheek, near his ear. Despite moving glacially slow, other hand pulling the skin as taut and still as he could manage, the hard edge of the sink digging into his hip as he leaned as close to the mirror as he could, it was still proving to be a fruitless effort. The elegant blade that his mother’s family had gifted him, that he had been using since he became heir, was now simply too large and awkward for him to use. A task that should have been easy after all of Pennyworth’s guidance was now fraught with pointless danger.

…Maybe it’s not worth the trouble, he thinks, numbly. But the hollow, shattered defeatism that comes with the thought is so unfamiliar that it makes him grit his teeth, and then reach slowly into the tepid water to pull the razor out. His stubble was patchy already, especially near his jawline, and any more delay would almost certainly warrant someone commenting on it - maybe Hagakure, who couldn’t seem to keep anything to himself, or Celeste, who would delight in pointing it out while masking it as polite concern - but, at the rate he was going, he was going to draw more attention with a bloodied face.

His fingers scrape the basin, searching at a glacial pace until the edge of his thumbnail taps against the handle. He draws it out gingerly, shakes off the stray droplets, then wipes the blade with a silk cloth. Drying it carefully, meticulously - as Pennyworth had taught him, ‘it’s as good as useless if it rusts’ - before folding it and replacing it in the cupboard behind his mirror. He dries his face with the towel hanging around his neck, ignoring the way the Turkish cotton scraped against raw skin.

I could always just try again later, he reasoned with himself. Not so much as a surrender as it was a tactical retreat; and the results were bound to be better when he was calmer, more composed. He could still do it - he just needed some time.

And as for anyone who might notice it…

…Well. It wasn’t like he was spending much time around anyone else these days anyways.

—

Even if he wasn’t trying to seek out anyone else’s company, he couldn’t help but take note of their own routines, how they settled into their lives after feeling the world shake around them. 

It doesn’t surprise him that Celeste and Yamada have continued on as if nothing had happened at all. Celeste still maintains her airy simulacrum of a mysterious princess, occasionally inviting Byakuya to tea or dinner or a game of Othello, which he declines each time. Yamada, when he wasn’t offering himself up to be bullied and ordered around by her, would be in the newly-opened art room, and Byakuya could occasionally pass by to hear sounds of shuffling paper and the scrape of pens, and the harrowed, heavy breathing of a man possessed.

Ogami and Asahina are similar, returning to their athletic routine, though clearly more affected by the deaths of their classmates. They were attached at the hip before, but now Byakuya never saw one without the other, always in each other’s company, often holding hands - if Ishimaru were here, he might have decried it, ‘No PDA in the hallways!’ in that annoyingly shrill, school-bell voice - once, Byakuya had even overheard the two of them occupying the bathhouse together, when he had passed by with the intention of checking on Alter Ego’s laptop.

(He’d left quickly when he realized what they were doing, leaving the locker unchecked, his face hot and uncomfortable. It was all well and fine for them to cope how they pleased, but couldn’t they have some more decorum about occupying a public space? He was almost beginning to miss Ishimaru.)

…Speaking of Ishimaru. Even Mondo had found something to occupy his time with, these days.

It seemed that after that night with Alter Ego, something had shaken loose inside him, and he was an entirely new person. In some ways, he was even more troublesome than when he was depressed and languishing; loud, piercing, and always appearing when he was least expected, or at least it felt that way to Byakuya. Somehow materializing nearby, demanding to know what you were doing, why you weren’t adhering to some vague, obscure rule that he might’ve made up on the spot. An overgrown hall monitor that acted like every little infraction could mean life or death.

(It was all in the name of protecting the AI, but it was also getting on everyone’s nerves, and it almost made Byakuya regret ever involving himself in the biker’s business in the first place.)

Makoto and Kirigiri were doing whatever it was they were doing. Byakuya rarely saw them, and when he did, he never made any attempt to speak to either of them. It didn’t make much of a difference from his previous dynamic with Kirigiri, but with Makoto, it was almost like a repeat of what had happened just after the first trial. But this time, Makoto never made any attempt to approach him.

Which was perfectly fine by him. Regardless of Makoto’s intentions, his betrayal was unforgivable. There was no reason to associate with him any longer.

And lastly, there was Hagakure.

