#wails into my hands why is life so cruel

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

[forever-and-whats-left]

I saw someone make a headcannon post, so why not?

Erik:

• he knows pressure points, human weaknesses, etc. basically my excuse to say Erik would know how to disarm Meg in LND because what was that.

• good at everything to an infuriating level. (Everything psychological not so much)

• has an arsenal of dad jokes he uses in increasingly insensitive ways.

• has some weird thing about size. Type of guy to call you “small” as a flirtatious move…

• easily hurt, both physically and emotionally, but refuses to take a break or admit it. Unless Christine is concerned, then he’ll do nothing but wail about it for attention.

• his hands are both cold and smelly, take that translation truthers!

• if he were an ordinary man, he’d still be a complete snob.

• when he’s going crazy he vents his emotions out on a Carlotta-esque toad puppet. There is a tiny wooden stick he beats it with.

Christine:

• would love Fiona Apple.

• her love language is tolerating you.

• people call her “nice” because they rarely speak to her at all. Not that she isn’t, but I’ve always thought she was a bit asocial.

• extremely empathetic to animals. She can’t even kill a spider. (Ahem)

• dislikes being touched.

• moved around with her father a lot, so she has some pretty severe attachment issues. She had good reasons to leave Erik, but Raoul(while he can be a jerk) takes the brunt of her poor coping mechanisms.

• In another life, had Erik not been so pushy and murder-y, they would’ve been very very close.

• Asexual. Yeah. Take that.

• Or she at least would dislike the very potent closeness and intimacy the devils tango brings. In other words sex repulsed.

• After the book, I imagine she took a small break from opera. She'd spent so much of her life doing things for others, and now it was time to do something for herself. Maybe she started singing what she wanted to sing, or maybe she pursued something entirely different. My idea: she began writing stories. After all, her connection to them had always been strong.

• a private woman, thus why she didn’t speak with leroux.

Raoul:

• can be an asshole, but more willing to admit it that others. I choose to interpret the fact that he so readily admitted how cruel he was(to a man who would publish this no less!) as an admission of guilt.

• would never take away music from her.

• a bit pudgy, but has some real muscle beneath it. He can’t be a twink doing sailor work I don’t think. (That rhymed!)

• hates Erik for taking his brother from him. He has a hard time watching Christine mourn Erik because of it.

Daroga:

• becomes Christine’s friend after the plot of the book. How, you ask? Beats me.

• I don’t have many headcannons about him I’m so sorry. Please, pitch your own id love to see em! He’s such an interesting character I feel so bad!

[edenmemes]

tloz: tears of the kingdom starters

WARNING: spoilers !

❝ there doesn’t seem to be any danger at the moment. ❞ ❝ history and legend sometimes blur together. ❞ ❝ i think you’ve caused quite a stir since your arrival here... ❞ ❝ i think you do look weird. so there, chew on that. ❞ ❝ i feel like i should apologize for dragging you into this mess. ❞ ❝ there’s no need to get so worked up. ❞ ❝ you allowed your heart to falter. that is the quickest way to fall on the battlefield. ❞ ❝ i’ll fight by your side till the very end. ❞ ❝ as with any leader, it is my duty to safeguard and protect my people. ❞ ❝ you are burdened with a mission of monumental importance. ❞ ❝ it was my hubris that set us on this path. ❞ ❝ i get it, you’re young --- you feel invincible. ❞ ❝ i thought you had harder bark on you than that. ❞ ❝ this little village used to be as quiet as a dusty old tomb. ❞ ❝ i don’t know who you are, but i’m sorry you have to see me like this. ❞ ❝ i feel a lot better after talking to you. ❞ ❝ you should have seen the look on your face. ❞ ❝ please, no need to look so petrified. ❞ ❝ you’re alone too, right? alone is good. ❞ ❝ you have disgusting, unwavering commitment to do ‘good’. ❞ ❝ i apologize. i keep getting lost in my thoughts. ❞ ❝ you’re finding this all a little scary, aren’t you? ❞ ❝ did you hear me singing? how embarrassing. ❞ ❝ you might want to make other plans...if you value your life. ❞ ❝ i suppose fate really wanted the two of us to run into each other again. ❞ ❝ you use your power to crush the weak...to serve evil. ❞ ❝ you will die knowing that you failed. ❞ ❝ you heard that strange voice too, right? ❞ ❝ this is a lot to learn all of a sudden, i know. ❞ ❝ did you know if you put your ear to a well, you can hear the wailing of the dead? ❞ ❝ i see the shadow of death upon your face. ❞ ❝ it seems skill and confidence is in short supply. ❞ ❝ that pride will be your downfall. ❞ ❝ i’ve gotta say. your stories are always so wild. ❞ ❝ did i manage to keep a smile on my face? ❞ ❝ you take for granted the godlike power you have in your hands. ❞ ❝ nevertheless, i can’t shake this strange tightness in my chest. ❞ ❝ why do i get the feeling we’re being watched? ❞ ❝ sorry you had to listen to me go on and on like that. ❞ ❝ anyway, i’m sorry for teasing you. ❞ ❝ uh...what’s with the face? ❞ ❝ what was it you wanted to discuss with me in private? ❞ ❝ were you looking for me? i’m honored! ❞ ❝ one cannot accomplish great feats without allies at one’s side. ❞ ❝ it’s important to help each other in times of need. ❞ ❝ i hate the way rain feels, but i don’t mind how it sounds. reminds me of waves crashing on the beach. ❞ ❝ you look distracted. what’s wrong? ❞ ❝ things with ‘legendary’ in the title are usually just stories. ❞ ❝ do you really think i hadn’t realized your deceit? ❞ ❝ what are you doing in a place like this? ❞ ❝ i never thought i’d see such a marvel with my very own eyes. ❞ ❝ thank goodness. if something had happened to you...i... ❞ ❝ how did you find this place? what cruel ploy are you plotting? ❞ ❝ it seems that the world is still in a wretched state. ❞ ❝ enough is enough! you are not acting like yourself! ❞ ❝ i can see right through you, whether you want me to or not. you are yielding to the fear of losing someone you love again. ❞ ❝ i can see it in your face. i don’t hold that special place in your heart. ❞ ❝ light and dark - one cannot exist without the other. ❞ ❝ do not get lost in the past. you must keep moving ever onward. ❞ ❝ it is best when those who care for each other are open and honest, even when it is difficult. ❞ ❝ push yourself too hard and you become your own worst enemy. ❞ ❝ look at all those scars...you must have fought a lot in your life. ❞ ❝ i am hesitant to admit it, but our success was thanks to your support. ❞ ❝ you look very pleased with yourself. ❞ ❝ i was giving in to my fear of once more losing someone i love. ❞ ❝ hold still, and don’t fret. i’ll take care of everything. this won’t hurt a bit. ❞ ❝ did you think i’d deceived you? perish the thought. ❞ ❝ i’m always here. should you ever have need of me, you need only ask. ❞ ❝ it’s amusing, isn’t it? our little back-and-forths. ❞ ❝ i just don’t want anyone to drop dead right in front of me. that’ll give me some nasty dreams. ❞ ❝ there it is. that inexplicable smirk upon your face. ❞ ❝ what were you praying for? long life? wealth? ❞ ❝ you get even cuter when you’re blushing. ❞ ❝ it is all right. i swear it. i am not going anywhere. ❞ ❝ i never thought...never dared dream...that i’d live to see the day we could all laugh together again like this. ❞ ❝ i’ve seen enough faces in this job that i can tell from looking at one if someone’s lying to me. ❞ ❝ you’ll come visit me again, right? ❞ ❝ i hope that ours will be a long and profitable relationship. ❞ ❝ this must be what the end of the world looks like. ❞ ❝ there’s nothing wrong with asking if you can help, you know. ❞ ❝ i knew there was a bright smile in there somewhere. ❞ ❝ let’s not pretend it won’t look absolutely dashing on you. ❞ ❝ no matter. you will not live to see another sunrise. ❞ ❝ you cannot hope to escape your fate. ❞ ❝ i’m sorry. i know i’m always throwing you into dangerous situations. ❞ ❝ hear my name and tremble in fear. ❞ ❝ it seems you have met with great danger once more. ❞ ❝ i actually...secretly followed you. ❞ ❝ there’s no shortage of strange happenings these days. ��� ❝ anyone tell you it’s rude to stare? ❞ ❝ sitting here feeling sorry for myself won’t solve anything. ❞ ❝ at my age...well, very little surprises me. ❞ ❝ there are more mysteries waiting for us down here, i know it. ❞ ❝ i’m only telling you this because you seem like a trustworthy sort. ❞ ❝ we are bound by fate, you and i. ❞ ❝ i’d have preferred to stay with you a while longer. ❞ ❝ you will have to do something about that fear eventually. ❞ ❝ now i live for vengeance. ❞ ❝ so you’re our saviour, eh? i thought you’d be tougher looking. ❞ ❝ sorry about that. the sadness just gets to me sometimes. ❞ ❝ you were involved, weren’t you? ❞ ❝ i’m sorry, i’m just surprised. i mean, you don’t seem all that strong. ❞ ❝ did i...see what i thought i saw? ❞ ❝ just forget it. it’s not important. ❞ ❝ we cannot afford to stand still at a time such as this. it is imperative that we act. ❞ ❝ disappointed that i wasn’t shocked and aghast at the very sight of you? ❞ ❝ you must be pretty strong beneath the surface. ❞ ❝ what happened? is this your doing? ❞ ❝ i can see right through you, whether you want me to or not. ❞ ❝ just watching you move, i can tell you’re no ordinary person. ❞ ❝ whatever is troubling you? why are you hesitating so? ❞ ❝ good...evil...that’s the futile perspective of narrow-minded beings. ❞ ❝ are you here because you’ve heard about me? ❞ ❝ one difficulty has been overcome, and yet another has appeared in its wake. ❞ ❝ once i rest up, i’ll be hitting the road again. i’ve stayed here too long as it is. ❞ ❝ we have to train. we have to get stronger. we have to get ready for what’s next. ❞ ❝ is everyone all right? nobody’s injured? ❞ ❝ i’m the one who made such a mess of things, after all. ❞ ❝ it is a mighty opponent, certainly, but we must not falter. ❞ ❝ what’s with that look? you don’t think i can do it? ❞ ❝ what’s the matter? you can tell me, weirdly handsome dude. ❞ ❝ why is everybody so quick to believe the silliest things? ❞ ❝ i dearly wish that i could believe what you are saying. however, at present...i simply cannot do that. ❞ ❝ wow, listen to me. with every breath, i spew out brilliance. ❞ ❝ for a long time, i have been concerned that you are holding yourself back. ❞ ❝ i feel like you weren’t getting what i was going for there. way to kill the mood. ❞ ❝ can’t talk my way out of this one... ❞ ❝ this is normally where i’d give you a chance to respond, but i’d like to talk about me instead. ❞ ❝ never forget that we are all standing beneath the very same sun. the only distance that matters is the distance between our hearts. ❞ ❝ i lost my head a little there. i’m not too proud of the way i behaved. ❞ ❝ i’m sure an answer will come to you. wisdom takes time. ❞ ❝ i must truly be getting on in years to have allowed a mere monster to catch me off guard. ❞ ❝ you really don’t know your place, do you? ❞ ❝ do you really think we hadn’t realised your deceit? ❞ ❝ you heart is like a chicken’s egg --- easily given but easy to break. ❞ ❝ your wounds were severe...i am relieved to see you escape death. ❞ ❝ i’m told that your skill in swordplay is unmatched. ❞ ❝ what, you’ve never heard of me? ❞ ❝ where were you? you disappeared on me so suddenly. i was worried sick. ❞ ❝ oh my. i’m surprised to hear you say such a thing. ❞ ❝ i wonder how many times we’ve met in our past lives. ❞ ❝ so what if you don’t say what you really think. i won’t hold that against you. ❞ ❝ though our time together has been brief, i am so happy that we finally met. ❞ ❝ what’re you thinking, strolling into this war zone? ❞ ❝ you’ll keep your trap shut if you know what’s good for you. ❞ ❝ i sense a fierce battle ahead, the likes of which we have never before faced. ❞ ❝ i can feel the moonlight pouring down, cleansing my spirit. ❞ ❝ you’re not needed round here any more. ❞ ❝ that mystery just leads us straight into another. ❞ ❝ it is very difficult to rest peacefully when things like this happen. ❞ ❝ sometimes i’m so smart, i scare myself a little. ❞ ❝ ever try getting info out of a boulder? well, that boulder’s ME. ❞ ❝ i prefer to keep work and my personal time separate. ❞ ❝ sure, you look like a strong breeze could blow you over, but you are solid as stone. ❞ ❝ that pride will be your downfall. ❞ ❝ i’ve been abandoned by love...by luck...by happiness. ❞ ❝ at last...i have been waiting for you to arrive. ❞ ❝ i am stunned. i am in complete and utter awe with you. ❞ ❝ despite all we have endured, my feelings for you have never altered. they never shall. ❞ ❝ am i some sort of villain? or a force for good? ❞ ❝ i’m just fated to be unhappy. steer clear or you’ll catch my misfortune. ❞ ❝ you’re your own worst enemy sometimes. ❞ ❝ i will crush any opposition. i will rule. ❞ ❝ that’s an old dangerous road absolutely crawling with monsters. ❞ ❝ now that you’ve seen it, i can’t let you live. ❞ ❝ you look like a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt anything. ❞ ❝ my body...my mind...everything. i’ll sacrifice it all to destroy you. ❞ ❝ i had almost forgotten the thrill of battle. that feeling as blood surges in my veins... ❞ ❝ i bet evil always scatters when you show up. ❞ ❝ it’s important to remember that luck and love aren’t things that run out. sometimes they just take the long way to get to you. ❞ ❝ i’m gonna make my ancestors proud today. ❞ ❝ this world should be shrouded in darkness, not bathed in insufferable light. ❞ ❝ it would have been more...satisfying to overcome a worthy foe. ❞ ❝ a mere mortal will not stand in my way. ❞ ❝ you’d walk away...from someone in need? ❞ ❝ you have proven yourself, and you no longer need me. ❞ ❝ i have some heartbreaking news to share. this will be tough to bear, but i ask that you stay strong. ❞ ❝ you might think of this as ‘hush money,’ and...yes. that’s what it is.. ❞ ❝ now, let’s both pretend like this never happened. ❞ ❝ you might think i’m a hopeless coward...and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. ❞

[wolfoftheblackflames]

Hey, my misfits, who's hungry for more cute fluff, friends to lovers, and a tale as old as time?! Enjoy my Beauty and the Beast AU: Chaggie style!

The Devil and the Innocent: Pt.1

It was a long time ago, in a far-off place. A king had disappeared, leaving behind his daughter. The child was kind to a fault, but one day when the worst day of her life happened. She, in her fit of rage, brought hell upon her ex, the man had been caught cheating, locking herself away in her castle afterward, the Princess never came out again. “Why can't I find someone who loves me for me!” She would wail sobbing into her pillows.

Her cries were answered when an enchantress disguised as an old crone appeared at the door. Still in pain and distraught with none to comfort her, the Princess turned said woman away to the cold, apologizing as she closed the door. “Your heart has been shattered. You choose to live in isolation away from those you care about. Surely, this will help you find the one you seek.”

In a matter of moments the Princess crumbled forward, her body growing bigger and stronger. Her own workers also felt this change shifting into many different things to reflect the cruel joke the Enchantress placed upon the crew.

Thus was how the Devil and her mysterious castle came to be.

A sigh escaped the reader's lips, the Latina with the most beautiful shade of jade to her eye closed her book. “Thanks for reading to us, Miss Vagatha!” A child cooed smiling.

“Of course, now run along, I only said one story before your chores.” Vaggie smiled as the children giggled and scattered. She leaned back and sighed, wondering what books she could find or what her adopted mother Carmilla Carmine was making this time.

She got up dusting her beautiful white sundress off and hosting the brown leather bag over her shoulder. Vagatha or as most would call her Vaggie was the talk of the town, her elegant yet calm demeanor, her skills as a folk dancer, and the fact that she was the daughter of the King's best arms dealer Carmilla Carmine.

The people of Little Pride watched the woman walk through the streets.“Bonjour!” several greeted her smiling. Others watched her with skeptical looks.

“She's an oddball that one, she's beauty and grace despite the eyepatch that's on her face.” A woman spoke to her friend as they gossiped.

“Her face was either lost in dancing or pressed in a book.” The other replied as Vaggie paid no mind to them.

“She hardly ever has to look!” One child cooed seeing Vaggie effortlessly dodging the many carts.

Her stroll through the town was a simple one, she smiled softly entering one of her favorite stores, Angel's Archive, a bookstore run by the cutest south indian bookworm Emily and her mother Sera. “Hello Vaggie, are you here for the latest copy of Arms and Armor?” The bubbly browned haired girl asked, smiling.

“You know it.” The other girl replied, being handed the book.

“Thanks again for the continued patronage!” Emily grinned as Vaggie paid for the book. “My pleasure, see you, Em.”

---

Vaggie casually wandered through the town on her way home, she always loved the rustic architecture, and the knights that would rarely pass by in order to restock their gear. “Well well, hello there Vagasaurus.” A scratchy male voice smirked, his tall muscular chubby body towering over her as Vaggie had sat down on the local fountain to read her book.

