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pursuitseternal · 3 months

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A “Decadent” treat for Valentine’s Day💝 Astarion x F!Reader with a sweet Sex Chocolate treat💝

Astarion x F!Reader | E | 3K aphrodisiac-infused smut

💝Gift for @bhaalbaaby 💝

Summary: You finally make it to Baldur’s Gate, coin burning holes in your pockets, a need to gift your companions to celebrate how much you appreciate them. You get a gift to, a box of chocolates from your Vampire lover, and some alone time in an alley

CW: semi-public sex, aphrodisiac sex, knife play, nipple play, blood kink, blood drinking in detail, panty snatching rogue, one feral vampire who wants your blood and more

Bites series | Ao3 link |Masterlist

“Decadent:”

🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫

At last… out of the crowds of Rivington, you made it. The bottleneck of Baldur’s Gate, the Southspan’s Main Street stretches out before you all. And that gold you have been hoarding like a dragon burns a hole deep in your pack. Everything smells… good and foul. Bakeries and perfumeries and smithy shops and fish mongers…. And you can’t wait to buy something from them all.

After all your party has done for you and with you, a few tokens of appreciation wouldn’t go amiss. Karlach takes you by the arm, and you’re glad she can’t burn you to cinders by now. Because in all her hysteria, she would have certainly forgotten. Gale makes a none-too-subtle move to pull Astarion from your side, begging him to show all the booksellers. “Don’t touch me, Wizard,” he grimaces, mostly for show and humor. But there is a little irritation in his silken voice. “I have my own plans,” he comments towards Gale, but his eyes dart in your direction. That little lowering of his head so he gazes at you like the predator he is… your stomach instantly drops to your knees.

For a man who is horrific at planning, he surely knows how to calculate a breathtaking seduction… and they always begin with him giving you that look.

“Cmon soldier, let’s go find something new and sharp and deadly shiny!” Karlach tugs you towards the closest smithy, and away from where Astarion is eyeing you like you’re his next snack.

Your Cleric loops her arm through yours and giggles. “Yeah and maybe we’ll find you a little something else to wear that isn’t scaled armor and chainmail.”

“Ooooh, yeah,” Karach peers over the top of your head to cackle back at Shadowheart, “find you something Fangs won’t be able to resist.”

You manage one last look over your shoulder before they turn you into a shop, one last glance at that devouring leer from your lover. But you watch that seductive grin instantly swallowed by a scowl as Gale grabs his elbow too. You barely hear the Wizard whining something about books and spell scrolls…

You shrug. Astarion would manage. Some time where he wasn’t trying to bury his cock balls deep in your thighs for once might be good for him.

The shops flash by you, a whirlwind of coin and scents and giggles, mirth and merriment. Something you and your friends haven’t had… ever. You hold too many parcels and pouches. Of course it would be easier to stash most of it into pockets or your pack if you still wore your nice, sensible armor. But no. Karlach wouldn’t let you out the door to the clothing shop without putting on that sweet little gown you bought. So now, you walk down the street, arms laden with parcels, your thighs rubbing together without the practicality of pants, the slits up the skirt over the fronts of your thighs almost too high as you shuffle your load. Not to mention how the sun is beating on your shoulders and the tops of your breasts that hadn’t seen light since you began this journey.

You had too many things: a book for Gale, some soaps for Halsin, a bottle of Baldur’s Grape for Wyll… but you needed to return now. Karlach and Shadowheart wanted to push on, so many more stores around this corner or that one.

But you needed a rest. And someone to carry your shit.

It’s only after you make a right, you realize it’s the wrong turn. Crates line the alley, and your arms are just too sore to keep going. Resolved to rest a moment, you set your gifts down, looking at the end of the narrow way to where it hangs over the Chionthar River.

“Lost, darling?” you feel his breath on your neck even as his words barely leave his lips. Astarion hovers right over your shoulder, how he snuck up on you so quickly, you can only shake your head.

“Typical rogue,” you huff an exhausted laugh. “Just couldn’t help being a prick and being stealthy at the same time?”

“I believe you mean, typical hero, coming to save his damsel in distress, lost in the sea of the City,” he flashes you that fanged smirk that makes your stomach flutter. “How fortunate I am here, with my skills and knowledge…”

Your turn in the little space he’s given you, between that crate behind you now and his looming body before.

“My hero, come to the rescue,” you simper, very much aware of the ways his eyes are dilating as they dart over your cleavage, down your lean but unsunned arms, even to where your new dress sinches at your waist.

“Heroes are usually rewarded handsomely for their efforts, darling….”

You feel him closing in on you, his thighs butting up into your skirts, but you giggle as you reach for one long, wrapped parcel from the stack beside you. “Here, hero,” you tease. “A different sort of weapon you enjoy sheathing than the one I think is on your mind.”

His brow arches, a pleasant smile on his thick lips. He leans back just a bit, reluctant but curious about what gift you’ve set in his hands. The paper and cloth tumbles at your feet, revealing a shining new dagger, a blade nice and light as he pulls it slightly from its scabbard. “My, my,” he tries to sound smooth, trying hard to hide the lump in his throat at the thoughtfulness of your gift. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He smiles, a true grin that deepens the wrinkles by his eyes, but it only happens once he turns away a bit, thinking himself mostly out of view. His hands slip the new blade into his belt, before pulling out something from behind his back. “But this time, you’re not the only one with a surprise, I am not woefully unprepared….”

A small square box in his cold, pale palm, he opens the paper lid.

Eleven little chocolate hearts fill the lining, except for one vacant spot that stares back at you. You feel him pressing closer again, the box basically pushed against the curve of your breasts.

“You got me… chocolates?” you cock your head, picking one up and giving it a sniff.

“I’ve always wanted to have a reason to… indulge in such finery. You’ve given me more than enough reason,” he purrs. Eyes fixed as he watches you bring it closer to your mouth. “They are so… sensual and delicious, I couldn’t help but hurry to find you for a nibble.”

You squint at him, sensing there is some… game at work here. “Seems like you got peckish on your way here,” you smirk at the empty spot. “Thought you didn’t enjoy the taste of anything that wasn’t blood, my vampire.”

“For this… I made an exception,” he grins wider, and you stare into his eyes, eyes almost black as he begins to press you against the rough wood of the crate. “Taste it, my dear… it goes down so smooth, so deliciously, you’ll… burn for more.”

You lick it, feeling a foreign heat that runs right from your tongue to your belly, a sweetness to its cream that you are unfamiliar with….

“They are a specialty around these parts, darling, a little something to, well…” he catches your hand, guiding the small chocolate between your lips, “why don’t you stick it in your mouth and swallow and find out.”

Something about that tingle on your tongue already, you seem to hum with your need for more… more of the chocolate, more of him…. No.

All of him.

You smile softly, closing your eyes and opening your mouth. It’s sweet and warm and… decadent. The little treat that he places on your tongue brings you to life. And you moan with abandon, delicious little noises as you savor its taste, until you do swallow it down. Eyes still closed to the world, you feel nothing now but the way his hands have found the bare skin of your thigh. Ghosting up your flesh, his nails skate beneath the hem of your skirt, drawing it higher… higher.

His touch is warm, you notice, the only thing warmer is your own increasingly burning skin. You pant, looking into his face where he looms above you. “What’s in those… sweets?” you need to swallow midway, and somehow, being so close to him to feel his breath on your cheek only makes the burning worse.

“Aren’t they sinfully good?” his voice is deep, rumbling as his hands find purchase beneath your clothing. It takes him no effort to lift you and set your ass down on that poor, helpless crate behind you. “Lovers’ chocolates… a specialty, an indulgence from the pleasure houses on these streets. And, as I’ve never had a lover with which to share them in two-hundred years…”

You are shaking as he slots himself between your thighs, the skirt of your new dress lifted quickly around your waist. With that infamous dexterity, he slinks his fingers beneath your undergarments and inside your cunt, the chocolates already flushing your skin and soaking your folds. “Seems like the right time to indulge in the decadence?”you are slurring your words.

“Indeed.” His fingers slowly stroke you, slowly pierce deeper into your channel as his other hand pulls you right to the edge of the crate. You don’t care it’s some alleyway… that anyone could see you or hear you. Not now with the chocolate in your blood, not now with his touch crooking and thrusting into your folds.

“You’ve indulged in your own little treats, haven’t you?” he whispers right against your lips. “This dress for one, by the hells, so much easier for me to do… all manner of things now.” Just to prove his point, his free hand steals into the neckline of your bodice, pulling that breast free. Moaning, arching, you writhe as he plucks at the hardening nipple. He smirks at you, a brief little laugh on his lips before he wraps them around it and sucks.

Even his mouth is warmed, his own tasting of the chocolate raging through his body, he did have a head start after all. With how your every nerve burns and your own sex swells to be sated, you marvel at how he’s taking his own godsdamned time right now—teasing out your arousal. As if he ever needed to work hard for you to be ready for him and his cock.

Ugh… the thought of it makes you salivate. You reach for his leathers, fingers shaking and fumbling with the ties. You groan, giving up on the laces completely. Pulling the waistband down, you ease his erection free. Even that beneath your touch is hot. Swollen. Ridged with veins so risen, you can’t look away from its… beauty.

“Even more eager than usual, aren’t we darling?” he rasps against your breast. His teeth, his fangs score slightly on the pad of your nipple, making you bite your mouth shut as you scream.

“Please…” you whimper as you try to pull his hips closer by his cock. But he stands firm, fingers still sweeping inside you, mouth still teasing your flesh.

“Oh I don’t think so…” he lifts his head to place a peck on your pouting lips. “There’s so much more of you to taste first, my little treat.” He grabs into your dress once more, lifting free your other breast before he devours it with the same skill and tenacity as the other.

His tongue is wet as he swirls it, lips so skilled at sucking your flesh, by now he knows every inch of your body. But it’s the way his thumb draws over your clit, a bit harder and tougher and timed to perfection with the lap of his tongue, you burst in a searing wave of climax. Barely a warning, and you are reduced to a moaning, gushing, flailing thing. His fingers are gripped firmly inside you, hard and thrusting as you ride out the waves of your orgasm.

But it’s the little pain you barely register, his fangs cutting into the top of your breast as he now feeds, that makes you almost come again, an aftershock to the intensity of the first. You gasp for air in your burning lungs, somehow you’ve managed to hold his cock through all your throes and shocks of orgasm. And now, he bucks into your fist, growing harder and harder the more and more he feeds.