It’s not clear if the self-proclaimed clairvoyant had given up on Mondo, given the overnight change in personality (at the very least, there was no more need for a suicide watch anytime soon), but he seems to have latched on to Byakuya, for no clear reason. Frequently calling out to him whenever they crossed paths, dogging in his steps like a very determined stray. Chattering incessantly, even when Byakuya refused to deign any of his ridiculous stories with a response, often trying to herd him into the cafeteria so they could “lunch together, bond, maybe share a cup of joe? Even rich guys like joe, right?”

“...Did you mean ‘coffee’,” Byakuya replies in a flat, deadpan tone that was more resigned than irritated, during what must be the dozenth time that Hagakure had intercepted him, and maybe the third time he conceded to the other man’s insistence; if only because Hagakure had been particularly persistent recently, and would probably end up following him and broadcasting to Fukawa or Monokuma or anyone else exactly where Byakuya was seeking refuge, when not in his room.

(Not to mention that he was a little hungry himself, though he could only imagine the kind of common swill someone like Hagakure might consider coffee.)

“Hey man, to-MAY-toes, po-TAY-toes, right?” Hagakure just shrugs, and half-guides, half-pushes Byakuya by the shoulders into the cafeteria.

It’s midday. The place is empty, with even Celeste missing from her favored spot at her table. Hagakure shuffles him into the kitchen, tells him to wash his hands, and then-

-shoves two things at him. One, round, pale brown and still damp, with a slight papery texture beneath the moisture. The other, a piece of smooth, green plastic shaped like a ‘T’, with something silvery running parallel to the top. He skates his thumb lightly over it, and finds the edge of it sharp; a tiny blade.

“Whoa, careful! Don’t hurt yourself!” Hagakure tugs the tool back out of his hand, inspecting his fingers. “Like, come on. I even gave you the vegetable peeler, this is easy mode.”

“...What?”

Hagakure doesn’t explain right away, instead occupied with rolling up his sleeves, tying the brambled mass of his hair back with a strip of white. Arranged on the kitchen counter is a selection of tools, a colorful assortment of vegetables, and a hunk of something dark and pink, occupying the cutting board. There’s already a pot on the stove, and Byakuya watches Hagakure’s hand fiddle with some dark, invisible button across the top of the oven, and a telltale blue flame clicks to life. “We’re making gumbo! And you’re my assistant for the day.” He announces, with the same cadence of a cooking show host. He’s beaming, as if he hadn’t just said something utterly, completely insane.

“...What.”

It’s hard to make out, but he swears Hagakure rolls his eyes at him. Which would be infuriating enough to comment on, if he wasn’t also holding out the aforementioned vegetable peeler out, handle first, towards him. “Gumbo. It’s kinda like, curry I guess? But it’s a lot more soupy.” Apparently not put off by Byakuya’s unresponsiveness, he pushes the peeler into his slack hand. “I mean, I guess I’m not surprised you haven’t tried it. It’s not Japanese, or like…fancy, rich guy food.”

That snaps him out of it. “What,” He repeats, emphatically, with feeling. “Do you think you’re doing?”

“Um, like I said, making gumbo-”

“No, I mean-” Byakuya waves the objects in his hands, and feels only a little ridiculous in doing so. “I’m not- using these.”

Hagakure winces at that. “...No offense, Toga, but, uh…” He hesitates. “It’s…not exactly a good idea to give you a knife right now, you feel me?”

Byakuya can imagine his eyes tracing down his face, to the still-pink line on his jaw from this morning, and feels his face grow even warmer, with nothing to do with the open-flame stove not a meter away from him. “That. Is. Not. The. Point.” He hisses, emphasizing each word. “And - don’t call me that - you said we were here to get coffee.”

He spits these words like they’re poisonous, and Hagakure is still for a moment. He thinks that he’s managed to get his point across, but:

“Aww, Togster…you really did wanna get coffee with me?” Hagakure sounds genuinely touched, one hand pressed to his chest. Byakuya was about two seconds from throwing the stupid root vegetable in his hand against Hagakure’s equally stupid head. “We can have coffee after we make food. Besides, aren’t you sick of the meals we’ve been doing recently? Like I’m not a picky guy, but ramen and bread every day for the past few days is getting kinda…bleh, y’know?”

The worst part of this was that Byakuya agreed with him on that front. Even with his newfound habit of only eating when there was no one else around, or when Alter Ego threatened to stop reading for him until he took a meal, the selection was paltry to begin with and had only grown more unappealing with time.