Her eye narrowed. “Haven't I told you not to call me that Adam?” She growled. “Need me to kick your ass again?”

“Ooo I love a woman who can kick ass. You're just making me the dickmaster hard babe.” Adam grinned, making Vaggie get up.

“¿por qué tengo que lidiar con este idiota…” (Why do I have to deal with this dick head) “Seriously Adam, fuck off.” The Latina stated walking away.

“Ooo I love it when your accent comes out, so exotic.” He purred. “Bet you're also still salty you got canned from the Exorcist Platoon for losing your eye.” He smirked, poking an old wound.

“And you're bringing this up, why?” Vaggie growled, her head starting to ache.

“Cause even if you play civilian, that doesn't mean I'll not recognize one of my top girls when you're out of uniform Vagasaurus.” Adam laughed, twirling on his finger, her old badge. “Though ya might wanna trim that mop of yours.” He smirked, motioning to the knee-length hair.

Vaggie's eye twitched as she couldn't hold back her temper anymore. “Apenada Carmilla…” (Sorry) She muttered under her breath and decked Adam in his stupid face. The taller man stumbled back but he smirked.

“There's the killer I know and love.” He purred satisfied. Vaggie soon hurried home, her heart racing from adrenaline.

Home however was on the outskirts of the town, it was a large grey stone building with smoke coming out of its chimney. Vaggie quietly ducked inside not noticing the fact Adam and his band had followed. Carmilla was often crafting new weapons with the help of her daughters, Vaggie was grateful to the arms dealer who had taken her in when she was abandoned on the outskirts after a nasty skirmish.

That day made the ex soldier shudder, it was a raid Adam led on a small outpost, but said outpost was actually a town filled with aboriginal people living their humble lives. “You'll surrender everything to us or your lives are forfeit!” The blood thirsty ex coworker Lute had roared.

The people didn't surrender, it was a bloodbath, Vaggie went into one of the homes and found two children and their mother shaking. Seeing their scared eyes still haunted Vaggie. “Get out of here, go now!” She had spoken, sending the trio away.

This didn't sit well with Adam who had seen it. While the others were distracted, he had ordered Lute to punish the traitor.

Vaggie broke out of her trance upon hearing the doors. “Not you again!” She growled seeing Adam.

“What? I won't take no for an answer, you'll be mine and it'll be great. I am thee dickmaster.” Adam smirked casually sitting down and mansplaning like he owned the place.

Vaggie sighed. No matter how many times she said no, this douche kept pressing despite the fact she wasn't really into men at all or anyone right now for that matter. She smirked evilly when Adam started munching loudly on chips. “Oh Adam, could you scoot to your right please?” She batted her eyelashes.

The idiot grinned, finally getting his way moving to the right so she could sit with him. “That's more like it..” He licked his lips. Vaggie casually did her alluring dance heading over to a lever. “Wait what?!”

“You really are stupid, wow. Anyway get the fuck outta my house!” She pulled it and sent Adam tumbling out through a trapdoor.

“Fucking bitch!!!!!” He roared splashing into the lake nearby. He growled, poking his head out of the water as Lute shook her head. “Not a word Lute..” He snarled and left with her.

Carmilla clapped, surprising Vaggie who blinked. “Never liked that man. Well done.” She smiled with her own two toned brown hair up as demon horns. “Now come along, I need your help in inspecting some weaponry.” Her voice was warm and motherly.

Carmilla was in her casual black tunic and slacks, she even sported some white gloves, a white and red pouch on her side, and some beautiful white boots.

Vaggie smiled and followed her, relieved that some of her soldier days could be useful.

“I was asked to head over to Zestial's domain for some tea and a business proposal.” Carmilla spoke after sorting through several weapons. “I'll be gone for a few days as the trip there is long.” She added and looked at Vaggie.

“Alright, but isn't Zestial’s territory beyond the Hellfire woods?”

“It is, but I've traveled it many times, and I can take care of myself.” Carmilla replied casually tapping her feet. Vaggie always found it so cool that her mentor had blades in her shoes since it made the fools drop their guard. “Now make sure the latest shipment is ready for transport, I'm sure Odette and Clara will be back soon with their wagons.”

Vaggie saluted and nodded. It made Carmilla chuckle a bit, but she then smiled warmly. “Umm?” Vaggie blinked confused.

“Here, I heard you lost yours during the skirmish, ex soldier.” The taller woman handed Vaggie a beautiful looking spear.

It was no secret to the Carmine family that Vaggie used to be a soldier. Carmilla being the first to notice. The spear looked similar to Vaggie's old one but instead of one side with a curved blade, it was wider, sharper, and hooked on both sides. “R-really? Is it for me Ms. Carmine?” She asked as she was baffled.

“Of course, you've proven yourself time and time again with keeping my home safe, Vaggie.” Carmilla replied but blinked, receiving a brief hug. She laughed a bit and petted Vaggie on the head.

It was soon time for the taller woman to depart as she climbed into the driver seat. She easily took the reigns of a handsome black and white stallion named Diablo. “Good luck on your trip Ms. Carmine!” Vaggie waved as the other woman departed.

-----

Elsewhere in the local tavern Adam was sulking. He couldn't believe that bitch Vaggie managed to pull one over on him. “Sir, no need to be so hung up over that traitor. After all you're Adam, the first man to ever conquer a village of over fifty thousand people.” Lute stated annoyed by his sulking.

Adam grumbled looking briefly at his second in command. He had to admit despite the vicious nature which he loved, Lute did have the hotter look with the short black bob, pale peach skin, grey armor over her black bodysuit, plus those sexy white gloves and heels. “I just hate it when I don't get what I want.” He replied grumpily.

Lute smirked a bit and handed him his favorite instrument. “It's annoying sir to see you so down.” She started as Adam blinked. He smirked and started to jam with his favorite girl. “Who cares about that mop bucket piece of shit bitch. You're the Dick fucking master.” She hyped him up, making Adam laugh with glee.

The girls easily swooned over Adam since the man often exposed his sexy chest hair through his white and gold long robe jacket, his lavender tunic underneath alongside some casual black trousers and boots. If there was any word to describe this man it would be “bear”.

“I am the man with the best dick around, come on ladies let's get down!” He roared into song, jamming hard. Though after his fun tavern party Lute took him aside. “Huh what's up danger tits?”

“Want to get back at the cunt?” She asked evilly. Adam's reply was a huge evil smirk. “Alright then, here's what I have in mind sir.”

-----

On the open road, Carmilla's carriage made its way to the cursed forest, its soft red mist echoing that of entering hell. She found it amusing and liked the route since it kept bandits off her ass. Diablo, however, whinnied and started to fuss. “What's wrong boy, ¿Estás asustado por algo?” (Are you spooked by something?) She spoke softly, trying to soothe the stallion.

He stomped his hooves and tried to wrestle free of his carriage binds. “Ah!” Carmilla yelped, being tossed off as Diablo managed to smash the carriage into a tree. “Diablo?!” She blinked but growled stranded in the forest.

Through some exploration, the woman found something she'd never seen before, a white and gold castle with the skies reddening as she got closer. Cautiously she knocked on the large wooden doors which made the door creep open.

“Who the hell is that broad?” A voice spoke. “Someone whose lost their fuckin way dipshit.” Another answered. “Quiet you two dumbasses.” The third hushed them.

“Tch, I don't like this..” Carmilla looked around the grand red entryway, it had a red brick staircase leading upward with golden handles and railing. The floor was a more muted grey with it being decorated by a large carpet bearing the symbol of two snakes intertwining over an apple.

“Not another word outta you two got it? Seriously Angel and Cherri learn to shut the fuck up.” A voice spoke quietly.

“Look can someone please come fucking out already? I lost my horse and the town's too far away to walk back.” Carmilla growled softly. “I'm willing to pay you for letting me stay the night since I don't want to walk back with it being so dark out.”

“Oooh wow, a bitch with an attitude. I like her.” Cherri smirked watching the tall woman.

“C'mon Husk she's got no place ta go.” Angel replied as Husk groaned.

Carmilla blinked, turning her head around picking up Angel as Cherri who had been turned into a wind up monkey smirked. “Who the fuck said that?!”

“Oooh, check out the mommy dommy hands on this one Angie!” Cherri grinned as Carmilla blinked, staring at her. “Hi there.”

“What the fuck?!” The woman replied as she then looked over at the snickering Angel. He was a four armed candlestick with five flames.

“Hiya mommy.” He playfully snickered.

“Now you've done it.” Husk sighed, being a talking wind up tuxedo cat.

Carmilla just blinked at the two, clearly confused. “How the fuck are you moving?” She had dropped Angel only to pick up Husk, curious as to how a children's toy is moving on its own.

“Long story I tell ya.” Angel snickered seeing Husk being toyed with. “Hey, quit it!” The cat hissed but blinked, noticing a small bit of blood on Carmilla's head.

“Dios mio..” (Oh my god) Carmilla sighed feeling like she's lost it.

“Oy demon lady, you're bleedin’.” Angel replied, waving one of his candles. “Follow us and we'll get that looked at.”

Carmilla grumbled but followed the odd trio of objects into the next room, not noticing the looming shadow that watched her from above.

“Ugh you two are gonna piss off the princess.” Husk muttered but moved aside as a cart wheeled over to Carmila who had been led to sit down in a rather large red velvet chair. “And we don't need another one of those rage moments.”

“Care for a nice cup of tea dearie?” A warm voice came from the beautiful Victorian style red and grey tea pot.

“Oh.. Um..” Carmilla looked a little surprised when a coat rack was bandaging her head. “Alright?”

“How about some music as well my dear?” A voice came from a rather nice looking mahogany radio with black knobs and glowing green lights.

“Ugh you idiots are going to alert the Devil.” Husk groaned, but the radio chuckled.

“Oh no need to be in such a tizzy Husker, a little music doesn't hurt anybody. Right Rosie?” Two beating red eyes looked over at the tea kettle.

“Of course Alastor, music is quite a nice way to enjoy some tea dearie.”.

Carmilla picked up the cup and took a sip from it. “Nyeh, why am I against a lady's lips!” A shrill voice came from the red tea cup as two cute yellow eyes blinked at Carmilla.

“What the fuck?!” She blinked but looked over the cup.

Quacking was heard as a footstool waddled its way over lifting Carmilla's feet up. Though it was strange and felt like a drug trip, Carmilla didn't seem to mind the great hospitality.

The crew jolted hearing the door slam open off its hinges. “Here we go…” Husk gulped. Carmilla growled, getting up fast and ready to fight, however she was easily subdued by powerful black claws coming around her neck.

“Who are you, why are you here?” That voice came out low and growly. Carmilla stared at the figure before her, her eyes wide. “Doesn't matter you're not welcome here…” The beast snarled, dragging Carmilla off as the other tried to follow.

Carmilla couldn't believe her eyes, whatever had her by the neck with ease was a giant massive beast with blonde fur, a wolf like snout, cloven red hooves, deep white eyes with red sclera, two red horns sticking out of its head, and a long spiked black tail with a triangular tip. “El diablo mismo…” (The Devil itself.) escaped her lips as the beast growled at her.

“What the fuck are you saying? Are you staring at me?!” The beast snarled slamming Carmilla into a wall. “I bet you've come to stare at the Devil huh? Well you've found her.”

“Hey hey! Princess, you're going to kill her!” Angel stated, waving at her.

“I'd love to see the blood bath.” Niffty giggled watching.

“All I wanted was a place to rest for the night. Agh…” Carmilla felt that grip tighten.

The Devil narrowed her eyes and growled. “I'll give you a damn place to stay as you wish.” She dragged Carmilla to the dungeons and locked the woman inside. “Now stay there and enjoy your new home.”

“What?!” Carmilla snapped trying to get out to no avail. “Damn it…” She growled, lowering her head.

(Heyo, I hope you guys like the fic so far, I literally worked several hours on this part alone. I'm breaking this down into parts from Beginning Middle and End with the full version being on my Ao3 for all to read. Thanks for reading!)

[petrichorium]

Quid Pro Quo

in which you attempt to seduce il dottore in the desperate hope that he will save your life, and come to realize it’s not entirely faked

dottore x fem!reader

word count: 7.2k reader: afab, leaning fem (no pronouns, neutral names, feminine clothing, pussy/cunt/clit/breast used) tags: EXPLICIT CONTENT, blood, violence/chopping off a hand (not toward the reader), possessiveness/jealousy, manhandling from both parties, corruption vibes, biting, idk what to tell u man it’s dottore, established relationship but also they’re getting together, chronically/terminally ill reader (kept vague; dottore is treating it), reader is called “pet” and dottore is called “my lord” but it’s not a kink thing they’re just emotionally constipated, heavy petting, fingering, edging, pls don’t be fooled genuinely the smut is so vanilla compared to the rest of these tags KDNFKENF, implied oral (reader receiving) at the end but it’s fade-to-black

“my lord, this is absurd. have i not been dutiful? have i strayed?”

“very different things from devotion and affection, i’m afraid.”

who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? to demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?

“well?” his voice is merciless. it has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.

“i—” the words catch in your throat. you choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.

dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “pity. i thought you less delicate than this.”

“you’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.

“i’m a cruel man.”

“not to me!” this time it’s a wail. your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”

“don’t pout. don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. when he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “damn it all, what you do to me…”

you might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.

perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.

When you’d first approached Dottore with a proposal, you never anticipated he’d accept it.

You’d been desperate, alone and moraless, shackled with an illness only curable to those more fortunate than you. You weren’t fool enough, not even back then, to think he’d accept out of pity, or even something as human as lust for you. Even now you don’t quite understand why he’d agreed.

But by some miracle he did, and now you stand here months after you’d thought you would die, bundled up in a heavy wool coat lined with plush fur, dragged out to the main palace just to be ordered to sit and wait until his convening with a number of other Harbingers has ended.

You have no right to complain. Being paraded around like a glass doll—or rather hoarded like a priceless jewel, never left in the company of others long enough to consider abandoning your promise—is the price you pay for who you’ve thrown your lot in with. And you can breathe freely without coughing. You can move without growing weary, you can stand without pain. These are the true luxuries Dottore has given you. You’ll wait for him, even if you grow bored in the meanwhile.

Two guards stand watch over you. For a time they were regular, familiar faces who shadowed you whenever you went anywhere beyond Dottore’s wing in the palace. Then you made the mistake of calling one by name in front of him, and now they change every few days.

“Boys,” you call out to them, louder than you mean in the silent, cavernous hall. “Would you come with me to take a walk? Just in the arboretum, nowhere far.”

They exchange a brief look, certainly debating the chances of trouble from such a proposal, before seemingly coming to an agreement and nodding in unison.

You stand, eager for a change in scenery. What happens next, however, you couldn’t anticipate.

A guard’s hand finds your shoulder. As soon as it touches you realize your mistake; you’d started down the wrong way, headed deeper into the underbelly of the palace rather than towards the grand conservatory in the center. If you had more time you’d turn on heel and apologize sheepishly, and he’d remove his touch, and all would be well.

But a second is all it takes. His fingers brush the thick wool covering you and a moment later you feel a whistling blade followed by the horrifying sound of flesh being severed in a single brutal strike.

You scream, lurching back—the severed hand is still on your shoulder, limp, and the horror of that doesn’t sink in until your sudden movement makes it slide off and fall to the floor with a sickening thud.

Before you can get far, though, an arm slings itself around your waist and drags you back in an ironclad grip. Your shoulder slams into the wall first, and then your back, so sudden and forceful that it knocks the wind out of you.

Dottore has you pinned against the back of a recessed niche. You’re tucked away like this, hidden to all eyes except his, which you’re certain take in your disheveled form greedily though you can’t see beneath the mask to confirm—and your gaze stubbornly remains pinned over his shoulder either way. Your chest heaves, still catching your breath, but the heavy beating of your heart is hardly from terror anymore.

His fingers find your jaw. They’re big as they splay across your cheek, grasping firm to tilt your head upward and force you to look at him. That gloved hand is covered in blood, hot and slick; you can feel it smeared over your face and neck.

“My lord—“

He’s kissing you before you can finish the word, teeth clacking against yours, licking in past your lips before you can close them. On instinct you bite down, but despite the taste of copper flooding your tongue he doesn’t pull back—in fact, he presses in closer, groaning into your mouth.

“My lord,” you try again, voice muffled entirely, “you’re out sooner than anticipated.”

He kisses you harder, drawing an embarrassing noise from your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up, but you attempt to speak more anyway.

“What is this? You—“

The sound he lets out is feral, growling; it stops you in your tracks, throws every word out of your head. But it’s too late. He pulls back fully to look at you, unreadable even to your discerning eyes.

“I return to find you attempting to leave,” he says, low and dangerous. “And another man’s hand upon you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “If anything he was stopping me. I only wanted to visit the arboretum, my lord—“

“The arboretum is the opposite way.”

“Yes, which would be why my guard was directing me the proper way. And you cut off his hand for it!”

Too impassioned. Your mistake. Dottore shoves you against the wall again and you wince, eyes slamming shut. This time he goes for your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down the taut surface as you angle your head to give him ample room. Soon enough they turn even more heated, nibbling at you with those sharp teeth and sucking harshly at the dip of your jaw.

