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#fear street layouts
mondlevan · 7 months
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fear street: 1978
“♡” or reblog if you save/use — follow me.
twt: @szamofada
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iconsfilm · 5 months
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sadie sink icons + taylor swift headers PLEASE!!!!
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like or reblog if you save | headers not mine cr to the owners
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pink-horizon · 9 months
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🍊ㅤ ㅤ: ㅤㅤ she's so pretty ㅤིྀㅤ
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♡ ꒰ ◞ ◟ ꒱⌒)ᦱ 𓈒 ૮₍ ´ . ˕ .` ₎ა 𓈒 ⊹ ໒ ꐦ `ヮ ´ ა
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(⁠。⁠ノ⁠ω⁠\⁠。⁠) >ヮ< (。・-・) 𖡎
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jendohi · 2 years
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you better run' run' run'
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deftos · 2 years
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sadie icons <3
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userstuf · 2 years
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★ SADIE SINK USERS ★
• sadieqrl
• sinkfvr
• sadiegrf
• ilovsink
• sinksvr
fav/reblog if u save or use ♥︎ dont repost
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ephemic · 2 years
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sadiesinkfiles · 2 years
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venice 
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headspace-hotel · 6 months
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How would one write a work of horror fiction about Lawns?
I think there may have been a post saying this, but it's stuck with me: just as zombies, vampires, monsters, and serial killers embodied deep fears within culture at the time they were extremely popular, I think the iconic horror monster of the upcoming years might be the Backrooms.
No, no not like in the crappy indie games about the Backrooms, where there are monsters everywhere. I mean like in this youtube video where it is simply a quiet, empty, endless labyrinth of rooms that superficially appear to be human-made, but they have strange, arbitrary layouts and forms, and there is no sign of the essential processes of life—no food, no place to sleep, no recognizable living spaces.
The place itself is the monster. Though it appears familiar and human, it is as fundamentally hostile to human life as the surface of Mars. Though it appears like a place purposefully designed for human needs, none of the basic resources and facilities for meeting human needs are apparent. It is something much worse, much more indifferent and at the same time much more hateful, than an uncaring and unforgiving wilderness.
Imagine, then, a sidewalk bordered by uniform green lawn, running alongside wide stretches of asphalt road. Imagine the sidewalk continuing on to meet other sidewalks, branching and intersecting in strange, illogical patterns. Imagine broad stretches of uniform green under a relentless warm sun and blue sky, no birdsong, no insects.
Imagine green grass with no dandelions, no clovers, perfectly lush and homogenous, surrounded by sidewalks that separate other plots of flat green turf, all perfect, bordering curbs that drop off into roads which stretch steadily toward the horizon, surrounded by sidewalks and green grass, splitting off into other roads that travel through a similar landscape, green and crisscrossed with paths. In every direction, this is all you see.
You keep walking, steadily following the sidewalk. Sidewalks branch and meet each other strangely, sometimes diagonally crossing lush strips of lawn, sometimes pivoting to meet the street and resuming on the other side. Some stretches of road have a broad green median also covered with green grass. In some places, there are neat mounds of black mulch around the base of perfectly trimmed yew bushes. The sun is warm—very warm.
Any perceptible grade to the ground seems to lead to a storm drain, in which there is no sign of water. Water is all you can think about. How long have you been walking? Your surroundings appear the same. You finally notice a stretch of grass that appears to be freshly wet, as though recently watered, and you are nearly prepared to lick any moisture you can collect off the grass blades, but a strange thought stops you.
Why, you think, does this grass appear so spotless, uniform and green...?
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writingmysanity · 5 months
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Commit to the Bit (1)
Pairing: Sanji x Baker!Reader
Word Count:
TW: ummmm nothing really, perhaps slightly creepy man.
A/N: Not beta'd... well, not fully. dying on this hill lol thank you @stray-kaz and @sordidmusings for listening to me ramble about this and helping me find some direction with it, considering I sat down to write with "baker" and a vibe. You're amazing.
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Early mornings were always your favorite. 
The gentle risings paired with the lingering silence in the streets as you wander towards the building resting in center square. Though silent, you're not alone. Wandering shadows linger in groups as the various vendors trickle into the square to begin their daily set up just as the sun begins to kiss the horizon. 
Your family has long since owned many of the buildings in the square. Before the last revolution on the island, your grandparents ruled it with an iron fist. You have since taken over the duties, your grandparents being some of the few taken in the onslaught, your father left with permanent injuries that keep him from working any longer. 
You often feel as if these things should trouble you, the knowledge of what happened. The passing shadows flickering in your peripheral should bring you some sort of unease, even as one darts towards you as you turn the key to your shop. Instead, you turn towards the small body, quickly accompanied by that of his mother, a smile hiding the exhaustion on your face as they call your name. 
“Yes?” stopping abruptly before you, Peter moves to shove a small sack into your hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He is excited, firm in the knowledge that he is often treated to a fresh pastry from your ovens if he behaves. His mother pauses behind him, hand resting on his shoulder as she attempts to hide her unease.
“Our rent,” she states softly. You nod, but she continues. “I understand it is two days late…” she sounds winded, panicked. “I will earn the rest today, I swear.” Slowly, your smile slides from your face as you shove the door open, motioning to the young boy to hurry in. 
“You know where you may go,” you state softly. He takes off like a bullet into the darkness, easily able to navigate the layout by now. You wait until he is out of earshot before you turn back to the woman before you, softening. 
“You owe me no more,” you assure her. She moves to dispute it, but you raise a hand, the glistening light of the dawn making the whole world around you dusty, hazy. “No late fees, no worries.” you assure her. It has only been a year, and still the fear seems to have settled firmly in the hearts of those around you. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forces a kind smile on her son as he comes barreling back out of the shop, arms full of loaves of bread. 
“Peter,” she warns, gently. “That is too much. You are allowed a snack.” Again, you wave her off. 
“They were going to be fed to the birds anyhow.” you assure her. “Day-old bread doesn't sell as well.” she pauses before nodding. 
“Thank you”
Watching as they wander away, you can't help but sigh. Golden rays filter over the open sea, casting the island in brilliant hues of pinks and purples as it chases away the last of the shadows. Steadily, more bodies clamber into the square, limbs clumsy with sleep. The ever lingering scent of salt mixing with the warmth of fresh bread coming from inside the shop. 
Taking a deep breath, you swing around, heading into the building with a smile. 
“Angie!” you call with laughter in your tone as the short red head appears before you. She smiles brightly at you, her normal lopsided smile fading with sleep, her face and hands covered in various spots of flour. 
“You’re late,” she accuses, scrunching her nose to chide at you playfully. Shrugging slightly, you smile apologetically, nodding at the door. 
“Sorry,” you start with a hum, lifting the bag that Peter had shoved into your hands. “I got stopped.” she just nods with a laugh. 
“I saw,” she hums. “Little thing scared me, I thought another dog got in.” 
“Nope, just Peter.” you muse as you go to put the berry away. “Though, I can't say there is much difference.” you both laugh when you catch a glimpse of the cabinet you keep stocked with your day-old goods.
He didn't clear it out, you notice, softening. Angie follows your eyes, smiling softly. 
“I still don't know why you dont sell those.” she hums. “They won't earn as much, but more than giving them away for free.” you shrug, settling on the floor, looking at the remnants as you try to plan what lunches you can make with what is left. 
“We make enough, Ang,” you say softly. “And there are people who go hungry. The island is still healing.” 
She doesn't push. She knows of your guilt, even if there is nothing for you personally to feel guilty of. Your family has done a lot of damage, and she can't find fault in you wanting to fix as much of it as you can. 
“They are doing well,” she assures you, hand resting on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Now if you don't mind,” she grins, winking down at you. “My shift is over. I would love to get some sleep.” laughing softly at her, you nod. 
“You've helped me so much, I appreciate you.” you say softly, standing to see her off. She just nods, wiping her hands to rid herself of as much of the white gloop as possible, heading towards the door. 
“Yeah, yeah,” she calls. “Love you, too. There is a new batch in the oven, don't forget them. I'll beat you if you ruin my work!” she states as the door slides shut behind her. Huffing a laugh, you start loading the fresh pastries and breads into the displays’ as the sun lifts higher in the sky. It won't be long until the market is filled with locals and guests alike. Pirates and marines looking to stock their ships and merchants trying to sell their wares to the locals. 
By the time you finish stocking the first of the pastries, the door dings as it swings open. The distant hum of life swarming the market makes you smile as you rise to greet your first customer. Jeff, your biggest regular, and an unfortunate thorn in your side, strolls in with a large grin. You can't help the slight twinge to your smile, threatening to twist into a scowl. 
“Jeff!” you call as evenly as you're able. “You’re early.” 
His laughter echoes strangely in the small area as he settles into “his” spot next to the window, shifting to rest his heels on the opposite chair as he leans back. Far too used to getting his will, either by throwing money at it or with sweetened words dripping with honey, you have found the man incapable of accepting your favorite two lettered word. His ways may get him places with those of the odd house wife who married much too young in fear of being alone, but you can't help but feel sick when he turns his charms on you. Still, you could do worse, as far as your father is concerned. He is hoping to settle you into a life of luxury, free of having to work yourself to the bone. 
You'd rather work yourself to death than allow him to rest a ring on your hand, though. 
A prize, you realized long ago, is all he views you as. You own land, and by marriage, it would become his own. 
“I couldn't wait to see you again,” he coos, his whole body seeming to lean into his wink as your false smile tugs down at the corners. “I've been gone, haven't you missed me?” he calls loudly. As if you couldn't hear a whisper or the drop of a pin. His boisterous voice makes you cringe. Sighing, you prepare him his regular – a strawberry tartlet and a cup of coffee. 
“I miss the peace.” you grouch to yourself, back turned to him. Even turned away, you can feel his eyes on you, raking down your form. 
You don't have to check to know that the exact amount is already waiting for you on the table top, resting in neat piles. Setting his order before him, you go to pull away to grab the money when his fingers slide over your palm to grab your wrist. Clenching your teeth, you bite back your knee jerk reaction to slap him. 