Astarion’s fingers slide out from in you with a squelch, hips rolling with increased force into your grip. “You just had to treat yourself to a dress but insist on keeping those undergarments? Tch,” he sucks his teeth as he shakes his head in mock disapproval. “You’ll know better for next time, won’t you.”

“Whatever you think best,” you grin, half-unknowing the words coming from your mouth. Your hips buck for more… that heat in your body growing more and more unbearable, despite the soothing warmth from your single climax.

Gracefully, he leans in all the closer, unsheathing that new little dagger you got him. You feel it’s cool, deadly edge press softly at the base of your neck. “Shh, shh, shh,” he smirks with lust-dark eyes. Down to his dangerous smile, he mimics how you first met. “Not a sound now…. But those undergarments of your will just have to go… have to be sacrificed for what I need to do to you….”

You shake in anticipation, eyes fixed on his sultry, arrogant, fang-toothed grin as he slinks lower. That blade leaves your neck, perfectly intact. But as he steals its point beneath your skirts, its sharpened edge cuts the thin material of your underwear. Material ripping meets your ears as he performs the same little flick of his wrist against your other hip. Standing and returning his blade, he pulls the silky band out from under you.

“Seems I’ve done you a favor.” He leers down at you, palming your undergarments, smelling them, and putting them in his pocket. “You’ve already simply ruined these already, at any rate.”

You reach for his waist, the air kissing your wet folds too much now. He could stand there and taunt for so much longer, but it’s too much to bear. You guide that thick, warm, blunted head of his cock between your thighs, wrapping your legs around him until he’s filled you.

He practically mewls your name at the force. “Gods, I should have known not to underestimate what those chocolates would do to you, darling.”

He grunts the last word as you buck against him, trying to make him start taking you. Coaxing him just a bit deeper in. He doesn’t need more encouragement than that. Not with the way your cheeks must be glowing red with how hot they feel… not with the way you feel your arousal soaking the top of the crate now, growing cold as it leaves your burning body.

Hands grip the flesh of your ass beneath your dress, holding you firmly in place as he takes control. Eyes almost black, skin un-undeadly hot where he touches you, he feels so good… better than ever… the pulsing of his thrusts consuming you and sating that fire the chocolate has put in your belly. All you can do is grab him by that sweet ruffled collar, inch your way around his neck, and hold on for dear life.

That tightly held veil of refinement begins to slip, you hear it in the snap of his hips into you and against the crate, in the feral growls he makes each time he pierces harder and harder into you….

You crane your head back, mouth panting and wide as you show him what else you want him to do… you bear your teeth at him with a playful snap.

It’s more invitation than he needs, fangs sinking into the crook of your neck, the top of your shoulder. Bite… suck… swallow. Then he lifts again, repeating the same into your pounding artery. Bite… you moan so loudly…. Suck… his lips pull so hard on your flesh you can feel it bruising… Swallow… he lifts his head to pant for air. The most self-satisfied smirk on his sharp, pale face before he yanks your neck to the other side, leaving you a match set of bites there.

Bite…

You flood with pleasure, cresting over the edge harder than you could imagine.

Suck…

Your walls suck him in too, trapping him as he begins to stilt and buck harder. Climax for him sweeping him away harder too.

Swallow…

You scream into the mass of his silver curls, trying to muffle your cries where he’s lowered to feed on the top of your breast.

But he arches back, letting out his own panting groan, coming and ramming hard into you at last. You pray the crate doesn’t give under you with a laugh. Your hands steal into his hair, caressing down his smirking cheeks.

“How… many more of those chocolates did you get…?” the question barely carries on your breathless voice.

“Not enough,” he groans, licking the last trickles of your blood as he tucks your breasts back into the neck of your dress. What was your new dress. He chuckles, deep in his chest, cock still buried inside you. Reading your thoughts. “Don’t you fret, darling. I’ll buy you another dress. One for each I ruin.”

“Oh because…” you laugh, waving your hand down your front. “This level of violence will happen to my dresses again?”

“Every time you wear one, my love,” he breathes his own laugh before he finally… at long last… catches your lips in a slow and lingering kiss. “Undoubtedly every time.”

You shake your head even as his lips continue to work yours, as his hand winds into the hair at the base of your neck.

“Karlach and Shadowheart are going to give me such grief…”

“Only because they were right… I just couldn’t keep hand or fang off you, my darling.”

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pasukiyo · 16 days

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LEECH.

| a collection of one-shots. collection masterlist.

DISCLAIMER: this fic is simply a work of fiction and is in no way, shape, or form claiming to be a reflection of how leon kennedy is canonically portrayed as a character. this is an au, meaning it is an alternate reality written for fun, so please heed this warning and keep it in mind while you read.

— to join the taglist, follow the link here and choose “leon kennedy” in the character list.

collection songbook

leon kennedy x fem!reader word count; 1,656 warnings; leon is a stalker, leon's also a bit of a loser!, themes of dark!leon, allusions to smut, mentions of oral (m & f receiving) summary; letting her go was easily the biggest mistake leon has ever made, and he's made more than he can count. so when he finds her again, he vows she’ll be the one thing he clings to, like a leech in skin.

Leon never had a place to call his own, but he did have a home, once.

Home was a girl, home was a medic who, by patching him up that first time in the training grounds, prompted a rumbling from deep within his belly for a hunger he’d never had before, making him yearn for something constant, something domestic, something normal.

Because Leon Kennedy’s life was far from it. Years of being in all the wrong places at all the wrong times made certain of that. There was nothing normal about him to begin with anyways, even before that shitshow of a first day on duty at R.P.D..

Although not many tried, many failed to truly understand Leon Kennedy. Before there was a top secret government agent, there was a cop and before there was a cop, there was a teenager and before there was a teenager there was just a child, mourning the loss of parents he never got the chance to really know.

But that was all just the surface-level shit.

Everyone, at least on a business standpoint, knew about Leon’s past, why he was so eager to be an officer in the first place. But no one gave a shit about the in between. Nobody really cared for who Leon Kennedy was at his core, beneath all the blood, sweat, gore, and tears.

Nobody did— except for her.

Leon’s home once looked at him with a tenderness so devastating, it was like its own cataclysmic event. Every time she looked at him with eyes so warm like a crackling fire in the hearth on a cold, winter night, eyebrows pinched and brow furrowed, it was like the Earth was collapsing around him. The world was caving in and Leon didn’t care because all he could see was her: listening to him, eager to know more, wanting to help him.

He could still see her eyes every night when he closed his and he could still hear her voice, her breathing, the little sounds she made in those moments they shared when they burned the brightest. His skin still buzzed where her lips once touched him, although each day that passed by, the burn her kiss left upon his flesh gradually faded, so faint now, he was holding on to cinders. Leon would toss and turn in whatever bed he ended up in every night, willing the memory of their last night together back to the forefront of his brain, clinging on to the dying embers left in her lips’ wake.

Her kiss felt fainter tonight than it ever had before.

The feeling was nearly painful.

Leon ripped the thin duvet off of his body, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress that was more like a box spring than anything. The motel room he’d ended up in after the last mission was small, the walls were yellow with grime, the curtains over the window thin and ripped, allowing the orange light from the lamppost outside to spill in. There were small, dark ovals on the floor in the corner that were surely cockroaches, but Leon didn’t spare them a second glance as he zipped up his jeans— he’d slept in far worse places than this.

He tugged on the sheepskin leather jacket that had since been draped over the top of the withering dresser, stepping into his boots and bending at the waist from the edge of the mattress to lace them up. The alarm on the nightstand read 4:00 in big, red numbers that blinked after him as he stuffed his room key into his pocket, slipping out the door.

The air was cold and fog rolled in the low-lit parking lot, curls of smoky air visible in the lamplight. Leon could see his breath in misty clouds with each step he took and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, disappearing into the fog.

She haunted his reverie as if she were a parasite, a sickness he couldn’t heal from. He still saw her the day she told him she was leaving, still felt the bile that bubbled in his throat, still saw the tears that fell in droplets of rain down her cheeks. He still felt the weight of the words he’d said, still remembered her shaking her head, could still hear her voice curling around his ears like a ghostly whisper, saying “you have to let me go.”

He watched her walk away, let her go as she asked then, and perhaps, Leon should’ve tried to move on. Perhaps he should’ve let her go as she had asked, should’ve pushed himself harder in training, pushed himself harder in his missions so that maybe he could have forgotten her.

But he was still right where she left him.

Ever since she left, he’d been stuck as if he were in a time loop, reliving the day he let her walk away from him over and over again like it was some form of punishment, his own personal hell. He’d spent damn near every second that passed after that day trying to claw his way back to her, hanging on tooth and nail. He had to ask through virtually the entire medical team until he finally, finally found her.

He told himself he wouldn’t do this, told himself he’d wait until the morning where he could show up at her door, properly knock and engage in conversation. He tried desperately to resist the ache he now yielded to.

The place was caught in between a shithole and adequacy. It was a hell of a lot better than a vast majority of the places Leon had slept, at least. His footsteps echoed through the hallway as he neared her door, Room 210. He fished for his pocket knife in the front pocket of his jeans, unsheathing the switchblade before glancing around the hall.

Empty.

He leaned down to the lock and slowly, as to not make any more noise than necessary, inserted the blade, inch by inch until the tip reached the end. He twisted the hilt until there was a click, steadily sliding the knife back out and switching it closed, tucking it safely away back in his pocket.

The knob was cool against his fingertips as he twisted it, carefully pushing open the door, grimacing when it squeaked. He stepped inside the dark apartment, the shadows embracing him as if he were an old friend. Once he’d managed to close the door, he crept his way through the apartment, between half unpacked moving boxes and furniture.

The walls were bare for the most part, save for a painting above the television in the living room. Leon couldn’t quite discern what it was in the darkness, but through the sliver in the door beside it, he could just make out the shape of a footboard.

His heart pounded against his chest as he inched towards the bedroom door, palms against the wood, cautiously pushing open just enough to allow his body to slither through.

And there she was.

Leon’s home was a woman buried beneath the covers, turned on her side with an arm folded beneath her pillow. Home was the woman deep in slumber, lashes flush to her cheeks, oblivious to the man standing at her bedside.

Leon drew in a deep breath as he kneeled beside her, his fingers just itching to wipe the loose strand of hair away from her face. It’d been so long since the last time he’d seen her in the flesh and he’d counted down those long, agonizing days that eventually led him to this moment. The days were long and hard but finally, he’d made his way back to her.

