#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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[gardensofthemoon]

for the ask game... 4 (where it hurts) + chengxian ✨✨🫶🏻🙏🏼

4 - where it hurts. prompt list here

Wei Wuxian brushes his fingers through Jiang Cheng’s hair. Shijie had painstakingly washed away the blood and grime—the basin water turned a foul shade of rust—matting his hair, then combed the knots until the strands were soft like spun silk, crying quietly as Jiang Cheng teetered on the line between life and death.

“Jiang Cheng,” he whispers in Jiang Cheng’s hair. “Wake up. I can’t stand to see you waste away.”Gathers him closer, nestles Jiang Cheng’s head in the crook of his neck. He’s wan, weak. Breakable.

Since Wen Ning brought him back, Jiang Cheng has been barely awake or deep in slumber, while Wei Wuxian despairs. The deep-rooted fear that Jiang Cheng will not open his eyes again, that Jiang Cheng will die and leave Wei Wuxian all alone, again, strangles the breath out of him.

“Stop smothering me.” Jiang Cheng’s voice rattles through his teeth, hoarse with disuse. “I can’t breathe.”

“Ah, Jiang Cheng!” He smiles, but it must be a trembling thing. His heartbeat is thudding in his chest, pumping with relief. Finally. “A-Cheng, I’m here, I’m here.”

Jiang Cheng coughs. Dark shadows spread under his eyes, and the elegant angles of his face have become sharp, hollowing out his cheeks, pulling on his skin.

“What good is it that you’re here.” Jiang Cheng doesn’t meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t have saved me. Look at me, a pitiful wreck. How can I avenge my parents now?”

His lashes are wet, caught in clumps. Jiang Cheng shifts and pushes Wei Wuxian away with a pained groan, falling back onto the pillows propped on the headboard. The movement jostles his inner robe open, and Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops at the deep red gashes cutting across Jiang Cheng’s chest, still tender from the whip.

He’s been whipped, Wen Ning had said. Jiang Cheng has been whipped. His chest is a field of wounds that can never heal.

Wei Wuxian looks down. A strange shiver prickles through his chest, fever-hot and tooth-sharp, and he thinks he might cry. His heart feels ripe, like it’s going to grow out of his body, splitting his ribcage.

He loves Jiang Cheng so much.

He crouches on the edge of the bed. “I’ll help you with these,” he says, and presses a chaste kiss on Jiang Cheng’s wrist. Feels his pulse speeding up.

For a moment, he cannot breathe. His mouth rests on Jiang Cheng’s hand, a makeshift anchor.

“It hurts.” Jiang Cheng’s voice is barely a whisper. It slices through Wei Wuxian’s heart like a well-oiled blade.

Without a word, he leans in and kisses Jiang Cheng’s chest, kisses the unbroken skin above his heart, minding the tender flesh. Wei Wuxian’s devotion, laid bare. Jiang Cheng has to know he’d do anything for him. A few teardrops fall down his cheeks; he hides his face away, peppering Jiang Cheng’s skin with light kisses. “You’ll be alright. This shixiong will take care of you.”

[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?

[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.”

[rainworldhourly]

[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

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

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.)

< previous - from start - next >

[furba]

Here he is, the Crust Boy.. handling him was awful, slightly sticky and greasy inside and out.

Below the cut and in a reblog or two will be progress shots of his cleaning, and once his fur is dry and brushed out, I'll drop a proper before and after in the thread ✨✨

Furby gore incoming:

Might be hard to tell from these photos but the shell was very grimey. The seams of his skin have some sort of rust or caked grease that I couldn't get out.

The water from the first wash in the basin was BROWN.