“Your job is easy,” Hagakure continues, and grabs something hanging off the handle of a nearby oven, and drops it over his face, obscuring his vision for a moment. He jerks backwards in alarm as it settles to hang around his neck, only to realize that it’s an apron - a pale, mint-green thing that’s one size too small, with some still-visible stains splattered across it, and Hagakure had somehow gotten behind him and tied the thing in place already  - “You just gotta peel the potatoes, and I just gotta cut everything up. The roux’s already done, so all we gotta do is dump the ingredients in and let it do its thing.”

Byakuya is still reeling a little from being forced (though, there wasn’t much he could’ve done in protest, with both his hands occupied) into an apron. The things in his hands are so unfamiliar to him that they may as well be OOPart pieces in the making.

Besides him, Hagakure was whistling away, chopping meat with the silver blur of a large kitchen knife. Completely oblivious to anything around him; and Byakuya realized, he could leave right now if he wanted, and it wasn’t like the fortune-teller, of all people, could stop him.

He’s about to do just that when the other man looks up, knife stilling. “Something wrong?” He asks, with a tilt of his head. And before Byakuya could explain that, yes, there was something very wrong with this entire situation: “D’you need help?”

“No.” He says automatically, and immediately kicks himself for it.

“Oh, then-?”

“I don’t-” Byakuya says at the same time, and frowns sharply at the interruption. “I. Don’t do this sort of…thing.” It comes out a lot less assertive than he would like, and sounds a lot more pathetic than he means it to be.

“Oh. Well, yeah, I figured.” Hagakure shrugs, as he scoops up the mess of pink on the cutting board with the edge of his knife and drops it into a metal bowl. It lands with a loud, wet slap, and the bowl rings as it shakes against the counter. “No time to learn like the present though, right?”

Byakuya feels his eye twitch. In some ways, talking to Hagakure was more frustrating than negotiating with most white-collar businessmen, and more akin to arguing against a very enthusiastic wall. “I’m not supposed to do this kind of thing,” He tries again. “I’ve never had to prepare my own food in my life.”

It echoes what he told Makoto, that night he dragged Byakuya to the kitchen to prepare him a meal. But this time, it feels much less like a boast, and more like an admission. Like he couldn’t even do this much.

If Hagakure noticed the grimace passing over his face, he made no comment. Instead, he plucks the items out of Byakuya’s hands. “No time to learn like the present, my man.” He twirls the peeler between his fingers, and it spins, a foggy green circle. “It’s like a pattern, you pull the peeler down, turn it again, and repeat.” He demonstrates, hands moving quickly, with practiced ease. “Don’t worry if you miss anything. We don’t need it to be super clean, we just need most of the skin off.”

And he offers the peeler back to Byakuya, a gleam of white teeth on his face. Deceptively kind, poisonously pleasant. “Think you can handle that?”

Byakuya shoves his hand away, his patience thinning to a thread. “Take the hint,” He snaps, reaching behind himself to try and undo the knot. “I’m not doing this.”

“What? But it’s easy!”

“I don’t care,” He yanks at the ties, feels them come no closer to being loosened, and feels his face reddening with frustration, humiliation. He needs to leave, now. “I’m leaving.”

“Aw, Toga, come on-”

Byakuya reaches for the knife, left abandoned on the cutting board, and there’s a clatter as Hagakure backs himself against the ovens. “O-okay, okay, sure! Sure, jesus, okay!”

Byakuya rolls his eyes at the overreaction, already tuning him out, then starts awkwardly maneuvering the knife to try and cut the apron off. Arms twisting awkwardly to catch the bladed edge against the side of the knot. It’s not easy - he could swear, the blade seemed sharp enough when Hagakure was using it to dice meat, but now it slides clumsily against the twisted cotton, dull as a stone -

“Jesus,” Hagakure says again, but less panicked now that it was clear his life was under no immediate threat. “Okay, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“I am not-”

“You totally are, man. Just - don’t slash me, please, and hold still -”

Hagakure gives him a wide, cautious berth, as if still worried he would suddenly turn into some violent, knife-swinging killer, edging until he’s out of Byakuya’s peripheral and standing behind him. A slight tug around his midsection later, and the apron is flapping loosely against his stomach.

To show his thanks, Byakuya sets the knife down before he pulls off the apron, not so much as handing it over as simply dropping it in the other boy���s direction.

He makes to leave, but Hagakure stops him - or tries to, throwing one hand out while scrambling to catch the apron with the other - “Wait, wait,” He still sounds jovial, but there’s a thin edge of nervousness to it now, residual after the earlier scare. “Listen, you don’t hafta help if you don’t want to, but like…can you just hang out? Here?”