The lips that used to kiss his, that used to part when she gasped, that wrapped around his cock when his fingers were woven through her hair were now pressed together in a line. The chest he’d sometimes lay on at night, the chest he’d knead in either of his palms, the chest he’d leave his marks upon rose and fell with her every breath. He wondered if any of his marks still tainted her skin, or if the time they’d spent apart had been enough to fade them away.

The eyes that still haunted him, even in this moment, were closed but still, their hue was forever ingrained in his memory. Leon’s fingers twitched as he raised a hand towards her face, shivering as he brushed the backs of his knuckles delicately across her cheek, the pad of his thumb just barely soothing over one of her closed eyelids. He swiped the loose strand of hair away from his face gently, the tip of his forefinger delicately tracing the curve of her ear.

The skin he’d been craving and yearning to touch was warm, a stark contrast from the cool of his own. Memories of nights that had passed with his arms wrapped around her naked body, with her breasts against his chest, their legs intertwined flashed in his mind. Memories of his palms soothing up and down her waist, his hands between the soft flesh of her thighs, his lips against her center made his mouth part in a gasp.

How he longed to shake her awake, to look in her eyes, to feel her again. How he longed to tangle his fingers up in her hair and push her lips against his in a searing kiss that would forever scar him but feel so damn good all the while.

But he wouldn’t wake her, not now.

For tonight, he’d settle on the fact that he’d found her, that he could see her once again. Seeing her again set that old flame in the pit of his belly ablaze once more, fueling that craving he had for something constant, something domestic, something normal.

Normalcy was hard, his line of work made certain of that. Nobody normal had seen the amount of shit he had, nor had the amount of blood on his hands that tainted his. Normalcy was practically a myth, normalcy sounded more outrageous than the outrageous did to him.

Normalcy may have been out of reach before, yes, but now— now it felt closer than ever. If becoming a leech, a blood-sucking parasite with its teeth sunken deep into skin was what he had to do to achieve it, then so be it. He was so tired of letting everything he’d ever wanted slip out of his reach— so when he sunk down onto the floor with his back against the wall, gaze still fixed on the woman slumbering upon the bed, he vowed to let this be the one thing he cling to.

a/n; SO... SURPRISE! i got the idea for this while driving to work this past tuesday morning and couldn't stop thinking about it my entire shift lol i'm really excited to write more for this collection, so stay tuned for further one-shots! i just ask for your patience-- i'm a college student with a job! :) anyways, i hope you all enjoyed this little introduction to the collection :)

❕❕the next fic in the collection will be posted april 14th at 3 pm cst

💿 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the entire world to me 🫶

TAGLIST

@corruptcoder @chaoticevilbakugo @luckypurins @glovesandhorror @xoxostarlet @illsksm @echo1200 @d3adp00ls @woahhajime @leonkennedygvrl

#leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon x you #leon x y/n #leon kennedy x y/n #resident evil #pasukiyo's leech collection

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macabr3-barbi3 · 12 days

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can you do a fic of alastor comforting the reader after a nightmare? more fluff then smut please <333

I went full fluff for this anon, I hope this is what you were looking for! Super short but I had a fun time writing this cute little thing, please feel free to shoot me another ask and let me know what you think <3 (I should be sleeping but decided to write and post this instead 💕)

Tags: fluff; Alastor x Reader; nightmares; comfort; established relationship

Possible tw/cw for drowning? just in case

The darkness of the night is interrupted only by the crack of lightning across the sky, static in the air, your cries swallowed up by the boom of thunder somewhere nearby. You don’t get a chance to inhale, fill your body with one last sweet gulp of air, before the tide takes you under, chest burning with the effort of trying to hold your breath. You can’t hold it- it breaks free of your mouth with a rush of bubbles and a scream that no one can hear with your head underwater. Knowing that you shouldn’t, muscle memory makes you inhale once again.

You know that you’re dreaming, but that doesn’t make the intake of water into your lungs any less terrifying.

Your hands fly to your throat to try to stop it- a pointless endeavor since it has already entered you, weighing your body down. Glancing towards your feet, another crack of lighting illuminates the water enough for you to see the rope around your ankle before the cinder block tied to the other end starts to descend, dragging you deeper and deeper into the murky depths. The dark gray of the sky fades quickly from your view as you sink, mouth open in another scream for someone- anyone - to save you.

A hand grips yours, tight around the wrist, and you cling to it- drag it down against your chest, press your lips to the skin you find there like it can somehow push air back into your lungs. Relief floods your veins, the warm palm against your own a physical reminder that despite everything you were not alone- drowning but moments from salvation.

When it tries to pull away you resist, dig your claws into your could-be savior, pleading words on your lips that can’t travel on airwaves beneath the water as they are. They pull harder, out of your grasp, and your tears become one with the sea as you are pulled to the bottom of it without them.

Screaming is what awakens you, the ache in your throat violent and sharp enough finally that you bolt upright in your bed, Alastor’s crimson gaze settled on your face, his smile grim and tense. He’s crouched over your frame and holds both of your hands in his, your elbows and legs still fighting against water that no longer surrounds you. There are tiny rivulets of blood on his wrists from where you had grabbed him.

You force yourself to relax, deep breaths that do nothing to soothe the burn in your throat. You stop fighting Alastor, make your limbs go still against him and collapse back against the bed. Tears burn at your eyes, not just those leftover from your dream but new ones at the thought of hurting him while he tried to help you.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice is a quiet rasp and your body goes boneless, Alastor finally releasing his grip on your hands and leaning back. Unlike the first time this had happened, there is no frantic pounding at the door in response to your screams- he had taken care of that problem after Charlie had shown up to your room in a panic, Vaggie with her spear at the ready before Alastor had explained that it wasn’t necessary. It was only ever when you fell asleep at different times; when he had other matters to attend to in the hotel or radio studio, or times when you feel asleep waiting up for him. He had been horrified to discover them at first, but since becoming accustomed to them he was quick to give you comfort in the aftermath.

He collects you in his arms, pulls you against his chest with a hand in your hair and the other in yours. “No apology necessary, dear,” he murmurs, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head. “I know it’s nothing you can control.”

“I hate this,” you whisper into his shirt. “I hate that it makes me so… so weak.”

You feel his head shake more than you see it. “Never,” he assures you. “You could never be such a thing.”

“You don’t have nightmares,” you say petulantly, and the vibration of his chuckle against you is something you could feel for centuries and never tire of.

“I have other terrors to face, I’m afraid. That doesn’t make the ones you handle any less difficult.”

You sigh, settling deeper into his embrace. “When you took my hand,” you say quietly, “it helped. It was like a lifeline- something to ground myself with. In the dream it felt like a rescue- I didn’t know it was you, I can’t get that far out of it to recognize that- but it helped me feel less alone.” You lower your gaze. “Less like I felt when I died.”

Panicked. Overwhelmed. Desperately, horribly isolated when you had been sent over the side of the ship all those years ago. There had been no cinder block- that part of the nightmare an unfortunate addition from your terrorized mind- your going overboard having been an accident, but the crashing of waves over your head as you tried to scream was always the same, the storm that raged overhead never ending as you had been left behind.

“Look at me.” He uses his hand in your hair to guide your face towards his, placing a chaste kiss on your lips before pressing your foreheads together. “I will never allow you to be in a situation like that again. Whether an external force or the horrors of your mind, I will always be here for you, darling.” With his other hand he gives yours a squeeze. “I will tie my hand to yours in the night if you desire, so I cannot pull away even by accident. So you always have that reminder that I’m beside you. I will not leave you behind.”

You fist your hand in his shirt, bury your face in the fabric so he can’t see the freshest tears. “I love you,” you say, and he brushes his hand gently through your hair once more.

“And I love you, dear. Rest easy now- I’m here with you. I always will be.” He hums something soft and gentle above you, and the low vibrations and the heat of him lulls you back into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

#hazbin hotel #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor the radio demon #x reader #alastor fluff #hazbin fluff

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mikaeled · 1 year

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Feed the fire. Let the last cinders burn. ARMORED CORE VI FIRES OF RUBICON (2023) by FromSoftware

#userwolfkissed #thelvadams #mistress-light #userkarlo #usernastya #theashenphoenix #armoredcoreedit #Armored Core VI #gamingedit #eye strain #my gifs #mechs 😍

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caffeinewitchcraft · 1 year

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Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt 5)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4)

When Cinderella is very young, her mother calls her little Cinder.

“You came to be when your father and I’s love came together,” she explains to her daughter. She brushes Cinderella’s hair from her face with a tender touch. “The fire of our passion gave us you. One day, my little Cinder, you’ll ignite and be a beautiful fire all your own.”

“Our Cinder.” Her father laughs when Cinderella relays the story over dinner. “Our Cinder-ella, hm?”

Little Cinderella refuses to be called anything else. There’s a warm power in her new name that tickles her chest every time one of her parents calls her by it. Her father is concerned, but her mother laughs.

“It is still a name we’ve given her,” her mother says when he voices his concerns. “She is a child. Let her grow into her true name in her own time, dear.”

Her father grudgingly acquiesces. “Nobody is going to take her seriously with that sort of nickname.”

“Perhaps the right people will,” her mother says. She smiles at Cinderella who’s playing in front of the fire. “Time will only tell.”

And so Cinderella becomes her name. She clings to it like a talisman. When her mother dies, nobody calls her Cinder anymore, but Cinderella is just as good when it comes from her father’s mouth, even when it stops bringing the warmth to her chest the way it used to. Him calling her that means he remembers. It means he cares.

Her stepsisters make fun of her for it. Cinder means coal, they say. Soot. Dirt. A fitting name for her who is always so filthy after raking leaves and tending fires. They tell her that it’s no wonder her father doesn’t come back home with dirt for a daughter.

Cinderella still loves her name, but she knows that she’s become sensitive to sharing it. The years of mockery bruised her in a way she didn’t expect. The people she wanted to love her never treated her name with respect. They never asked about the origin of it. So she hoards her name like one of the few possessions she has left, only sharing it when she’s sure she won’t be teased again.

Is it any wonder she never told the boy her name? Half frozen in winter and so vulnerable she thought it better to keep this last bit of warmth to herself than share it with her rescuer? By the time she noticed the gap in their meeting, it was too late. The boy in the tree never gave her his name so, by example, she never gave hers either.

That’s going to make finding him at the ball a little difficult.

Cinderella accepts the gloved hand of the coachman, stepping down onto cobblestone laid so smoothly she knows she won’t have trouble walking through the castle doors alone. The coachman escorts her anyway, placing her hand into the crook of his arm like she’s a real noble lady.