You melt against him, weak-kneed and floating. His lips leave your skin momentarily. He’s still close enough for his breath to puff against your neck with each pant, but he hovers, waiting until you’ve opened your eyes and let your half-lidded gaze meet his own to lean in again and sink his teeth into your shoulder.

The noise you let out is obscene. You have no control over it; it’s wrenched from your lips instantly, something like a yelp that trails off into a breathy moan. All things considered he hasn’t bitten you too deeply—you’ve certainly received worse by his own hands—but he breaks skin with those teeth, and when he releases you the sting is only slightly soothed by his tongue lathing over the mark.

“Lord Second!”

He pulls away from you with a snarl. You’re left panting, legs shaking, relying on his hold to keep you up as you close your eyes and let your head fall back to rest against the wall. It’s Pulcinella who has played savior long enough for you to catch your breath; you can hear his chiding, the annoyance in his tone, the sternness as he demands Dottore let your unfortunate guard leave to get his wound tended to.

“I’m hardly stopping him,” Dottore says dismissively. His hand comes up to your face. You aren’t anticipating it, jolting and opening your eyes when the leather of his glove makes contact. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into your cheeks and pursing your lips. “No need for you to get involved, rooster.”

You can see how he intends to return where he left off before he leans back in. His grip is so secure you couldn’t turn your head to escape his kiss even if you attempted it, but you know better than to try.

“Wait!” you gasp out against his lips. “Not—ah, in front of—“

“Oh, now you’re feeling demure. Didn’t care about your guards, did you?” His hand slides down to wrap around your throat��not quite choking, but undeniably present. At the same time he bites down hard on your lower lip. “A decision for you, then. Would you like me to stop, or to dismiss the boy?”

“Dismiss him,” you say without hesitation, not entirely altruistically. Dottore is always put in a far better mood if you allow him to do as he pleases with you.

“Listen to your companion, Dottore,” pipes up Pulcinella from the other side of the hall. “Pierro would be displeased by this scene.”

“Lucky, then, that he hasn’t stumbled upon it.” Again, Dottore turns away from you to face Pulcinella. Again, you take the moment to catch your breath. “Why are you here?”

“I was sent to fetch you. Lord First would like a word privately.”

Another snarl. This time, however, he seems to understand he has no choice. When he returns his attention to you it’s clear that he intends to pull away entirely.

Beneath that damned mask, his eyes aren’t visible. Still, his grin is sharp enough that you can imagine the wild look they likely hold, the one that never fails to send a thrill through you. The blood on your skin has dried somewhat to become tacky. He leans in once more, licks a long stripe up the column of your neck, lips coming away covered in scarlet. Something settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Go clean up, pet,” Dottore says, low enough that it’s meant for only you to hear. “I can’t stand the stench of another’s blood on you.”

Frowning, you pry yourself from his hold as much as he’ll let you, unfulfilled though you think you ought to be grateful that he’s willing to let you compose yourself. You huff. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Somehow, that grin sharpens. He reaches out with a hand again, fleeting—gentle, even—as he crooks his finger beneath your chin to lift it slightly. “As you wish.”

And with that he pulls away. The hand on your back nudges you over towards your remaining guard and then Dottore is gone, with a final keep your hands off growled at the poor man (who assuredly does not need the warning, not with his partner’s blood still staining the floor beneath his feet) before he stalks off to follow Pulcinella deeper into the palace.

Hours later, after a long bath and attendants having dressed you in clean clothing, Dottore summons you to his lab.

Though it’s located in a separate building, it takes you mere minutes to arrive; you know the path by heart, and while there will always be assigned guards and the occasional assistant lurking, few fatui agents linger longer than necessary in the halls belonging to the second harbinger. Such dallying always increases the risk of being purloined for use as a test subject in some fatal experiment or another.

You’ve been told that when you’re not around the place is crawling with segments, too. You know of their existence, of course—have even seen a few from a distance—but Dottore has long refused to let you near any of them.

His lab always runs on the colder side, even for a Snezhnayan facility. If you regularly wore clothing in it you suppose it might be more bearable, but he rarely summons you for reasons which allow you to keep anything on.

You think longingly back to your chambers, made cozy and warm with the help of your personal effects and a number of mechanical heaters in varying levels of prototype courtesy of your eccentric lover. He can be considerate, you’ve learned, when he truly wants to—though he would never willingly admit it. In the case of providing you warmth he maintains it’s merely because he can’t stand your shivering when in bed with you.

You’ve refrained from pointing out that you never shiver when he is there to keep you warm.

Dottore’s office door is open, and you know you can enter without announcement, but you choose to linger in the doorway and reach out to rap knuckles against it twice.

You can see him sitting at his desk across the room. Despite how you’re the only one who would approach him now, he wears his mask, gloves still on, dutifully paying sole attention to his work—or rather seemingly, because he shifts as you enter, and you feel his eyes on your back when you turn to close and lock the door behind you.

The shoes you wear are soft slippers, flat upon the ground. You almost regret not wearing anything with a solid heel; perhaps if your approach came announced by the loud clacking of metal upon marble he wouldn’t ignore you so. Either way, you note how his arm shifts as you elegantly step past his chair, clearly itching to reach out and hold you.

You settle yourself upon his desk, legs crossed demurely, the chiffon fabric of the nightdress you’d been tugged into pooling prettily around your thighs and draping over the edge.

His eyes might be concealed but you can tell by the angle of his head that he’s staring. You’re glad for it—the little show you put on, leaning back to emphasize your chest and angling to draw attention to your legs, should not go unseen. You sigh dramatically, reaching up to pull the dressing gown from your shoulders and let it fall to your waist, and that’s what ends it.

He huffs (you might be so bold as to call it fondly exasperated) and turns back to his work without a word.

Perched on his desk like this, you can easily lean forward and reach out to lay hands on the mask he wears over his eyes. He stiffens, head snapping up, one hand catching your wrist in a harsh grip just shy of aching.

“Did you lock the door?” he hisses, all too used to your insistence of not fucking a masked man to even ask what you’re doing.

You roll your eyes and stubbornly continue on your mission. “Yes, my lord. When have I ever left it unlocked?”

Nobody but his fellow harbingers would dare to interrupt one of his appointments with you, and a locked door has never kept the likes of them out, but you’re not entirely keen on the idea of being interrupted either, so you dutifully turn the bolt every time.

“I seem to recall my last assistant.”

“That woman had a key and far too much nerve for her own good.” It’s true—you had locked the door that night, though you’d also goaded her privately beforehand just to see the look on her face when Dottore gave her no mercy like every other person unfortunate enough to have walked in on you nude.

Dottore’s eyes glint as you remove the mask fully, his mouth tugging into a pleased little smile. “Jealousy becomes you, pet.”

Your scowl does nothing to deter him. As penance you set the mask down on the far side of you. If he wants it back, he’ll have to lean over you to reach—even with his absurdly long wingspan—and almost certainly end up with his face in your lap.

A very bold part of you hopes he does.

For now, though, your annoyance is unquenched. So you tilt your head, letting his eyes fall to the slope of your shoulder, and speak. “If you called me here for anything, tell me or I’ll simply leave.”

He dips his head as if focusing on the papers before him. “And if I merely wanted you to pose on my desk like a pretty little ornament while I work?”

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease without missing a beat. “Truly?”

He doesn’t deign that with an answer, though he allows himself one more lingering scan of your form before turning back to his work.

When he does, you shift and recross your legs. It’s pointed, timed for the moment his eyes flit over to you; an uncross and a shift to the other leg on top, fast and smooth but with enough time to give him a good look of what’s between your thighs.

Or rather what isn’t, because you’d refused the undergarments your attendants had tried to throw on you. The movement bares your cunt to him in its entirety; you see his eyes hone in on it, his mouth slacken, the reaction involuntary and borderline feral in the fleeting seconds before your legs close again.

And then you watch him frown, as if witnessing his very thought process dawn upon his face—the realization that you’d made the trip without anything beneath your nightdress has him irritated.

“Presumptuous thing you are,” he growls. “What if I’d called you here for treatment?”

“You said we’d finish that talk.”

“This,” he gestures at the entirety of you, and you snicker in return, “does not suggest talking.”

“I didn’t choose what my attendants dressed me in.”

It’d been laid out for you when you’d come out of the bath; all gossamer layers and intricate lace, low in the front and short at the bottom and held together by only a satin ribbon. You’re inclined to think Pantalone is the true culprit. Dottore likes such things on you, though he insists he holds no preference, and therefore one of the tried and true ways the shrewd man has come to flatter your capricious lover is to throw luxuries at you—lavish jewels and thick furs and long billowing dressing gowns—and instruct for you to be dressed up in them like some spoiled, pampered lapdog before you next visit the lab.

You can’t say you mind. The dress you wear now is the kind of soft only an exorbitant amount of mora can buy, perfectly tailored and clinging to every curve that should most be flattered. Calling it a nightdress, while you’ve been doing so, likely does it more credit than deserved. The intent is assuredly not for sleeping. With the matching dressing robe it proves modest enough, though not as you wear it now; pulled low and teasing over your arms, the tie fallen loose to give no coverage.

“Your attendants send you off like a lamb to slaughter.”

You shrug. “A willing one.”

“Fair enough. Tell me, then, willing as you are to enter this wolves’ den. You were particularly appalled by my actions this morning—the longer I’ve had to ruminate, the less remorseful I’ve become. He ought to have known better than to lay hands on you. Unless, of course, you encouraged it.”

“Oh, please.” Now you roll your eyes openly, toss your head with the motion just to emphasize it. “My lord, I don’t even know the boy’s name. I simply believe removing his hand was a punishment unfit for the crime.”

“And yet you kissed me. You threw yourself at me, really, despite all those tepid protests. Would you have let me fuck you there, I wonder? In front of your guards, knowing that I would never let them live after?”

Your cheeks heat at the accusation. “No, I—”

“Is this not what you wanted? My infatuation? Don’t tell me you’re second guessing now that you know exactly what it entails—it’s too late. The thought of another man touching you…” he trails off, but you hardly need him to finish. You’re well aware of just what he’s thinking. “Why do you think I never allow my segments to come near you?”

Your brow furrows. “They are younger than you, of course. I assumed their volatility posed too great a risk.”

Dottore scoffs, low and dismissive. “Hardly. The true reason is that the resources required to remake them are so great.”

It takes you a moment to understand the meaning, but when you do it has your mouth parting. Should a segment interact with you, he’s so certain he’d kill it that he’d determined it simpler to keep the two parties separate. A shiver runs down your spine—to your chagrin, you doubt it’s horror.

“Your segments are yourself, my lord,” you attempt again. “They are bolder than most agents, and guaranteed to be attracted to me as you are. You cannot hold the guards you assigned to the same scrutiny. The boy was merely leading me away.”

“What of my poor assistant, then, hm? What is the difference between the boy and the girl? I should passively allow every warm body to touch you and cannot even have a lab assistant? She was a quick one—certainly not at the caliber of my segments but decent enough in their absence.”

“You regret disposing of her, then?”

“No need to sound so bitter, pet. I have no regrets. Your company is far more preferred, and…” Dottore trails off, letting out a low chuckle, voice a purr laced with meaning not well hidden, “I hardly need to tell you that you paid me back thoroughly for whatever loss I might have incurred that night. But my point remains—the boy easily replaced, the girl less so. What difference do you see?”

“That the boy would not have dared compete with you, even if he’d found me alluring,” you hiss. “The girl had intentions that insulted me.”

“Intentions?”

“With you, which you knew, so I should hardly need to say it. I almost pity the poor thing—you intended all along to kill her, you simply decided to have fun with it along the way.”

“Only when I realized just how much I enjoy your jealousy. Truly, I ought to bring another in. Any agent hungry enough for the position would naturally desire an even higher one at my side…”

You frown and, in a motion so fast you can’t really think it through, reach out to hook your finger into the ring of that harness and yank him upward.

The noise he lets out is something between a hiss and a groan, rich and growling and heated. No shock is clear on his face; rather, he stares up at you with a grin that exposes sharp teeth, teeth which part to let a pink tongue run along his lower lip.

When you speak it’s steely. “Few people in this world would find you standable, my lord. I must be touched in the mind to feel for you as I do.”

“Oh?” You’ve stumbled into some kind of trap, you realize by the tone of his voice. “Tell me, then, what do you feel for me?”

“What?”

“Be candid, now.” His grin only grows wider. “Don’t hold anything back. Admit that you’ve come to love me.”

You recoil, yanking your hand away as though you’ve been burned. He falls forward rather than back, arms against his thighs, laughing harshly while you shuffle further away.

“What?” you say again, poisonous in tone. “Where did you—who said anything about love?”

“Is that not what you were implying?” His words are smug, incapable of being swayed. Still, you have no choice but to try.

“No.” You’re stern, leaving no room for question.

“No? You refuse to admit it? Perhaps we ought to revisit our arrangement, then—“

“No!” He raises an eyebrow at the outburst, but you’re far too panicked to be ashamed. “My lord, this is absurd. Have I not been dutiful? Have I strayed?”

“Very different things from devotion and affection, I’m afraid.”

Who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? To demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?

“Well?” His voice is merciless. It has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.

“I—” The words catch in your throat. You choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. Frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.

Dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “Pity. I thought you less delicate than this.”

“You’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.

“I’m a cruel man.”

“Not to me!” This time it’s a wail. Your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”

“Don’t pout. Don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. When he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “Damn it all, what you do to me…”

You might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. Tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.

Perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.

“You lie to yourself more than you lie to me—convincing yourself you find me disgusting, telling yourself your interest is faked. But you and I both know you enjoyed that incident this morning just as you enjoyed what I did to that girl. You enjoy me. You want me, so cease this foolishness and let me have you.”

“You have me,” you say automatically, and the scoff he responds with makes you recoil. It’s snarling, animalistic, accompanied by him lunging up from his chair to corner you in the curve of his desk.

“I don’t mean this scheme.” Dottore looms over you, arms on either side of your body. The hard wood of the desktop digs into your ass as you lean back precariously. “I don’t mean your little stratagem, which I only entertained out of amusement—”

“Yes, of course,” you snap in return, suddenly enraged as the shock wears off and you lunge forward, forcing him to reel back, “this shrewd scheme of mine, desperately selling my life to you lest it be snuffed out, which you only agreed to because you found the concept fascinating. Except now you say it isn’t enough to own my body, you are owed my heart, too—and I must serve it to you on a gilded platter because you are too cowardly to give me yours first.”

“I have no heart to give, stupid thing. This is for your benefit.” Still, you see his jaw tense. He returns to his chair, and the movement is heavy; he sinks back as if in a trance.

No heart, he claims, as if he is still satisfied with the arrangement. No, he can hardly hide such things from you. He has become too fond and now burns with the need for you to tell him you feel the same—you know this, know it like you know his touch against your skin and his body easing into your bed next to you during the night.

But you also know how volatile he is, both at his core and, more precisely, when discussing this very topic. This is not something you can push too far; unfortunate for the both of you, then, that you are just as stubborn, especially in the face of inequity.

It isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to bare yourself if he’s unwilling to do the same.

Crossing your arms, more for self comfort than any determination on your end, you slide yourself down from the desk and make to leave. You doubt he’ll let you, but you’ve made up your mind to try—and sure enough he sits forward, ready to move.

“Come here,” Dottore demands, and tenses when you shake your head and take a bold step away. “You’re not leaving, pet, we haven’t finished this.”

“I have no interest in discussing anything with you if you’re going to be so callously selfish.” It’s a futile attempt, you know, but you try to dart off anyway, leaving your dressing robe behind to flutter down and settle on the floor. He lunges over and catches you immediately.

You struggle against him, really just to make him work for it now, and he meets the challenge in kind, lifting you easily and dragging you back to his chair despite your squirming and incessant protests. Soon enough he has you sideways on his lap, a heavy arm around your waist to deter any further attempt at escape.

“Are you going to stay put?”

You cross your arms again and stubbornly turn your head away. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

Instead of speaking, he lets his hand find your neck, scruffing you like a troublesome kitten and forcing you to face him with a thumb and forefinger on either side of your jaw. For a moment he scans your face. Whatever he sees there excites him somehow; his free hand tightens against the dip of your waist, groping at you, trailing down over your hip to the curve of your thigh and squeezing there, too, as he draws your legs even closer.

Initially, when he leans in, you think he’ll go for your neck. Instead he captures your lips in a surprisingly subdued kiss—closed-mouthed, slow, lingering. Something you might call sweet if it came from anyone else. He doesn’t part much when he pulls away; he stays close, foreheads nearly touching.

“If threats won’t work,” he says, lips brushing against yours with every word, “then I’ll simply try a new tactic.”

When he kisses you again it’s what you’re used to from him, all heavy and hot, his tongue delving into your mouth eagerly. You feel the need to gasp for air within seconds, but he never gives you enough, and always leaves your head spinning.

You wish you could hold out and let him work himself up trying to get you to respond. But it’s as if your very bones cry out for him now, as if your blood sings for his attention. You return the kiss in kind despite the lack of air, coaxed into it without him even trying, only spurred on by each sharp-toothed nip to your lips and suck to your tongue. Soon enough, however, your lungs begin to burn, and you tear away from him to pant desperately, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.