[pursuitseternal]

“Relenting:” a romantic💞 update to ETL Astarion x Tav (OC) in “Our Blood is Thicker:”

Astarion x F! (OC) | E | 4.7K of angst and kisses

Summary: At the end of another long day, Cordehlia seeks a moment of isolation, only to have the source of her agony ask her for a bite. Same old pains resurface, same old ambition for power in his crimson eyes. Only trouble is, after a falling out, he hasn’t returned…. And there are more monsters in this forest than a charming Vampire Spawn…

CW: angst, self-loathing, fight, flashbacks, anxiety, some mildly graphic violence against werewolves, “first” kiss, post battle make out, cockblocking companions…

Previous Chapter | AO3 link | AstarionMasterlist

Chapter 4: “Relenting”

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

Hag destroyed. Tiefling allies made. A few goblins killed… more supplies for the camp, more loot for everyone’s pockets. Cordehlia turned the day over in her mind as they threw together a ragtag place to rest. Most of her companions were too tired to pitch a tent, settling for a bedroll under the stars of the Grove.

But not him. Oh no, he took every tedious care to set his abode just as he liked it. Just as he saw fit. Cordehlia shook her head, amused and irritated in equal measure. Her companions consulted one another around the fire, their plans for infiltrating the Goblin camp tomorrow… finding the Archdruid that was demanded. It would be another grueling day tomorrow.

Her elven sensibilities grated on her with how dirty she was, silently she grabbed a carafe of water and a rag, fishing out a bar of soap she had found among the Tieflings today. At last. Supplies and clean linens, a change of clothes in hand, she left without a word.

Night crept in as she did the same, stalking to the edge of camp so as not to draw attention. Eager to wash the grime and blood from her skin.

She hurried, not wanting to get caught again by prying eyes. She laughed at the memory.

If only he knew… if only he remembered the eery and striking resemblance to what set them on their path to engagement. Being caught lusting after her… all those years of fondness and flirtation as youth suddenly solidified as the truth of his feelings came forward. Prominently. No denying it after being caught with his hand down his pants, that veil of dramatic pretense finally slipping away.

Sighing, she scrubbed her skin, letting the light clean scent of the soap reground her. It was enough for now. She smiled just a bit, assured and proud of herself that he still wanted her. For all the centuries of torment they both endured, she still made him… long. Long for her.

And long and hard.

She giggled to herself. But the sight of her dirty, rust-colored skin, stained with the results of her violence sobered her.

She was not that innocent She-elf. Nor was he that confident, devious, charming Elf lordling that set his sights on her.

He couldn’t even remember her.

She could barely remember herself anymore.

Washing in silence, the weight of her suffering grew with every swipe of the clean cloth over her skin. It should be making her feel free. Cleansed. But instead, she only watched as the once pure water ran stained as it touched her.

Corrupted.

Ruined.

Vicious.

She hastily threw on the clean tunic and breeches, and even with all the torment she struggled to fight back down inside her, it did feel good to be clean.

In her body if not her soul.

Footsteps approached. And she hurriedly grabbed her soiled clothes, dumping out the basin and wringing out the wash cloth.

“There you are…” that silken voice purred from the edge of camp. Astarion ran his eyes over her, the scent of soap and cleanliness hitting him strong. “Feeling better are we?” His smirk turned the corner of his mouth, that ravenous glint in his eyes as he pulled out another little bottle of ruby potion for her. “I thought you might give me a hand…” he drew near, “or a wrist, or a neck…” then he whispered right into the curves of her pointed ear. “Or a thigh, if your blood is running hot like mine.”

“Is this your ask every fucking night?” she snapped.

His eyes went wide. Mouth tweaking just a hint in surprise at her instant rage.

Good.

“Your blood might be hot, but not as I was hoping,” he couldn’t help the tease. But as he watched her face only growing redder, he softened. “Sorry, I… you’re not feeling better. Ahem…” He cleared his throat nervously. “I can just…”

She gave a feral growl, tugging up the sleeve of her shirt, balling her hand into a fist and shoving it in his face. “Here, be quick. Tomorrow will be grueling. Bloody. Another list of victims to add to my count, I would imagine.”

“Victims?” he queried, his voice gentle, almost as gentle as the way he caught her rigid arm in his hands and set it back down at her side. “What is going on, Cordehlia?”