“When are you going to let me put a ring on that pretty finger, hm?” he asks, leaning forward, his hooded eyes in resemblance of what he believes to be a sultry look. Just as you're about to open your mouth to respond with your sentiments – over your dead body – the door dings again. Immediately, you take the opportunity to pull your hand from his grasp, turning to send the newest patron a relieved smile. 
“Hello,” you call, almost a little too cheerful. “Welcome in.” 
You watch in amusement as three bodies all try to enter at the same time, shoulders getting stuck in the frame. There is a bicker and a whine before one of them pulls back to allow the other two to stumble in unceremoniously. 
“What was that for, stupid cook?” The taller, green-haired man snaps at the blond who had stepped back, his hand wrapped into the back of the third man's shirt, keeping him from trying to lunge forward at the array of goodies before him. 
“We couldn't all fit through the door, Mosshead.” The blond states as if it should be obvious. It should be, you felt, but their bickering brings a smile to your face as you place yourself behind the counter again. And far away from Jeff. 
They look ready to continue to bicker, so you call out to them again, hoping to catch their attention. “How can I help you today?” they all pause, looking towards you and your expectant look. You smile as the woman that had been forced behind their shenanigans pushes her way through, coming to stand before you. 
“Your pastries are fresh?” you nod, motioning to them. 
“Made not even an hour ago,” you promise. Three of the other four come to join her at the counter, looking over the variety of pastries, breads and other baked goods you have come to offer. The green haired man stares intently, only moving when the smaller brunette beside him nudges him to the side. 
It doesn't take much to recognize them, their faces lie plastered on every bulletin on every island across the seas at this point. Luffy and his signature hat being the biggest tip off, shortly followed by the famed demon hunter shifting his swords at his side to keep from hitting the display. You appreciate the gesture. 
You've never been in the habit of turning pirates in, not unless necessary. They bring more revenue in than the entirety of the marine fleets that seemed to stay docked in port. 
“See anything you'd like?” you offer after what seemed like several minutes of silence. Out of habit, your eyes trail up to keep tabs on the other body lingering back. You may not make a habit of turning them in, but you know the lot. Oftentimes they are entirely too focused on their own gain and what they can get away with when they think you aren't paying attention. 
You almost expect his eyes to be lingering along your wares or the walls, seeing what they think they can steal without being caught. What you certainly didn't expect was for his eyes to be plastered to your face, a bashful, boyish look to him as he seems to try and shrink back and away from your gaze. Blinking, you feel the warmth of your flush touch your ears as your attention is brought back to Luffy as he nearly salivates over the counter, his eyes locked on the pastries. 
“Can I get one of everything?” he asks excitedly. Your eyes flick back to the blond man still hovering back from the others as you nod, moving to start pulling everything out. 
“Of course,” you say kindly, quietly cheering your ability to keep your voice even. “What about the rest of you?” Their voices ring out as they quickly order before their captain is able to try and swipe the remaining food. Once their orders are pulled, wrapped and packaged, you stand straight, cringing at the twinge that pinches your lower back in retaliation for staying bent over for too long. 
“Anything for your friend?” you ask quietly, nodding to Sanji. Breaking from whatever spell he seemed to be under, he strides forward. Nami stares at him oddly when his voice comes out entirely too soft. 
“Is there anything you recommend?” He asks slowly, eyes flickering back from you to the food before him. “Anything, of course, that my dear captain has not yet swiped.” He amends, earning a laugh from you, emboldening him. "As long as it is as sweet as you" His words start out strong, but taper off shyly when his eyes catch yours. You can almost see how he is kicking himself, the confused pinch in his brow and how he sends Nami a glare when he catches her curious look. 
“My special, coming right up.” you hum, trying to dismiss the flickering gazes of the two in silent conversation. His eyes linger longer, trailing along your skin. You hand each of them their orders, huffing in amusement when Zoro takes Luffy’s order without a word. Last in line is Sanji, his hesitation evident as he reaches out to take the neatly wrapped package from you. 
“Thank you,” he smiles, the warmth of it making you squirm slightly. It’s entirely too genuine for a pirate, you decide. Instead of shying away from it, you smile back, unable to help the warmth pooling on your cheeks. 
“You'll come tell me what you think of it?” you request, shuffling on your feet, mentally kicking yourself. Evidently, all it takes is a shy look and a pretty smile and you're suddenly unable to keep your composure. He pauses at the door, sending you another smile. 
“Nothing would bring me more joy.” 
It's not until you look around, reveling in the silence that their departure left, that you realize that the shop is empty. Jeff is nowhere to be seen, his coffee half gone and his tartlet untouched. Huffing, you shift around the counter to clean up his mess, deciding to give the tart to Peter when he comes to visit at lunch time. 
========
The rest of your day, and even the better part of the next is quiet. Patrons coming in and out, the gentle push and pull of business as per usual, marines and pirates alike. Being nothing more than a simple seller of wares, many merchants and marines ignore your presence and often talk freely. 
It seems pirates are the only ones who can recognize a person with any semblance of power – though they seem to understand your unspoken rules. The biggest being, don't cause a ruckus and there won't be any trouble. 
Instead, they sit simply and enjoy their food with relatively boring conversation in comparison to their marine counterparts who openly speak about the bounties they are looking for. Perhaps they are hoping some young maiden will sweep up with large eyes and tell them where their bounty is hiding, begging them to capture them to keep her safe. Perhaps they are just loud. Either way, you didn't like their newest conversation. 
The strawhat crew. 
As with every time you hear whispers, you send your favorite errand boy to collect the wanted posters. Peter is more than happy to help, racing around the island to tear down the posters while sneaking past the marines. 
They may be famous, and they may be memorable, but you refuse to help them be reminded of who they are looking for. 
Panting, Peter returns, thrusting the posters into your hands with a grin. You grin down at him, offering him his favorite tartlet, watching his eyes widen in excitement, though it seems much more mild than usual. His mother will appreciate his energy being spent tonight when she locks up. 
“Your payment,” you coo, ruffling his hair gently, earning a happy sigh. You pretend not to notice the stares of several of your patrons eyeing the pile of posters in your hands. In silence, one person from each table is waved out the doors, as slowly and inconspicuously as possible, to check the bulletin boards. 
Rule number two – if your poster disappears, so should you. 
It isn't two hours later that the distant echo of shouts reaches your door. Frowning, you lean out to see what's going on. Did another pirate try his luck against the marines?
Steadily, the shouts get louder, joined in by the various vendors cursing at the lanky body weaving through their stalls in effort to keep ahead of the slew of marines hot on his trail. Another leap and dodge through the vendor two stalls down and you finally get a good look at the pirate in question – Sanji. 
Successfully slowing the marines, he skips half a step to gulp down some air before he is yoinked into your shop by his collar. 
Immediately, he is on the defensive, yanking back from you. You let him, glowering up at him. Seeing that it's you, he relaxes some, eyes flickering back towards the door. 
“As much as i'd love to give your pastry the glowing review it deserves,” he pants. “I'm a tad busy at the moment.” rolling your eyes, you grab the arm of his jacket, tugging him to the kitchen. 
“Make yourself look busy,” you hiss. “Quickly.” he freezes, but only for a moment, as he all but throws his jacket off, quickly tying the apron you shove his way. As he finishes, the door dings. Freezing, you both stare at one another for a moment before you force a smile to your face, reaching up to mess up his perfect hair, motioning to the flour, hoping he'd get the idea before you swing out of the kitchen to greet your guests. 
“Hello,” you sing. “Welcome in.” 
Standing before you is the same slew of Marines, huffing and puffing. Their hair and uniforms are obviously askew, tugged and pulled from placement in their chase. You can't help but muse at the fact that while they looked a mess, you had to forcibly change the pirate's looks to make him look as haggard as these men look just from chasing him. 
“How can I help you?” 
“Have you seen this man?” The man in front shoves the poster in your face, his tone less inquisitive, more accusatory. Narrowing your eyes at him, you yank the poster from his grip, pretending to get a good look at it. Truly, you can say you haven't seen this man. The artistry of the image before you is laughable at best. They made his face wider, pudgy and his hair stringy and closer to that of the straw your neighbor feeds his hogs. The nose was completely off, much too narrow and flat. 
It seems the only thing about the poster that can even be considered “correct” is the name. 
“No, sir.” you state honestly, shrugging before making a show of trying to hand him the poster back. He doesn't take it, so you just set it down before you on the counter. He eyes you suspiciously motioning to two other marines to his right. 
“Then you wouldn't oppose us searching the premises?” he asks, a sickly sweet smile twisting his features. “To ensure that he hasn't… snuck in here without your knowledge.” Without waiting for your okay, the two marines immediately make for the kitchen. Huffing, you glare at the man who fancies himself in power. 
Before you're able to say anything, or even really move, Sanji comes through the kitchen door pretending to be none the wiser. The apron is properly dirtied, as if he has been trying, and failing, to bake all day. His long bangs are tied back, the tufts on the top of his head reminding you of a pineapple. His face is covered in flour, nose scrunched up as he walks in head down seeming to mutter to himself.
“Why can't I get this – excuse me… oh, I'm sorry” he pauses, reeling at the scene before him, eyes going comically wide as he hugs the bowl and whisk in his hands to his chest. “Am I interrupting?” he asks slowly, frowning. You shake your head slightly, offering him a weak smile. 
“No, it seems that the world government has just made it their goal to harass us today, is all.” He snorts, rolling his eyes as the marines all seem to zero in on him.
“I thought you said you haven't seen the man, miss” The leader snarls. Curiously, Sanji looks down at the wanted poster, his whole face scrunching up. 
“You couldn't possibly mistake… that… for me.” The distaste, the pure unfiltered dejection rolls off of him before offense kicks in. The marines are not amused, but you are, your laughter bubbling up. The sound brings a slight smile to his lips, forcing a pout. 
“This is my newest apprentice,” You start, motioning to Sanji with a smile.
“That is obviously a pirate.” he states again, your glare falling to him as he forces out the pleasantries that are expected of him. “Ma'am..” 
“He is no such thing,” you roll your eyes, looking rather unimpressed. They turn back to Sanji who is just watching them all with a raised brow. 