Never deterred, his tongue darts out to lick up your chin—you’d been drooling, you realize, and your nose wrinkles at the thought that he apparently hadn’t had his fill of your spit even with a kiss like that. Then he nips at your cheek, hard enough to make you jolt in his lap, which in turn causes that hand on your legs to press you down against him, though none of those things give him pause as he kisses down the line of your jaw.

His hand tilts your head back now, or perhaps it falls on its own, baring your neck. Your eyes flutter closed and your breath hitches as his teeth graze your pulse point, the barest hint of pressure, followed by an open-mouthed kiss, both of which are accompanied by his other hand dragging you closer against him.

Dottore’s gloved fingers are deft (when are they not, you ponder fleetingly) as they slide up your thigh to dip beneath the ridden-up hem of your dress. His thumb finds its mark first—he dips it between your folds, trailing up through the wetness there to slick it before brushing higher against your clit. Already that has your breath hitching, the sensation of his leather gloves against you there always odd; when he presses more firmly, in quick little circles, you gasp and squirm in his hold, your hand instinctively flying to clutch at the wrist that disappears under your skirt.

“My lord—”

He turns his thumb just the right way to have you keening, bucking up against him and turning your head into his arm. His hand has moved from your neck to your back, and he uses it along with a grip around your thigh to pull you up until you’re straddling him entirely. All the while his thumb never stops; the motion has pleasure steadily building in your core, golden-warm and only getting hotter. You can feel how wet you’ve become already.

“We’re still talking, pet.” He might be, but if he thinks you’ll say a word then he’s sorely mistaken. “I’ll draw a confession from you somehow. Perhaps if you phrase it as a demand, you so love to give me orders. What do you want from me?”

That free hand slides further down beneath the nightdress, cupping your ass briefly before sliding higher. It drags the dress with it to reveal the entirety of your legs and presses against the small of your back, urging you to grind harder against his hand, sending white-hot sparks throughout your body.

It’s a slow and steady task, working you up to the edge, but he throws himself into it with vigor. Soon enough you feel yourself coming towards it, climbing up so high you can see the peak, almost inevitable.

“What do you want?” Dottore asks again, and you shake your head in mindless refusal. His thumb dips down to slick itself again, sending a shiver through you as the pad presses just barely into your pussy and brushes over your folds on its way back up to your clit.

You nearly lose control over your voice when it returns with a vengeance, hard and fast, just on the good side of painful. He knows your body acutely well by now; can feel every twitch and writhe, hear every bitten-back moan and breathy whimper, rewarding you for them all until you can feel just how close you are to tumbling off into bliss.

His thumb stills. You whine, struggling against him, determined to get that final bit of stimulation and push yourself over the edge, but the attempt is futile. His hold on you is steadfast; you feel the high fading, desperation seeping in.

“What do you want?”

Not enough for that.

“I want you to make me cum,” you demand petulantly, fingers digging tighter into his arms.

It earns you a disappointed little click of his tongue. You’re forced to sit like this until you’re pulled entirely from that precipice, the sensation bringing tears to your eyes as you bite back a wet sob.

He takes the time to release his grip on your thigh and lift his gloved hand up. The black leather shimmers in the light—you hadn’t realized how wet you were—and he takes his time bringing it up to his face to lick it clean with meticulous fervor.

Then he reaches out, placing the very tip of his thumb against your lip.

“Bite,” he commands, so you do, teeth catching hold of just the folded leather over his skin. He pulls his thumb away, tugging his hand free entirely with the glove left dangling from your mouth.

The glove is removed from your mouth to be replaced with two of his fingers. Even you so rarely get to see his bare hands—you have many more chances than most, to be sure, but it’s always a treat—and you open eagerly to allow them entry, sucking, swirling your tongue around them and grinding down against his lap for stimulation.

Soon enough he’s pulling them out to lower his hand and ease a finger into you. If he’d kept up his rubbing at your clit that would have been enough to bring you over, you think miserably, back arching at the feeling. It fills you up so much better than your own. His thumb returns, warmer and softer and so much more intense without the leather.

Already he’s building you up again, starting off harder than before, prodding at the rim of your cunt with a second finger once you stop clenching so tightly. His other hand moves, reaching up to the thin strap of your top and tugging it over your shoulder. It allows him to free your breast, peaked in the chilly air of the room; still gloved, you squirm when he brushes his thumb against your nipple, then pinches lightly. The mild pain makes you jolt—he takes that moment to lean in and suck it into his mouth, at the same time pulling his finger from your cunt and pushing it back in with the second.

Dottore’s arms don’t hold you anymore, you keep yourself balanced on his lap by clinging to his shoulders. His still-gloved hand slides in to squeeze at your other breast as his teeth graze your nipple and his fingers assault your cunt. It’s all too much, too quickly; you throw your head back and he lets out a muffled groan as the motion presses you further into his mouth.

When you’re openly moaning he can tell you’re nearing the end again. With one final nip at the tender skin of the underside of your breast, he pulls away just enough to speak.

“What do you want?” he tries again, but you can hear it in his voice now—the heady lust, thick on every word. His fingers don’t stop their movement at first, not until he seems to remember what his intentions are, and even then they only slow.

Before he can remove them you reach down to grab his face in both hands and pull him up to kiss you. He returns it with the same vigor you give him; his fingers delve back in, pressing deep and full, thumb coming up to rub at your clit again, and you cum hard.

The wave that washes over you has you moaning into his mouth. His free hand leaves your breast to find your back, big and warm between your shoulders, pulling you even closer as you buck into his still thrusting fingers. Your whole body is buzzing, hot pleasure coursing through you.

You go limp against him when it finally subsides, breaking the kiss, boneless and satiated as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He eases his fingers out of you; you clench involuntarily as they exit, whimpering a little and receiving a soothing rub from just his thumb between your shoulder blades for your troubles.

For a long moment you let him hold you like that. Panting, shaking in the aftershocks, you cling to him and he rearranges your dress for some semblance of modesty, pulling the front back over your breast even as he continues to leave sucking kisses to every available part of your shoulders and collarbone and neck. His hands trail across your body, greedy and groping, less to calm you and more to take full advantage of how limp and pliant you’ve become.

And perhaps it’s because of that, or perhaps being satisfied has put you in a more agreeable mood, or perhaps you simply want to reward him for being so weak to you (because, certainly, all those many months ago when you’d first come to him cold and desperate, he wouldn’t have been so lenient), but you give in.

“I want you to court me,” you say, muffled against his shoulder. The moment the words pass your lips you feel him relax beneath you, tension fading from his shoulders. Dottore says nothing, however, and so you continue. “I want to be your lover in actuality, rather than because of an arrangement. I want you to give me treatment because you care for me—I want you to fuck me because you care for me, not because I owe you a willing cunt.”

“I care for nothing, you simple creature.” Still, he shifts beneath you, and for the first time tonight you feel him hardening against your thigh, brought on not by you cumming on his lap but by your confession. “Tenderness is beneath me.”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” you tell him smugly, just to be a brat. “You gave in just now because you do not care for me at all. In fact, this entire conversation was initiated by you because you were completely satisfied by our arrangement, and it didn’t make you seethe every time you thought about my affections being faked to avail myself of your—”

He interrupts you by sinking his teeth into your neck, just a few centimeters above the scabbed-over bite he’d given you earlier, and you break off with a wrecked moan as you fall limp against him. You claw at the back of his neck in retaliation; a poor attempt, as it only seems to rile him further. He laps at your weeping wound for a moment before fixing his mouth to your pulsepoint and setting about leaving another kind of mark.

When he finally pulls away you can feel the low throb of blood blooming beneath your skin, his heavy gaze burning against you as he stares. For a beat he’s silent, and then he’s leaning in to lick at your neck more, hot tongue running over every blemish—you’re quite certain more of your skin there is stained than not, angry black and blue and purple beneath the surface. The wide, low neck of the dress gives him ample access.

“I will allow it,” he finally mutters, muffled with his mouth well occupied.

“Hm?”

“I will court you,” he clarifies, low and annoyed at having to say it. “Though make no mistake, it is entirely for your benefit.”

“Of course. You have no desire whatsoever for courting.”

“Careful, pet.” He shifts you now, positioning you more comfortably on his lap. “If my hearing were worse, I might think you were asking me to throw you out and let you return to your quarters alone for attendants to dote on you rather than me.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You expect him to return to his work with you dozing away on his lap—it would hardly be the first time—and wiggle, shifting against him to rest your head against his chest. Eyes fluttering shut, you settle for the many hours to come.

And then you’re jolted back into the world of the waking when he stands, taking you with him.

Yelping, you scrabble for purchase, grabbing at his shoulders as they shake with mean snickers, but he doesn’t go far. A moment later your back is hitting his desk and he’s sweeping his piles of papers aside to lay you out on the solid wooden surface.

For half a moment, Dottore stares. Those eyes drink in the sight of you—chest heaving as you catch your breath after the scare he’d given you, pretty nightdress pooling at the top of your thighs, which are still trembling from the shattering release he’d drawn from you earlier.

“Epsilon is overseeing the transfer of your belongings to my chambers,” he tells you clinically. “You’ll live there from now on.”

“Oh,” you say, all breathy, sounding more than a little brainless even to your own ears; your mind is admittedly still a haze of endorphins and, stupidly, the giddy high from your newfound status. His hand is soaked with your cum, slick as he grips your jaw and turns your head toward him to look at you as you struggle to keep your heavy lids from closing.

“I don’t imagine they’ll be done for quite some time. In the interim…”

He lets go of your face to bring his hands to the hem of your nightdress and shove it up over your stomach, nipping just beneath your navel as he kneels down.

And then his tongue is sliding through your folds, big and hot, and he’s latching lips to your clit in a sucking kiss that has you gasping and your back arching and your hand flying to grab at his hair. When he pulls away the look on his face is smug; his hands pry your thighs from around his head and pin them to his desk with a strength you’ve never hoped to fight back.

“Perhaps I can draw out a true confession if I bring you to completion a few more times.”

With that Dottore buries his face back into your cunt, and you let your head fall back with a soft thud against his desk.

[boyinatown]

GOO KIM, THE MONEY LOVER

Warning - ❪ ♡ ❫ : Minors dni, heavy explicted smut, Cockwarming, Begging, Sub x Dom, Reader is Female, Sadist x Masochist!

Pairing - ❪ ♡ ❫: Dom Fem Reader x Goo kim! sub

NSFW ! ❪ ♡ ❫

small intro! :

Goo kim loved his Money, he's selfish and won't share what is his. he always had a high image of his self, feeling a God complex. Like he's above all the Low life people..

Then why is it that a woman like you spurred these feelings deep inside of him, making him beg on his knees? kissing your ankles and the top of your feet. trailing all the way up till he reaches your thighs.

his eyes looking up at you with desperation, and your cold cruel eyes taking in his pathetic teary form. interwining your fingers into his hair tugging him up closer to your face. stopping him before he kisses your lips making the poor millionaire pout.

Cockwarming - ❪ ♡ ❫

everytime you sunk down on his lap no matter how many times you did it, the blondie always cries when you finally connect together after hours of teasing and edging. he wails hiding his face in your shoulder sinking his fangs on you. gripping your thighs scared you might move up again. you wipe away his tears and tell him he's doing so good that you can feel his dick twitch with excitement.

be careful not to tease this sweet energetic Blondie to much, or he might actually start dominating you, taking whats rightfully his and not caring about the concequences all he needs is to be buried deep inside of you. Pump pump pump his warm cum inside of you watching it drip out slowly as he's panting happy above you with a toothy grin showcasing his small fangs.

Masochist and Sadist- ❪ ♡ ❫

even though he was the second most feared man around, he was desperate to have you tease him. only sucking the tip of his cock while he's tied up not being able to thrust up or move. it stings it itches, he's trying so hard but your cruel.. poor guy's cheeks go red and a lot of whimpering falls out.

' i'll be good! i promise, please please touch me right!'

' am i not touching you right, goo? that upsets me i'm trying my best you know..-'' your voice teasing him further while making a sad face on purpose. but your getting turned on when you see tears falling down.

'no, no it's amazing..i just h-aaah want you more..'

and you oblige after all he's been nice and good, always coming back on time and getting you gifts so why not?

Reward - ❪ ♡ ❫ :

after you're done teasing him the blonde pins you down in the flash of light, his glasses hanging low and reflecting his tears. you lift your hand up to wipe them but he grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head. he starts biting on your neck and down your collarbone. you breathe heavily and he just smiles continuing his marking.

he gets back up looming over you with a mean smile, and puts your panties in your mouth to silence you.

' now it's my turn to tease you, pervert.'

I know i know it's waaaaay to short, but ivé been way to busy so..take this instead?

Goodbye y'all i'll see you soon i guess, stay safe ❪ ♡ ❫

[cherrykasugayama]

Fleeting Memories

Kenshin struggles to overcome his grief after the death of his wife, straining his relationship further with his children. He became detached and distant. (Part 3)

Warning: Heavy angst, bad daddy Kenshin, unnamed MC

Children: Uesugi Takeru, 13 years old, Uesugi Ken, 13 years old, Uesugi Sakura, 5 years old

Part 1

Part 2

.........

The night pressed down heavily, wrapping Kenshin in its suffocating embrace. His body twisted on the futon, his face damp with cold sweat as the dream seized him.

He was there again.

The room was too quiet, suffused with a silence so heavy it pressed against his chest. The dim lantern light flickered, casting shadows over the crimson-stained sheets. She lay motionless on the futon, her breaths shallow and weak, her pale face framed by strands of damp, dark hair.

Kenshin knelt beside her, his hand trembling as he held hers. It felt so small, so fragile—like it might shatter at the slightest touch. Her lips moved, but no sound came at first. He leaned in closer, desperate not to miss a single word.

“The boys…” her voice was a faint whisper, each word forced out like it carried the weight of her life. “They’re too noisy… aren’t they?”

He shook his head vehemently, his other hand smoothing her hair back. “They’ll be quiet. Rest, please.”

A weak, fleeting smile touched her lips. “I’m glad… Sakura will never be lonely.” Her gaze drifted toward the corner of the room where the midwife cradled the swaddled bundle. The infant let out a faint cry, so small, so helpless.

“She’s strong,” Kenshin whispered, though his voice cracked. His throat tightened painfully. “Like you.”

Her fingers weakly gripped his, and her glassy eyes locked onto his with a sudden intensity. “Promise me…”

Kenshin’s heart clenched. “Anything. Just hold on—”

“Promise me you’ll… stay with them,” she murmured, her voice a fragile thread unraveling. Her grip slackened, her head tilting slightly to the side. “Even when it hurts…”

“No,” Kenshin pleaded, his voice breaking. “Don’t—stay with me—”

Her body trembled, her chest rising with one last, ragged breath. And then… nothing.

The silence returned, cruel and deafening.

“No.” Kenshin shook her, his hands desperate to bring her back. “No, no—this can’t—” His cries filled the room, raw and broken, mingling with the infant’s helpless wails.

But her body was still. Her warmth began to fade.

The midwife’s soft voice called out hesitantly, “My lord… the child…”

Kenshin tore his gaze from his wife’s lifeless form. The baby in the midwife’s arms squirmed, her cries sharp and insistent. His heart twisted at the sight—a new life in his world, born from the death of the woman he loved.

Outside, the muffled laughter of his sons drifted in from the garden, their voices bright and oblivious to the tragedy that had just unfolded.

Kenshin clutched his wife’s hand tightly, his tears soaking into her sleeve. His world collapsed around him, the weight of his grief suffocating him.

---

Kenshin bolted upright, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest heaved as his eyes darted around the room, desperate to anchor himself in reality. The faint flicker of the lantern cast long shadows, but nothing chased away the lingering ache.

His hand found the small sake bottle beside the table. With trembling fingers, he poured a cup, swallowing it down in one bitter gulp.

But no matter how much he drank, the ache in his chest never dulled.

Why did I agree to bring her back?

---

The soft creak of floorboards echoed down the dim hallway. Kenshin’s cold gaze narrowed as Ken stumbled forward from the opposite direction.

Even in his half-asleep state, Ken was undeniably handsome, a reflection of his father’s striking features. Both shared the same messy blonde hair and sharp eyes that can terrify people with a single glare. However, Kenshin’s spotless robes and upright posture were a stark contrast to Ken’s loosely draped yukata, slipping off one shoulder like he had rolled straight out of bed.

Ken mumbled as he shuffled past, “Father—morning.” His voice was thick with sleep, his squinting eyes barely registering Kenshin’s presence.

Kenshin’s voice broke the silence. “Pitiful.”

Ken stopped, swaying slightly, and turned with a groggy, “Huh?”

Kenshin’s piercing gaze swept over him, a chill settling in the hallway. “Your appearance is a disgrace. Straighten yourself before someone sees you.”

Ken blinked slowly, then smirked faintly, “Didn’t know you cared so much about fashion.”

Kenshin’s expression didn’t shift, his silence heavier than words. He stepped past Ken with measured strides, his cloak swishing lightly, as if to emphasize his authority.

Ken yawned loudly, stretching as he watched his father disappear into the shadows of the corridor. “Man, whatever,” he muttered, tugging his yukata half-heartedly into place before continuing on, as unbothered as ever.

---

Sakura’s room was already alive with noise.