“...You want me to stay. In the kitchen.” Where it was overly warm with a pot of water building into a steady boil, heavy with the smell of various condiments and spices, and pervaded by a general stickiness on the tile. “Why?”

“U-um, well…”

Byakuya sighs. He’s wasted too much time already. The coffee he was promised earlier was looking like a lost cause, and frankly, he wasn’t interested in eating anything anymore either. It would feel too much like accepting undue pity, somehow.

Apparently sensing his impatience, Hagakure finally blurts out: “Because-! I’m, um, scared! To be alone! So…”

Byakuya only stares. Even with his hair tied back, the shape of Hagakure’s head is still a round, dark splotch, albeit smaller than usual. And it bobs up and down like a dandelion as he ducks his head, hands clasped in an exaggerated plea. “Please, man, I literally can’t ask anyone else,” He begs. “Mondo’s all psyched-out and freaky serious now, Hifumi and Celeste were weirdos to begin with, and I’m sick of third-wheeling for Hina-chi and Saka-chi! And there’s no way I’m hanging out with Toko!”

He doesn’t mention Makoto or Kirigiri. Which, Byakuya assumes, makes sense, so he doesn’t bother to ask about it. “How do I know you aren’t trying to kill me,” He says instead, deadpan. 

Hagakure snorts. “Have you seen me?” And then immediately winces. “I mean - shit, sorry - but seriously, I’m pissing my pants every time Monokuma shows up. And at every crime scene, and every trial. You really think I could get over myself to off someone?”

“None of Monokuma’s motives struck a chord with you?”

“Well - I’d be lying if the first one didn’t make me nervous,” He nods. “But I divined how my parents were doing a bunch of times, and they were always alright, so that didn’t worry me too much. And the thing about secrets; well, mine is that I’m actually on the run from this yakuza boss I accidentally pissed off. I owe him a debt of eight million yen.”

Byakuya is certain he doesn’t miss the way Hagakure glances at him then, based on the way his ponytail twitches as his head turns imperceptibly. He decides to ignore the obvious bait, and moves on: “Fine, then. Then what’s your reasoning that I won’t try to kill you?”

“Oh.” Hagakure pauses. “...I didn’t, uh…think about that.”

Right. Byakuya can’t find it in him to be surprised about that either, though some bruised-up part of his pride does rail against the implication that he wasn’t dangerous. Like being blind meant he was harmless, helpless, defanged - he struggles against the implication, but only sickens himself more with the truth of it.

“I mean…do you want to kill me?”

Byakuya snorts. “I want to leave,” He leans back against the counter, feeling the hard, smooth edge of the marble dig against his back. “Obviously, I’m not crazy enough to spend the rest of my life here, waiting to kill or be killed.” He pauses. “And…I’ve been looking into possible causes for my…circumstance, and it’s looking more and more like it would require the work of a trained doctor, using specific equipment to resolve. Which this place,” He gestures around him. “Isn’t exactly equipped to handle.”

The other boy scratches his head. “Um, yeah. I mean I know that much. We all wanna get out and all, but like…do you want to kill someone to make that happen?”

Not in the slightest. He probably held responsibility for the deaths of multiple people at this point, but he had never had to kill them himself, nor witness the moment of their end. Dirtying his hands with someone else’s blood never appealed to him, and it was far more sophisticated to orchestrate someone else handling the messy work.

But his answer must show on his face, because Hagakure nods, satisfied. “Well, there you go! Also, I ran a divination on whether one of us would die today, and it’s not in the cards or the stars or divine intention, so we’re good!” He claps his hands. “Anyways. If you don’t wanna help, that’s all totally cool. All you gotta do is stick around.”

“You can’t be serious.” He scoffs. But he was getting sick of the earlier conversation - sick of talking about himself, sick of thinking about himself - so he stays where he is, crossing his arms as Hagakure busies himself with the ingredients. “How do your divinations even work, anyways?”

“What, you interested?” Hagakure flashes another white smile, and even through the haze Byakuya gets the impression that it’s a salesman grin. He could practically hear the cartoonish chime of a register. “My current going rate’s ten-million yen a reading, but for you I’ll throw in a buddy’s discount of twenty-percent!”

Byakuya gives him the most unimpressed look he can manage. “I’m not interested in wasting money on frivolities.”