“What is your name, son?” you’re expecting something common, something easy to fake, but perhaps a strong background. You weren't expecting –
“Rudy,” he states with the utmost clarity, not even pausing for a moment to consider the possibilities. The men before you seemed equally as thrown back, perhaps expecting him to waffle for a moment longer in an attempt to catch him in his lie. 
“Rudy?” the marine repeats back to him, slowly, eyebrows furrowing. Sanji just nods, giving a noncommittal one armed shrug, making sure to not allow the bowl to tip over. 
“It's a family name.” 
Before they can try to wiggle themselves any further, you place your hands on the counter, smiling widely at them. “Now, gentlemen, if you have no further business here, you are invited to go harass those who deserve it.” Several of them go to open their mouths to speak up, but close them when your gaze falls to them, daring them to do so. 
After several moments of awkward silence, the Marines quietly file out of the door, each offering a mild apology as they duck through it. Waiting until the last of them have left, you march to the door and lock it – nevermind it is still mid-afternoon. With a degree of finality, you flip the open sign before turning back to the tall blond standing behind the display as he finally sets the bowl down onto the counter top.
“Uh,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Thank you.” He can't seem to meet your gaze. If he had, he would see the amusement dancing in your eyes. 
“No problem… Rudy.” you jest. He groans pushing the awful wanted poster away from him, watching it as it flutters and flips to the floor. 
“It was the first name that popped in my head,” he defends. “Short notice.” His cheeks flush when you giggle, starting towards him with renewed confidence. Stopping just short of him, you press yourself up onto your tiptoes to run your fingertips over the tufts of hair jutting out from his head. 
“Cute.” 
=========
Night falls surprisingly quickly once you open your doors back up to continue accepting orders. Sanji stays in the kitchen, keeping up the facade of being your newest apprentice as the Marines continue to hover around, lying in wait for him to try and make a break for it.
He doesn't. 
Eventually, they retire for the night. This allows for the darkness that's settled over the town to act as a cover, swallowing the hurried shadows as they file into your little bakery through the back door. Angie is less than enthused to be sharing the space while she continues to busy herself with her job.
“You’re kidding,” Nami tries to sound scandalized but her amusement shines through, earning a glare from the cook before her. Sanji is still wearing the apron you had given him, caked in flour and frosting, though his hair was no longer tied back. Despite his attempts to clean up, he still looked a mess. Usopp and Luffy stare at you and Sanji as you rest against the wall beside the door. 
“We still need a few more days for repairs, Sanji.” the orange haired girl sighs heavily, flopping into the chair she had dragged in from the dining area. “And you go and catch the attention of Marines. Great. Fantastic.” This earns a defensive look from the tall blond beside you. “I expect this from Luffy or Zoro.” She continues, her hands jut out at the men in question sitting before her. 
Luffy does well to look sheepish at the accusation – probably because it's a true statement. The boy can't seem to stay under the radar to save his life. Zoro on the other hand looks so exceptionally bored with the conversation that he could actually be nodding off.
Scratch that. 
He is nodding off. 
“Well,” you start slowly. “I may be able to buy you that time.” You offer, earning a clear resounding chorus of confused sounds and wary looks from the rest of the crew, minus Zoro, and a nervous look from the cook. Angie pauses in her kneading, watching you in curiosity. It isn't often you break your own rules. Rule five, don't fraternize with pirates. Get the job done and walk away. 
Shooting Sanji an apologetic look, you push on, ignoring the amusement in your friends eyes.
“The marines are stupid, but they are consistent in it.” Nami snorts, nodding. “Well, this afternoon was a close one. We were able to convince them that Sanji was not the man they were looking for. We can keep up the story, keep to the bit, and it should allow you to finish your repairs and restock…” 
“What do you need?” Luffy asks, leaning forward curiously. You shrug, jutting your finger at the man beside you. 
“Just your cook,” you state calmly. 
“What’s in it for you?” Usopp asks with a frown. 
“I just hate the smug bastards.” You grouch quietly, earning a snort from Angie where she is busying herself at the overs, muttering to herself. That’s an understatement. You try not to glare at the back of her head.
“Dare I ask, what is the con?” Nami asks, bringing your attention back to her as she stands up, moving to settle before the disheveled cook. He frowns, crossing his arms to mimic her own with a scrunch of his nose. 
“Guys,” you hum, tugging on Sanji’s sleeve, catching him a bit off balance in his stare down with the navigator. “Meet my new apprentice.” 
“So,” a huff comes from the back of the room. “The cooks’ been demoted?” Zoro’s voice rings out in the silence that surrounds the crew, clear amusement lacing every word. Immediately, Sanji moves to jump after the swordsman, growling. 
“Shut it, Mosshead.” 
Angie snickers to herself, sliding past the ragtag group to continue her duties. Pausing before Sanji, she offers him a pat on the arm, her hands dusted with flour only adding to the several layers already thickening his once nice shirt, mirth dancing in her eyes. 
“Welcome to the team, Newbie.”
=========
no pressure tag list: @stray-kaz @sordidmusings @gingernut1314 @fanaticsnail @rainbowpitofdoom
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red-balloon12 · 2 months
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Sooo since people are complaining about Chaggie/Vaggie being boring and stuff (though I don’t see much of people trying to give ideas to how this could be fixed-)
I’m gonna give a layout to make both Vaggie and the relationship more spicy.
So I think the best route to go about this is to have Vaggie still be a fallen Angel. But the thing about this is that Charlie doesn’t KNOW she’s a fallen Angel. As far as Charlie’s concerned, she met Vaggie a while ago while wandering the streets of hell trying to find someone to aid her in her “Happy Hotel” start up quest.
She meets Vaggie at some coffee shop and the two make quick friends. To Charlie, she just met Vaggie but to Vaggie, she had already met Charlie, some time ago during the last execution.
Vaggie, still as an Angel, did not like heaven. She thinks it’s full of hypocrisy and she’s not all that well treated there. But the two things had kept her from leaving heaven was the fear of hell her hatred of demons. (I’d imagine she probably hated Charlie a lot because she’s the daughter of hell) Until one execution where she was about to kill one demon but said demon was saved by Charlie. Hell, they could even have a face off. But in those moments, Vaggie’s worldview is challenged by Charlie’s unwavering want to protect her people.
The angels retreat and Vaggie is stuck with her battle between her and Charlie replaying over and over in her head. If the daughter of hell can have kindness….then maybe other demons can? This thought finally pushed Vaggie to leave heaven (or get kicked out. Idk how it works-)
She decided to transform into a moth demon with Charlie in mind (because cute moth to light allegory).
Flash forward to current times and Vaggie is the manager of the Happy/Hazbin hotel but, as we can see from what’s out already, the past has come to haunt her in the form of Adam. Throughout the show Adam will constantly tease and hint at Vaggie’s past and Vaggie will have to work hard to deny everything. After all, why would Charlie ever love someone who tried to kill her and her people?
Hell, Alastor could even get in on the tea after finally putting together the pieces. Have him constantly plant seeds of doubt within Charlie, saying something along the lines of “you’re love with Vaggie isn’t as strong as you think it is” and such. Have Charlie slowly start to doubt Vaggie on her love and loyalty to not only the hotel but to her. Have Vaggie dig herself deeper and deeper into a hole with every lie she tells Charlie.
And when the truth finally comes out, due to either Vaggie trying to protect Charlie from something and accidentally outing herself, Alastor or Adam, Charlie feels betrayed…but not because of anything Alastor would try to say to Charlie (spinning things so that it would look like Vaggie was a spy sent from heaven to ruin the hotel) but because Vaggie didn’t trust her enough to tell her about Vaggie’s past.
This angst can go one for maybe an episode or two. Through events Vaggie can talk to Lilith about stuff and Lilith can say something along the lines of “the people who truly care about you wouldn’t care about who you were then, but who you are now and you have to do that for yourself.” For you see, this story isn’t just about Charlie and Vaggie but it’s about Vaggie realizing how much she’s changed but also how much she needs to grow. She needs to learn how to forgive herself and stop letting her past as an Angel hinder what she has now.
And for Charlie (as much as this isn’t her fault) reflects (maybe with her dad) about Vaggie. Lucifer tells Charlie about how Lilith found out about him being a fallen Angel and how they made their relationship work and how fell apart. How he doesn’t want the same for her and Vaggie.
The two meet up…maybe at the coffee shop where they “first” met and they talk after a while. Vaggie goes on to apologize for lying to Charlie, the executions and explains the real reason she fell into hell. And her reasoning makes Charlie fall in love with her all over again. Vaggie chose hell over heaven for her, she chose to work with her to get her passion project up and running and stuck by her despite all of the backlash the idea gave them. Despite the backlash and consequences for being a traitor of heaven.
It makes Charlie appreciate Vaggie so much more than she did before. And she expresses this. Yes, she’s hurt that Vaggie wasn’t honest with her, but she understands why she wasn’t. Charlie tells Vaggie that she’d love her no matter what and she shouldn’t have to be afraid to tell her anything. She reflects that maybe she’s helped a little bit in that insecurity, being so wrapped up in the production of the hotel, constantly letting other people sway her mind and being a little neglecting towards her. Charlie apologizes as well and the two get back together, stronger than ever.
Is this perfect….nope. But I think it does the duo some justice while also utilizing other characters as well. Lemme know what you guys think.
109 notes · View notes
ne0nic · 5 months
Text
Our Game
₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ Wriothesley x f!Reader ₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
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MDNI
ִ ࣪𖤐 Word Count: 5.2k
ִ ࣪𖤐 CW: NSFW, Dom!Wriothesley, Thief!Reader, Mentions of Human Trafficking, Drugged Tea, Slight Bondage
ִ ࣪𖤐 No use of Y/N, Never use of Y/N
The game is lively tonight and you expect to enjoy it in full. 
With effortless grace, you move in and out of the shadows around the Court of Fontaine, becoming a phantom of the night. The deserted streets are a ripe playground, businesses closed, doors and windows locked, and the guards drowsy and inattentive. It's a realm of exhilarating opportunity, just waiting for you to claim.