Wooden tops, dolls, and small trinkets lay scattered across the tatami. In the center, Sakura knelt, humming softly as she rearranged them.

Ken appeared in the doorway, hair disheveled and eyes half-lidded. He leaned against the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Sakura,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep, “what are you doing at this hour?”

Sakura lifted a small wooden doll, her face bright. “Sayori’s awake!”

Ken squinted at her, his expression unimpressed. “Sayori,” he echoed flatly. “Right. The doll.”

“She was in the rain. Takeru left her there.”

Ken grunted, sliding down the doorframe until he was sitting on the floor. His head lolled to the side, blonde hair falling over his closed eyes. “Figures. Takeru’s a menace.”

Sakura giggled. “Did he do stuff like that before I was born?”

Ken cracked one eye open, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Worse. You’re lucky you missed it.”

“Tell me!” Sakura scooted closer, hugging Sayori tightly.

“Let's see... ah, we got into a fight once,” Ken said, his voice still monotone but his green eyes glinting with faint amusement. “He was so mad he threw my toy into a tree.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Right? He’s got a mean streak.”

From the doorway, Takeru’s voice cut in, calm and even. “I seem to remember someone threw my toy into a pond first.”

The soft clink of bowls echoed as Takeru placed a breakfast tray on the low table.

“It was an accident,” Ken muttered, looking away.

Takeru arched a brow. “Really? I thought it was because I made Himeko cry.”

Ken’s ears turned pink, and he glared at the floor. “That was different.”

Takeru smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “I heard Himeko will be visiting in a few days.”

Sakura gasped, her hands clapping together. “Really? Himeko’s coming? I have to show her Sayori! And my new room! And—”

Ken cleared his throat sharply, cutting her off. “Eat your breakfast first.” He rose from his slouch and shuffled to the table, his expression a little stiffer than usual.

Sakura grinned as she plopped down with them, eagerly accepting a bowl of rice from Takeru.

Ken sat across from her, eyeing her doll. “You know, it’s a miracle Sayori survived this long. After everything Takeru’s done to her.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Takeru said flatly.

“You left her in the rain,” Sakura reminded him, hugging the doll protectively.

Takeru exhaled, rubbing his temple. “That was an accident. I was carrying all your things when you moved into the castle. Remember?”

Ken snorted. “Dropped Sayori, huh? That tracks.”

“She slipped out of the bundle,” Takeru said defensively, though there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “I didn’t notice until the next morning.”

Sakura studied him intently, her expression serious. Finally, she placed Sayori beside her rice bowl. “It’s okay. She forgives you.”

Takeru let out a small chuckle. “Good to know.”

Sakura fumbled with her chopsticks, managing a single grain of rice before the rest tumbled back into the bowl. Her brows furrowed in frustration, and she tried again, earning the same result.

Ken leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “How were you eating before you came here? Were you just chasing rice around the table?”

Sakura pouted. “No! Sasuke made me something special to use.”

Ken raised a brow, glancing at Takeru. “Something special?”

Sakura nodded proudly. “It’s called a ‘spoon.’”

Ken snorted softly. “A spoon? What a weirdo.”

“He’s a genius! Sasuke carved it for me out of wood,” Sakura said, attempting to scoop rice again, only to drop half of it onto the mat.

“I liked the spoon better,” she pouted. “It was easier than these.” She held up her chopsticks with a scowl. “I never dropped anything.”

Ken smirked faintly. “Sounds like cheating.”

“It’s not cheating!”

“It is,” Ken replied curtly. “No wonder you’re struggling now.”

Takeru reached across the table, gently adjusting her small fingers around the chopsticks. “Thumb here. Hold them like this.”

Sakura mimicked his grip, her brows furrowed in concentration. The chopsticks wobbled uncertainly.

“You’re making it harder,” Ken said, shifting closer to help. “It’s easier if you let the bottom one rest against your ring finger—like this.” He guided her hand quickly, his tone more gruff than gentle.

Takeru leaned his chin on his palm, smirking. “Look at you. *Brother of the Year.*”

“Fixing your bad advice,” Ken shot back, though his tone lacked venom.

Sakura’s tongue peeked out as she attempted another scoop. This time, the rice stayed between the chopsticks. She gasped in delight.

“I did it!”

“See? Not so hard,” Ken said, giving her a small nod.

Takeru feigned offense. “I softened you up for success.”

“No, you didn’t,” Sakura giggled, taking another wobbly bite.

Ken slouched back, his smirk faint. “Takeru always makes easy things harder.”

“Shut up and eat,” Takeru muttered, though warmth flickered in his eyes as Sakura beamed at her newfound skill.

“Will Father eat with us today?” Sakura asked suddenly.

The question dropped like a stone in the room.

Ken’s smirk disappeared, and Takeru’s chopsticks hovered over his bowl for just a second too long.

“He’s busy,” Takeru said lightly, though his tone lacked its usual teasing edge. “Maybe next time.”

“It’s been a week,” Sakura murmured, poking at her rice. “He hasn’t eaten with us since I came here.”

Ken shrugged, glancing toward the doorway. “Father’s just... not a morning person.”

Sakura’s face brightened a little. “Like you.”

“Exactly,” Ken replied curtly, though his gaze flickered with guilt.

Satisfied, Sakura returned to her breakfast, gently moving Sayori so she could “eat” alongside her.

Takeru glanced at Ken. Neither of them spoke, but the same thought lingered in their minds.

---

Once breakfast was over, her brothers departed reluctantly, dragged away by the weight of their lessons and training. Left alone, Sakura stayed in her small room, curling her legs beneath her as she worked. In her lap rested a block of wood, and with painstaking care, her tiny hands carved away at it, shaping the fragile form of a crane.

Beside her, Sayori the doll leaned quietly, as if standing guard. Her silent presence was enough to make Sakura feel as though she wasn’t truly alone.

She remembered something Takeru had told her once—his voice warm as he held a paper crane in his hands.

“Cranes are symbols of hope and happiness,” he had said with a small, wistful smile. “Mother used to love them.”

The memory lingered like a fading echo. Sakura had never met their mother, but the idea of her love for cranes filled some quiet part of Sakura’s heart. Maybe if her father saw this crane, he would feel something too. Maybe he would smile. And maybe… maybe that would be enough.

Still, fear gnawed at the edges of that hope. She couldn’t give it to him herself. What if he didn’t like it? Worse—what if he threw it away?

Her hands tightened around the small crane, fresh cuts stinging against the rough wood.

“Sasuke,” she called softly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

The shadows in the corner of the room shifted, and within moments, the quiet ninja appeared, crouched low with his usual unreadable expression.

“What is it, princess?”

Sakura hesitated, then carefully held out the crane, her fingers trembling slightly.

“Can you… can you give this to father?” Her gaze dropped to the floor, words spilling out hurriedly. “But don’t tell him it’s from me. I think he’ll hate it if he knows.”

Sasuke’s eyes flickered toward the faint red marks along her small hands. His stoic expression softened, though only slightly.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” he said quietly, accepting the crane with a nod.

Relief bloomed across Sakura’s face, the smallest glimmer of hope rising to the surface.

“Thank you, Sasuke.”

He said nothing more but tucked the crane into his robes and disappeared as silently as he had arrived, leaving Sakura to sit quietly with Sayori, watching the door long after he had gone.

---

Kenshin’s study was cold, papers lay scattered across his desk, waiting for attention he could no longer give. His thoughts drifted, tangled in shadows he refused to acknowledge.

When Sasuke entered, silent as always, he placed the wooden crane carefully on the desk.

Kenshin’s sharp gaze flickered to it, his brow creasing.

“What is this?” His voice was as cold as the room.

“A gift,” Sasuke replied, his tone even but laced with something softer.

Kenshin’s fingers brushed the crane, tracing the uneven shape. Its edges were rough, the wings unbalanced, carved by unpracticed hands. The imperfections stood out like glaring faults, but… there was something in the way it had been made. Something that made his chest ache.

His hand lingered a moment too long.

“It’s crude,” he murmured, turning the crane between his fingers.

“Crude, but heartfelt,” Sasuke said quietly.

Kenshin’s expression darkened, the vulnerability in Sasuke’s words pressing too close to something buried.

“I have no need for such things.” His voice was harsher than he intended. He placed the crane near the edge of his desk and returned to his papers, dismissing the moment as if it hadn’t mattered.

But as he moved, his arm brushed against the delicate figure.

The crane slipped.

The sharp crack of wood splintering rang out, loud in the quiet room.

Kenshin’s eyes flicked to the floor, where the crane now lay—one fragile wing broken clean off.

Sasuke’s gaze hardened faintly, but he said nothing. Bowing, he slipped out, leaving Kenshin alone with the fractured gift.

For a long time, Kenshin stared at it. Then, as if the sight disturbed him, he turned back to his work, though the ache in his chest lingered like an unwelcome guest.

---

That evening, Sakura crept down the dimly lit hall, her small footsteps barely making a sound. Her heart pounded louder than the soft taps of her feet.

She didn’t belong in his study. She knew that. But something pulled her forward—a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the crane had made him smile.

The door was slightly ajar.

Sakura peeked inside, her eyes scanning the room. Her breath caught when she saw the crane, lying on the floor, broken.

The soft creak of the door as she slipped inside felt deafening. She knelt carefully, gathering the fractured pieces with trembling hands.

Her tiny fingers traced the jagged edge where the wing had snapped, and something in her chest twisted painfully.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to the fragile pieces in her hands, though her voice shook. “I can fix it. Maybe next time… he’ll like it more.”

Her words barely held back the tears welling in her eyes.

Behind her, Kenshin stood just beyond the door, unnoticed.

He watched her small figure hunched over the broken crane, her shoulders trembling as she held it close to her chest.

His mouth opened as if to speak—an apology, perhaps, or something softer—but no words came.

Instead, he lingered in the silence, then turned and walked away, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.

In the study, Sakura gently held the crane’s pieces, pressing them together as if her tiny hands alone could mend what had been broken.

---

The next day, the Takeda delegation arrived with a lively procession. Himeko and Oujiro leaped from their horses, their faces lighting up as they spotted Takeru and Ken.

“Takeru! Ken!” Himeko called, her voice bright.

Ken groaned, stepping back instinctively. “She’s here…”

Takeru smirked, patting his brother on the shoulder. “Try not to look too happy.”

Himeko ran up to Ken, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Ken! Did you miss me?”

Ken blinked, his usual composure slipping. “Uh, sure.”

Himeko narrowed her eyes playfully. “Sure? That’s all I get?” She poked his chest. “Come on, admit it. You missed me.”

Takeru laughed, stepping in to save his flustered brother. “Ken’s bad with words. He probably dreamed about you every night.”

Ken shot Takeru a glare. “Don’t make me hit you.”

Himeko grinned, undeterred. “It’s okay, Ken. I already know you’re shy.”

From the sidelines, Shingen groaned dramatically. “Why does my daughter chase after that boy?”

Kenshin stood beside him, his expression as stoic as ever. “She’s bold for a girl.”

“Too bold,” Shingen muttered. “And that boy—he doesn’t even pretend to like her.”

Kenshin glanced at Ken, who stood awkwardly as Himeko tugged on his sleeve. “Does he?”

Shingen sighed heavily. “I hope not.”

---

The children gathered in the garden, their laughter filling the air. Sakura clutched Sayori tightly, watching the lively scene unfold.

“Takeru!” Oujiro yelled, brandishing a stick. “Let’s duel!”

“You’re on,” Takeru replied, grabbing his own “sword.”

The two boys clashed, their sticks smacking loudly against each other.

“You’ve gotten slower, Oujiro,” Takeru teased the younger boy, dodging a wide swing.

“And you’ve gotten cocky!” Oujiro shot back, lunging forward.

Behind them, Himeko was in relentless pursuit of Ken, who was trying to maintain his usual aloof demeanor.

“Stop running!” she demanded, her face flushed.

Ken stopped suddenly, causing Himeko to crash into his back. She stumbled, catching herself before glaring at him.

“You did that on purpose!”

Ken raised an eyebrow. “You told me to stop.”

Himeko huffed, crossing her arms. “You’re impossible.”

Ken smirked faintly. “You’re persistent.”

From her spot, Sakura giggled.

Himeko turned to her. “Sakura! Come play!”

Sakura hesitated, clutching Sayori. “I-I don’t know how to play like you…”

Himeko knelt in front of her, smiling warmly. “Then we’ll teach you.”

Oujiro chimed in, “Yeah! Come on, Sakura!”

Encouraged, Sakura stood, holding Sayori close. “Okay… but can Sayori come too?”

“Of course!” Himeko said brightly, taking her hand.

---

The night was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth as Kenshin and Shingen stood in the quiet of the warlord’s war council room. The earlier talks of alliances and military strategies had faded, leaving only the lingering weight of unspoken matters between them.

“Kenshin,” Shingen began, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “We’ve known each other for years. And I know you’re not as heartless as you want the world to believe.”

Kenshin’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he kept his focus on the flickering lantern by his desk. “I don’t pretend to be anything.”

Shingen’s expression remained calm, but there was an edge to his words. “You do. And it’s hurting them.”

Kenshin’s posture stiffened. “They’ll be stronger for it.”

“They need their father, not a shadow,” Shingen countered, his gaze locking onto Kenshin’s. “Sakura—she’s trying, Kenshin. She’s trying so hard to make you happy.”

Kenshin’s hand paused over a scroll, but he didn’t lift his head. The image of the broken wooden crane flickered unbidden in his mind.

“She’s terrified of you,” Shingen said plainly, the words cutting deeper than intended. “Afraid that if she steps wrong, you’ll turn away from her for good.”

Kenshin’s breath caught for a fleeting second, but he forced himself to stay still. “She doesn’t understand,” he said, though the words felt weak the moment they left his lips.

“She understands more than you realize,” Shingen replied gently. “Children… they see everything, even the things we think we hide. She carries the weight of your grief like it’s her burden to bear.”

The room fell into a long, strained silence. Kenshin’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the paper too hard.

Shingen stepped forward and placed a steady hand on Kenshin’s shoulder. “It’s not too late,” he said quietly. “She’s reaching for you, Kenshin. Reach back, even if it’s small. A word, a gesture, acknowledge her. Let her know you see her.”

Kenshin lowered his head, the weight of Shingen’s words pressing harder than any battlefield defeat. “I don’t know how,” he admitted, so softly it barely reached Shingen’s ears.

A faint, knowing smile tugged at Shingen’s lips. “You’ll learn. If not for yourself… then for her.”

For the briefest of moments, Kenshin’s cold exterior cracked, the flicker of something long buried surfacing in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and Kenshin turned away, stepping back into the shadows where he felt he belonged.

As he walked past, Shingen exhaled, watching him with a quiet shake of his head. “Stubborn fool…” he muttered, though his voice carried a note of hope.

---

In her room, Sakura sat under the dim lantern light, carefully trying to mend the broken crane. It has been days and she have yet able to fix it. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she whispered, “It’s okay. I can fix you.”

Outside, Kenshin lingered, his heart heavy with unspoken words. The faint light from her room spilled into the corridor, a fragile beacon in the darkness of his world.

But once again, he turned away, unable to face the hope in her tiny hands.

[eruisapenguin]

The Tragedy That is Humanity

I have this WIP rotting in my doc for a while, felt like it's better to post it here instead of letting it become bonemeal.

Scarlet Child AU

———————

Your first thought was, it's suffocating.

The weight of the world pressed in, heavy and oh so suffocating—you were unable to breathe, lungs refusing to tear itself and draw air for you—panic started to settle deep like a blade to a wound would. It burns.

Then, something shifted. The weight lifted, the pressure broke before you, and your chest heaved as you gasped in the cold air so thick it felt foreign. Still yet the burning ache persists, holding you down with a simple wish of hope it would last forever.

The newborn’s—your eyes opened, gleaming with an unsettling light; ancient and innocent, terrified and commanding, familiarity and of naivety. With a blink, you remember.

Above you, the blue sky darken in reverence. Clouds unravel themselves apart in recognition of yourself. The wind whispered silent prayers and howled their pleas; nature bowed their heads to welcome your presence. Concrete crumbling to dust whilst the ground trembles below you.

An infant’s first wail echoed throughout the world. It was yours, why are you a baby? Did you die and be reincarnated into another yet cruel existence? You didn't remember dying. Life rips you away only to place you into another, what use could it have of you? To remember your previous life? You cried and screamed. It's unfair.

That life, you led it with ordinance, as another gear in a machinery that is society, replaceable and unworthy. Yet here; you could feel it wasn't the same. The earth responded when your cry pierced it, you’ve unknowingly sunk your soft, tender fingers into it like it was its purpose all along: to bend by your will. Why must it be you?

There was a corpse besides you

Mother

What has life turned you into?

Soon, when a pair of arms descends to carry you, darkness threatens to slip. You last wondered who your mother was.

—

It wasn't hard to notice whoever brought you to, wherever here is, was nobody normal. At first it looked like a very depressing hospital, then you’ve gawked at the obvious, enormous, SCP fucking Foundation logo in the wall for an unhealthy amount of time the person in charge of you started to look at you with an odd expression. Nothing's wrong here, yep.