Cinderella keeps her chin up. She’s not a real noble lady, but tonight she must act like one. Isn’t that the point of the invitation? Her back burns from holding her shoulders properly. She looks up at the glittering castle, lit by sconces along the exterior wall, and thinks, I must fit in.

“The Master of Ceremonies is in charge of announcing the arrival of guests,” the coachman says. He’d only given Cinderella one startled look when Helga took her to him and then he’d become impossible to read. His tone is polite, but distant. “Is there a name or title you’d like to go by?”

She can’t be announced. All at once the reality of her decision crashes down on her. Knowing her stepmother and stepsisters, they’re already inside. If Cinderella is announced, they’ll know that she disobeyed them, that she shrugged off their “mischief” and gained some sponsor they knew nothing about to get here.

“…I am simply the daughter of an absent baron,” Cinderella says at last. The entrance is fast approaching, a short line of nobles waiting patiently to be announced and let into the event. “Surely it is too much of an honor to be announced by the same person responsible for announcing the King and Queen.”

The coachman falters. She wouldn’t have caught it if she weren’t looking so closely. His next step is a little too short for Cinderella’s and his arm twitches before relaxing again.

“Many choose to be announced by their titles alone,” he says at last. He glances at Cinderella from the corner of his eye. Is it her imagination or is there interest in his gaze? “If I may offer some advice?”

“I would never turn away advice,” Cinderella says. Her heart is starting to beat too quickly. The nobles in front of her are gorgeous. The fabrics and ornaments adorning them are just as extravagant as those on her own gown. She’s going to the same place as them, may even dance with some of them. She’s nervous, yes, but also excited.

“There will be those who ask for your name,” the coachman says. He sounds as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “You may give it to them, of course, if you choose. However, this is a ball. You aren’t on trial and you owe no debts. You may give them something to call you, as you have just given me, but that is the extent of what is required. Do you understand?”

Cinderella doesn’t. She hums as the line moves forward, twisting his words around in her mind. “I will consider your words.”

The coachman’s lip twitches. “See that you do.”

He is warmer to her than he has been since picking her up from the Emerald Castle. As they wait, he whispers the positions of the nobles around them. Duchess of Blackwood’s son and heir, Earl of Northlake’s child, Viscount Sinset’s daughter—

Cinderella drinks in the information as quickly as she can, grateful for the way matching each name to a face soothes her nerves.

Then, all at once, it’s her turn to go in.

She goes to let go of the coachman’s arm, but he holds onto her hand for a moment. For the first time, he looks at her directly. His eyes are silver and shining in the candlelight, the wrinkles along his mouth tight with determination.

“You owe no debts,” he whispers urgently. Feverishly. His hand squeezes hers and he looks over his shoulder as if afraid of eavesdroppers. “Remember, baron’s daughter.”

Then the moment is over. The coachman straightens, face impassive, and he goes to whisper her title to the Master of Ceremonies. Then, duty done, he slinks back out to the carriage without once meeting Cinderella’s eyes again.

“Baron’s daughter,” the Master of Ceremonies calls. He extends his hand to Cinderella. He helps her over the threshold. “Have fun.”

Cinderella is thrust into a world of color.

The ballroom is huge, the ceiling soaring at the height of her father’s manor. Her father’s manor could fit into this room, in fact. Columns along the edges etched with beautiful faces and vines support the vaulted ceiling. There are strange and fantastic mosaics everywhere she looks. The same night sky that she’d seen in the Emerald Castle curls like a river through depictions of fruit and flowers. The mosaic leaks down from the ceiling to the walls where it bursts into stars.

Tables filled with gold plates and crystal flutes line the hall. Food Cinderella has only ever seen in books fills them. Chicken with flesh so moist it glistens in the candlelight. Fruit tarts and cakes, bite-sized pies, a tower of finger sandwiches. The glasses glitter next to the spread. As she watches, one man fills two with a bubbling liquid the color of ambrosia and then darts away to a waiting lady.

Oh, and the people! The music! The laughter!

A dance is happening already. The nobles look like works of art come to life, swooping and twirling in the center of the hall. Their gowns and suits glitter with every move, their wide smiles gleaming, an inner glow coming through their skin. The music is so sweet that Cinderella almost wants to laugh herself for the joy of it. Some of them are laughing, open and gaily like children experiencing the sun after a long winter.

Cinderella can’t join them yet. It’s an effort to wrestle the bubble of joy rising in her chest back, but she manages it. Cinderella is pragmatic. Cinderella is patient. She keeps to the edges of the hall, putting the buffet tables between herself and the dancing for a moment. She wants to take it all in, to paint this night like a portrait in her mind before she joins.

And, most importantly, she wants to know where her stepfamily is before she loses herself in merriment.

It doesn’t take long to find them. They almost find her first. Cinderella is forced to duck behind a carved column as they pass.

“—asked to dance,” Anastasia is saying. She plucks a glass of champagne from the nearest table and then whines when her mother quickly snatches it away. “Why didn’t you let me accept?”

“It isn’t polite to dance before the Prince arrives,” Stepmother says. She sighs and hands Drizella a handkerchief when she picks up one of the finger sandwiches. “Don’t you dare get anything on your dress, either of you. You must look your best when the Prince is announced.”

“I want to watch the musicians,” Drizella says. She points to the front of the hall, just left of the dais where a small orchestra is concentrating on their instruments. “I’ve never seen a harp before!”

Cinderella steps out from behind the column when she hears their retreating footsteps. It is her first time seeing any of their gowns. They’re beautiful. Drizella’s managed her hair on her own and it shines under the candlelight. Her dress is lilac with silver embroidery. For a moment, Cinderella is worried. No one else in the hall is wearing purple. Is the lighter color enough to not offend the Royalty?

Anastasia is wearing a green gown with a daring back. The green is deeper than Cinderella’s, but bright enough to enhance the glittering blue embroidery along the skirt and bodice. She’s still carrying herself like she’s real nobility, her toes flashing out from under her hem with every step.

Stepmother is more understated. Her steel grey dress is demure enough in color to show that she’s a mother, but the cut is very similar to the fashionable nobles around her. She looks like a portrait from a time gone by with her ruffled collar and pinned hair.

They’re beautiful and the longing resurges brutally. What would it have been like if Cinderella were part of them? If they were family? If they accepted her love and loved her back? Would she be dressed in another color? Would she be laughing with Anastasia at the opulence of the chandeliers above them?

“May I ask you to dance?”

Cinderella doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. A young man is at her elbow, gloved hand extended to her. He’s dressed simply compared to other gentlemen she’s seen, his suit a traditional black with only an orange pocket square for color. He’s wearing a mask like he’s at a masquerade and where his suit is simple, his mask is ornate. The orange fabric is coated in translucent gems. Behind it, his eyes are odd. Are his pupils too large? Too narrow?

“Yes,” Cinderella says. She doesn’t think it’s rude to dance before the Prince arrives. If it was, why would the music already be playing? Feeling uncharacteristically bold, she says, “You may ask.”

The man’s smile widens. He sweeps an elegant bow and asks, “May I have this dance?”

Cinderella laughs. She accepts the man’s hand. “We may share this dance. Depending on how it goes, I may let you have it.”

“Clever,” the man says and sweeps her away.

She’s grateful when her dance partner leads her to the opposite side of the hall as her stepfamily. That’s all she has a chance to feel before the dance consumes her.

Cinderella was worried that she wouldn’t be a good dancer. And, she thinks, she’s not. But her partner is and with his gentle guidance, she finds herself remembering the cadence of the steps. The music throbs in her chest. Faster than she thought possible, she’s spinning, twirling, and gliding with her partner. It’s fun. It feels natural.

“You said you were out of practice,” her partner accuses.

“I am,” Cinderella says. Her body is thrumming. She feels so completely present that she can’t help but laugh. She smiles up at him. “This is wonderful.”

The man seems stunned by her sudden joy. He stumbles, falling out of sync with Cinderella on a turn. Cinderella is quickly pulled into the arms of another partner.

“Iz,” her previous partner growls.

Iz, a dark-haired young man, laughs and guides Cinderella into the next song. “There are many young ladies who haven’t been asked for a dance.” He winks at Cinderella and patiently waits for her to adjust to the faster tempo of the song. “We’d best let them have a chance to be swindled, hm?”

“He was very polite,” Cinderella defends without heat. Her previous partner didn’t seem actually upset. Is it common practice to cut in at balls? “Unlike some, he asked me for a dance.”

Iz, rather than being chastised, is delighted. His handsome face splits into a genuine smile, showing Cinderella sharp teeth. “He did, did he? What did you say?”

The song is fast and complicated. Cinderella pauses a moment before answering, focusing on her footwork. When she succeeds in not stepping on his feet, she laughs. “What does it matter? We’re dancing now.”

Iz supports her in a turn that leaves her toes barely skimming the floor. When he sets her back down, he asks, “If I asked you for a dance, what would you say?”

Cinderella considers that. Iz is handsome, his face unobstructed by a mask. He seems less intense than her first partner, but darker. His sharp teeth wink at her and, though she’s not afraid, she doubts she’d have teased him like she teased the masked man. “It might be best you didn’t ask.”

“Ouch.” Iz adjust his hold on her waist. “I suppose I’ll just need to do better than him, hm?”

He certainly tries. Iz is a wonderful dancer, even better than her masked partner. He isn’t as gentle, but he isn’t rough either. When Cinderella is unsure of the steps, he pushes her into them or lifts her to accommodate. The dance feels like a competition rather than a dance at times. The moment Cinderella feels herself catching up to Iz’ pace, he pulls out another trick.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Cinderella pants after a particularly low dip.

“Forgive an old man his strategies,” Iz says, pulling her back up. He lifts his chin. “I have a reputation here. I can’t have just anybody out dancing me.”

“And yet here I am,” Cinderella teases. Old man? She doesn’t ask.

“Here you are,” Iz agree gravely. He holds her hand as Cinderella passes around him. Their song is ending, seamlessly sliding into the next. “I’ll have to know the name of my conqueror, hm?”

She nearly tells him. “I’m—” she catches his eye and her words falter. There’s a hunger in his gaze that chases some of the warmth from her limbs. She finishes “—a baron’s daughter.”

Iz’ hand tightens on hers. “But surely even baron’s daughters have names—ouch!”

A fan collides with the back of Iz’ head. Surprised, he lets go of Cinderella and, for the second time that night, Cinderella is pulled into another’s arms.

“Better luck next time,” the woman tells Iz. She’s a ray of red from her hair to her dress to the jewels on the toes of her shoes. She uses her full skirts to block Iz from reaching for Cinderella again. “I’ll be taking this dance.”