Your destination is the side door of the antique jewelry shop, known as the last source of pride for an elderly proprietor. Your knowledge of every shop in the city is impeccable, following a mistake where you learned that it's unwise to steal from a Fatui-owned establishment; it's akin to pilfering from the Tsaritsa herself.
With a few deft movements, you manipulate the lock, and the door swings open without a sound. The shop's interior is as silent as a tomb, its owners having long retired for the evening. You enter, your eyes alight with anticipation.
You navigate the shop's layout like a child in a candy store, your gaze drawn to the glass cases showcasing a myriad of jewels, each one casting a beguiling shimmer. With nimble fingers, you open the case and select a ring featuring a sizable ruby. You slip it onto your finger, admiring the deep red luster. The ring itself is far from delicate, clearly designed for a more masculine hand – someone like…
You quickly remove the ring, tossing it into your bag. No point dwelling on such thoughts; it's time to collect your treasures and make your exit. You work swiftly, carefully placing necklaces and bracelets into your waiting bag, ensuring the displays remain untouched.
The unmistakable sound of heavy boots approaching makes you freeze in place, listening to the resonant thud of leather shoes and the subtle jingle of chains and cuffs. It's time to depart. You wrap up your mission with meticulous precision, and as swiftly as you had arrived, you vanish into the night. Peering from the safety of an alley, you remain silent, unable to spot the approaching figure. Even worse, you're uncertain of the direction from which he's drawing near.
Taking on the rooftop is undoubtedly the better choice. Climbing up the copper gutter pipe, you gain a sweeping view of the city from the high vantage point. From here, you can easily traverse the rooftops, leaping across buildings and making swift progress. As the immediate danger lessens, you descend to the streets below.
Suddenly, that distinct sound returns, the one signaling his presence. How did he catch up to you so fast? It's time for plan B. You snatch a dark cloak from a nearby stall and quickly drape it over yourself, making a dash for the nearest stationed Garde.
"Oh! Garde! Monsieur!" you implore, rushing up to the uniformed soldier. The young man, evidently new to the force, turns his attention to you with an eager desire to assist.
"Madame? What's the problem?" he inquires, clearly willing to help.
"I was just at the tavern getting a drink, and I think a strange man is following me! Please, help me!" You plead, ensuring fear reflects in your eyes.
"Do not worry, ma'am. I will take care of this," he assures, stepping around you to face the direction of the approaching footsteps.
"Oh! Thank you so much, Monsieur," you say, masking your sly grin as you slip away.
The guard stands firm, ready to protect the innocent young woman who has placed her trust in him, aligning with the oath to safeguard all citizens of Fontaine. His excitement is palpable.
A shadow emerges in the dimly lit street, advancing slowly. The young Garde stands at attention. "You there! I'd like a word with you!" he calls out.
The approaching figure steps into the light, revealing a large, menacing man. He possesses piercing blue eyes, is adorned with chains and has a pair of handcuffs hanging at his side. His coat is casually slung over his back, and a scar stretches from the base of his neck, disappearing under his clothing.
The young Garde recognizes the man and instantly locks up. "Y-Your Grace! My apologies! I mistook you for a suspect!"
"Suspect? What gave you that idea?" the man inquires, tilting his head gently.
"This young lady, she—" The Garde turns, only to find that you've vanished. "Where'd she go?"
"A woman?" he asks.
"Y-Yes, a woman. She claimed a man was following her," the Garde explains. The man, who moments ago wore a serious expression, breaks into a smirk and chuckles softly.
You've successfully ascended the tower, fully prepared to make your getaway into the cover of the night. Luckily, tonight's escape had proven effortless, and you hadn't even needed to trigger an alarm to elude the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. He must be accustomed to your flamboyant tricks by now. The two of you had been engaged in this thrilling game for so long that you constantly had to innovate new ways to lead him astray. However, you'd come to find that the simplest tricks were the most enjoyable, especially after the sheer madness you'd put him through as you slipped away.
As you make your way toward freedom, a hand wraps firmly around your wrist, pressing your back into the wall. He looms above you, an unamused expression on his face. The way his stunning eyes seem to gleam in the dim light sends a shiver down your spine.
"Hello, darling," you taunt.
"Give it up. I'm taking you in," he declares with unwavering determination.
"That's what you always say," you mutter, causing him to grit his teeth.
"The bag," he demands, extending his hand.
"You're no fun," you pout, pulling the strap over your head and placing it in his palm. Wriothesley keeps you cornered as he opens the satchel, only to find it empty—no jewels, necklaces, or even a few coins. "Trouble?" you ask with a smirk.
"Where are the jewels?" he asks bluntly.
"What jewels?" you play innocent. He grabs your arms, pressing you firmly against the wall.
"I'm not in the mood for this today," he growls.
"But I'm completely innocent, Your Grace," you say with wide, doe eyes. "Little old me? A thief? Isn't it wrong to accuse someone without any evidence?"
"Enough!" he snaps, pushing you closer, your chests almost touching. You can feel the way his heart races, how you make him nervous. It sends a thrill through you.
"Or was there a different reason you followed me tonight, Your Grace?" you inquire, leaning forward. Your lips are mere inches apart. He tries to hide the way his breath hitches, but your smirk widens. "Did you want me all to yourself? You could've just asked. I'd never refuse." You tease him with expert precision, knowing precisely what to say and do to provoke him. You close the distance even further, his eyes locked onto your lips. Your breaths mingled so closely that your lips could touch if either of you moved even slightly. And just when it seems like he can't take it any longer, you pull away. "Forgive me, Your Grace. Sometimes I forget you're a man of the law, dedicated to your work. Surely, you're far too busy for me to take up any more of your time."
"Shut up," he snaps, closing the gap between you in an instant. He captures your lips, instantly stealing your breath away. His kisses are demanding, his desire to take the lead palpable, and you willingly submit to his commanding presence. His teeth graze along your bottom lip, eliciting a breathy, barely audible moan from you. You press your thighs together, utterly captivated by the way this man has the power to make you unravel. His longing for you has always had the ability to make you tremble, particularly in moments like these, when the game between you two reaches its zenith, when he finally catches you, and both of your desires hit you without reserve. 
His hand raises to the back of your neck, tilting your head up, giving him more of you. He's going mad. He has to be. There must be some kind of spell or pheromone that you've cast over him, that makes him need you desperately. Everytime you're before him like this, his morals fly out the window, and his lust becomes so thick he can't resist. He's well aware of the moral dilemma that plagues him. You're a true criminal, through and through, and he's fully cognizant of the wrongdoing of his actions. However, he never feels the exhilaration of the chase as intensely as he does when it's with you.
The tranquil sound of water churning brings you back to the present moment. Regrettably, it's time for you to make your exit. Your fingers slide over his vest pocket, and Wriothesley's brow furrows as you withdraw from the kiss.
"Gotta run," you murmur, slipping out of his grasp and collecting your discarded bag. Wriothesley's brows knit as you head toward the boat.
"Wait!" He attempts to step forward but is abruptly pulled back. He turns, only to discover that you've cuffed him to the service pipes. With a frustrated grunt, he struggles against the cuffs, and something falls out of his pocket. He gazes downward, finding a jewel necklace on the ground. Lifting his head to you again, you turn back to him with a playful smile.
"I had fun."
"Dammit!" He curses, his bracers materializing on his hand as he strikes through his own cuffs. Finally free, he makes a dash toward the boat. But the ferry has already set off, and he can only huff in frustration as you slip away. 
Again. 
Your fingers trace over the ledger, where rows upon rows of names denote inmates at the Fortress of Meropide. However, none of them match the one you're seeking. You can't help but wonder how many trivial offenses landed people in this imposing place.
Infiltrating the fortress itself was a relatively straightforward affair. They treat their prisoners well down here, making escape seem an improbable feat. Most inmates are cowed by the mere sight of the glass barrier that separates them from the relentless ocean outside. However, gaining entry was an entirely different challenge. Infiltrating the Duke's office, that's where things get tricky. Luckily, your familiarity with the office makes the entry a minor concern, especially when you have a duplicate key at your disposal.
"I'm assuming you didn't come for tea," a voice intones behind you. His hand closes the ledger's cover and rests atop it. Veins course through his arm and hand, and his knuckles are rough and calloused. You push away the inappropriate thoughts that threaten to surface.
"Should I even ask how you got in?" he continues, but you maintain your silence, choosing not to respond. Playing along with him today is the last thing on your mind.
"Who are you looking for?" he gets straight to the point.
"An...associate of mine went missing a few days ago. I was merely curious if he happened to be in your custody," you reply. He picks up the ledger and moves to the other side of his desk to set it down.
"Associate, huh? I thought you worked alone."
"I do," you confirm.
"His name?"
"As if I'd give you that. I'm not here to further incriminate him; I need to secure his swift release."
"Then it seems I can't help you," he states.
"You've never helped me," you correct, to which he chuckles.
"Touche."
"I brought you more of that blend you like," you say, gesturing toward the cabinet.
"Paid for with the proceeds from the jewels?" he questions, a hint of darkness in his tone. You smirk.
"I don't recall any jewels. It's simply a friendly gift, a favor for a favor," you reply, reveling in how his eyes narrow at your words.
"And what favor have I done for you?" he inquires, already knowing the answer. He's trying to ensnare you with your own words.
"I'll prepare a cup for you, dear. You seem weary," you offer, turning toward the cabinet. He's beside you in an instant, gripping your wrist.
"I wouldn't trust you to make anything for me," he snaps, making you smirk.
"Do you truly believe I'd do anything to harm you?" you ask in a feigned tone of surprise. You notice the tension in his jaw and your gaze drifts lower to the scar on his chest, which barely peeks above his clothing, triggering memories of that fateful day. "...Anymore?"
"Go sit down," he orders, and you pull away from his grasp.
"Yes, Your Grace," you say as you step over to the table. Outside the window, the vast expanse of the ocean unfolds, with creatures moving freely, seemingly unconcerned with the curse that hangs over the people of this nation.
You can't help but envy them, particularly after the arrival of that blonde-haired traveler, which marked the beginning of a downward spiral.
"I would like—"
"Three sugar cubes, I know," he interjects, causing a subtle smile to play on your lips.