She said nothing, only hissing breath from her mouth as she looked at her feet.

“You were glorious today you know, righteous…” he purred at her, his hand slowly stroking the bared skin of her arm. “No one looks so delicious covered in blood. Well,” he taunted with a dark little laugh, “maybe except for me.”

Scoffing, she shook her head. “I wasn’t meant to be this…” swallowing, she tried to pull from his touch. But he held firm. “I wasn’t meant to be blood-spattered and reckless. Violent and sadder and wiser. You were. You always were impetuous and rash and devious.”

Her body went numb. Chilled except for the feeling of his hand on her skin and the raging heartache that tore through her chest. He just let her stay beside him, his hand around her arm a steady tether keeping her present.

“Well,” he cleared his voice, all that honey in his tones gone, nothing but softness and the gentle rasp of his low tones in his throat, “you’re not alone you know, that feeling of being made into something against your will.”

The devastation in his voice drew her attention, meeting those dark red eyes, usually so exacting and seductive now wide and worried.

“We can even compare notes if you like, which would be easier if I could remember more…”

She swallowed that burning lump in her throat.

“But, for what it’s worth, as another being thrown into the darkness and made to do horrid, unspeakable things against my will… I am glad I’m not alone.” Those full lips of his tweaked slightly into a smile. “Not anymore.”

Gods, her face was soft in the moonlight. Bathed and glowing, and strangely familiar. Was she looking at him with longing on purpose? Were her lips trembling to catch his attention, bidding him to stay them with his own?

Her eyes began to flutter, and every muscle in her arm in his grasp clenched in expectation.

Until she took a deep breath, shaking her long red hair. “I…” she withdrew. “I am not myself right now,” she mumbled. “I need food, rest… all this business with the tadpoles, finding the Goblins, rescuing the Druid… it’s a bit much.”

“It is,” Astarion smiled. Holding his place. Letting her sway on her toes, undecided if she should stay or leave. Undecided if she should kiss him, by the way those lips twitched and puckered.

She looked down where his hand hung, the one that had just held her gently, that cool chill of his touch… He had given her something so small, so insignificant. Swallowing, she realized it was only fair she returned the favor.

So, she held up her wrist. “I need you strong, so feed, my vampire,” she whispered. “And be quick.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he smiled, caressing his fingers along the pinpricked skin of her arm to press her to his mouth. He looked into her face, expecting her to shut her eyes tight, bracing for the piercing pain of his bite.

But those silver eyes just stared back. Her breath was quick, her eyes dark as they dilated to watch his mouth on her flesh. That ivory of her complexion grew flush, just a kiss of blush on the crest of her cheeks.

His hunger took hold, that scent of her skin so close, the pull of her blood so strong. He bit, sharply and quickly, letting his lips and tongue do the rest. Drinking her down, as all the while, she watched. Licking her own lips as her blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Forcing shaky breath after shaky breath from her lungs, hiding it from him with her silence.

She looked so… radiant, it made something inside his undead heart shift. And what was more, she had called him hers, her vampire…

He lifted his mouth, pressing the potion of healing into her palm. “Here, a little something for the effort from your grateful vampire,” he teased.

A weak smile twitched on her lips as she downed the bottle. “Little something for a massive effort. Each day seems to just be more. More cures that don’t work, more puzzles and people who need help… more mysteries and unanswered questions. These tadpoles aren’t going to remove themselves…”

“Well,” he stepped into her path. That wry look on his face. Calculating and cunning. It made her stomach sink, for she had seen it so often before. “I know you’re working hard to fix these little tadpoles of ours, but you have to admit… there is potential here.”

“Potential for what, exactly?” she cocked her chin. “Power? Influence? Control?”

“Well, yes, naturally.” He raised that brow, a flick of his wrist.

Cordehlia just shook her head. Some raging disbelief darkening her face and she hung her head low.