Luckily the next song is slow. The mysterious woman doesn’t speak to Cinderella for the first quarter of it as Cinderella catches her breath. She picks a gliding step that gets them away from Cinderella’s previous partners. Their skirts, green and red, are striking when they brush against the other.

Finally, the red woman speaks. “We’re supposed to be on our best behavior. Cy and Iz clearly don’t have best in their vocabulary. I hope you weren’t frightened.”

Cinderella’s brow furrows. “Frightened?”

“It’s already such a mess,” the woman continues as if not hearing Cinderella. She’s taller than Cinderella and her eyes are fixed on the ballroom over Cinderella’s head. “What the King and Queen were thinking…”

For the first time, Cinderella looks away from her partner. She doesn’t see anything out of place that could be construed as a “mess.” The guests are still dancing, their jewels and beading flashing in the candlelight. There is still laughter in the air. The tables are full of food and drink. Sure, the laughter is a little strained, but Cinderella can understand that. She’s feeling a little tired herself.

“I don’t understand,” Cinderella says.

The red woman looks down to study Cinderella. Her face is kind, round cheeks and high, arching brows. She purses her lips. “You seem fine.” She seems to think for a long moment. “There are rules that some of the more…provincial nobles aren’t aware of.”

“Like a special etiquette?”

“Exactly. A special sort of etiquette only taught in the Capital.” The red woman examines Cinderella again. “Though you seem to know a few rules?”

Does she? Cinderella hasn’t been doing anything differently than what her mother taught her. Uncomfortable with the intensity of the woman’s stare, Cinderella pulls away before the start of the next song. “This dance has been lovely, but I’m afraid I lack the endurance for another. I’ll excuse myself.”

“Ah, well, I can’t fight exhaustion,” the red woman says. She sweeps a curtsy to Cinderella. “They call me Morrigan, lady. I’d be honored if you did the same.”

Courtesy dictates Cinderella reciprocates, but she’s no longer feeling warm and joyful. The laughter that had been so uplifting is beginning to sound grating and discordant. The sweet music is insistent, pounding at Cinderella’s bones. She does her best to push the sensation away. She begins to feel light-headed. “You honor me. I’m only a mere baron’s daughter.” She turns to go.

The red woman blocks Cinderella before she can leave the dance floor. Her eyes (And are her eyes red?) dart around the floor. She leans in close to Cinderella’s ear. “I like your sense and so I will give you a warning. Don’t stay another night, baron’s daughter. Go home. Tonight.”

“Pardon?” Cinderella asks.

But Morrigan has already been swept away by the dancers again, there and gone in a blink.

Cinderella stumbles past the buffet tables. Her head is ringing. There’s something about the music – she can’t shut it out. No, it’s the laughter. It sounds disingenuous now. She presses a hand to her temple and looks for a patio or something where she can get fresh air.

Behind her, the music is fading. The Master of Ceremonies calls, “All bow for the entrance of her majesty and his majesty, the King and Queen!”

Cinderella doesn’t stop. She ducks down the first hall she finds. The heat that’s been rising in her breaks like a bubble and Cinderella nearly sags to the floor in relief. She didn’t realize how hot she was, how tightly wound, how tense. However, she has better manners than to collapse here and better sense than to be found ignoring the entrance of the King and Queen.

She continues down the hall, looking for a door to a courtyard or a private room. But the flagstone hall is so empty that she can hear the echo of voices from the ballroom even after coming all this way. The first few doors she tries are locked.

Cinderella finds the emptiness of the hall soothing after the sensory overload that was the ballroom. The pictures on the walls are dark in color scheme and impersonal in subject. A bowl of fruit with a handful of grapes scattered around the base. A wonderfully detailed portrait of a lamb and a haystack. A book laid out on a table with a fountain pen propped up on its spine. A tree standing on a hill, the dry grass surrounding it waving in an invisible wind.

The tree. Cinderella wants to talk to her friend. Now, far away from the ball, she feels…unsettled. She’s never been around so many people before. She’d felt so confident and bold in the moment, but she doesn’t know. Is it obvious that she’s never worn a dress like this? Did her dance partners laugh at her when she left? Why did Morrigan warn her away from another night at the ball? Because she could sense Cinderella doesn’t belong?

At last there’s a set of french doors along the hall. One is already partially cracked and the cool breeze that rolls through it feels like a balm against Cinderella’s flushed skin. She slips past the fluttering curtain and into a courtyard.

“Beautiful,” Cinderella breathes. Her breath fogs the air and she rubs her arms against the chill. There’s an oak tree in the center of a square of greenery. Directly overhead, the moon is big and full over the castle’s roofline. Carefully tended flowers frame a stone path directly up to the base of the tree. At the trunk is a small bench, just big enough for two people.

Cinderella follows the path. She doesn’t know if she’s trespassing, but would it matter? Everyone, including the royal family, is at the ball. She just needs a moment here and then she’ll be gone like she was never there. She sits on the bench and closes her eyes in relief. Her feet throb when her weight leaves them. She’s not used to heels.

“Didn’t you have a nice time dancing?”

The chill is chased away. The sound of the breeze through the oak tree vanishes. Without having to open her eyes, Cinderella knows that there are rainbows of magic in the air, twining under the moonlight like phantoms.

Cinderella smiles. “Hello, my friend.”

Her friend’s presence surrounds her, and Cinderella lets the last of her tension go.

-----------

We finally meet her friend again! Next part will be up next week, or is already available on my Patreon (X)

See y’all next week! I’m anticipating two or three more parts to this :)

#my writing #long post #Cinderella fan fiction #cinderella retelling

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averagemrfox · 14 days

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Need volume 10 so I can get the Blake and Yang vs Tyrian match up of my dreams

You got Yang, whose semblance relies on her taking the hit. Who’s been shown over and over to use her own body as a shield so that her loved ones don’t get hurt. She’s been able to use it as more than a last resort in more recent volumes but it still requires her to store up the energy by taking the hit while her aura is gradually depleted.

Then you’ve got Tyrian, an incredibly good close quarters fighter like Yang but with an acrobatic ability closer to Blake’s and a semblance that cuts straight through people’s auras leaving them completely vulnerable. Burn is completely irrelevant if Tyrian goes for a lethal hit the first opportunity he gets

Blake on the other hand relies on her semblance to avoid taking the hit. She can create space for herself, put herself in a better position, and if she uses dust trap or hurt enemies with it. We’ve seen Blake avoid hits that would’ve killed her multiple times. If he can’t even hit her Tyrian’s semblance doesn’t mean shit

I want to see Blake just lose it again like she did at Neo for a bit after Yang fell but this time she doesn’t have to worry about Cinder. Let Blake be a little ruthless vs a serial killer. As a treat. I want to see this fight as a set up for Blake and Yang to finally talk about Yang’s self sacrificial tendencies.

#blake belladonna #yang xiao long #tyrian callows #rwby #ive yelled about this in the tags of posts before but idr if ive ever made a post about it #i dont think Blake and Yang will ultimately be the ones to finally take Tyrian #that’s probably going to be Qrow and Robyn #but it’s such a juicy match up I’d be sad if it didn’t happen especially since I don’t think they’ve ever even been on screen with Tyrian #the rest of the main gang except Weiss I think all have and most have fought him #it’s the Bees turn

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katsukikitten · 1 year

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A zombie apocalypse au for @medusashima collab! Find the collab master list HERE! Be sure to give the others a read too!

Warning: graphic, violent, and sexual content intended for adults 18 or older.

Synopsis: Shelter isn't hard to come by in the End but good, untouched, shelter is. When you find paradise in the middle of a dead field in the shape of a 900 square foot home you start to break a few of your important rules. Always keep moving and don't help anyone. Especially if that anyone is a hot headed blonde bounty hunter sent to settle score you'd rather forget.

Peachy Keen Master List

Chapter One - Never overstay your welcome, keep moving

Winter

It scares you at first, the mummified body facing the door in the cramped living room of the home you found tucked away in a field of corn long past it's harvest.

Petrified you, like the farmers that sat facing one another. In wooden rocking chairs, gnarled fingers slack around the handles. Coming closer to inspect and seeing no signs of teeth marks or infection. Letting loose the held breath you kept as deft eyes looked over every liver spot and wrinkle in the leathery skin. No fluid on the hardwood floors beneath their rocking chair or in the blankets around their shoulders.

And by some miracle, the cold, the house didn't smell like rot.

You figure they must have died earlier this winter, it lasted damn near since October as the Earth naturally cooled in the fall of the human race.

With critical climate change hitting irreversible levels and long lasting damaging effects in just a few short decades, Mother Nature took matters into her own hands. Doing what she does best.

She evolves, she changes and grows, makes a deadly cocktail of pathogens and fungi that rids her realm of blight.

Humans.

You were just surprised a nuclear war didn't wipe humanity off the map first.

You hadn't meant to live this long, six whole years in the apocalypse, honestly you were one of the many who'd rather take their own lives. Least then you had a say in how and when you went.

But the body has a funny way of forcing you to survive. To dissociate in some feeble attempt to keep the body going for an organ that tortured itself daily with endless, grueling tasks and for what?

So you could experience your first kill? Watch your friends and family die when the Feds bombed cities instead of trying to quarantine sections? Of you walking until your feet bled, fleeing the city just to live in the outskirts to hear the screaming and wails as the undead met the living? Tied to a tree limb with your worn belt to sleep or maybe it was so you could loot the dead man for his tent but not without putting a bullet between his eyes as a parting gift first.

No longer does Grim accept the coins laid upon the eyes of the dead. Now payment for a safe travel down the river Styx is paid with the bullet lodged into the third eye of the deceased.

A tradition sure to be passed down to the generations to come.

Despite the rage you've aimed at yourself for still living, the home was a welcoming sight. The old farm house made of gray cinder block, stout in the field of the tall stalks that you yearned to see each sweltering summer when you were stuck in the city before the world went to shit.

Now the sight of the dried crop makes the nostalgia coat your tongue thickly, like the bitterant of a large pill.

You think you choke when you swallow.

Still even with the two harmless corpses it was an amazing find. The shingles of the roof are all in tack and the old wood stove holds the reminiscence of a charred log and ashes.

Logs lining either side that would last through the winter and then more still kept under an open awning out back. Plenty of birch wood to burn white smoke making you sigh in relief.

First things first and with the few hours of sun you had left you needed to get to work burying the couple. Half debating over taking their rings that were about to fall off before thinking better of it.