"What time will the Iudex be arriving? I'd hate to be a bother," you inquire, knowing full well that you've committed his schedule to memory. He sighs, realizing there's no use concealing it from you.
"He won't be. Monsieur Neuvillette had a sudden trial, so he's rescheduled for next week," he admits, an air of candor coloring his response.
"What a shame. That blend is best served fresh," you murmur, your gaze drifting back to the water. A few moments later, he joins you at the table, the gentle clinking of teacups and saucers filling the air. You eagerly pick up your cup.
"I must admit I only ever have tea with you," you confess.
"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow as he settles into his seat. He observes you as you bring the cup to your lips and take a sip. Only then does he feel comfortable enough to indulge in his tea.
"It's true," you affirm, setting the cup down. "I always believe tea deserves to be enjoyed in good company."
"You don't have any other good company?" he inquires.
"None quite like you," you reply with a smile.
"Your clever quips won't get you out of here, you know."
"You think I'm clever?" You tease with a playful glint in your eyes.
"I don't intend to just let you walk out of here."
"You never have, not until I was properly sore and had trouble walking the next day," you taunt, taking another sip, causing him to gulp down his tea. His hands clench as you speak.
"Enough. This... arrangement we had is over. I'm taking you in. I'll inform Neuvillette of your transgressions, and you'll face justice," he declares, his tone stern.
"And then I'll find myself right back under your vigilant watch. Is that what you desire? To keep me close? Ensure that we'll never be apart again?" You tease. His jaw tightens. "I thought you relished our little game as much as I did."
"Game?! You're stealing from people!" His anger is palpable now.
You roll your eyes, reaching into your jacket and producing a document, which you slap onto the table. He leans back, perplexed. "And what is this?"
"The justification you seek. The part of you that yearns to believe I'm not entirely malevolent, this is your evidence."
"I don't understand."
"You will," you assure him. The grandfather clock in the corner begins to chime, marking the appointed time.
"It's time for me to go."
"What?" he blurts out.
You rise from the table with alacrity. "Thank you for the tea. I had a lovely time." You begin to walk away, and he suddenly springs to his feet. However, dizziness overtakes him, and he barely catches himself as the world blurs around him. Overwhelming drowsiness renders his legs wobbly, and he finds himself on his knees, struggling to resist it.
"When?" he manages to mumble.
"It was your teacup. You always use the same one," you giggle. He exhales in frustration. You draw closer.
"Don't worry. I'd never harm you. You're just going to have a short nap."
His hand grasps your wrist. "Don't go," he pleads, his desperation evident. It ignites a spark in your heart, prompting you to sink to your knees, cupping his cheeks.
"Well, when you ask so sweetly like that, how can I resist?" you murmur before pressing your lips to his. "Listen to Siegewinne, dear. You've been appearing quite exhausted lately. But I hope you'll feel better when you awaken. And on top of that," your gaze drifts toward the document, "you might see me in a different light the next time we meet."
After a lengthy and exasperating lecture from Siegewinne, Wriothesley finally returns to his office. It appears that you were telling the truth; it was merely a sleeping drug, and by the time he awoke, you had vanished. He didn't provide Siegewinne with many details about your encounter, nor did he delve into any in-depth discussion about you.
He sinks back into his chair, holding a cool washcloth to his forehead. You had been here, well within his grasp, and yet, once again, he found himself incapable of fulfilling the very duty he had sworn to uphold. It frustrates him to no end. Every time you make an appearance, it catches him off guard. However, when he saw you inspecting his office, for a brief moment, he had hoped you were there for him alone. Alas, that's never the case.
To make matters worse, you've infiltrated his dreams. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are, bare beneath him, your cheeks adorned with a charming flush. Your hands tenderly caress his face, and he takes you with a gentleness and passion that starkly contrasts the reality of your late-night rendezvous. Normally, he's rough with you, mirroring your intensity rather than expressing love.
The thought of you alone is enough to stir his desires, and he curses himself. You had drugged him not long ago, yet he's back to square one. Removing the washcloth, he stares at the ceiling, hoping his little problem will subside on its own. He replays the recent events in his mind, striving to rekindle his anger instead of his lust.
"You might see me in a different light the next time we meet."
What did you mean by that? How could he perceive you differently? His gaze drifts to the desk, where the document you left behind rests. He leans forward, scoops up the folded papers, and breaks the wax seal. As he peruses the contents, his heart sinks.
The elderly man who owns the jewelry shop was using it to launder money from human trafficking sales. You appraised numerous items and recorded their selling prices. You even managed to gather evidence of the boats at the marina being involved in the conspiracy. Photos, evidence—everything is meticulously compiled within these documents. This alone must have taken you weeks. A small note is clipped to the last page, the page itself revealing the location where the captors are holding their victims.
Without jewels, there are no sales. I have bought you time, Warden. Do not disappoint me.
He rises from his desk, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do next.
The entirety of Fontaine's police force is mobilized for this operation, simultaneously raiding all the identified targets. Wriothesley, however, personally takes charge of the most significant arrest. With a sense of duty, he apprehends the elderly man, promptly handcuffs him, and pushes him toward the exit.
Outside, the ever-dramatic residents of Fontaine have congregated, forming a boisterous audience to witness this spectacle. The vigilant Gardes work diligently to keep the curious onlookers at bay as he escorts the man outside. His eyes inadvertently scan the crowd. 
A sudden pause overcomes him as he catches sight of you. A sly smile graces your lips as you knowingly meet his gaze, and then, with your characteristic grace, you disappear into the crowd, leaving him with a sense of intrigue. 
About a week later, following the court's verdict and the subsequent exile to the Fortress, you make a return. Leaning casually on his desk, you patiently await his arrival. As he trudges up the steps, his demeanor brightens in pleasant surprise at the unexpected sight of you. There's a trace of solemnity in your smile as your eyes meet his.
Setting his report down, he approaches you, his curiosity evident in his tone. "You've been gone for a while."
"I had some important matters to attend to," you explain. "The victims who were kidnapped are now under the care of the Spina di Rosula. Most of them are just awaiting reunions with their families. Convincing a few to testify during the trial was a bit challenging, but I'm relieved it's come to a favorable resolution. The Spina di Rosula has pledged to hunt down the buyers, and I've provided them with all the information I could gather."
"Why not have the Spina di Rosula collaborate with the Garde?" he inquires.
"You and I both know that would never happen."
"What now?" he asks.
"My job is done, and I've cut my few remaining ties. All that remains," you say, raising his cuffs, "is you, Your Grace." He takes the cuffs from you, studying them with furrowed brows. As you lift your hands toward him, he glances from the cuffs to your wrists.
With a resounding clack, the cuffs land on the desk. The gravity of this decision settles upon you, hiding within it the unspoken message he wishes to convey. Slowly, you lower your hands as he fixes his gaze on you, drawing dangerously near.
"You're making a mistake," you caution.
"I know," he responds before pulling you closer and capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. 
In a matter of seconds you both burst into his bedroom, lips locked, jackets falling to the floor. Your nimble fingers are quick on the buttons of his vest as he backs you towards the bed. He pulls your shirt upwards, his rough hands riding up your front. Once one hand finds your breast you moan into his mouth. His ice cold touch electrifies you. He rids you of your shirt and pushes you down onto the bed. His gray vest falls to the floor leaving him looking seductively disheveled in just his black button up. 
The tip of your nail fits between your teeth as you devour him with your eyes. "You're going too slow," you whine, reaching a hand out. Your fingers trail over his shirt, feeling every curve of his muscles just beneath the fabric. It has you aching for him. He reaches up, tugging his tie free from his neck. You light up, obediently offering your other wrist to him too. 
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you'd liked being my prisoner," he says, leaning closer as he ties the red fabric around your wrists. 
"Don't threaten me with a good time," you tease, leaning in as well. His gaze falls to your lips before lifting your arms over your head and guiding you to lay on your back. From there he spreads your thighs, fitting himself between. Pressing your lips tight together, you resist the urge to beg. Even a small bit of friction would be heavenly, but it doesn't come. Instead he slowly strips your bottom half, taking his sweet time to admire your panties before just snapping them off your hips. 
He sinks to his knees, lips caressing your inner thigh. Your hands find their way to your mouth trying to muffle your own weak whimpers as he trails towards your core. Where you want him the most. 
Just as his breath ghosts over your aching cunt he stops. Suddenly his hand wraps around the tie and shoves it upwards again. "Do not move them again, if you do you can forget about my earlier mistake. I'll take you in, right now, like this," he threatens in a husky voice, eyes boring into yours. You smirk, lifting your thigh to rub against his hip. 
"Like this, Your Grace? How scandalous," you tease. 
"Do you understand?" he demands. 
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" He snaps. 
"Yes, sir," you say, your voice growing weaker. 
"Good girl," he praises, and you know you're soaked down there. Cheeks tinged red and heart racing as he sinks back down your body. He lifts your thighs over his shoulders before tugging you in one last time. Torturously slow he gives a chaste kiss to your clit. You resist the urge to pull your arms back down as a groan leaves your lips, your body involuntarily twitching. Wriothesley smirks at the display. It's as if he's trained your body to fall apart at just his touch, something he carries with pride. 
His tongue dives between your folds, and you throw your head back with a sinful moan. The man below you is terrifyingly good with his tongue and fingers which makes his next move a damning one. 
Two fingers easily slide into you, but he makes sure not to curve them into the place you like. Instead he watches the way you writhe, almost trying to force his fingers that way, the pleasure making you dizzy. Pathetic moans and whimpers pass your lips, music to his ears. 
"Please… fuck— mh." 
"What was that?" He mutters. "I couldn't hear you." His fingers slow to a cruel rub. 
"I wanna cum. Please," you beg. 
"Really?... I don't know if you deserve to," he says, his voice dropping a few octaves. The voice change drives you, making him smirk as he feels you tighten. "After all, you didn't tell me what you were up to. You worked outside the law, you could've gotten yourself hurt. Now, that… I just can't seem to forgive." He crooks one finger up slightly, sending you spiraling. 