“Look, all I am saying is that we know there are many others under this influence, instead of removing them… what if… we found a way of controlling them… and those who possess them?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Her voice fell soft. Sharp and cold. “You would like it so much, you would choose it above everything.”

“Above you,” he snapped, “you mean?”

Oh that little spitfire, she squared her shoulders and parted her legs. Her eyes narrowed with all the resolve she mustered. “Forgive me if my memory is intact, that I remember the consequences of your obsession with making a name for yourself… or to find a way to influence others to your benefit…”

“That was it, wasn’t it? The thing you accuse me of for leaving you… not that I can remember,” he snapped, his teeth bright in the moonlight. “So eager to keep me with you always isn’t that right, darling?” he gave that low, rumbling chuckle. “What if controlling these tadpoles was the way for us to be together for eternity? We know so very little, perhaps they grant us powers beyond even our ability to rip into the minds of others…. Long life? Power? Wealth? A way for me to kill my old master?”

“What if it causes loss and despair and heartache and death?” She hissed in reply. “What if it hurts others more than you could ever fathom, even if you finally got your head out of your…”

“Tch,” he interrupted, his own temper beginning to flame. “I have the feeling we aren’t discussing the same thing….”

Cordehlia scoffed, trying to push past him, but he slid effortlessly into her path again. “Let me pass,” she hissed.

“Not until you admit it. You’re angry with me, and I have a feeling we aren’t discussing anything related to these tadpoles at all…”

“You want to know? You want to know?” she panted. Her face now red with rage.

She closed her eyes, drawing upon the tadpole’s power inside them both as their minds smashed together.

“It won’t take me long,” Astarion grinned from atop his horse. “First, a few months study, then a career in the Magistrate’s office. I’ll have a name, influence, wealth, I’ll have it all…” He grinned wider, reaching a hand down to the She-elf beneath him. Her red hair dancing in the breeze, her silver eyes brimming with love, and desire, and longing. It made his heart full and his groin ache. “We’ll have it all, my love.”

“You know, I would wed you if you had nothing more than your charming good looks and the clothes on your back,” she smirked, grabbing his hand. “Of course those would most likely quickly end in a pile on the ground…”

“Vixen,” he purred, leaning over to place his lips on her fingers. So soft and warm and familiar. “Only a little time until that may happen… a few months perhaps. A blink of the eye for our kind. And then, we will wed. And you,” he gave her that same rakish leer that made her stomach flutter and her thighs hot, “you, Cordehlia Ancunín will be the toast of Baldur’s Gate, my bride.”

“It does sound rather nice,” she gripped his hand, running her thumb across the back of his hands, knowing the way every muscle, every vein raised in his pale skin. “The name… and the fame.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

The scene grew hazy… blurred as if she kept him from seeing, from hearing every detail. Just the galloping of hooves and the sight of him riding into the woods.

Then it was only her… standing in the road. A different day, a different dress. Her body was wrapped tight in white furs. The snow crunched under her feet, shaded by the barren trees.

She looked up the road. Shivering as she clutched her fur cloak tighter. Her hands trembled, but she held tight to something… letters, a thick stack in her palm. She was waiting. Again. For anything. For him.

Until the wind tore down the path, ripping every paper from her frozen fingers faster than she could scream and cry and chase after them.

Gone.

She had nothing now. Only a cleft of loneliness in her heart. The chill of winter, the death of her hope. The shiver of her body, the warmth of her love dispersing forever.

He was gone.

She released him. Her eyes filled with hot tears, but she wouldn’t blink. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying over him again. Not again.

Not to his face.

Before he could even open his eyes, she ran up the path and into the camp.

He was gone. Again. Or still. It was time for the night watch, and still he was away. Cordehlia’s heart raced, but from worry or just raw hurt, she wasn’t certain.

The only thing that made her feel slightly less worried was that Karlach had watched him take his daggers into the forest… grumbling about going hunting. It wasn’t much, but it was at least a direction he was spotted and a purpose.

But even as the company sat around the fire, her stomach turned blackly sour. It felt familiar. Him leaving. Her waiting. The old thrum of anxiety and not knowing….