“It’s not frivol-anything, man. They’re a hundred-percent legit! …Thirty-three-percent of the time,” He amends, sheepishly, at Byakuya’s withering stare. “But when they’re real, they’re real! With a hundred-percent accuracy!”

As he talks, his hands blur, moving with practiced ease. The small pile of potatoes changing from brown to pale yellow, to small, misshapen chunks, the green stalks of celery disintegrating under a knife, sharp-smelling and darkening the wood beneath it with its moisture. There’s a steady, fluid grace to it, and Byakuya watches on, feeling a sense of deja vu - faintly envious, partly entranced - the last he felt this way, he recalls, was being a child and watching his mother work in her studio, hewing faces out of stone.

He hasn’t thought about that memory in years, and he clicks his tongue sharply, irritated. Hagakure jumps at the sound. “M-maybe it’s more like a ninety-eight percent accuracy?” The fortune-teller tries, hurriedly. “Uh, it depends on how clearly I can convey it, I mean. Like how good the client is with understanding me…dialect differences and all that, though my English is pretty solid-”

“Why fortune-telling, anyways?” He cuts off Hagakure’s rambling. “I can’t imagine it’s an inherited position. You don’t seem the type to be taking up someone else’s legacy.”

“Oh! Well…” He turns to the pot, scrapes a bowl of brown slurry into its bubbling contents. “It was my dad who got me into it - not that he was a fortune teller or anything - but he knew stories about fortune tellers and priestesses and stuff, from where he grew up. It was pretty interesting, and I guess that’s what got me started.” He stirs, sniffs, tosses a handful of green shapes into the mix. “He actually bought me my first crystal ball, though it was just a cheap souvenir thing. I couldn’t’ve been older than, like, six or something.” He laughs. “Wow, I haven’t thought about this stuff in forever.”

“Am I dredging up bad memories?” Byakuya drawls, and Hagakure shakes his head.

“Nah, just old ones. But I got super into it; started begging my Ma to read me divination textbooks for bedtime, she thought I was going crazy. Dad just said it was normal for little kids to be a little crazy about something they like, though.” He shrugs. Another sniff, a sprinkle of red seasoning. “He was the first person I did an accurate divination for, actually. Like a real divination, not just for pretend.”

He goes quiet for a moment, wooden spoon scraping against the inside of the pot. Byakuya frowns. “And what did you ‘see’?” He asks, though only about half as sarcastic as he intended.

“Saw him in the hospital. And then leaving.” He replies simply. He turns, and scoops up the chopped ingredients in his hands, tossing them in with a hiss. “It was clear as day in that little glass ball, like I was watching a TV screen, except also kinda…I don’t know, wiggly? Like a dream. But I got shook up so bad I dropped it and broke the damn thing, and the next day my Dad went to the doctor for a check-up, and they shipped him to the hospital right after. Some genetic, hereditary thing, they wouldn’t even tell me what it was. I think Ma thought it’d freak me out if I knew, but I was just more freaked out not knowing.”

He reaches blindly behind him, searching hand patting at the counter, the cutting board. Byakuya hesitates, then grabs the bowl of chopped meat and passes it over. Its contents splash into the pot. “Thanks. Anyways, the weirdest thing was that I wasn’t, like, scared he was gonna die, or anything. For some reason I knew he was gonna make it, but I was more worried that he was gonna…hurt? Get even worse?” He pauses. “I kept on doing divinations afterwards with a tarot card set, just to see how he was doing, and each time it told me he was gonna be fine.”

His voice sounds a little thick, indistinct. Byakuya was beginning to regret bringing up this topic; he would hate it if he was suddenly expected to have to comfort a grown man. But instead of bursting into tears, Hagakure leans to the side, tucks his face into his elbow, and sneezes, gunshot loud. “Phew! Jeez, the paprika.” He sniffs, and Byakuya’s unease turns back into a comfortable sort of annoyance. “Anyways. Where was I…?”

“...Your father.” He hesitates for a moment. “When he passed away.”

“When he-?” Hagakure turns fully away from the pot to stare at him, mouth open, before breaking into a laugh. Doubling over so and wheezing like he just got punched. “Dude! No way, are you- did you really think that?!”