Anyways, they put you inside a cradle—where the bed is surprisingly comfortable for your vulnerable baby skin. The Foundation has been…oddly kind…even though you kinda, caused a whole natural disaster as soon as you were born.

Dramatic much, you. And, it has been a few days and the facility hasn't burned down yet because of you. So, good job! You’ve been coping pretty well too—as good as a person who was reborned into a fictional world that is. By coping you mean repressing it, eh, you can always let it out by screaming at your poor caretakers.

Time passes fast when you're a baby. Napping and mostly dissociating when not, does that, you guess. You don't have to worry about being a little odd too, since you're an anomaly and all. It's been more than three months and you're able to sit up now. Good grief, it's tiring to lay down all day. The doctors started giving you toys to play with; you've taken a liking to throwing it at them and laughing—you heard them muttering things that this is supposed to be impossible but expected from an anomaly.

The next week they replaced it with balls made out of soft, rubbery material. They're slippery and you absolutely hated that fact, the only way you could play with it is by rolling it around. Your caretakers nodded in approval. Soon, you countered their attempt by learning how to somehow manipulate it with your own sheer fucking will. The throw was far harder than what you could do with your own hands. You relished the unassuming intern’s face when they saw your ball floating in the air only for it to smack them right in the head.

They immediately took them all away from you, two hours after the incident and now you're left with nothing. Fuck. You're bored as is and they're taking your only stimulations away??!

“No! My ‘oys!” You started wailing with the strength of a godly baby. The woman—who you have come to recognize as the baby expert here, dropped her jaws and had to physically use her hand to close it. Maybe it's because you just spoke when you're still like, about five months old or maybe it's something else; eh, serve her right though, for taking your stuff.

A man crouched right besides you, not liking the calculating gaze he has. “You can speak,” said him, not posed as a question based on the tone but a fact.

You respond by mustering up the best glare a baby can do.

“You can understand our language well.” And he nodded, what the fuck, why is he talking as if you're an alien. Wait, you are. In their eyes that is.

“Pak ‘ouhf.” Legendary, damn you lack of teeth. He arched one from over his stupid blocky glasses. “Where did you learn that?”

“You mum.” Clearly that was yet another answer the researcher doesn't expect.

After a few seconds, he sighed, “what about we bargain?” Oh? And it seemed like he noticed your interest.

“We will give back your toys—as long as you don't throw it at anyone again. Mhm?” Your baby face stretched to a grin as you exaggerated a nod. “Buh! No balls. I wan puzzles.”

He stared at you for a long time before darkening his expression, hah! As if you’d be intimidated. “Remember,” he started, “use it to harm, we will confiscate it and start limiting your privileges—” you have privileges? “—am I clear?”

A small price to pay, deal.

[sticktopia]

Happy Accidents (RocketPrincess AU)

When a drunken one-night stand leaves Mango with an accidental pregnancy, he has to figure out how to keep his secret safe. Turns out, it's easier said than done when the baby's other parent is literally his boss.

Chapter 14

Victim sighed as they sat at their desk, face buried in their hands. They took a moment to calm themself down. Once the hollowhead could think clearly, they began to reflect on the day.

“I was sure I had it down by now.” They sighed. It’s been a whole month since Vic learned that Mai was his daughter, and they thought they knew everything they needed to care for her properly. The hollowhead began to look back. Remembering the night the truth was revealed to them.

^^^^^^^^^^

“She is my daughter… By the creators, I have a daughter…!” Victim gasped as they held the baby girl tightly. Smith let out a breath of relief as Victim held their daughter.

“Yes, Mai is your daughter.” Smith sighed, plopping down in a chair and rubbing his face tiredly. Victim hummed before a thought came to mind.

“Wait, if Mai is my daughter, then who attacked Mango?” Victim asked, sternly.

“Loan sharks. Apparently, Mango was seriously indebted to them. So they went to “Collect their prize”.” Smith explained, his gaze falling to his folded hands. “They were going to take Mai from him.”

Victim felt their blood begin to boil. How dare those leeches take advantage of Mango? How dare they milk Mango for every last penny he owned? That must have been why Mango was so stressed and trying to earn more money. Hell, it was probably even the reason that Mango came back to work so early into his paternity leave.

“Which one?” Victim growled. Smith glanced up at his boss.

“”Scuse me?”

“Which Loan shark?” Victim demanded, anger seething through his tone.

“It was Shark sir. He and some of his underlings broke into the house and tried to kidnap Mai.” Smith said. Victim scoffed. Of course it was that bastard. Victim had run into him a few times before. He was one hell of an asshole. Victim then began to speak.

“You know what needs to be done.” Victim growled, venom dripping from their voice.

“Yes sir.” Smith nodded, pressing the pin on his lapel.

“Hazzard, do you copy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you detain them?’

“Detained and unarmed, Just waiting for the command.”

“Blow their heads off.”

“Of course.” Smith cut the line, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Creators, this isn't how I thought Mai’s first Birthday was going to go.” The agent sighed.

“Well, I guess life has its own cruel humor.” Victim hummed. Mai suddenly began to fuss in Victim’s arms, softly crying and squirming. The hollowhead tenses as the one year old began to get grumpier.

“Um,” Victim’s anger quickly melted into panic as Mai began screaming again. Smith silently stood and held his arms out for Mai. Victim paused for a moment. They honestly didn't want to hand their daughter over, but they didn't know what to do. So they reluctantly handed the wailing child over to the agent, who took the girl into his arms. Agent Smith then began bouncing her and patting her back.

“Shhhh, sshhhhh, You're ok princess. Uncle has you.” He whispered to the child, nuzzling her and calming her down. Mai calmed to a sniffle.

“Papa…” She wept.

“I know, I know you want Papa. But Papa is… Sleeping. You gotta sleep too Princess.” Smith tried to usher the baby to sleep, but she fought him.

“Noooooo Papa!” She cried again. Smith sighed before going to the carseat, grabbing the crocheted blanket and wrapping her up in it. Mai slowly calmed down, she began to close her eyes.

“There you go.” The agent said as he placed her in the car seat. However the second he put her down, she cried again, squirming and freeing her arms from the swaddle and reaching for agent Smith. The CEO and the agent jumped as she burst into tears again.

“Ah, no no it’s ok.” Smith said as he picked her up again. As he held her, Mai quickly calmed down. She leaned into his shoulder, sniffling and whimpering.

“Strange, she was fine being put down before.” Smith hummed.

“It may be the fright from earlier. She must not want to be alone.” Victim observed.

“Mmm, yes that makes sense.” Smith said, patting Mai’s back. Victim watched as the agent hushed and soothed Mai. Victim knew he shouldn't be, but the sight before them made them feel bitter. They were Mai’s other parent. They should be the one comforting their daughter. Jealousy began to fill Victim’s heart when they realized just how much time everyone got to spend with THEIR daughter. It was then Victim decided that they were going to start playing a much bigger role in Mai’s life.

^^^^^^^^^^

Victim sighed as he sat at his desk glancing over to the bedroom door. Mango still hadn’t come out. They wondered if he was napping with Mai, or maybe she didn't want to be put down again. Victim debated whether or not to go in and check up on Mango and their daughter, but decided not to in fear of accidentally waking the sleeping princess, or even waking Mango if he was resting as well.

Victim sighed as they contemplated more. They thought about the day they announced to the company that Mai was their daughter. Oh the mixed emotions from the employees were… Something.

^^^^^^^^^^

The halls seemed to buzz with rumors and gossip as Victim stood with Mai on their hip. They were watching as the movers moved Mango’s belongings into their room. They could hear the whispers, hear their employees daring each other to go talk to them. Curious, yet afraid to ask.

“Sir,” Smith’s voice drew Victim’s attention. “Mango’ and Mai’s things have been set up. It’s ready for them.”

“Good.” Victim said as he adjusted the child on his hip. Mai cooed and squealed.

“Baba! Baba!” Mai squealed, nuzzling Vic’s shoulder. Victim couldn't help but smile.

“Yes, Baba is right here.” They chuckled as they kissed her forehead. The sudden sound of running footsteps caught their attention.

“The hell was that?” Smith muttered.

“Gossipers.” Vic sighed, rolling their eyes. “Oh well. At least they will do my job for me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh they’ll just tell everyone else that Mai is mine.” Victim chuckled as they ticked the girl, making her squeal with joy.

“Is that really a good idea?” The agent asked.

“Is what a good idea? Those people telling others that I’m Mai’s sire?”

“Yeah. I mean, won’t there be a lot of… controversy?” Victim thought about the agent’s words. They never considered “controversy”. To their knowledge, Mango is a well respected employee at the company.

“I do not believe I follow.” Victim said, adjusting the squirming child on his hip once again.

“Well, some may believe that there may be favoritism. Considering that Mango had moved up the ranks so quickly, and now you have a child with him.” Smith mentioned. Victim hummed as they processed the information.

“Those are good to consider.” Victim mumbled. “However, it will be found out eventually. It would be better to rip off the bandaid now rather than later.”

Within minutes, Victim was swarmed by employees asking various questions. Many asked them if he and Mango were romantically involved and planned to keep Mai’s heritage a secret forever, others asked if Mango baby trapped Victim. Of course, all the wild theories were denied and disproven. But it was almost startling how dark and morbid the workers got considering Victim and Mango’s relationship.

^^^^^^^^^^

Victim paused as he thought about that. Their relationship with Mango. What even was it at this point? They are parents to the same child and that was it right? They were simply working together to take care of their accidental offspring.

But… something caused Vic to sleep with Mango that night, despite how drunk they were. Was it because he was there? Or was it because Victim had been drawn to the technician for his great skill prior to meeting him at the party? Victim thought about the reasons for a while. But they eventually drew a blank. Slowly, their thoughts were drawn to the present. They don’t know why their drunken self felt that way then, but how did their sober self feel about Mango now? Truly, the admiration was still there. Mango is a hard worker, hard workers are always admirable people. Mango is cool. He makes Victim smile and feel comfortable when they speak., and he seems to like that Mai is calm with them as well. It’s just a casual co-parenting relationship. Nothing less, nothing more… Nothing more…

^^^^^^^^^^

Victim watched from the window as Mango sat in the med bay, eating with one hand and holding Mai in the other. The tot had refused to leave her papa, wailing if anyone tried to take her. The CEO couldn’t help but feel bad as they watched Mai begin to fuss and cry, causing Mango to stop eating to tend to her. Victim’s legs suddenly moved on their own, taking them to Mango’s bedside.

“Fussing again?” Victim hummed as they stood next to the bed, hands folded behind their back.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, this is normal.” Mango nonchalantly responded, bouncing the girl while patting her back. Victim hummed as they watched.

“Allow me to take her off your hands for the moment.” Victim suddenly said. Mango chuckled a bit, causing Vic to tilt their head with a bit of shock and confusion. “Did I say something funny?”

“No um,” Mango cleared his throat. “Pivot tried to take her earlier. So I don't think she’ll be all too fond of being taken at all.”

“Well, i am her sire. So i have a higher chance of success.” Victim mentioned. Mango hummed at the statement.

“You have a point. But Mai hasn't interacted with you all that much either.” The bedridden technician mentioned. Victim hummed, nodding their head slightly.

“Though that is true, it does not hurt to try. I am sure you would like to eat your lunch before it gets cold, correct?” Mango mulled over Victim’s words before sighing.

“Alright alright. You can try.” Mango said as he adjusted Mai, making it easier for her sire to pick her up without issue. Victim carefully reached out, gently grabbing the one year old under her arms and lifting her from her carrier’s hold. Mai fussed a bit, but relaxed before too long.

“You are ok princess. Your sire has you now.” Victim said as they held Mai. Mai fussed a bit but eventually relaxed, Mango’s body physically relaxed as he let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank creators.” He breathily chuckled. Victim couldn't help but lightly laugh with Mango.

“See? I told you she would be fine.”

“Maybe I should hand her off to you more often.” Mango snorted, giving Victim an odd look. Whatever that look was, it made Vic’s chest feel tight. Like there was a large cat sitting on it. They could also feel their face begin to feel hot.

“Baba?” Victim looked down at the tot in their arms. She looked back up at them with large curious eyes. Her tiny hands suddenly cupping his face. She smiled and giggled, tapping his flushed cheeks. Victim smiled fondly as Mai nuzzled them.

“Ah, thank you princess.” Victim chuckled. Mai squealed a little more as Vic cooed her.

“You wanna take her for a bit?” Mango suddenly said. Victim paused and looked over at Mango once again.

“Pardon?” Victim asked.

“I'm asking if you want to take her for a bit.” Mango repeated. “I haven't been getting much sleep lately and Mai has refused to be with anyone else… Well, until now I guess.”

“I… I have never… taken care of a child on my own before.” Victim slowly admitted. Mango hummed at Victim’s answer.

“Well that’s not good. You're gonna have to learn how to take care of kids now that you're a dad and all.” Mango hummed. “I could teach you if you’d like.”

Victim could fight the smile on their face as they sat on the bed mear Mango.

“So, where do we begin?”

^^^^^^^^^^

The hollowhead could feel their cheeks getting hot as they remembered those days they got to spend with Mango one on one. They reflected on everything from the day they met mango to now. Victim had never thought that this would ever happen. They didn't think it was possible for them to make a connection with another stick. As the hollowhead thought about everything he felt about Mango, he realized that these feelings also translated over to his right hand man, Smith.

The agent had been working for Victim for as long as they could remember. He always completed his tasks or missions, and sometimes kept Victim company. He also seemed to be able to read Victim’s mind. Able to anticipate what Victim needed or was going to say. It was like Smith had looked into their soul and knew everything about them. That was part of the reason Victim decided to tell Smith about their past. They trusted the agent with their life. And at the time, he was the only one. But now Mango’s in the picture. Victim wondered if Mango would reach the same status as Agent Smith.

 As Victim further contemplated their relationships with his head Agent and Head technician, they couldn't help but wonder; “Is this what real friendship was like?” The CEO quickly turned to their monitor, fingers gliding skillfully across the keyboard as they looked up; “How do I know if I am friends with someone?” Victim carefully yet swiftly scanned the page, looking over every bit of information it had to offer to them. The more they read, they began to feel a flutter in their chest. Friendship. They have friends! Not to mention a daughter. The thought of companions made Vic smile. They weren’t going to be as alone as they thought they’d be.

A sudden knock at the door caught Victim’s attention, pulling them from their thoughts. Vic quickly composed themself before calling out to the person on the other side of the door.

“Enter.” They said in their usual monotone voice. The door slowly swung open, revealing the head agent.

“We have returned sir.” He said, approaching the desk. Victim nodded.

“And what do you have to report? Has the Chosen one been captured?” Victim inquired, chin resting on the back of his hands.

“Unfortunately not sir. He got away… again.” Smith growled. Victim sighed as well.

“It seems the hunt is still on then.” Victim sighed as they leaned back in their chai. The search on their monitor then caught their attention. Their eyes flicked over to The agent, who stood searching the room with his eyes.

“Are you looking for Mai?” Victim suddenly asked. Smith seemed to jump as Victim asked. His pale face suddenly turned a shade of red as he turned his head away.

“A bit.” He admitted. “I expected her to be here but she isn't. Did Mango take her back?”

“Yes, he did. She was fussy so Mango took her to nap.” Victim said, referring to the side room. “I do not know if Mango is napping with her, but he has not emerged from the room since taking the little princess.”

“Duly noted. I’ll check on them.” The agent said as he walked toward the door.

“Agent.” Smith paused and turned back to Victim.

“Yes sir?” Victim hesitated as he looked back at the screen. Taking a breath, Victim spoke.

“Would you… Consider us to be friends?” Victim asked, trying to stay casual. Smith arched his brow and walked back to Victim.

“I would.” He says simply. Victim hummed as Smith then stood next to the desk. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.” Victim said as they quickly closed out of the tab before the agent saw it. “Now, what about me and Mango? Do you think he is my friend?”

“Allow me to answer your question with one of my own. Would you consider Mango to be your friend?” Smith asked. Victim paused as they processed the agent’s question.

“Yes.” Victim said. “I think… I think Mango is a very good friend. He is very welcoming, despite everything I have done to him. Not to mention that he took time out of this day to teach me how to take care of our daughter. It is admirable how kind and forgiving he is. His thoughtfulness makes my soul feel light and warm. That must mean he is a very good friend. I am glad he is my friend.”

Victim looked back up at Smith who simply gave them a blank stare. Victim furrowed his brow as this was an expression he had never seen on Smith’s face before.

“Agent? Are you alright?” Victim said, reaching out to touch him. But he took a step back.

“I’m fine.” Smith said, clearing his throat. “Um, good to know you think Mango is such a good, good friend.”

Victim’s brow furrowed more as Smith turned and swiftly walked over to the side room.

“I’m going to go check on Mango.” Smith said before Vic could speak. Soo, the agent had disappeared into the room. Victim stared at the door for a moment longer before sighing.

“He must be exhausted from the hunt. I will have to give him a break.”