She shook it off for now. He was no Magistrate, no elfling, he wasn’t even young anymore. He was a Vampire. More deadly than the vast majority of things in the woods.

It made her mind wander, her mouth waiting to speak until there was a break in the conversation amongst them. She turned to look at the human, the newest member of their band. “You were raised in Baldur’s Gate, were you not, Wyll?”

“Indeed,” he flashed that gentlemanly grin at her. “Son of the Duke, no less, though I obviously was promised for a different path…” He meant all that he had become too, Blade of Frontiers, warlock bound in service. Monster hunter.

“Do you know of Cazador Szarr?”

The question hung in the air, and by the weight in her voice, everyone grew silent. Heavy. Each surmising at least the source of such a wondering.

Wyll cleared his throat, “Can’t say that I have. But I haven’t been in the city since I was a youth. Is he new?”

Her eyes grew sad as she turned back to look into the fire. “I doubt it,” she murmured.

“I have heard,” Gale’s gentle voice slid right in to fill the quiet. “Patriarch of the Szarr family, centuries old and steeped in nasty business, if the rumors are true…”

“They probably are, if I knew of them.” She breathed. Unable to look into those kind eyes.

“I’m not surprised, Wyll Ravenguard, that you have no notion of them in your own city. They lurk in the shadows, nefarious as they come. Why, it’s rumored that he’s centuries old, some gift of immortality…”

Silence from the She-elf made him continue, even as she gave no reaction.

“…they also suspect he’s at the center of abductions, murders, missing persons…”

Still silence.

“… the boldest call him Vampire, his victims, those missing…”

“There is a wisdom in being bold,” she finally breathed.

Wyll’s eyes went wide. For someone new, he was clearly observant. “Your vampire rogue… you don’t mean…”

“It would be easier to confirm if he were here,” she snapped, raising her head to gaze into the shadows beyond their camp.

Gale scooted through the grass, closer to speak just to Cordehlia. “You know, if Astarion is Cazador’s spawn, there is danger. A master that powerful won’t stop looking for something that is his… And from what I’ve read, true vampires have such powers… turning to mist, flying, calling legions of were…”

A sharp howl pierced the quiet of the woods.

“…wolves…” Gale finished his thought as he leapt to his feet.

Cordehlia jumped, racing in the direction of the sound, managing to grab her blade and dagger as she sprinted.

Her heart pounded, every instinct in her elven body hummed to life, her quick feet and perfect balance launching her through the dark woods. Her battle intuition was on fire, following the scent of blood in the air, hoping it was from Astairon’s kill and not the Pale Elf himself.

Whatever it is, it was just ahead now. The ringing of a blade against… something denser than metal. The growling of many voices. And the grunt of one rogue, fighting for his life by the sound of it. Cordehlia drew her weapons, breaking into the clearing. No thoughts, just pure bloodlust and rage clouding her vision in crimson. Her blade tasted flesh, burying into matted grey fur. The beast howled, a death rattle as it fell to the forest floor.

All eyes turned on the now bloodied warrior, three more werewolves salivating with their glowing yellow eyes. But it was the look of pure, sheer relief on Astarion’s face that made her whole body spark and thrill.

He was alive.

And he was smiling. Feral, wild, relieved.

Cordehlia leapt over the carcass, facing the beasts, her vampire rogue at the ready at her side.

They moved as one, fluid and smooth and elegant, even as the creatures fell and spurted their streams of blood with each slice and stab the elves made. They were slow, lumbering and snapping, slashing their claws to try to block their shining blades.

But even three wolves were no match for their speed and stealth and deadly aim. With one last stab, Astarion buried his blade into the last werewolf’s neck, pulling it out to wipe it clean on the dark fur of its body.

Crodehlia stood, breath heaving, wiping her blade clean too on the nearest fallen monster.

She could feel the intensity of his stare on her back, but she wasn’t ready to face him. The question on her tongue burned too much. “Did Cazador send them for you?” she whispered, the silence of the woods falling back around them.