“What? Am I wrong?” Byakuya feels his face heating red again, with nothing to do with the steam. “Shut up. The way you were talking about it, you were acting like he kicked the bucket,” He snaps, and Hagakure stifles another laugh. “It’s the logical progression of things. You saw him get sick and die, and then-”

“No, no, dude, I said I saw him in the hospital, and then leave - oh, yeah, I guess I can see how you’d think that now.” He stands up straight again, swiping a hand across his face. “Oh man. No, I meant ‘leave’ as in literally leaving, like at an airport? He got better and swung back around, but got a job offer overseas right after, so he never really came back to settle permanently in Japan.” He turns back to the pot, turning the heat down low. “He sends postcards for me all the time, and he and Ma vacation together every year around the holidays.”

So that was it. Byakuya feels an irrational surge of exasperation, as if all his previous pity had just been wasted. “What does he even do? Your father?”

“He teaches quantum mechanics.” At Byakuya’s stunned expression, he snorts. “What, I’m not kidding! He test-runs all his lectures and speeches and stuff to me, and now I know way more about that stuff than I think most people ever need to!”

‘Prove it’ is on the tip of Byakuya’s tongue, but he holds back. He probably would never recover if Hagakure did somehow manage it and make him look like a fool. Hagakure stirs the pot in silence for a moment longer, before asking: “What about you?”

“What?”

“Your parents.” A shot of cold immediately runs down his spine. “Like, I know your dad’s a big rich unmarried bachelor hotshot, but what about your mom? Ah- ” Hagakure presses hand to his mouth. “She…is she, like…?”

“She’s not dead, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.” He replies, stiffly. “We’re estranged.”

“O-oh. Um. I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine.” He pauses, looks down at the tile floor. It was a mutual disavowment, around the time he made the decision to try for Togami heir. She was relieved to be rid of him, he was sure, and he was glad to be out of her house full of stone statues and hollow eyes. “I haven’t been in contact with her for several years. We’re as good as strangers.”

He really should just leave it at that. There’s no reason to elaborate any further, nor does he want to; he glares down at his feet, trying to count the tiles, and watches as the dark lines dividing them squiggle and disappear the moment he loses focus. And finds his mouth moving against his will. “My mother is Genevieve Delasol.”

“Cool.” A pause. “Wait, what!?”

Byakuya scowls and looks away as Hagakure turns back to him. “Like, the Delasol?! World-famous artist lady? With the sculptures? Miss Modern Michelangelo?!”

“Don’t call her that.” She had always hated that stupid nickname that the press forced on her, and so did he, though not for her benefit. It was a tasteless, and frankly disrespectful moniker. “But yes. Her.”

“Dude…” There’s awe in his voice, as if it were something impressive. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s not. She birthed me like any other human.”

“Still! Like, they talked about her in my elementary school art class. Her stuff is so-” He splays his fingers near his head, puffs his cheeks to mimic the sound of an explosion. “Like, I remember seeing pictures of her stuff for the first time, and it freaked me out. One of the older kids in the neighborhood told me she was freezing people into rock, that’s how real her stuff looks.”

“She’s a good artist, but she was an awful mother.” Byakuya says flatly, immediately draining the rest of Hagakure’s enthusiasm. “We’re not continuing his conversation.”

“Right, right. Um. Sorry.” He taps his fingers against the spoon, ladles some of it into a little dish to taste. “Okay, um. Could you pass me some dishes? From that cabinet in front of you - to the left - yeah, thanks.”

The concoction he scoops into the shallow dishes Byakuya hands him is…unappealing. At least visually - a muddy brown sludge that glops thickly off of his ladle - but it smells good, spicy and warm. One of the bowls is passed back, and there’s a conflict of sensation as Byakuya tries to decide if he’s hungry enough to risk it, something that he couldn’t even clearly oversee the process of making.

“You’re surprisingly well-versed in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, well. I get into hot water a lot when my fortunes don’t work out, especially with my, uh…higher class clients, so I had to get used to taking care of myself. Didn’t wanna bother my parents with it, ya know?” He flicks off the stove, covers the pot, and reaches to the right for the rice cooker. Opens it with a sharp smack to the lid. “Like, I don’t think I’ve seen my dad face-to-face in…it feels like two years. Maybe longer.”

He holds out his hand. Byakuya passes over his bowl, and he plops some rice into the center of it, before handing it back.

“I can’t finish this much.”

“Sure you can, you’re a growing guy.” There’s the roll of a drawer being pulled open, then a clatter before a spoon is being dropped into his bowl as well. “You better eat all of it, by the way. Every grain of rice has seven gods, so you gotta eat them all so you don’t get cursed.”

“...What kind of saying is that?”