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry! I won't do it again," you promise. He slowly rises to his feet, fingers still deep inside you. Wriothesley leans over your trembling frame. His hand caresses your cheek with a tender touch. The coolness of his fingers on your burning cheek is practically bliss. 
"Now, how can I believe you? You've broken every other promise you've made to me," he says tauntingly. Fuck! You hate him. You know what he's trying to do, and he knows how desperate you are, enough to agree to any of his demands. He brings your diverting gaze back to his. 
"No more secrets," you agree, making him sigh. 
"Now, was that so hard?" He asks, pressing right there making your head go fuzzy. You gasp in surprise as his fingers pull you apart all over again, the familiar sensation pooling within you. Wriothesley presses his lips to yours, tongue forcing its way into your mouth so he can still hear your gasping moans. "Cum, pretty girl." Your body shudders in the wake of your orgasm, and he doesn't relent, driving you oversensitive in a matter of moments. Your hands grab his wrist, stopping him as you still ride out the end of your orgasm. He smirks and pulls his fingers out. You feel the tie release your wrists. 
He's gentle as he lifts your face, seeing the dazed, blissed out expression you wear. His lips peck around your cheeks, to your neck, to your collar, and them to your shoulders by the time your high fades. 
"Back with me?" He asks lifting your chin, you nod and he slots his lips against yours while opening your legs again. He fits himself between them and pulls on his belt with one hand, something you don't mind helping him with. He chuckles as he feels you desperately pull his pants open. His aching cock springs free hard and hot in your palm as you stroke him. His forehead sinks to your shoulder as he shudders, slightly thrusting into your touch. "Shit." 
"Hurry," you urge. Lifting himself up he positions himself so the head just barely brushes against you. You press your lips together. 
Wriothesley reaches upwards, his hand sliding down your arm until he can fit his fingers between yours. Then he thrusts. His other hand grips your hip so tight you pray there will be a bruise. He stretches you open, forcing you to take his size, your eyes roll back into your head. 
"Fuck!" You cry out as he bottoms out. He starts with slow shallow thrusts but his patience quickly wears thin. In no time he's snapping his hips forward, rocking the bed, shoving himself deeper inside you. It's predatory, the way he heaves, the way he takes, the way his fingers grip your hair and hold your head up to make you watch him fuck your brains out. 
In practically no time at all you're cumming again, but he doesn't slow down, his own orgasm approaching as he feels you clench down on him. The continued force of his thrusts sends you right into a second orgasm and he follows suit. Your cunt milks him for all he's worth. Every drop belongs to you. 
He belongs to you. 
"Just fucking be mine already," he groans. His words break through your hazy mind in an instant. 
"What?" 
"Fuck," he mutters. "You're gonna make me say it outright, aren't you?" He leans over fingers brushing over your cheek. "Stay with me. Be with me." 
Your heart feels as if it may beat out of your chest as he says it. His cold eyes are now strikingly warm and tender. But you don't know what to say. 
Instead you reach up, hands pulling his face down to yours. He complies easily. You kiss him sweetly, whispering against his lips, "I'm yours." 
Your confirmation makes his heart sing as he kisses you with more fervor, growing hard inside you once more. The first thrust catches you by surprise but you're loving it. This time there's nothing rough about the way he holds you. He treats you softly, like you'll break if he's any harder. He holds your body in tight to his, burying himself deep inside you, until you're seeing stars. 
The clock chimes, marking the hour as Wriothesley opens his eyes. To his dismay the spot next to him is empty. He rubs his face, already stressed that you've disappeared like usual. Unfortunately, maybe he was foolish enough to hope for something more from you. 
Sitting up he finally notices the weight on his finger. A ring, a gigantic red ruby within a thick band. The metal is dark and the design is intricate. Honestly, it truly seems like something he'd wear. 
Peering over to your side one more time his eyes widen as he sees a folded up paper. With one hand he retrieves it and flips it open. 
My secrets come at a cost, Your Grace. So, if you manage to catch me Thursday night, I might consider telling you one or two. Preferably over tea. 
I'll be expecting you. 
He laughs to himself, "So, the chase is still on, huh? Better make it interesting."  
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webslinger-holland · 11 months
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The Emperor of Magic | Part 1
Summary: After years of planning, Kaz finally proposes the heist above all heists to his crew of crows. The crows can't help but see how oddly familiar this heist looks compared to the one they've pulled in the past.
Warning: +18 Warning
Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Fem!Reader
Type: Series
Word Count: 1.8k
Series Masterlist
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Each of the crows had been summoned to the boss’s office on the top floor of the club. The door was locked shut and the shades were drawn over the windows. Once the room fell under certain secrecy, Kaz Brekker pulled out the layout of the ultimate heist.
The five crows leaned forward to peer down at the plans. They took a moment to study them carefully, but there was something familiar about this heist. It was almost like...
“Hang on,” Jesper was the first one to notice. “This looks like the Ice Court Heist.”
Kaz chose to say nothing.
“These are the same maps that Wylan drew up,” Matthias said in his thick foreign accent. He placed a single finger on one of the maps.
“And we were breaking out a prisoner who was worth a fortune,” Nina added.
“Kaz,” Inej began. “This is the same heist.”
“Nearly,” Kaz nodded. “But things are different this time.”
“You mean, we won’t be leaving in a tank?” Jesper recalled since the tank was not part of the original plan. 
“I liked the tank,” Wylan commented.
“I mean,” Kaz ignored the initial comment. “It’s different in a few ways. There is a higher risk--”
“Isn’t that lovely?” Nina scoffed. Kaz sent her a glare.
“The person we are breaking out of the court isn’t just an ordinary scientist this time,” Kaz placed his hands on the table to lean forward in his place. “They aren't Grisha, but they are more powerful than them.”
“More powerful than Grisha?” Wylan wondered. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Is that even possible?” Wylan almost scoffed.
“Like someone more powerful than the Shadow Summoner or the Sun Summoner?” Inej asked cautiously.
There was a long beat of silence. Each crow had turned their heads to look expectantly to the boss. He stared her down.
“Yes,” Kaz said slowly. “More powerful than the both of them combined.”
“But that means...” Inej’s voice trailed off. She was one of the few who knew exactly who he was talking about. “The Emperor is real?” Inej asked horrified. 
The atmosphere of the entire room had changed in a split second. The sound of the stage coach approached could be heard from the street below. The boss went to approach the window. He pulled the shade to the side discreetly to make sure nothing was amiss. The small chandelier in the room swayed from an unknown draft which was only noticed by Matthias and Inej. An eeriness fell over the room. 
“W-what Emperor?” Wylan asked. He glanced between Matthias and Inej as if looking for some kind of explanation because they both seemed disturbed by this. 
“The Emperor of Magic,” Matthias seethed. “Is a wicked demon from the depths of hell.
“They are the only known person who is known to manipulate magic,” Inej said uneasily as if she feared the demon itself was listening in on their conversation.
“Not Grisha,” Kaz reminded them. 
“How are they not Grisha?” Nina wondered. “We basically perform magic.”
“Grisha can only manipulate that which exists already. The Emperor has the ability to create anything out of thin air, manipulate anything or anyone, and destroy anything in their path at will.” Kaz explained.
“So remind me why we are breaking them out?” Jesper asked almost sarcastically because it didn’t seem like a very appealing heist to him.
“Because she is worth nearly 100 million kruge,” Kaz stated. The crows quickly directed their line of attention back to him, because they almost wondered if they had heard him right. But it couldn’t be real since...
“Who in the world has 100 million kruge to spend?” Jesper shrugged his shoulders at the thought.
Kaz smirked to himself. “The King of Ravka, the Queen of Shu Han, and the King of Fjerda.”
Knowing that Matthias was from Fjerda and still quite loyal to his country, Kaz glanced at him through the corner of his eye to watch his reaction. He inhaled sharply upon hearing the name of his king, but he tried not to allow his emotions to get the better of him. Kaz directed his attention elsewhere for now.
“What do you mean?” Inej asked, searching for some kind of explanation. 
The boss proceeded to reach into his coat pocket and pull out a single piece of folded paper. He dropped that piece of paper onto the table to allow the crows to study it as carefully as he did these last few years. Jesper took initiative, taking the piece of paper and unfolding it carefully. He read the document silently, feeling Wylan’s eyes darting between him and the paper.
“Let me get this straight,” Jesper folded the paper to set it down again. “The kings and queen of these fine nations spontaneously decided to get together to sign a treaty regarding what to do with this so-called myth.”
“That's right,” Kaz nodded. 
“I suppose nobody else knows about this then?” Jesper pressed.
“For the past three and a half years, I was the only one who knew about the meeting.” Kaz confessed.
“Where did you find this?” Jesper asked, holding up the paper in his hand.
“In a random vault in the Ravkan palace,” Kaz shrugged his shoulders. Jesper let out a scoff of disbelief, throwing his hands up in the air. “Left a copy so they wouldn’t get suspicious.” Kaz added.
“Of course. Where else would you get it?” Jesper asked sarcastically.
“I still don’t understand,” Inej interjected. “If the kings and queen created this treaty and have her in currently in their captivity, then how are we going to break her out? We can’t just demand that they pay us for her back,” Inej claimed.
“We are going to break her out,” Kaz explained. “We are going to make it look like she escaped.”
“H-How do we do that?” Wylan was the first to speak up, but his voice failed him.
“Once they are informed that she is missing, they’ll put a price on her head for her recapture. We’ll make our way down to Ravka to bring her before the king and demand our price,” Kaz stated simply.
“Say the King of Ravka doesn’t want to pay the 100 million kruge? Refuses to bargain with you. What then?” Nina asked having grown up in Ravka herself.
“Then I threaten to unleash her,” Kaz claimed. The crows inhaled sharply at his comment, feeling insanely unnerved by his seemingly carelessness. “I don’t think she’d be too happy to come face to face with her captor,” Kaz said.
The room fell silent once again. The five crows searched for any flaw in the plan, coming to realize that this plan had probably been rewritten over a hundred times already. It most certainly was the most dangerous heist that they would ever pull off, but they had no idea how they’d be able to do it. 
Each of the crows had turned their heads to looked at one another. They wondered if they were all thinking the same thing. One thing was certain: they all had a look of uncertainty on their face. They didn’t know what would happen, but they were most intrigued by the price tag attached to the heist.