“Yes,” he gave that single reply. His throat bobbed up and down as he looked at her. His breath still ragged. Rough. Loud. “I thought that was it… I thought I would be taken… and then you…”

Silence. Just his breath whistling.

“Astarion,” she whispered his name with her own trembling voice.

He broke, descending on her, hands clutching around her head, pulling her lips against his. So rigid, as he kissed her, the moment their lips met, every part of her body softened. Melted. Molding into his. Relenting. Astarion couldn’t pull her close enough, and the way she tugged at him, hands pressed into his lower back, something just felt… right.

Familiar.

She was so tender… the taste of her kiss covering his tongue. And he ate it up, like one starved. Maybe he was. Maybe there was more he hungered for than blood. Than living blood.

Than her blood.

And she… that… vixen… met his hunger in equal measure. Stroke for stroke. Lick for lick. Her tongue dove between his lips. And those lips, he couldn’t get enough of their supple pucker between his own.

Gods, they had done this before. For all his mind had forgotten, his body remembered.

Remembered it well.

Her hands pressed him harder into her belly, and even without her blood in his veins, he could feel it. That fullness, that drive igniting in his goin at the way she drew herself along every inch of him.

Wanting him.

Her hands gripped into his shirt, brushing against his ass.

It was pure instinct; the override of his body, so natural and feral of a drive as his hands swept to her shirt. The collar was so flimsy, just a thin piece of fabric over her lithe, little body. It was so easy to grip and rip, the fabric giving way almost as willingly as she did. For the fearsome warrior she was, she put up no fight. Leaning in as his cold touch traced over her shoulder, caressing and adoring the swell of her breast in his palm. So easy, pressing her to retreat, her kiss keeping him bound to her, leading him until her back slammed again at a tree.

And then, she moaned. Nothing hidden or held at bay. The sound of her pure, wanton desire.

All her ferocity, her ice, her anger… gone. Relenting at last to reveal the fire inside her for him. Bright as her hair, brilliant as the lights in her eyes. Her own hands explored his body, more hesitantly.

Making him chuckle into her ravenous mouth. “Courage, my darling, you won’t hurt me. I won’t bite…” he laughed again, “unless you want…”

“Yes, Gods, yes,” she panted. The same intensity in battle now trained on him, fingers flying through the claps of his doublet, pushing it open from the curve of his shoulder.

Which he was more than willing to give her aid doing to let it tumble behind them. She breathed his name again, her voice shaking as her fingers finally explored beneath his shirt. The warm caress of her touch melting even the undead chill of his skin.

She clung to him with all the strength of her soul, desperate, fearful, relieved. The centuries of her waiting and longing finally giving way to him. Relenting to him, and the love she no longer could deny.

Somehow, he knew everything about her, with no memory to guide him. His fingers traced her cheek, that subtle rise hot to the touch as he stroked into her hair. A slight grip into the back of her head to angle her higher, making her mouth open all the more for him to plunder, a gasp that stole his breath as she moved so willingly at his command.

“You… remember…” she mouthed the words, her lips too busy to speak properly, not with the way his tongue tangled with hers.

But it was rent apart.

The crack of a branch, the crunch of leaves underfoot. It caught both their sensitive ears, making them freeze.

Hearts racing now for different reasons.

Cordehila tried to catch her breath, eyeing the pure carnage they had wreaked. “Foolish,” she chided herself, pushing him off her, finding her blades in the bloodied dirt. “That was foolish,” she hissed with wide eyes.

Astarion followed suit to find his own daggers, fighting hard to ignore the way her slightly torn blouse revealed the gapped swell of her breasts.

Gods, they looked divine. Milkwhite and full. He could still feel them in his hand.

It took all his effort to shake the lust from his head, tossing his silver curls as he tried to scan the distance for more danger.

They stood, ready, waiting, primed to kill again.