“Dunno, but my Ma used to say it all the time. Come on, let’s go into the caf-”

He halts suddenly, halfway to the door. Byakuya nearly runs into his back, and just barely keeps from spilling his bowl. “What-”

“Um. Hold on.” The previous casualness of his voice is gone, and there’s a hard thread of unease running through it again. “Uh…wait out here for a moment, okay?”

“Why-”

“Dude, please. Just for a moment.” He sets his bowl down on the counter. “I’ll be right back.”

And then he’s out the door before Byakuya can make any protest, leaving him alone in the kitchen, now uncomfortably quiet without the soft hiss of the stove. He stands there, stunned, feeling a little bit stung - no, irked - at the sudden dismissal.

He wasn’t about to take orders from Hagakure, regardless of whatever weird pseudo-symbiotic-relationship the other boy thought they had going on. He walks towards the door, moving to elbow it open-

“I’m telling you, just leave him alone.”

He freezes, ducking his head down. Hagakure’s voice is high and scratchy with nervousness, but firm despite that. “For the last time-”

“I-I-I-” Someone else stutters. The voice is familiar, and Byakuya feels his gut drop in recognition. The last he heard it, it was seething with malice, spit like venom at his feet. “I j-just wanna l-look at him…”

Hagakure lets out a long-suffering sigh, indicating that this wasn’t the first time he’s had to deal with this. “Seven hells, Toko, I really don’t get you,” He grumbles. “You said you hated him, right? I mean, you said so at the trial, and you did…all that.” He coughs. “He wasn’t interested to begin with, and there’s really no way to turn it around after that.”

“I-It was t-to prove that we’re th-the same!” Fukawa shrieks, trigger-sudden and indignant. There’s a sharp thump as she stomps her foot, hard enough to rattle some nearby furniture. “If I d-didn’t do that, he w-would’ve never a-accepted what h-happened to him!”

Byakuya frowns at that, and sets the bowl aside in favor of sinking into a half-crouch, ear pressing up against the door, beneath the tiny window. What was she talking about? Not accepting my own condition? Don’t I know myself better than anyone else?

“That’s not up to you to decide,” Hagakure starts.

“I-It’s not up t-to you to p-protect him either!” She spits back. “Y-you’ve been keeping him a-away from me recently, wh-what’s with you? D-did you have some k-kind of awakening, or something?!”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that my type is none of your business - and anyways, ain’t it logical to wanna keep away from you?” He grumbles, then yelps. “C-calm down-! I just mean - you know, you…you don’t exactly give off warm and fuzzy feelings about hanging out with people!”

Toko barks a laugh, shrill and mirthless. “Wh-which makes him perfect for me,” And Byakuya feels disgust roll down his back. “I-I know I’m m-miserable, a-and unfriendly and unloveable,”

“Hey,” Hagakure says, a little more gently than before.

“B-but s-so is he! H-he’s just b-better at hiding it, p-pretending to be a, a perfect, white-horse prince,” She spits the words vehemently. “I-if he was p-perfect, th-then maybe, I c-could just be s-satisfied with - with being n-near him, with b-being used…”

She trails off. Byakuya fights the urge to physically cringe at the mere suggestion, instead gritting his teeth, nails scratching lightly against the door’s tacky surface. “B-but, he’s not perfect. S-so, that means I c-can reach him - i-it’s possible for someone l-like m-me to actually be with him,” She giggles, and the sound is far too childishly delighted to suit her mouth, and far too chilling to have innocent intentions behind it. “I-I dragged him off his p-pedestal, s-so now I can actually touch him.”

It’s vile, listening to her. The sound feels like a filth that clings to him, sliding into his ears, contaminating him from the inside out. Poisoning him, paralyzing him.

He’s only vaguely aware of his body sliding down lower, unable to maintain the awkward pose, curled over and unable to brace himself properly against the swinging door. He sinks into a squat, ears straining.

“...Um, ew.” Hagakure mutters succinctly. “Okay, first of all, no you can’t. Pretty sure Monokuma would have some problems about that, he’s all gung-ho about decency and stuff. Second, Toga’s still not gonna be into you. You blew that chance when you, uh…”

“When I w-what? S-strung up Chihiro?” She snorts. “H-he would’ve done the s-same if h-he was a-actually as perfect as h-he said.”

The contamination sinks deeper, claws curling cruelly into his chest. I would have never, He thinks through the tinny, lightheaded hum in his skull, but there’s a sickening sense of dread that twists in his stomach as he realizes he can’t even be sure of that. He might have. He would’ve had no use for Chihiro if he wasn’t blind, he would have barely even hesitated if the opportunity was there - to defile someone else’s corpse for nothing more than his own self-righteousness.