Grabbing the shovel from the makeshift shed and going to the edge of the corn field out back. Only you were stubborn, stupid enough to fight the frozen ground as you shoved the sharp spade into the Earth. Moving it to your will as sweat collects on the inside of your thermal undershirt making it stick to your back and the nape of your neck uncomfortably.

Your calloused hands protect you from the biting wood as you spend the better part of your day light going six feet down. Using the height of the shovel as a measuring stick.

I wonder if their kids and grandkids will visit. I'll have to make a good marker so they won't miss it.

And then it hits you. The realization of what you're thinking. Fat droplets blurring your vision as you chide yourself over wasting quickly dwindling time.

You hadn't even cried when you watched your friends being torn apart from the force of the bomb but here you were crying over two strangers and their imaginary family.

Except they weren't imaginary were they? They were hung neatly throughout the home.

Ya know the multi generational home that you planned to squat in. The one with the warped photos in warm senpia of when the family first arrived and built the modest country home to the vibrant color photo of the grandparents smiling ear to ear as their kids and their kids' kids stood on the still sturdy porch with corn cobs in their small hands.

Another sob racks through your body forcing you to take a break from carving out your last foot hold so you could climb out of the grave you'd just dug.

Should you start digging your own now too?

Since no one else was going to be around to do it.

Once you're back in the house you try to think of the logistics of bringing the pair out. You start with the wife, taking her delicately preserved body with the blanket around her shoulders.

"’Xcuse me." You murmur to her as you lift her up, surprisingly light compared to the other corpses you've carried or moved. Careful to avoid banging her up against the door jamb accidentally before you make it out the few yards to the edge of their little property.

Easing her down into the hole using the long and strong quilt that she must have made until you could slip it from beneath her to bring the fabric back up.

"Sorry." Another involuntary pleasantry as you scoop the husband and his quilt up. Repeating the same action until he rested beside her as much as he could be. Dropping the first and second quilt over them as if tucking them in. You just hoped they wanted their holy matrimony to be reflected in the after life as well.

Rooting around in your pocket for the few spare ammo you've got left.

"For the toll." You murmur dropping a bullet each before tackling the grueling task of shoveling dirt back into the hole you half killed yourself to dig. Returning to the house only to place their wooden rocking chairs at the foot of their grave before heading inside for the night.

Telling yourself not to look for their names, refusing to and that the wooden rocking chairs would have been enough.

But it gnaws at you as you move around their furniture to better suit you, as the old wood stove fills the home with a warmth, with a luxury, you've long since forgotten.

Knowing full well she would have been the type of woman to have a farmer's log.

A handwritten one or a more accurate family log written in the old bible that sat on her night stand.

You left it alone, thankful they hadn't died in their queen sized bed as you moved it into the living room frame and all.

The moon shining bright over head, peering in through the kitchen window over the sink as if to check on you. To see if you were still awake.

And of course you were, when was the last time you've ever had a restful sleep?

Your mind back to the "holy book" specifically the one with the worn leather and cracked spine. Even to the end the wife was a woman of faith, a bible open on the coffee table that you quickly used for kindling.

Because what has God ever done for you?

He sure as fuck wasn't as merciless as he claimed to be.

Although he'd given her and her husband an easy enough death hadn't he?

You were sure the rest of her family didn't meet the same gentle fate.

In the end there was only one true God and that was Death.

Ever waiting and watching, coming to steal you away before you could even blink with nothing to show you ever existed at all save for your own headstone, least til that crumbled away.

You jolt out of bed, rushing towards the book as if it whispered your name all this time and now it was shouting.

Screaming, demanding your undivided attention until you flip open the front cover. Old cursive greets you as the pages sigh, rolling over birth and death dates until you're forced to flip to the back, finding the first two names without death dates but plausible birth dates that would line up to their age and the End. Slamming the generations old book as you rise.

Finding yourself outside, bare foot. Knife in your hand and your breaths coming out in ragged puffs.

Scrapping along the tops of the wooden rocking chairs like a woman possessed, carefully carving the letters into the headrest of the rocking chairs.

Stepping back in a fever to admire your work, feet numb from the biting cold ground before you turn on your heel.

They echo back to you as if you'd carved each curving letter into your psyche instead of the smooth stained grain. Unsure if the haunting was that of thanks or scorn and you were sure a poltergeist was the least of your concern.

Even as you drift the names burn your retinas as if to remind you whose home you spent the night in.

ASTRID EMROY

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning you find yourself trapped in the house by deep snow so you poke around the home. Rearranging some things here and there but not to disturb the personal belongings just yet.

Even though you know you won't stay long, never breaking one of your many rules that lead you to survive this long. But why not disturbing their belongs matters to you, you aren't sure.

Maybe it's the way that this home is untouched. Truly loved and lived in, while the other houses you've squatted in were long since looted. Ransacked and trashed, taken back by the unforgiving weather and those desperate enough to defile what was once someone's home.

For others, their Hell within four walls and maybe the big End meant nothing to them anyway. Besides, it wasn't like you weren't one of the many who rooted through homes and hissed when you found nothing of use, just fading photographs and old DVDs and CDs. Shit that didn't matter now.

Right now you were mostly looking for a good pen with a plan to roughly guess the year so you could add the rough date beside their names and put their bible up somewhere. As if compelled to end their chapter properly so that they may live on despite, their bloodline most likely having died long before them.

The couple really didn't have much and you were sure if you tried you could dedicate one small wall and bookshelf to their personal belongings to honor them. The thought makes you suck your teeth, so easily you cling to sentimental bullshit, out of spite now their things would be lucky to be stored away in a box.

On the dusty coffee table are two sets of coasters, tops well worn from sweating drinks, a black leather book and a copy of The Great Gatsby with a broken spine.

The book peaks your interest, hadn't read it since highschool and even then that felt like a foreign memory. Of harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed loud enough you were sure you'd go deaf to them after having lived in silence for so long. Tossing the tattered paperback onto the old wood top before your fingers grab for the worn leather spine, flipping the pages to see dozens and dozens of entries.

You settle into the old couch, the fire in the wood stove keeping the place warm as the sun lazily bleeds in through the windows to provide you with just enough light to read as you flip it open you're met with a threat.

If ya settle here ya better watch over our goddamn farm.

The cover page makes you snort, flipping the thick page to consume what you could, hoping there would be some hints on where they stashed their canned goods and supplies. Even if it didn't provide you with anything, at least it helped past the time.

Jan 31 20XX Six years after the "Rapture"

It's ain't all fucking peachy keen as I'm sure ya can see and I'm comin to realize that I ain't built to live forever.

And if I was, I couldn't imagine a worse hell than this.

If ya settled here in our little house I've got some rules.

No drinks on my damn coffee table without a coaster. I got plenty of 'em. The ones from my birthday (they got cats on em but the paint'll be rubbed off by now I'm sure) or the ones Emroy made outta small trees. Hell use a book if ya gotta.

Two, you best sweep this home. I don't care where ya came from or who ya came from, what god you do or don't worship but there is one thing for certain, house as old as this has a spirit and ya best keep it happy. Open the front and back door (good cross breeze in the sweltering summer) and you sweep my damn house.

Or I just might be the spirit that haunts ya.

Reckon that's it. So I'll quit my belly achin and step down from my soapbox to learn ya a thing or two.

Now if you're a country folk and from 'round these parts y'all'll know two things. When snows a coming, or rain, y'all can smell it real easy in the air. Can't tell ya the smell but if you know ya know. And the second being it always snows heavier in the next coming weeks before spring than it will in the dead of winter.

Now if you're from the city or just can't smell like ya used to, Bets the cow will be able to tell ya. She won't come out, simple as that and by the next day snow'll be up to your knees and Bets will look at you like she told you so.

Hopefully she'll live that long, seems this disease ain't affecting the animals like it is us folks. Reckon we didn't pray hard enough or some preachy shit Gran would've said. Now if the cow ain't there to tell ya, the farm log will. Use yer head, you'll see the pattern even with the blasted greed fueled heat spikes. It's best to prepare for the worst. We've enough canned rations to last us a lifetime in the cellar but Emory and I are old as dirt, it won't last forever but as long as these hands can can, they'll can what he grows.

Emory, my husband, says hello. Wants me to tell the "stranger" that's you I reckon, that the Great Gatsby is worth the read and that if ya find yourself with nothing to do, which ya will eventually, you should read it.

Go on now, get back to surviving and be sure to dust my damn picture frames too.

Yours truly,

Astrid & Emory.

Pushy. You think to yourself but relish in the fact that old folks like to ramble, even in written form. Quick to explore the home to find the cellar doors in the fading short lived light of winter before realizing the age of the home.

Shit, it's probably buried under a whole foot and a half of snow, you could exhume it now but you and twilight always seemed to have bad luck.

It's when you've been raided most and almost bitten more times than you can count and after finding this place you don't wish to push your luck. Even if the undead were few and far between in bumfuck nowhere.

Flipping open the cabinets in the kitchen you find a few manufactured canned meats. Fingers smoothing out the old label for any sign of denting or damage that could lead to botulism. Finding none makes you pop open the can to sit atop the old black wood stove, glass casting the room in a soft orange that rivals the sunset. It makes you pull the blinds closed in caution, not wanting any light to attract unwanted guests and when the wind howls you wrap tighter in one of the many blankets lying around.

Three days pass and there is only so many times you can study the farm logs and widdle wood into pitiful shapes with your dull knife before you drive yourself mad. Still avoiding the books for now in some sort of spite or rebellion to God knows who before you're outside and bundled up. Shovel in hand as you scrape the metal spade all along the foundation of the house until you hear a satisfying tink.

Your luck would be to start in the wrong direction and have to walk all the way back around the house just for the damn thing to be on the left side of the back porch instead of the right. Shoveling away the icy snow before coming across the wooden cellar doors. You wonder if you'll have to replace them soon but your curiosity of the future dies when you spy a combination padlock. Sucking your teeth pull a bobby pin from your hair, straightening it out and wiggling it between the rusting dials, scraping it around before feeling the soft give of the locking mechanism. You jab roughly and the lock pops open making you smile as if you hadn't picked anything ten times as hard.

Taking the steps into the deep cellar where the air was cool yes but warmer than outside. As if it were deep enough in the Earth to stay a balmy fifty degrees even in summer heat. Flash light paints the darkness in harsh white when you spy a candle and a box of matches into an enclave built right into the old cobblestone.

Once the fire flickers to life you switch your flashlight off, pocketing it as the candle washes the old glass jars and few metal cans aglow.