Until Gale burst into the clearing, Karlach right on his tail. “You’re alive!” she bellowed, pure joy in her breathless voice. “When you didn’t come back we thought you…” Her brows furrowed as she took into the sight of the fight. At the four dead and hairy bodies strewn about in the night. Silent as she turned her flaming head.

“Tried to come for you, he did?” Gale stating the obvious as the magical glow from his hands faded at the lack of a threat.

“I’m afraid there will be more where they came from,” Astarion sneered, that sarcastic humor lilting in his voice. “Cazador never kept pets before… other than us poor slaves, his spawn. These mindless servants are new… conjured to find me, to bring me back to…”

He shook and sputtered.

Cordehlia placed a hand on his arm. Even with them watching, in the sight of her band of fighters. Instantly, his body calmed. “We dispatched them before anyone could lay a claw on our Rogue.”

“So you can see, your little rescue was very… poorly timed…” Astarion grinned, sour and taunting as he resheathed his weapons.

He could feel the little shakes of Cordehlia’s silent laughter beside him. Gods, was that how close she was standing?

“Must have been a true battle, soldier,” Karlach's eyes went wide. “Your shirt is torn…” Then those glowing eyes rested on Astarion, equally disrobed and disarrayed. “Oh…”

She let the suspicion glance right off her, unshakable vixen she was. “It was nothing we couldn’t handle, but I am grateful for the reinforcements all the same,” she smiled back.

They all began walking back in haste to camp, Gale muttering about putting up protective wards tonight in case there were more in the woods. Hiding Astarion’s scent.

But it was that vampire rogue who insisted on following so closely on Cordehlia’s heels, she was the one who could smell him. “Grateful, are you? For the untimely help of that limp Wizard and the fire girl?”

“Grateful they care enough about us to come and help,” she replied, that same steady coldness in her voice. “You should be grateful too.”

“I’m sure you understand my reasons if I haven’t relented from irritation to find such gratitude yet…” he hissed, voice dripping with that seeping seduction. His hand catching hers where it swung freely at her side.

And she let him. Fingers interlocking for that moment. The warmth of her touch sending that now-familiar ache for more coursing through his body.

They walked that way to the edge of camp, their fingers lightly connected, their little secret behind their companions back, out of sight.

She only shook off his touch when they could finally spy the circle of light. Their campfire.

He glanced towards his tent, raising his brow at that humble little pallet in the cold. “You sure you want to sleep in the cold, darling?”

“What?” she taunted, folding her arms. “Would you rather I sleep with something cold?”

“Well,” he purred. His brows wriggled, raising and twisting in that voracious leer. “I do still get so chilled in the dark. Might be nice to cuddle up with something warm…”

“Goodnight,” she grinned, slyly and unrelentingly. “With Gale’s wards, you really should rest after that experience.”

“I’d rather… relive that experience…”

Her eyes flickered nervously, scanning around the camp. Her throat bobbed. Her face tweaking, as if her lips wanted his on them again.

Then she just gave him a warm smile, subtle. Inviting. “Goodnight, darling…” she purred back at him before crossing to her little bedroll.

“You know,” he called after her, keeping his distance as hard as it was. “After today, after how you leapt into the dark to … to help me, to find me, I hope you can see it is a strength for you to be so vicious, ruthless, and blood spattered. It’s what saved me…”

Her smile widened, her lips tweaking, definitely fighting the urge to kiss him now. Again. But she turned and departed for her bed. Alone.

Astarion could only shake his head and groan, a sigh of discontentment. But at least he knew he would maybe dream about the softness of her body than the glare of the wolves sent to hunt him down.

And for that, he was grateful.

[mochie85]

Wanderlust

Part 1 of the Wanderlust Series.

Wanderlust Masterlist | Complete Masterlist

Summary: You try to convince your best friend to go on a long road trip with you. Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader Word Count: 694 (a drabble, really) Warnings: Fluff. ALL fluff. A/N: This is for @the-slumberparty June Monthly Challenge: Summer Vibes. I picked a tent (can the VW Bus be considered a tent?) and the Road setting. I don't know if I should continue with the story. I mean, I have some ideas, but I don't think there's an actual plot...lol. Edit: It's decided...it's now a series...I hope y'all are happy!