He’s probably had this realization already, but it’s revolting to hear it come from Fukawa. He should go out there, tell her to shut up, to leave him be-

“-a-and anyways, y-you still didn’t t-tell me why y-you’re so obsessed with p-protecting him.” She’s still saying, distantly, and it feels as if the door is suddenly several times thicker than it was previously, muffling the sound dramatically. “Y-you don’t have a-anything in c-common, I don’t s-see why you’d want t-to be near him, u-unless…y-you’re doing it for someone else, aren’t y-you?”

Hagakure doesn’t respond. Makes no sound to confirm or deny it. Byakuya waits, ringing intensifying, disease festering into his lungs. It was getting hard to breathe. His pulse thrums in his ears, too loud to think, not nearly loud enough to drown their voices out.

“I s-saw you with Makoto,” She continues, and the confirmation of Byakuya’s suspicion does nothing to make him feel better. “He- he asked you t-to do this, right? To protect him, h-how nice,” She snarls, disgusted. “L-looking out for his p-precious boyfriend, when he won’t d-do it himself-”

“That’s…that’s not it,” Hagakure protests, but he doesn’t sound convincing, voice so hesitant and soft that Byakuya barely catches it. “Mako-chi’s just…busy, right now-”

“Y-yeah, too busy trying to g-get out of here so Byakuya c-can get fixed, so he can s-stop f-feeling guilty - h-he doesn’t want to have to look at him, b-but he can’t help s-sticking his nose in anyways, he’s s-so sweet it makes me sick.” Byakuya legs shake, cramping, but he forces himself still, keeps his ear flattened to the door despite the nausea building in his gut, the light-headedness in his temples - “B-but it’s too much work t-to comfort him or drag him a-around, s-so he has to get s-someone to do it, right?”

He wouldn’t, is Byakuya’s immediate thought, but it’s weak, even in his own head. Makoto hasn’t sought him out all since that night in the bathhouse because Byakuya had requested it; had demanded that he leave him alone with as much vitriol and firmness as he could muster, and as with so many other things, Makoto had obeyed. But while Fukawa’s words are acerbic and biting, they’re also painfully, terribly logical.

He wonders now, how he must have looked to the others. Slowly falling apart, barely eating, rarely showing his face. So utterly different from how he tried to portray himself at first, an ill-fitted facsimile of how he used to be, how he should be; it’s no wonder Makoto would go behind his back to take care of him. Between disobeying him again and trying to keep him alive, the choice must have been easy.

The fact that that choice had to be made at all, however, made Byakuya want to…

There’s a thud as his legs finally give out, his knees smashing against the tile, but he hardly notices. Not while the sickness spreads, a physical decay in his torso eating away at him, swift and insatiable. He’s not hungry anymore, but he feels emptier than he’s ever been. 

The door swings open suddenly, bumping against his shoulder, and he sways, unsteady. Hands reach out, catching him before he can fall over.

“Whoa, hey,” Hagakure sounds muffled, underwater. He hooks his hands beneath Byakuya’s arms, trying to pull him upright, and only then does Byakuya realize that he’s not really breathing. Probably hasn’t been for the past few minutes. “Toga- I mean- you okay?” 

Of course not, he wants to snap, but talking would mean opening his mouth, and that would mean breaking down into tears like a petulant infant, so he clamps his mouth shut and tries to get as much oxygen as he can through his nose. Slow, stuttered, wheezing breaths, teeth sinking into raw, just-healing skin and breaking it bloody all over again. He leans away from Hagakure’s grip as much as possible and tries to brace himself against the wall, shaky hands against the cool bumps of the tile. Trying to count them, one by one.

“I,” He manages to grit out when he was marginally more calm, ignoring Hagakure’s worried clucking. His voice quavers, and he swallows hard around the shrapnel lodged in his throat. “I’m going to go.”

“Dude, come on-”

He lurches forward, clumsily dodging Hagakure’s attempts to support him, and walks as steadily as he can out of the kitchen. The moment he crosses the open space of the cafeteria and into the hallway, he breaks into a sprint for his room. As far away from prying eyes as he can manage.

__

(When he opens his door later that night, he finds a plastic container and a spoon sitting by the threshold, its contents long cold.)

(He eats it anyways and scrapes it clean, and leaves it sitting empty outside of his door again.)

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