Chapter 13-(Chapter 14)-Chapter 15

[mako-neexu]

the way nobu says "unfair fate" especially the "fate" part was just so powerful my wounds are still so fresh even to this today.

the way he says it with a desperation, with an absolute strength of triumph, pouring his all into voicing a man who has walked the path of unforgiveable flame sparked by love and ended by love, a man who defied anything and everything that stood in his way, a kind man whose weakness is those he treasured near his heart, and so only those near his heart are the only ones able to break him apart, this compassionate man who embraced his fate in a new life where he is once more a cursed vengeful demon, no longer human with the power to stop his path but simply and wholly handed the leash round his neck to the light he saw amongst the trees one night, atop the first tower of despair, and down at the dungeons where he was able to save a tiny little light and live long enough for it to bloom into a dazzling star.

he says it with so much conviction, with so much raw emotion, belonging only to this man who loved and loves so much.

its only to that blue soul the Avenger cries out, its only to that sole comfort of his that he declares that they kill him, that they put him down so they could continue, its only to his one and only that he declares this cruel act to be done, as its foundations are made with the purest feelings of love and adoration. yet even with the words mentioned above, it does not give it justice to how Monte Cristo truly and deeply feels.

the closest word the describe it would be "madness". his love is so deep and unfathomable that it wouldnt be strange to call it "madness". he willingly chooses to embrace this madness, even at the cost of his self destruction... all of it, all of it just to help that star i love reach the place where it wanted to go and what it wanted to do.

his voice actor.... i think he knows this too. from the beginning until now, he studied how that Avenger feels especially this year where the flames have left the stage.

thats why the light reading felt so incredibly raw and true. his voice was so powerful and it must have echoed throughout the place....

it was a sorrowful wail of a demon and a triumphant laughter of god.

but ultimately it is a cry by a man who both held onto his love and hate broken by having met his one and only comfort in this world.

[the-nysh]

Trimax vol1: when our 'Hero Returns' and it's all fun n games til shit gets real meeting a very messy meaty moral dilemma, just what is Vash to do?!

Context: when Vash busts in guns blazing to stop a steamer siege + hostage situation between two warring factions of a city from escalating into a bloodbath. His purpose: to save lives and prevent any more deaths, fueled by his ongoing belief and sworn promise in Rem's memory to protect all those she sacrificed her life to save. Where it's smooth sailing til Vash encounters his most difficult roadblock: a grieving father who's dead-set on killing his daughter's murderer (ch6: 'Sin') A very painful but brilliant test challenging the extent of Vash's beliefs and how far he'll go to 'save.'

And why does this dilemma hurt so good? Because at that moment, with a flash of recognition stopping Vash dead in his tracks, he realizes all their pain and anger, driven into the need to enact justice for the death of a family member, is exactly the same. *record scratch* Oh shit...

"This bastard killed my daughter!" vs "That monster killed Rem!" The father taking matters into his own hands, wanting to personally punish [the sinner] to avenge his daughter, parallels Vash's thoughts (Trigun vol2) towards Knives for [the sins] of killing their mother Rem! :O

Where their shared pain, urgency, and justifications to send (him) to hell--down to even the very language used (that 'animal'/'monster') are no different. Even Vash's own words 'you stubborn old fool! Just who gave you the right to decide?' (who lives or dies) ironically come back to bite him hard. That Vash instantly realizes he has no 'higher moral' grounds to speak here... There's nothing he can say or judge the man for being driven by the same feelings to pick up a gun that've kept him alive for so long! So what can he do? How can Vash possibly interfere? Cause even Wolfwood knows how often those who'd never fight will take up arms for the sake of lost loved ones. So being confronted with this situation almost mirroring his own with Knives, does it make Vash reconsider his whole life's motivations thus far? Now that he sees just what it's like from the perspective of an outsider?? Ohhh what a mess!!

The sequence of him remembering back to Rem & Knives, weighing everything that's at stake full of inner conflict and hesitation, is brilliant as he slowly lowers his gun...

Cause if the weight of the killer's crimes bears any resemblance to Knives, then Vash concedes, almost dropping his head in regret and shame--cause he understands the father's difficult situation quite well! Having pointed his own gun towards Knives with the same intent before... Would stopping this man from enacting his revenge right now, invalidate all of Vash's feelings on his quest to punish Knives too?! hrgghhh....he can't do it. Even if allowing this 'exception'--this 'justified' death to happen before his eyes, clashes with his promise to Rem??

God, the sequence of Vash's expression internally warring with himself over what he should do...as the killer pathetically wails and pleads for his own life in increasing desperation, begging right in Vash's face for someone to come save him....urrrghh the pressure is SO hard, so difficult!!! ;o; Cause there's no easy 'right' answer here.

What makes this dilemma hurt even more, is how Wolfwood even warned him about tough situations like this beforehand. About the necessity of making quick, cruel, pragmatic choices in timely matters of life & death. Where if someone's bound to die in the equation, and if Vash keeps on inserting himself into it without choosing to save himself, then he must be prepared to take the hard route (the darker role) of killing someone else in exchange, if anyone is to be saved or make it out of this alive at all. As to him, it's humanly impossible to save everyone, so a tough decision must be made, or wallowing in indecision helps no one.

But the thing is...Vash isn't so naive or clueless (as Wolfwood thinks he is) that he needs to be lectured about matters of life & death. He knows; he's always been serious about that, saving people in his own way for longer than Wolfwood's been alive! And it's not just him recklessly jumping into the fray, fueled by only his promise to Rem without considering the repercussions of what he's doing; his resolve goes deeper than that. He personally understands the gravity of loss, so he's not about to coldly treat other people's lives so lightly like throwaway tools or equations to write off either--he's not about to let them die, so long as he can help it. But whether or not you consider this selfish of him to decide other people's right to live (with second chances) is another matter. He repeatedly chooses to get himself so involved because he knows if he stands by and does nothing at all to help then no one gets saved! He doesn't need Wolfwood to tell him that...

[So really, the crux of his moral dilemma doesn't really hinge on matters like 'killing is bad/wrong!' (as it seemed the 98 anime tried to portray here) or even on the grayer subjectivity whether the killer even deserves to live for his crimes - cause if Vash didn't agree or empathize with the father's pain (understanding his side, his choice), he'd have already shot him by now (in the shoulder or leg somewhere) to 'save' the killer, just as he warned beforehand: 'don't give me a reason to shoot you.' But since Vash realizes it's not his place to make that kind of judgement call, especially when it's too difficult to remain objective with clear 'absolutes' in cases like this when things turn complicated, he can't simply shoot anyone here either.]

So what else can he do? If he still wants to do things ~His Way~? In the end, what drives Vash to make a decision still comes down to that choice of inaction vs action (where walking away--as even Wolfwood insisted they do to save themselves from getting dragged in, is also an option), cause Vash knows that if he simply idles or gives up now without doing something in time, then no one gets saved--and THAT would betray himself the most.

And so...(he can't not do Something!)

(The way he already has tears in his eyes feeling ripped apart over this...)

"Don't you dare judge me by your high and mighty standards! What do you know about my pain?!" .......Oh what cruel irony, because that's the other thing--Vash does know. How much it hurts. :') He may not have lost a daughter but he does understand the pain of losing a mother to the point of aiming a gun enraged at the perpetrator all the same...he's not 'judging' the father for any of that either...

So all Vash can really do here....is hold the man's gun (in silent sympathy and understanding--he's not even forcing it away! just...holding it) as he bears the brunt of the father's venting anger and punishments upon himself. Taking a violent beating in place of the killer's [sins] *gasp* how very Christ-like...

In the end, the father is allowed to grieve and vent all his pain and frustrations without killing anyone--he is saved from becoming a cold-blooded killer. And Vash is saved from having to betray himself with the weight of a preventable death literally on his hands. A merciful but messy result still so full of pain unhealed on all sides, but no one died--everyone can walk away (in custody) to live another day, humbled and perhaps changed by the experience... (But who can say for sure? That's probably beyond anyone's power to know.) If anything, whatever 'faith' resonated between their shared pain, in a connection (or moment of regret? weakness? especially once the killer started begging for his own father to save him, ouch) that ultimately stayed the father's hand from pulling the trigger, Vash acknowledges it saved them both...

With this result, I feel the whole thing illustrates Nightow's message from his Comickers Art Style interview:

When life and death come into the picture, the story inevitably becomes heavy. …There is a conclusion I’ve come to while constantly confronting the story. In the end, I think people hurt and take lives because they don’t know enough about each other. If they knew each other well, the weight would be significantly different. …Vash ended up being portrayed as an existence that perceives [that] from the perspective of a crawling existence. (One who lives long, directly interacting among people and feeling the existence of the other party with his skin as he continues to wander.) …In the end, I think that knowing, conveying, and connecting with each other for everyone is a power that restrains various forms of violence. The word ‘family’ in Trigun contains that meaning. And in the end, the thing that pierces the heart the most when you understand others, is pain, isn’t it?

Where that's basically what happened: Vash choosing to intervene and connect (in understanding) through that human level of pain...ultimately restrained the killing blow. :') Even the Doc's relevant comment this chapter about how far Vash is willing to go, and get himself hurt, for the sake of saving those he considers 'family' (beyond blood)...I feel that means, if Vash could closely relate and see the father as fellow 'kin' through their shared pain...he went that far intent to save the father (rather than the life of the killer) from committing another terrible sin they'd both regret...it all feels connected to what Nightow wanted to convey...

I also wonder how much of this experience, connecting and empathizing with the father's situation here, affected Vash's future encounters with Knives, on whether he restrains the killing blow towards him the next time they meet as well.

And while I think Vash choosing the martyr approach to literally bear all the pain (and sins of humanity) directly on his skin wouldn't be sustainable if he were a regular human who'd probably be long dead by now--so the fact that he's not, makes a huge difference towards how long he can effectively keep this up. As his way becomes exceedingly difficult to sustain in the long run (so there's truth in Wolfwood's perspective as a human, knowing Vash's way to save can't always hope to work out--eventually somebody will have to die.)

But in the end, Wolfwood (who still thinks Vash naively looks at the world thru rose-colored glasses) cautioning him about needing to commit towards that hard choice (about killing somebody) one day, rings with the most foreboding feeling ever...(with as much 'subtle' foreshadowing as the panel of Wolfwood standing across from an open coffin this volume...Nightow please...)

[mousy-nona]

All of God's Angels p. 3/5

I think you will like His newest creation, Gabriel mused. I’ve foreseen a challenge for you. An equal. A partner, tall and beautiful and terrible, and crowned in red. // Or Lucifer tries to save a life, and ends up making a deal instead.

All parts up on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53800450/chapters/136173307

Contrary to popular belief, Lucifer hadn’t always hated humans. Truth be told, he still didn’t. He was disappointed in their bloody, chaotic, meaningless choices, but he didn’t think they were all bad. 

Humans fought. They felt. They changed. They dreamed. Angels, on the other hand, were like static figurines, perfect from inception, nothing but boring old tools meant to forge the Father’s holy vision. 

Was it little wonder why he was so drawn to Alastor? On the outside, the demon was everything he despised about humanity. He was cruel and sadistic to the extreme, selfish and cutthroat. Hell had been made to contain sinners like him. He was exactly why Lucifer regretted setting Eve free — the embodiment of greed and pride and pain for the sake of pain.

But he was also everything Lucifer loved about humans. The ingenuity. The ambition. He could sing like the goddamn stars and whip out a sonnet or two after. He was genteel and sophisticated, with a quick wit and a silver tongue sharp enough to cut the Devil. And he was already starting to change – not a lot, not at his core, but the gentle atmosphere of the hotel and Charlie’s endless optimism were softening his hard edges. 

A monster and a gentleman. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, for the price of one. Had there ever been a more fascinating man? 

He could not die. He could not die. Not now, not when Lucifer had just found him. 

But oh, Death was close. Lucifer could feel his scythe trembling nearby, ready to swing. This injury…even in the dim light of the fireflies, he could see it ran to the very heart of Alastor. Literally. His chest gaped open where Adam’s blast had run him through, exposing him down to his very bones and his twitching cardiac muscles. An inch to the left, and he would have never walked away from the battle. An open heart, flayed open for all the world to see! 

Good Lord, the strength it must have taken to walk around as if nothing was wrong. Lucifer shuddered, blanching at the mere thought. If their positions had been reversed, would he be able to do such a thing?

(No. He wouldn’t.)

“This isn’t a freak show, my good fellow,” his radio static came from the darkness, somehow, impossibly, still measured and even. “If you’ve got an opinion, now’s the time to share it.”

“Y-y-you–” Lucifer shook his head, annoyed at the stutter. How was he the one showing weakness when Alastor was laid up in bed with his chest carved in half? “It hasssn’t healed at all!”

He stopped abruptly at the hiss and felt his tongue. It was forked. What the Hell? Slowly, he reached up and felt his head…where twin horns protruded from under his hat. 

He’d transformed? When? 

With an effort, he managed to shrink himself back to his normal shape, puzzled at his complete lack of control. That kind of behavior was unlike him. 

“I assumed that’s what you were here for,” came the exasperated reply. “Considering angelic power is your area of expertise, not mine.” 

“I’ll need to come closer–” 

“No need. You can see perfectly fine from where you are.” 

“I can’t help you if I can’t see!” Lucifer snapped.

“Then leave.”

Static and green symbols flashed across the room. The muggy warmth of the bayou turned ice cold as a surge of shadow swept the door open. It banged mournfully on its hinges, letting out a ghostly wail of protest. 

Lucifer straightened, feeling his own fire flicker in response. “Do you really want to die so badly? Why are you being so goddamn stubborn?”

“Why. Are. You?” 

Twin radio dials lit up the far corner with a hellish red beam. Lucifer could see Alastor’s face in full for the first time – and it scared him. 

He wasn’t scared for Alastor. He was scared for himself.

Alastor was grinning. It was the smile of the void, the smile of the shadow and the dark and the monster beneath your bed a second before they struck. It was the smile of a Dealmaker, right before they revealed their hand. Somehow, impossibly, it was Alastor that held all the cards – even though it was Alastor who was knocking on Death’s door. 

How? How the Hell was he doing it? 

And maybe something was deeply wrong with Lucifer, but he found himself leaning forward, a shock of affection washing over his long-dead heart. This was what it meant to be human. This is why he gave Eve the apple. 

All that potential. Finally realized.

Then Alastor said it. Those famous last words. “Let’s make a deal, shall we?” 

Lucifer gulped, his heart beating double time. He was sure Alastor could hear it. “A deal? For my soul?” He was torn between laughing incredulously at Alastor’s sheer gall and fighting the urge to finish the job Adam had started. Did he even have a soul to give?

(Why was he even considering it?)

“Why no! Why must everyone jump to such severe conclusions?” The fucker sounded downright jolly. “Just a gentleman’s agreement, that’s all. A promise for a promise. No souls involved!” 

“And why should I agree to that? I’m trying to help you.” 

“Yes, that’s true. But you seem rather…insistent on this healing business. And while I must admit I’m in a hurry to, ah, be whole again – I’m in no hurry to do it your way!”

Lucifer gaped. “You must be joking. You’re bleeding out in front of me!” 

“A small miscalculation. I’ve gotten out of worse scrapes before, I assure you.” 

Was he bluffing? Was he serious? Try as he might, Lucifer couldn’t get a read on him. Alastor was like this – always half-there, a shadow that flitted away every time he tried to get close, defying reason, defying explanation. 

Would he really risk death – just to one up him? 

Lucifer didn’t know. And Jesus flipping Christ , why did that excite him so much?

There was no reason for him to play the Radio Demon’s games. He could leave. He could leave right now and he opened his mouth to tell that smug, no-good asshole exactly that –

But what came out of his mouth was, “What kind of a deal?” 

The air turned hot and sticky. Shadows swirled around him, barely-there faces licking their chops in anticipation. Alastor’s voice seemed to grow and deepen, his presence so thick it was a wonder Lucifer didn’t choke on it. “Like I said before, just a promise. You get to heal me, and I – well, I haven’t quite decided what I’d like to receive in return.” His smile was neon green and eager. “Perhaps you’ll take a carte blanche?”

The bastard wanted a blank check to cash in on a rainy day. That was dangerous. Lucifer would basically be handing him the keys to the castle. He couldn’t agree to this. 

“There must be something you want,” he tried to reason with the beast. “Power? Wealth? Your enemies destroyed, in a matter of seconds?” 

But Alastor, that black-hearted creature of the deep, shook his head. “My bargain, my terms, your Majesty . What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

He should leave. He needed to leave . But he could still hear Alastor’s lifeblood drip drip dripping away on the floorboards – see every beat of the man’s heart pulse against the muggy bayou air – sense Alastor’s power ebbing at the edges, being spun away into nothingness that even his jovial facade couldn’t hide…

Alastor had upped the stakes with his life. And Lucifer wasn’t quite willing to take that wager. 

“On one condition. I choose the method of healing. You aren’t allowed to fight me on it.” 

Alastor pondered those terms for a minute, then held out his hand. 

“We have a deal.” 

[jesters-constantly-writing]

Kerian and Blaise comfort when Blaise has a schizophrenic episode love youuuu❤️

A/N: ANOTHET SUGGESTION BY MY AMAZING GIRLFRIEND I LOVE YOU TOO HUNNNN <33 I HOPE YPU LIKE THIS IM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG :(

CW: Schizophrenia episode, descriptions of hallucinations, panic attacks, descriptions of dead people, mentions of serial murder, etc. (pls tell me what else I need to add to these :3)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort (I’m cooking with this genre lately gang)

Synopsis: Blaise, a troubled boy, doesn’t quite understand what’s around him. What’s real or what’s not. Good thing he has his boyfriend to help, hm?