Jarred jerky catches your eye first as you snatch for that, then a small jar of syrupy looking strawberries, as bright red as when they were first picked, making your mouth salivate. The place neatly organized and labeled, the metal cans of all of those beef stews that were upstairs despite there only being enough of those left to last through this winter. Even if you stretched them out with water. Finger following the shelf lining to try to find more sweet fruit coming across the word peaches under a layer of dust.

Delight you look up, just to find the shelf empty and the sight of it makes you snarl.

But at least you had your strawberries.

They taste like late spring, like your childhood when you'd pick the berries at the local farm. How the sun beating down on your back made them taste that much sweeter in the field. A little reward paid by the sweat on your brow and the money your mother would toll out for the fresh fruit.

Well, well worth the price.

Spring is coming like her book says and you sweep and dust her house.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou Katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #kitten writes bakugou 🖤🐈‍⬛ 🖋️

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rachetmath · 10 months

Text

Ruby: Hey Jaune where are you going?

Jaune: Well Ruby I was asking around town to see if I could find a teacher.

Ruby: A teacher? Why were you looking for a teacher?

Jaune: To train with.

Ruby: Jaune come on. You're fine. You don't need a teacher.

Jaune: Okay but I need a break.

Ruby: From what?

Jaune: Woman after the emotional rollercoaster we had. I need to figure some stuff out.

Ruby: You can figure it out with us.

Jaune: No.

Ruby: Why not?!

Jaune: This is something I need to do alone. I can't be worrying about you and have you cuddling me all the time.

Ruby: We need you though.

Jaune: You have your team and my team. Which I’m not apart of no more. What do you need me for?

Ruby: Healing.

Jaune: Ruby, for how long we've spent together, no one has gotten injured that badly.

Ruby: Nora-

Jaune: She did that to herself. Plus I am now the odd man out. What need is there for me other than being in danger?

Ruby: You can be with Qrow.

Jaune: No. He has Robyn and Harriet.

Ruby: Come on.

Jaune: Ruby I need this. I need a training arc to get back on my feet. I need to figure out what I'm going after all this. Especially, after Alyx despite everything gave a second chance. I’m not wasting this.

Ruby: What are you talking about?

Jaune: Ruby, I couldn't save Pyrrha. I couldn't save Penny. Oscar. Alyx.

Ruby: Wait, you did save Oscar.

Jaune: Not before Emerald.

Ruby: oh.

Jaune: I’m just saying, I want to live to see my family again. So I need to get more experience and training to become stronger because obviously the roles I have are not a good fit for me.

Ruby; Hm. Good point. Good point.

Afterwards

Weiss: You let him go!!?

Ruby: Absolutely.

Yang: Why?

Ruby: I mean I understand. I thought I took L’s but him, nope.

Blake: But Ruby-

Ruby; Blake. He cheated Beacon. He almost dies multiple times. Every girl he meets either dies or hoes him in some way. And he was trapped on an island for years. Okay? He’s an uncle to a lesbian couple's son. He has a family who he may not be on good terms with. Also, in theory, didn’t Raven burn down the village him and his family used to go to? Probably the last good memory he had of his family.

Qrow: Oh shit she did.

Ruby: Oh my god. How was Raven not on his kill list along with Cinder?

Qrow: Yeah, we might not need to avoid telling him.

Ruby: All I’m saying is the guy has been through hell by himself. I say let him breathe.

Weiss: Are you serious?!

Ruby: Bitch don’t be mad at me! You only started liking him cause you were simp for the Rusted Knight. Hell, didn’t he save you like three times either from embarrassment or death? And didn’t you start off as immature as you thought he was?

Weiss:: Um.

Ruby: Exactly.

Nora: Ruby, that’s not fair. He’s our teammate. And our leader.

Ruby: Oh, so now you care?

Nora: What did you say?

Ruby: I mean Sakura-

Nora: Nora.

Ruby: No, Sakura, you can’t keep choosing when you want to start being a good teammate.

Nora: Excuse me. I’ll have you know-

Ruby: Don’t you be rude to him sometimes.

Nora: Um.

Ruby: You're also never there. In fact, you and Ren majority of the time are useless.

Ren: What?!

Ruby: Like you're never around when he needs you. And no, that portal thing doesn’t count. That was our fault. However, you two always prioritize each other but never Jaune. In fact, you two halfway almost left us to fight a giant grimm. Let Jaune face a maiden by himself, knowing his skill level is average.

Nora: Ruby that was months ago. Get over it.

Ruby: Alright, so where were you in the Cardin situation? Where were you during the Pyrrha situation? In fact how come you two were the first out when Neo showed up.?

Nora: Um.

Yang: In fact, isn’t Jaune kind of the one who saved your relationship by talking with Ren?

Ren: Um.

Ruby: Exactly. Like I said Sakura, you can’t choose to be a good team member when you want to be. So be a good girl and stay with your Sasuke.

Nora: Little bi- *tries to strike Ruby*

Ren: *hold Nora back* No Nora, calm down!

Nora: No way I’m taking that disrespect!

Ruby: Plus, he had a point. We barely get hurt. We rarely do defense. And the majority of our battles rarely require strategy. I hate to say it but strength is everything. And Jaune has the potential to outweigh us in every category.

Ren: Ruby, he is a healer.

Ruby: And you’re supposed to be a ninja and a skilled fighter but you're just as useless as your girlfriend.

Ren: … …

Oscar: Well Aura Amplification is more than just healing it increases other people's abilities.

Ruby: Oh really. Okay, Oscar, I have one question. Who here now needs Jaune to help amplify their abilities?

Oscar: Um.

Ruby: Mind you Ren is able to cover multiple people without Jaune’s help now. And Weiss barely needs healing either. So who?

Oscar: … Nobody.

Ruby: NOBODY. So let Jaune use his semblance for him. He needs it more than us. Maybe it has multiple purposes that we don’t know about.

Yang: But Ruby he’s not built like us.

Ruby: *stares at Yang*

Yang: What?

Ruby: I-I should- You are- Oo I… Keep it together Ruby. No need to bury this bitch along with your mom. She still raised you.

Yang: What? What did I say wrong?

Ruby: Yang, if Jaune stopped giving Fs about everything, he basically be a monster.

Yang: Wait rea-Really?

Ruby: Yes he goes there sometimes. He did it Heaven not giving a f about the situation and went for Cinder. In Argus, he didn’t think twice about stealing an airship and was ready to put his hands on Oscar.

Yang: Until you stopped him.

Ruby: You must not have seen his eyes he was ready to fight me too.

Yang: Oh.

Ren: And in Atlas he was ready to risk our lives to save Oscar.

Yang: True.

Blake: And again he look me in the eyes after we tried to stop him from killing the Curious Cat. Honey, he is close to being up there.

Yang: He’s got that Beowolf in him.

Ruby: Damn straight. Look. Let’s just give Jaune some space. Let him readjust back to Remnant. And let him find his strength. Alright? Now if you excuse me I need to find someone.

Yang: Who?

Ruby: Raven. She was the last one to see my mom so I need to hear her side of the story of what happened. It may end this stupid family feud we got. Later.*leaves*

Oscar: Hey where’s Emerald?

Somewhere

Jaune: I recall wanting to be alone. Why are you here?

Emerald: Emotional Support.

Jaune: I don’t need emotional support.

Emerald: Not you. Me.

Jaune: And what makes you think I am available, capable or interested in helping you?

Emerald: First, you have zero reasons to trust me. Two, I need screen time now because I’m a major player. So being a side character in your story can work. Three, I’m not like Pyrrha or Weiss, I can like you for my own reasons other than you being the “Rusted Knight” or your potential. And I might not be as linit with you as the others. I can show you, tough love.

Jaune: And what do I gain from this?

Emerald: My actual loyalty.

#rwby #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake bellodona #yang xiao long #jaune arc #lie ren #nora valkyrie #penny polendina #pyrrha nikos #oscar pines #raven branwen #qrow branwen #emerald sustrai #rwby topaz

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eyebagshawty · 4 months

Note

petit-etoile here requesting astarion x tav, maybe a touch inspired by the e.e. cummings quote "I will rise / After a thousand years / lipping / flowers / And set my teeth in the silver of the moon" !! can be ANY version of tav tho i like durge a ton :33

I Will Wade Out

Pairing: Astarion x Dark Urge!Reader

Warnings: mentions of trauma and past abuse, maybe a little bit of spice

A/N: You just happened to pick one of my favorite poets, I decided to get really poetic hhh also I heavily listened to Margaret by Lana Del Rey while writing this :,)

I will wade out

till my thighs are steeped in

burning flowers

I will take the sun in my mouth

and leap into the ripe air

Astarion tackled you to the ground in a bone crushing hug, the rays of the sun shining golden on you both. It made his red irises look like bright rubies, and his ring on his left hand glinted in the beams. The ring of the sun walker.

“Darling, I was sure I’d be cinders,” he chuckled through his tears of happiness. You kissed away each track running down his cheeks, your fingers fisted in the lilies that surrounded you both.

“So I take that as a yes?” You picked up his ring finger and kissed it, rubbing his knuckles simultaneously. Your eyes were glassy, boring into his with so much love it would have made your past self sick. Astarion nipped at the side of your neck, pressing his lips to the never quite healed bite marks that laid upon it.

“What else would it be, my sweet?” He rolled so that you were on top of him, bringing his hands to your hips and kissing your collarbones. “How could I ever say no,” he whispered. Your lips met, and he kneeded his fingers into your hips as he nibbled at your bottom lip for entrance. He drew a bit of blood, and you opened your mouth to which he instantly soothed the small cut with his tongue, drawling a low moan out of your throat.

He moved his hands to the globes of your ass, causing you to slowly grind against him. He let out a breathy whine. “Aeterna amantes,” you whispered into his mouth as he got to work on your trousers.

Alive

with closed eyes

to dash against darkness

in the sleeping curves of

my body

Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery

with chasteness of sea-girls

Will I complete the

mystery

of my flesh

As the sun sets and the sky turns to hues of navy blue and deep orange, you remember when Bhaal had punished you for rejecting him. In a sense, he had rejected you right back. As each of your bones cracked in different directions, Astarion had screamed your name. You remember when the light began fading from your eyes, the last thing you’d seen being Astarion’s destroyed and panicked expression above you.

“Please, please, please. Darling, wake up. This isn’t funny,” he’d whimpered as he held you close to his shaking chest. “We were supposed to be free. No no no, you cannot do this to me.” As his broken sobs echoed through the temple, Shadowheart placed her hand on his shoulder. He hissed and jerked his shoulder back as if she had burned him, clutching you closer to his chest.