“Alright,” Jesper was the first to speak up. “I’m listening.”
The leader proceeded to go through every single step of the heist, pointing out even the smallest details and every individual role assigned to the crows. The boss had already gone to great lengths to secure additional members to the crew, including men to sail the ship across the sea and a tailor who could alter their appearances so they could actually get into the court without being recognized. It actually looked like it could work. The only problem was...
“Wait,” Jesper interrupted. “You’re telling me that she can’t touch us, see us, or hear us throughout the entire heist.”
“That’s right,” Kaz nodded.
“Otherwise what? She can get into our heads?” Jesper questioned.
“And tear us apart,” Wylan said sorrowfully.
“From the inside,” Inej added. 
“There’s no telling what she’ll do to us if we are compromised,” Kaz confirmed. “The ancient texts say she can see every thought. Some have reported seeing hallucinations under her influence. The very nature of our reality will cease to exist if she gets into our heads,” Kaz replied.
“How do we even protect ourselves then?” Inej asked as if it was merely impossible. 
“She wears a customized straight jacket which prevents her from using her powers. It was made specially by a fabrikator,” Kaz explained. “She is also forced to wear ear, eye, and mouth pieces which prevent her from hearing, seeing, or speaking.”
“Where is she contained?” Nina asked, glancing back down at the map. 
“She’d be kept here,” Matthias pointed to the center of the map where the White Island stood. “In the dungeons to be specific,” Matthias added.
“It’ll be heavily guarded which is why Matthias, Wylan, and I will go in disguised as druskelle,” Kaz informed them.
“Not to be rude but neither of you look anything like Fjerdan,” Matthias almost let out a laugh as he crossed his arms over his chest. It was true though as both Kaz and Wylan were from Kerch.
“Not to worry,” Kaz snarked. “Our tailor will do a fine job altering Wylan and I’s appearance.”
“She’s going to alter you guys?” Jesper asked slightly worried.
“It won’t be permanent,” Kaz reassured him since he knew he’d worry about changing Wylan’s appearance once again. “It will disguise us long enough to get us inside the cell,” Kaz insisted.
“Would it be easier if we were all tailored?” Inej wondered. “That way, if she does happen to see us, she wouldn’t know what our real faces look like.”
“She’d still get into our head,” Kaz shook his head at the notion. “She’d know everything about us: our names, our races, our thoughts. It doesn’t matter what we look like; we are vulnerable to her.”
“How do we get her out if we can’t touch her or talk to her without her getting into our heads?” Jesper pointed out, changing the subject. “I doubt she’ll come willingly,” Jesper scoffed. 
“She’s attached to four heavy chains: two on the sides, one on her front, and one on her back. Each chain is connected to a larger metal cuff around her waist. Those chains keep her centered in the cell and are attached to the solid stone walls. It prevents her from moving around in the cell,” Kaz said slowly. He drew up the plans so they could visualize better.
Each of the crows leaned forward to get a better look at the designs he drew. It showed a faceless figure standing in the center of the room, wearing one large cuff around their waist. Sure enough, the figure was surrounded by four chains attached to the wall. It made more sense now to them.
“We break those chains and escort her out. We don’t touch her, only the chains. No matter what happens...we cannot touch her,” Kaz said to them all.
Kaz went to lean back. They looked at him expectantly.
“If we do...it’ll be the end.”
Author’s Note:
They’ll finally meet her in the next part, but what’s going to happen??? I hope you enjoyed this part of the series.
TAGLIST:
@d34drapunzel @adorawritesalot​ @vixythepixie​ @theghostofshadows​ @lonelywitchv2​ @arcadialine​ @zeeader​ @cleverzonkwombatsludge​ @shara-ne​ @iloveinej​ @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @mystic-mara​ @missymisha​
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papermatisse · 6 months
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Deadend || Y.JH
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† genre: horror
† word count: 1.5k
† warnings: heavily insinuated murder (not explicitly shown), labyrinth, persistent predator/hunt, fear
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† synopsis: he seemed nice, but then again, you should never judge a book by its cover.
† (a/n): my brother actually instilled this fear into me and I just thought the concept of it was pretty interesting ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also now we've caught up w all of my prewritten stuff so now comes the ✨delayed writing✨ pls bear w me 🙏
† taglist: @scuzmunkie @hipsdofangirl @hydroyaksha (I forgot to tag you guys last time lol my bad)
anthology | main masterlist
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The sound of her feet stamping against wet concrete filled the humid atmosphere around her. Deep and violent puffs of air expelled from her lungs as she barreled down yet another alleyway. The labyrinth-like layout of the city had proven itself nothing short of confounding, though it seemed that facet alone was the sole reason she was even still alive. Still able to outrun the man hunting her.
He had been seated at the bar as she danced along with her friends. As subtle as her friend could notify her, she was informed of a man who had been watching her for quite some time. Upon first impression, Jeonghan seemed to be the definition of charming. Handsome features with polite mannerisms, attention solely on her as they spent the next few hours of their night together. Luring her into his car was a significantly easy task, as she would have perhaps gone anywhere he went off to at this point.
Things had gone awry the further along their journey they got. Jeonghan's answers grew more and more blunt, and the momentary glances he spared her way as he drove were reduced to nothing. By the time she realized something was amiss, he had parked on the side of an abandoned road in a part of the city she had never seen before.
Before she could ask where they were, he was opening his center console rummaging for something as she watched in mystified, confused terror. His hand retracted from the unit to reveal a large butcher knife, glinting in the spare moonlight washing into the vehicle. That charming smirk that had swept her away all night long suddenly shifted with her burden of knowledge, now twisted menacingly with this sickening, psychotic undertone that had (y/n) near gasping.
"Run."
Those were his last instructions before she had all but bolted out of the vehicle in a full on sprint. She didn't know for how long she ran, but she knew he was somewhere behind her. Somewhere close. Somewhere hunting her in such a disregarding and relaxed manner. Taking his sweet time in pursuing her, preserving his energy for the final kill.
By the time she realized she was very nearly trapped in this sector of the city, she understood his motives quite well through the haze of panic muddling her mind. He wouldn't exert anything beyond his capabilities. He wouldn't reduce himself to chasing after her with the same determined vigor she retained. He didn't need to. As if it was a certainty that he'd eventually catch her at the end of the night, no matter how far she ran.
The thought alone terrorized (y/n)'s already frightened mind, though she continued to stumble through the barren streets with a determination she hadn't thought she possessed in the first. She was greeted by not a living soul, a truly desolate concrete jungle, its only purpose seemingly to be the playground of the crazed maniac looming within its shadows. The residual humming sounds of the amber lit lampposts lighting her way through the maze of dilapidated infrastructure served as the only source of feedback in an otherwise deadly silent environment, accompanied by her own ragged breaths that made her cringe with every huff. Any noise from her could be her last. A beacon to Jeonghan guiding him directly to her.
Bolting down yet another alleyway, a sudden guttural gasp was ripped out of her throat when she was met with the unfortunate sight of a brick wall, looming above her as this impenetrable barrier to her path. A dead end. Shaky hands pressed upon the fortress, seeking out any compromised brick she could use to her advantage. Whether to dismantle the structure as a whole, or use it to climb over its daunting height. A momentary scan of the area in search of any tools she could utilize had her heart dropping to her stomach. The alleyway was as desolate as the rest of the city. Like this place swallows anything which enters its grasp, and eventually will have her, too.
She went to turn around dejectedly with her only solution being retracting her steps, but she froze as her eyes landed upon the other end of the alley. A cold sweat dabbled across her skin, heightening the sensation of the chill now running down her spine. Her body trembled with unabashed fear, and her once frenzied mind suddenly went blank as she stared helplessly at the dark silhouette staring back at her.
Jeonghan stood impassively at the entry, the orange glow of the lampposts dispersing against his back and casting him in an ominous shadowed ambience, like he absorbed every ounce of light which dared to touch him; like death himself, he was brandished with the darkness of night. His features, once undoubtedly handsome to her though now warped into an imposing and deviant facade, were momentarily shrouded to her in the perspective he stood in. Though the one defining trait she could identify in all of his ambiguity was that of the knife gripped securely in his hand, glistening in the light and reflecting back to her her impending doom.
His head quirked to the side as (y/n) stood there motionless.
"You didn't get as far as I thought you would." His voice easily carried to her in the still silence of the night, however low he opted to convey his message, yet still causing her to all but tremble at his foreboding presence. "Quite disappointing."
"Please," (y/n) found herself muttering back, voice weak, words indecipherable through the rapid inhales she now took. "Please don't do this. Please."
He began walking towards her at a steady pace, and the sight of him approaching brought (y/n) into hysterics. Pleas growing louder and more desperate, knees buckling until she had collapsed on the floor, left only to crawl away desperately from the domineering figure heading her way.
When her back met the roughness of the brick wall, her fingers had clawed at the masonry, hoping for any weakness in its stature she may have missed upon first scan—anything that would guarantee her freedom and give her a chance in fleeing from the man drawing ever so closer.
Though her prayers fell upon deaf ears as she felt his hot hand grasp her face, cheeks squeeze together in his hand as he yanked (y/n) his way.
His gaze bore into her own. Dark, sinister eyes, heartless as they stared at her, uncaring in a way one would look at a pest. The lack of emotions crossing his face, the near impossible feat of deciphering what his motives and feelings truly were, had been the cause for her onslaught of tears to finally take place.
"Why are you doing this?" It was the only thing she could think to say. Limbs aching from running, muscles burning as the adrenaline which had once coursed through her veins finally dissipated, leaving her nothing more than a debilitated state of what once was.
He was silent for a moment more, just staring like he was studying her. Observing what she had been reduced to throughout the night's events. And then he smiled. A purely vindictive grin filled with malice, contorting his handsome face into a nightmarish sight. Perhaps the last thing she'll ever get to see in this lifetime.
"Because I love it." He responded, as if answering a simple everyday question. "Your fear. Your desperation. Holding the very essence of life itself in my palms. Your life. Don't you see it?"
His grip around her face grew tighter, drawing her closer to him.