Pls tell me if I wrote anything wrong I’ve never written someone with schizophrenia or anything of the sort and would appreciate any tips you’re willing to give me <33 their dynamic is actually based on a post from here on Tumblr (I think I’m not too sure) but I don’t remember who posted it or anything, all the same shoutout to them 🙏🏻

(This image was created with ElenaA's Kiss Crew

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Blaise! Come here for me?”

Blaise perked up from his place on the couch. He looked around…. Where was he? He looked around, confused… wait where was—

“Blaiseeee??”

Right. Home. With Kerian…. Home with Kerian. That’s where he was…. How could he have forgotten that? Then again, he wasn’t really in the moment, was he? He was too busy listening to the constant—

“Honey?”

“Coming!” He stood up and began to walk to the room, ignoring the images of past victims around him. Crawling toward him, grabbing onto his leg to drag him down. Moaning in pain. Wailing and screaming at him. Cursing his existence.

He shook his head. It was nothing. When he made it to the room, he was greeted by his boyfriend. He looked at the blonde as he looked over, his bright green eyes shining at him….

He was always so nice to him….

Too nice.

Way too nice.

Something had to have been up. Then again, why would it have been? He would’ve done something by now if he was up to something. And… he honestly didn’t want to believe the subconscious part of his brain. He outright refused. Because this was the boy who had understood him the most in this cruel world.

“What do you think of my writing?” Kerian gestured him over, Blaise obediently coming over without a word. He stared at the writing, looking over it time and time again. His hands subconsciously tapped against the table, his leg shaking under the table as well.

The time he spent reading…. Seemed longer than it should have. Of course, that was normal for Blaise. He didn’t comprehend much of what he as reading—at least the first time around. It’s been like this ever since he was a kid. Sometimes he’d find himself zoning out whenever he read. Didn’t help with the screaming he could’ve sworn he heard. He thought Kerian heard too and just… didn’t question it.

….Wait. Was he—

He blinked a couple of times and then looked at Kerian, who stared at him expectantly. He knew it took Blaise a bit to process it, which was fine to him. Blaise looked back at the screen again, trying to read as quick as possible before turning back to face his boyfriend.

“It looks fine.” Blaise said, his tone laced with no emotion at all. Kerian frowned a bit and looked at him, leaning against his hand.

“That seems like sarcasm…..”

“…It does?” Blaise asked, genuine confusion in his face. He didn’t mean for it to…. Oh god, what if this was it? Kerian was gonna leave— And mess up his life somehow??? Maybe turn him in??? Maybe— Maybe—

“But, thank you. I know it wasn’t.” Kerian smiled and looked at him, “Well… I assume it wasn’t, at least. That’s just how your voice sounds sometimes.”

“…How my voice sounds sometimes?” He repeated absentmindedly. Was it even his voice? Was he even— What was this? Was he even him? Why did he suddenly feel so detached…. No he. He was real. Right? He had to have been, he just—

“Blaise?”

“I-I’m real!” Blaise suddenly spoke out as he looked at Kerian. The blonde stared with confusion, standing up slowly as he tried to get closer.

“Blaise? Honey, are you—“

“I’m— Fucking real! I have to be, right..?!” Blaise began to pace slightly. Kerian watched, growing worried… He got a bit closer but watched as he flinched away and pace around faster.

“I’m real, I’m re— No. No SHUT the fuck up! Shut it! You’re dead! Am I DEAD?!” Blaise seemed to yell next to him, almost as if a person was there. Next to him. To him there was…. But to the blonde? No one at all.

Kerian watched, then glancing at his face. Blaise seemed… panicked. Really panicked. Scared. Really scared. Why? What had happened? Blaise held his head in his hands, laughing nervously as he tried to calm down.

“…Blaise…” Kerian got closer, finally close enough to touch him. Blaise flinched at the touch and stared at his face intently. His face looked…. Disfigured. It didn’t look like Kerian. It. It was Kerian. He had his voice. But that wasn’t his face.

He heard constant voices screaming at him.

Liar.

Liar!

LIAR!

That’s all he heard. And screams. God those god awful screams. And Kerian’s god awful face. He couldn’t— Where— Who— What—

Even if he was scared, irrationally paranoid about the boy in front of him, Blaise tried to reach out for a hug. Kerian pulled him into his arms and gently crouched down on the floor.

“…Blaise…? Can you hear me…?” Kerian asked softly, looking at him.

“…L-Li…ar….” Blaise stammered softly, clinging onto Kerian tightly, “You’re…. What’s real….?” He looked around quickly, seeing various things around him.

Horrifying things.

Dead bodies—their corpses disfigured, decomposing, and mummified. The horrid screams they let out. Cursing him. Yelling at him. Screaming bloody murder. Somehow, this was all normal to him. All too normal. But why was it amplified? Right now? In front of him?

Now Kerian definitely wouldn’t wanna be with him. He could see it now….

His lovely boyfriend turning on him—like he somehow always thought subconsciously. The thought he wanted to press down. The thought he couldn’t believe. Turning him in for being a serial killer. He would be sent to prison or back to the mental hospital. Or even worse. Killed. Mutilated. Like his victims. He would end up like them. He would—

He felt a hand go on him and he screamed, seeing a decomposing hand on his shoulder. In reality, though, it was just Kerian’s other hand. He stared at him with a worried look, watching as the boy with brown hair buried himself back in the blonde’s neck.

“Make them go away, make them go away!” He practically sobbed. But no tears fell. Kerian stared around them, confused. “I’m real, I’m real— I— Kerian… Kerian…” His voice sounded weak. Very weak. It broke Kerian’s heart.

“Blaise… you’re real….” Kerian spoke softly, which seemed to make Blaise freeze. “You’re real, love…. You’re very real….”

“How do you know that….? I…. I don’t think…. They’re screaming, Kerian. They’re screaming really loud. I can’t… I can’t focus…. Can you tell them to shut up and go away….?” Blaise practically begged, looking at him with panicked red eyes.

Kerian glanced around, his jaw clenching slightly as he tried to find a way to help his boyfriend. A thought suddenly occurred. A memory……

“Y’know… Reading makes me feel comfortable.” Blaise looked up at him, tilting his head slightly. “You reading, I mean.”

“Does it?” Kerian looked up from his book, running hands through his boyfriend’s hair. He hummed gently and leaned against him more.

“Yeah…. It grounds me…. Butterflies are pretty.” Blaise looked at him, smiling a bit. Kerian giggled and looked at him, a little confused on what the sudden topic change.

“I know someone else that’s pretty…”

“You? Yeah, that’s true.” Blaise looked at him and smiled. “You’re very pretty….”

“…I was gonna say you.” Kerian giggled and looked down at him.

The memory ended just like that….

But it gave Kerian the confidence to know what to do next. He grabbed a book slowly and looked at Blaise, who looked around him with fear and genuine panic. He took a deep breath and began to read.

“I never knew what my purpose in life was…. Not until this first case came.”

Blaise froze and looked at him, confusion laced on his face. “That’s not— Tell them—“

“My name was Horoku. I didn’t have much of a purpose in life. Except detective work. My first case was a serial murder case…”

“Kerian! Tell them— You don’t hate me— P-Please-”

Kerian’s voice droned on as he continued to read. Blaise stared at him, his eyes staring at him as he leaned his head against his chest to listen to the sound of his heartbeat. To realize it wasn’t real. Even if they remained there. They weren’t—

The more Kerian read, the more Blaise’s mind seemed to calm down. The more he seemed to feel…. In the moment. The more tired he seemed to get.

Blaise’s eyes shut slowly, the boy curling up against his boyfriend as he read. Kerian continued on before he confirmed he was fully asleep. He smiled and closed the book gently. He did it…. He got him to calm down.

He carefully picked him up and gently put him on their shared bed. He turned off all the lights in the apartment and climbed into bed with him, too prioritized on ensuring Blaise and his comfort.

The brunette leaned into the blonde, hugging him tightly in his sleep. Kerian smiled and kissed his head gently, running a hand through his hair.

“Blaise…..” He whispered and kissed his head again, “I love you….” he gently shook his boyfriend back and forth. He looked at him worriedly one last time before beginning to fall asleep himself.

He’d do whatever he could to ensure his safety and well being. Whatever he could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Heads up!! The King and Queen (the space in my head) do declare that I start a Christmas HC list. Won’t necessarily be stories but I’ll be happy to make stories FROM this list or even specific prompts. Which isn’t much bc that’s my blog as a WHOLE BUT WHO CARES AS LONG AS YALL LIKE IT 💕💕💕 We need CHRISTMAS SPIRIT UP IN HERE ‼️‼️

Anyways!! Always remember!!

You’re Loved

You’re Needed

You’re Awesome

And have a wonderful day/night <33

@jesters-constantly-writing

[spellcasterlight]

Hi @kakashiswilloffire and @kiljoius! Hi, friendssssss! 😁

I legit had to scroll in my Ao3 to find the last non-rare pair. I could not for the life remember what it was 😂 I Need to put this under the cut because it goes longgggggg!

Thanks for the asks! You're both so sweet! 🥰

Ao3 ✨ |Story Request Bingo Cards 📖 | WIP Game Always Open ✒️| Ko-Fi ☕ | Reblog Blog 🟢

So it's [Shino x Tenten] vs [Gaara x Lee]! Fight!

First, Gai is wailing in the stands because he doesn't know who to root for. How did it come to this?! His students are on opposite sides! How is fate so cruel?! Classic. I'm here for it. Bonus points if Kakashi is holding him while he does it, just gently patting his arm and trying not to laugh.

Tenten and Lee square off right from the beginning! Lee, telling her he won't lose! Even if they're teammates and best friends! He will give it his all! He will-! Tenten summons something from her scroll, interrupting him! What weapon could it possibly be?! Why, it's not a weapon at all! It's a picture of their Sensei! Holding the picture up, she speaks:

"If you attack me, Lee, Sensei will be sad." She can see tears in his eyes already; she got him on the ropes! She goes in for the kill. "You don't want Sensei to be sad, do you?"

That does it! Lee is reduced to a sobbing mess, and Tenten throws her arms up in victory before running over to calm her friend down. Trying to yell over his crying about how it was all a joke, she's sorry and begging him to stop crying.

On the other side of the field, I want Gaara and Shino to stand there silently for a long time with Shino's hands in his pockets and Gaara's arms crossed, looking more like they're waiting in line at the supermarket rather than about to engage in combat. Neither of them particularly needs to be physical for their techniques to work, so they could, in fact, stand there the whole time while Shino's insects try to make their way through Gaara's wall of ever-shifting sand.

The only time Gaara moves a muscle is when Lee starts crying. The sound of his lover distraught makes him cross the field, turning back to Shino momentarily to give a grand speech he's so good at about taking care of those precious is more important than anything before Gaara and Lee disappear from the swirling sphere of sand so he can console him.

The announcer sounding a bit confused about what the heck them and the crowd even just watched that clarified as a battle declares Tenten and Shino the winners.

Under the lacklustre applause, Tenten asks Shino if he actually did anything in his fight with Gaara, to which he replies he doesn't think he did.

....But, like, if they had to fight for real, I think [Gaara x Lee] would win, but it would be tough 🤣

[maledictus-maleficus]

@deathshrouded sent:

"Lost another one, did you?" Ereshkigal leans over Winter, eyebrow going up. "You only bother banging at my door to ask for someone back." Not that she was going to give him what he wants. She nudges with a boot instead, head tilting.

"You look kind of pathetic lying on the ground. At least stand up." /deathshrouded

↳ UNPROMPTED | accepting

       Death eventually finds all, that is fact. No matter how desperately he tries to stop it, she will always come for those who are owed to her. He knows this better than anyone, as he has sent them to her time and time again, shepherding them towards their icy fate with cruel precision.

       Yet even he, in all his power over death, could not prevent it from finding those few he claimed. So few had he saved, staining them with his essence past her recognition. These are the ones he could manipulate, mold, and twist into something beyond her reach—just like him. But like so many times before, another beloved slips through his fingers. Another bird meets their doom at the cold hand of death, taken where he cannot follow. So once again he finds himself begging at her doorstep. Again he is found broken and wailing into the endless abyss that refuses to take him.

       “ And they call me heartless, “ He only chuckles bitterly as her boot meets his chin. “ But little do they know that their goddess of death is far crueler than any mortal could imagine. “ Why must she deny him even just these few? He has watched her claim so many, helped her claim some even, but he is still denied this compensation. He has watched countless souls pass before his eyes throughout centuries and eons, while he remains trapped in eternal life.

       They die, but he is left behind. They are gone, and he is once again left with this emptiness and longing. The hollowness grows stronger with each passing loss, an aching void in his chest that may never be filled. Why. Why. Why. Whywhywhywhywhy—

       “ Hey, goddess.. won’t you please let me in? “ His tone softens as begs her, just as he always does. He does not stand when commanded to do so. He remains kneeled at her feet, taking her cold hand in his own. He presses his face against it, nuzzling it reverently like some pitiful beast. With half-lidden eyes he gazes up to her beautifully. With an enchanting smile gracing tear soaked skin.

        “ Won’t you give me your ‘love’, too? Why am I the only one who can’t have it? “

                      If only she would take him too, he would finally know peace.

[superblysubpar]

It Wasn't True 👀 - probably not Pastel

Ask Me About My WIPs

I see you @pastel-pillows , and I love talking about WIPs, so I'm down 💛

*sigh* I started this LAST December. Here's the banner and the first bit, cause again, the vibes just ain't vibing - this one is all about a kingish version of steve, you have some of your own demons, and both of you just wanna get out of Hawkins.

summary: It started with a can of Coke, the hood of a red BMW, and a kiss that shouldn't have happened.

the tune: cruel summer by taylor swift

How could you know the boy in the fancy house on Cornwallis was putting on a show? That he was more empty than that big house - a charade, a character, and maybe just a little worth a second thought. How could he know the girl who lived down the street wasn't satisfied with her life in Hawkins, or Indiana for that matter. 

Lilac dappled across the soft blue sky, a crescent moon peeking out already behind white puffs of clouds, like they were hand painted and then ripped apart by streaks of sherbert orange. It's beautifully reflected in the glass panes of the doors to the Fair Mart, and on any other night perhaps you would take a minute to appreciate it.

Tonight though, your fingers shake as they push open the door, and the beautiful and fleeting sunset disappears and ads for junk food fill your vision in its place. Senses immediately tune into a rumble of the oscillating fan in the corner, a flicker of a fluorescent light overhead, the squeak of your converse against tile, and the pop of pink double bubble in your peripheral.

The bored teenager flicks through her magazine and snaps her gum, droning on without looking up, "Welcome to the Fair Mart. Coke is on sale. Go nuts."

Wandering the aisles, you wonder if tonight is finally the night. The one in which you grab a map, some shitty snacks, a pair of cheap sunglasses and just drive until Hawkins is not even a blip in the map of your life.

Queen plays overhead as you pull your sweatshirt sleeve down over your palms, thundering drums and wailing guitars do nothing to ease rattled nerves as you pause in front of the cooler doors. They hum loudly, like they're working overtime, begging you to please buy the icy cold drinks they've worked tirelessly to keep fresh for you.

Something about the colors of the cans hypnotize you, the reds fade into the blues and the blues into the greens until you realize your vision is growing blurry from tears. Quick to wipe at your lash line as the bell over the door alerts you that you're no longer the only customer.

"Welcome to the Fair - Jesus Christ! Steve, what the hell-"

"I'm fine. It's fine."

Turning to see the boy quickly turn down the candy aisle, a hand yanking a bag of gummy worms, fingers finding a bottle of painkillers without looking. His Nike's squeak to a stop as he rounds the corner and sees you.

Steve Harrington does not look like the kid from school you've heard all the stories about. He's not carrying himself like the boy who's driveway fills with cars and pool with hot girls that you watch from the down the street in a dark and empty house. 

Nose swollen, jaw scraped open and purples and blues swirling around his eye so dark you understand why it's called a black eye now. His tongue sticks out and prods at a cut in the corner of his lips. His eyebrows bunch, loose strands of hair falling over a furrowed forehead as he mumbles, "Wanna take a picture or something?"

Staring, you're staring. "So-sorry," you squeak out and grab a can of something and rush to the counter. Pausing to let your fingers trail over the maps, one for New York catching on your thumb.

Someone clears their throat and you grab the map on impulse, shoving the can of soda and it on the counter. Utterly aware of Steve's towering presence behind you, you try to focus on blondie, who snaps her gum as she rings up your purchases and sighs, "Sure you don't want a second one?" Holding up the can of coke, annoyed by your presence. 

"Oh, uh, I-"

"Here," Steve holds up his own can of coke down and his other two items, throwing a crumpled bill that is way too much money for all of it on the counter. He turns on his heel and stalks out, the slap of the open sign against the glass makes you jump. He sits on the trunk of his car as you watch him with blinking eyes through the glass, the sign swaying back and forth obscuring him partially. 

The clerk snaps her gum again and scoffs, "Good luck with that."

Frowning at her, you grab your items, "Excuse me?"

She looks at Steve, then you again, smirking before blowing another bubble and popping it. 

"Your trip," nodding to the map.