The one thing you wanted to do before you started your new job was to visit the national parks in your state. You graduated with honors and had multiple job offers in the tech industry because of the algorithm you created for your senior project.

Tech careers were unpredictable and oftentimes fleeting. But you were confident that your innovative program would help kick-start your career and cement your position in the company that you chose for a long while.

That’s why you wanted to go out and travel. See nature! Just before you commit to a desk and computer for the rest of your foreseeable future.

“Do you know how big California is?” Bucky asked you agitated.

“Yes, I do,” you answered back with a cheeky grin.

“California has the greatest number of national parks!” he pointed at the map.

“Yes. Nine! And that doesn’t include the monuments and the trails and the memorials-”

“No!”

“Well, I’m not asking for your permission.”

“I still say, ‘no.’”

“I’ll go with or without you, Buck. I just thought you should know my plan.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is out there? Especially if you’re alone.”

“I can take care of myself. I did take that self-defense class for a couple of months,” you reasoned.

“Why can’t you go somewhere that has- Look, Nevada! Nevada has one national park. The Great Basin. And hey…we could even hit up Vegas while we’re there!” Bucky pointed at the map.

“Oh, ya cuz I would really be safe from creep-o’s in Vegas!” you rolled your eyes at your best friend.

“Ok. What about Hawaii? Hawaii has two national parks! And it’s HA-WA-II!”

“Do you know how much that plane ticket would cost? I haven’t started my job yet. Besides, who would watch Smokey while I was away?”

“You’re bringing the dog?!”

“Of course, I’m bringing the dog! Smokey goes where I go.” And as if he was called, your large greyhound came over licking your hand under the table. “We’re gonna have so much fun in our Bus-Bus, aren’t we, Smokey?!”

“And another thing?! How sure are you that the rusted piece of metal you call a car will actually take you around California? You’d probably break down before you get south of Oakland!”

“I had my mechanic look at it! Sid said it was in good shape! Plus I can call a tow if I need to.”

Bucky just looked at you defeated. He knew there was no convincing you out of this hair-brained plan of yours. You had always been a person to stick to your guns as soon as you planned it out. ‘No Regrets,’ you had always said.

No Regrets, Bucky repeated in his head trying to decide what to do. Nine parks! Nine! It would take you a month and a half to finish that round trip. And that’s only if you decided to stay at each park for a couple of nights, not the week you were planning.

“All right. All right. I’ll go with you.” Bucky relented, placing his head in his hands.

“I didn’t ask you to, Buck,” you chuckled, trying to hide the relief on your face.

“Bullshit! You knew I was going with you the moment you told me about it.” He called out your bluff. You shrieked and held your arms out to Bucky’s neck, embracing him in a tight hug.

 “You and I are gonna have so much fun! You’re not gonna regret this.”

“Ya, ya, ya.” Bucky relished in your warm embrace. You smelled like sun-kissed fruit on a lazy afternoon. You felt like a cool breeze that just wafted into his life unexpectedly and decided to stay. Erupting his life into chaos.

You pulled away looking into his deep blue eyes. He narrowed them as if he saw something in you that he had never seen before.

“Ok, we leave right after graduation! And you can’t take it back now Barnes. You’re in this with me till the end!” You smiled at him. Your cheeks were puffy and red, carrying a dimple that he wanted to caress.

“Lord, help me.” He whispered under his breath.

⬅️Wanderlust Masterlist | The Redwoods➡️

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[tetheredfailures]

okay i might have got a lil side tracked with rotted moon (dw i'll get to her) BUT. hear me out. reclaiming entropy (the rainworld mod) rusted basin and how her entire ai chamber is just. collapsed. a concept design for if she WAS in there and not missing :] (base iterator model by @/Teevz on twitter)