"That primal beauty of struggling for survival? The raw, unbridled terror as you run for your life? Thinking you have a chance if you just run fast enough, but you don't. You never did."
(y/n) whimpered as the pressure began to grow painful, his fingers digging into her sore jaw.
"The illusion of safety being a viable option, but it wasn't. I never gave you that choice. I hold the fate of your life in my hands. And I love it."
He let go of her and she all but scrambled to the furthest corner of the alley she could manage, pressed as tightly against the wall as she could be. Jeonghan followed after, crawling her way until he was face to face again, though this time with his arms caging her in her position.
"I hold the power to end your life. The moment I looked at you, I gained full control over it all. I am the harbinger to your inevitability."
The cold tip of his knife glided across her face, and his eyes trailed after, his smile growing wider by the second.
"Please." A final attempt at sparing her life. But at this, he began chuckling.
"I let you go now, I'll just follow you all over again. No matter where you run, no matter how far you get from me, I'll eventually make my way there. I'll eventually catch you. You can't escape from me no matter how much you try. No matter how much you beg." Pressing the tip of his knife into her body, arm retracted enough for the final plunge, he pressed his mouth against her ear, breathing in her scent as she wept with reckless abandon.
"I will always be the one to end you."
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deftos · 2 years
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rosieofcorona · 29 days
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Ortolan
Angels, darlings, besties, I present to you the most evil thing I’ve ever written. The first chapter of a little gothic story about our favorite vampire ascendant and his beloved consort. Named, of course, after the bird that is born and bred to be eaten whole. Horror ensues. Also on AO3, if you prefer. Thank you for reading!
All her life Tav had lived in the palm of the palace’s shadow, its black spire-fingers stretching and reaching into the corners of the city when the sun dipped low. She had never known then how it held her, that distant, haunted thing, had never thought its eyes might watch her when she wasn’t watching back.
She watches everything now.
From its high balconies, she can see all of the Gate spread out below. The streets, the shops, the city center, the painted roofs and cobbled roadways— all in miniature from here, like little playthings from her childhood. The people move like dolls beneath her, in and out of the castle’s black hand, and on the days time seems to dilate in a widening, infinite loop, she thinks she sees herself among them, walking freely in the sun. 
She could make the lower city in an hour, if she hurried. 
It’s not so far, she thinks. Just far removed.  
Half a league and a lifetime away.
*****
Where Tav feels out of place in their new home, Astarion thrives. 
He stalks the halls with newfound confidence, cold command in every step, making note of things he’ll have their servants change. He seems to know the place inherently, every floorboard, every stone, while Tav gets lost with alarming frequency by comparison. 
She only explores at Astarion’s urging– Until it feels like home, my darling – but the halls are narrow and labyrinthine, stairways twisting into darkness, secret passages that lead nowhere or loop back to where she started. When learning the layout seems impossible and makes her feel like a rat in a maze, Astarion reminds her that all the prior spawn, including himself, had done it. 
Even an animal, she wants to say, can learn its way around a trap.
It’s not all awful, she supposes. She loves the libraries and the moon garden, with its fragrant phlox and foxgloves, and the oratory, too, when she gets brave enough to enter (Astarion promises more than once that she will not burst into flames). 
In fact most of the rooms, when she discovers them, are beautiful, pristine save for a gauzy shroud of dust left over centuries. Others have fallen to neglect, or to irrelevance. There is no need now for the garderobe, the vanity, the ice house, for the dovecote where no living birds remain. 
She finds the kitchen and the larder and the buttery standing useless– though the rats, if they could speak, might disagree. They’re busy gnawing at the stock of moldy scraps still in the pantry, hardly minding her approach until she’s on them. 
Her eyes track them as they scatter, like a hunter, like a predator. An instinct she’s developed since her death.
She is stronger, swifter, sharper– as Astarion had promised– but there is violence softly shimmering beneath. She wants to tear at something, always, wants to follow something home. She wants to bite down hard enough to make her jaw ache.
She never tells him out of fear he will encourage it. 
Tav dreads the day she knows is coming, the day he’ll send her out to hunt. He loves her bloodlust when he feeds her– Such an eager little thing– and keeps her hungry to incentivize her finding her own victims. 
But a rat is not a victim, says her instinct. 
She follows one into the back half of the kitchen past the storerooms, to a passage she has never seen before. The rodent slips beneath a door that hangs half-rotten on its hinges, as if no one has been through it in a century. It is unlikely, it occurs to her, that even Astarion knows it exists.
The door creaks open with her touch, the air beyond it thick with odor– wine and earth and slow decay, with something coppery beneath. She pricks her ears toward the sound of little claws upon the stonework, of a heartbeat in the dark that’s not her own. 
The rat has vanished out of sight, but it’s no matter. She can trace it by its movements, by its scent. As she creeps farther down the passage, the metallic scent gets clearer– copper, yes, but also parchment, like the binding of a book. Hints of mushroom, hints of honey, hints of soil, mold, and… rat blood .
The realization feeds her drive and her disgust in equal measure. Turn around , she tells herself. Let the poor thing go . 
But she moves on as if compelled, down one long staircase then another, winding deep beneath the palace where it’s damp and dark and cold. At the bottom she stops to listen, stops to take a deep breath in. 
There is a foulness deep below– the unmistakable scent of death– and still, the rat blood, like a top note, rises over the decay.
She hurries blindly into the blackness, her feet following her nose until she loses track of how many times she pivots and pivots back. They move underground until the air gets moist, the stone floor slick beneath them. Her own feet stick each time she pulls them up, as if walking through mud, or through gore. 
We must be deep beneath the earth, she thinks, for it to be so wet. 
The creature ahead of her stops suddenly, its breath heavy and exhausted, running one way then another, side to side. Dead-ended by a wall, no doubt. It finds no way ahead.
She can make out the trembling shape of it, her eyes black with lack of light, and then another shape between them, and another, and another. They look like piles of festered meat left in a storeroom, long-forgotten, and for a moment she believes that’s where she is.
Tav takes a step around a pile and something crunches beneath her heel. A bone, or shard of bone, she notes, the flesh long-rotted off the marrow. Another step, another crunch, a skittering sound like a stone being kicked. 
She kneels to touch the little object, to bring it closer to her face. Another shard, it seems, an animal tooth, the one end needle-sharp and hollow…
The realization swells and hits her like a wave. 
Her single-mindedness is banished as she looks around the room, no, not a room, a crypt– the crypt!– where Cazador locked all of his spawn before the ritual. Whatever is left of them coats the floor, their blood, their hair, their shattered teeth, and Tav can smell it now, their stench, beneath the rat that she’s all but forgotten. 
Her own voice screams above the instinct. I should not be here.  
She turns and runs in the direction she came from, at least, the direction she thinks she came from– and should she turn left here, or right? There should be stairs, where are the stairs, where are the stairs? 
She runs until she can run no more, until she corners herself in a corridor, caught between the way she came and a bolted door. She tries to stop herself from shaking, not from cold or damp, but terror, the idea she might be left in here until she is nothing but rot. 
But what she has learned from getting lost is that he will find her. 
She’s never asked him how he does it. She isn’t sure she wants to know. 
He always does, she reassures herself. I only need to wait. 
She doesn’t know how long she huddles there in the bleak and soundless gloom, doesn’t know how long she listens for his footfall. 
At last a voice slips through the darkness. A pale hand reaches for her own.
“You’ve wandered far this time, my darling. I could hardly trace your scent.”  
A horror scurries down her spine like little claws upon the floor. That’s how I tracked it when it ran, she shivers. Parchment, mushroom, honey.  
It’s how he finds her now, no matter where she runs.  ***** It is hours later when she asks him, with his blood still on her lips, how it feels to wring the life out of a creature, drop by drop. 
“You ought to know,” he answers absently, completely unperturbed. He is preoccupied, deciding on the perfect place to bite her, fingers tracing every vein beneath her skin. “You’ve killed a thousand times, my love, have you forgotten?”
“That was different. Not for blood.”
“No, gods forbid,” Astarion laughs. “Most times for gold.” 
She feels annoyance, like a spider, creeping up the back of her neck. “Do I hear judgment?” “Certainly not.” He makes a show of looking scandalized, a hand fluttering over his heart. “I’d never begrudge you a little violence, you know that.” 
As he moves further down the bed his touch trails with him, hands and mouth mapping a blue line down her body, along her breast and hip and thigh. He settles there and moves her legs apart so he can kneel between them, makes her shiver in familiar delight.
She wants to lose them in this moment, those poor creatures in the crypt, wants to put them from her mind for now and always. But with every touch she feels Astarion’s hunger, still unsated; with every kiss, she feels the sharpness of his teeth.
Like animal teeth, she thinks. Like theirs, like mine.  
“But do they suffer? When you drain them?”
Astarion sighs like rustled velvet, looking up at her from his knees.
“Such a soft heart, still,” he murmurs. “Did you suffer, my beloved?”
How easily, how often she forgets that he has killed her.
If there was suffering she can’t recall it now, no matter how she tries. The memory’s far off in the distance, formless, fogged by ambiguity. If she moved toward it, maybe she could make out certain details…
But his tongue is on her now, and she welcomes the distraction. It is unpleasant, after all, to relive dying. He drags it slowly over the soft flesh of her thigh above the artery until she hums a little sound of satisfaction. 
“Would you like to?” He asks, in that same, soft voice. His eyeteeth shine like pearls in the rising moonlight.
“Please,” she whispers. It is all the urging he needs. 
She cries out at the breaking of her skin, the rush of blood into his mouth. The feeding has always been pleasurable, even when she was alive, but it is heightened now that they are bound together. She can feel him from the inside now, coursing through his body, she can fill him and fulfill him with blood alone. “More,” she pleads, when he pulls away to look at her. Already he is bright with her blood. “Astarion, more.”
If this is suffering, she wants it– every evening, every hour– until whatever light still shines in her eyes goes out.  ***** In her dreams she finds her way back to the black mouth of the crypt, its iron gates swung wide on their hinges as if to swallow her entirely. She’s running frightened, like a rabbit , like a rat from something watching, someone whispering her name into the dark.
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