“Astarion… they’re gone.” Her eyes were glassy along with the rest of the party, who stood in stunned silence around your crumpled frame.

“You don’t get to say that!” He bellowed. His eyes softened as he looked down to you. As he stroked your hair and weeped over you, not caring who saw, he heard the scuffle of bare feet coming towards him.

“Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and in doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes,” Withers proclaimed. Astarion stumbled back as he thought he saw one of your eyelids twitch. “But, alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder.”

Withers walked up next to your body, and although Astarion protectively moved towards you, Karlach pulled him back and shook her head. “Thou art now faithless — godless — and doomed to walk the Fugue Plane for eternity,” Withers continued. “I will not permit that, though all the powers of life and death dictate that it be so. So rise, Challenger of Gods, and prepare for battle once more. Death will not claim you whilst I endure.”

You’d scrambled to a sitting position, screaming and coughing up blood. Astarion rushed over to you and held you close as you’d cried into his chest. “Everything is okay, my love. I’m here. I’m here.”

“Darling, what’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?” Astarion reached over and brushed some hair out of your face. You both laid bare on a blanket in the grass looking up at the stars. You looked over to him and gave a soft smile.

“Just thinking about that moment. In the temple. You were so gentle with me.” He smiled as you spoke, his big round eyes glowing in adoration. “It’s almost odd. We’re both so free now.”

He kissed your temples, then your forehead. “Oh my little love. I’ve been scared most of my life — well, unlife rather. But the fear of losing you… it had me terrified,” he whispered. He interlaced your fingers together. “Now that nothing can hold us back, I want to experience everything. With you, my treasure. Shall we venture inside for some tea?”

You smiled and accepted his shirt around your shoulders as you gathered your things. “Tea sounds wonderful,” you beamed.

I will rise

After a thousand years

lipping

flowers

And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

The wish spell had worked. At first, Astarion was scared and a bit angry, but with reassurance from you and your closest companions he relented. You were immortalized — aeterna amantes in every sense of the word. You lied in the bed you shared with Astarion; the one you both made love in after your eventual wedding, the one you both cried in each others’ arms in, the one you both came home to every night for so long.

You lifted your hand towards the ceiling and examined it — your skin, your fingernails, the still pristine carmine jewel in your wedding ring. You were 1,587 years old. That is 1,559 years after you left behind your old self; the so called Bhaal-babe that conspired to end the world as everybody knew it. Since Astarion had been freed from Cazador’s rule and given the choice of anything he wanted. And he wanted you of all things.

You heard a loud gasp next to you, and Astarion flew to a sitting position, letting out heavy and panicked breaths. You placed a hand on his and looked over with concern. When his eyes met yours, he immediately calmed, letting out a string of soft and relieved curses. “Apologies, my dear. Nightmares got the best of me.”

You wrapped your arms around him and placed your head against his chest. “I’m here. Which ones this time?” He squeezed your hand and you squeezed back.

“Cazador… You… kidnapping,” he huffed out. He placed a kiss onto your furrowed brow. “Hells it just feels so long ago I wish it would go away.”

“You’re not alone, Star. I dream of Alfira every year or two… I miss her.” He rubbed circular motions into your back. He knew the guilt you would always feel for her, how she didn’t deserve it.

“I understand, my love.” You leaned up and chastely kissed him, pouring in that sweet sadness that comes with self reflection. He returned the gesture, fervently kissing back in a way that soothed your mind. “Now, how about some midnight tea,” he said, barely above a whisper, a smile ghosting across his face.

“That sounds nice,” you whispered back. You gathered a blanket around your bare shoulders and followed him to the kitchen, sitting down at the table as he placed the kettle on the stove. When the tea was done he brought you a mug, and you hissed when the liquid immediately burned at your lips. Astarion chuckled.

“Well my dear, it’s fresh off of a million hot flames, what do you expect?”

You flicked his shoulder. “Shut up,” you laughed back.

“Since this tea is going to take forever to cool, you’re free to feed from me tonight if you’d like,” you said as you shot him a coy smile.

“Are you sure? Maybe we should get you something to eat first for your head—“

“Come on, Astarion,” you cut him off jokingly. “I’ve been literally stabbed through the skull before. Some wooziness is nothing.”

He held his hands up and shrugged. “Well then, who am I to refuse?” He stood up from his place at the dining room table, and you tilted your head to the side to give him access. His fangs pierced through your skin, and in a way it soothed all thoughts from earlier that night. You smiled and placed your hand on his bicep, squeezing it when you were ready and he’d had his fill.

Aeterna amantes, you thought to yourself.

#astarion x reader #baldurs gate 3 #fanfic #astarion ancunin #bg3 #18+ content #astarion romance #astarion x tav #bg3 smut #bg3 romance

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deep--dive · 5 months

Text

ALLMIND : Welcome to the Arena combat aptitude evaluation program.

ALLMIND : Commencing evaluation...

#from software #music #tunes #feed the fire #let the last cinders burn #armored core #armored core music #kota hoshino #armored core vi #fires of rubicon #ac6

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ekscelsior · 1 year

Photo

Feed the fire. Let the last cinders burn.

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oftenwantedafton · 1 month

Text

A Consolation Prize - William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 2

Rating - Explicit

Word count 4K

CW - sexual content

Also available on AO3

There’s a birthday party being celebrated at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria this evening.

One of your female classmates is the guest of honor. Most of the seniors have been invited. The restaurant is full of teenagers. Swarming around the arcade games and occupying the tables. You’re one of the attendees tonight, wearing a lilac dress, something fluttery, filled with the promise of the upcoming summer, with a hem that barely kisses your knees.

William Afton watches you. On the security cameras from the privacy of his office. He notices you tend to hover on the edges of the crowded gathering. Not really participating in any of the festivities. Looking a little lost and out of place. Then he decides to watch you in person. While he mingles with the other adults. Inconsequential dialogue. Noncommittal answers. Small talk. Hawk eyes, hunter’s gaze. Tracking your movements throughout the evening. Your party outfit making him hungry. His fingers toy with the cigarette lighter in his pants pocket. The crinkle of the too rapidly emptying plastic pack rustling. Temptation calling. He makes up some necessary excuse to be away and slips outdoors. Fresh air. Silence. That first deep drag soothes him.

The nearby door opens. You’re standing there beside him now. Watching him. Waiting. Expecting something to happen. He feels the weight of those intense feelings draping over him.

Afton’s surprised you’ve followed him. Mulls that idea over in his mind, lets the chemical laced smoke roll in his mouth, considering the flavor, contemplating your sudden interest. “What are your intentions, coming out here, like this?” A brisk flick of his thumb sends a rain of ash and dying cinders to the pavement. He finally challenges your stare.

“I don’t have the car tonight. I need a ride home.” This last part mumbled. He hears the waver in your voice. Nervous. You’re afraid to be alone with him, like this. And yet you’ve sought him out. Perhaps wondering why he’s kept his distance over the past couple of weeks. Minimal interactions. Everything professional. It had not been easy for him. The desire for you is only stronger now that he’s had a proper sample of you. What a taste. Craving you. His own special blend. More addictive that the cigarette he brings back to his mouth. But he’s been waiting for this. Waiting for you to seek him out. He can take you whenever he wants. To have you come to him is something else entirely.

The smoke evacuates his nostrils. “None of your classmates are available? All those people inside, and none can assist you?” His tone is cool. A bit mocking in its condescending skepticism. Internally, he is triumphant. Rejoicing in this idea that you must rely on him. You need him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t…you don’t want to…” You struggle to utter the words, to comprehend why he isn’t seizing what you’re offering. Puzzled by this seeming lack of greedy desire, perhaps. Disappointed. Yes, that’s the exact expression on your features. Exquisite. How perfectly he’s corrupted you already.

“It’s not about me wanting to or not. It’s about you. Wanting.” The end of the cigarette glows. He lets that notion sink in. Your eyes lingering on that burning cylinder. On the lips trapping it, then releasing, pursing to blow a stream of smoke. Your tongue darts out to moisten your own lips. A subconcious gesture. How shiny that mouth is, even in this evening outdoor lighting. A bit of silver moon captured there. Artificial yellow from one of the parking lot lamps. Little bits of glitter adorning those curves. You’ve got makeup on tonight. Mascara. Eye shadow. Blush. Lipgloss. Soft, neutral colors. Pretty enhancements, but you don’t need them. He prefers you without. Your natural palette.

“I do want…” Your voice trails off.

The restaurant owner clucks his tongue. “We’ve spoken about this. Not answering questions. These indecisive answers. An unacceptable way to respond. Disrespectful. Answer me properly. What do you want?”

“I want you to take me home.”

“Is that all? You want me to just drop you off at your front door?” A touch of amusement. He knows with certainty that is not nearly all you yearn for.

Your cheeks grow pinker. Your own color beneath the highlighted swatches you’ve dusted on. “I did what you asked. I’m not seeing anyone else.”

He scoffs. “Of course you’re not. But you’re deflecting. You still haven’t answered my question. I’ll assist you once again, but next time you’re to find the words on your own.” He leans towards your ear. “Do you want me to kiss you? Put my hands on you? Make you cum?”

A shuddering breath. William moves back, grinning around the paper roll clenched in his mouth again. “Shall I take that as a yes?”

“Yes, Mr. Afton.” You sound a little breathless. Panted words. He imagines your heart must be nearly pounding out of your chest. The anticipation. He feels it too. A slight tremor in the fingers that drop the remains of the cigarette to the asphalt.

“Good girl. Was that really so difficult? I can have the assistant manager close up so I’m free for the rest of the evening. Give me five minutes.”

***

Your kisses are fierce, angry.

Your teeth nip at the older man’s lips. Tongue stroking over the five ‘o clock shadow lining his jaw. Polished nails digging into him through the layers of his dress shirt and the thin cotton undershirt beneath it.

William pushes you away, interrupting the onslaught. As much as he’s enjoying your enthusiasm, he can’t help but be suspicious. He thinks he knows the driving force behind this sudden passion. It’s not merely the release of pent up desire after two weeks of abstinence. This is something else entirely. He can feel it. You’re there with him, but not actually present. And he’s not about to share you. “Your ex is at that party, isn’t he? That’s why you were in such a hurry to leave.”

Your lips part to protest but the unformed words die instantly. Your shoulders sag defeatedly and you look away, worrying your bottom lip.

“Answer me.” His fingers grip your chin and turn your face back to face his own.

“Yes,” you admit quietly.

“The new girlfriend there too?” He sees the look of surprise in the soft green glow of the instrument panel. He hadn’t even had a chance to shut the car off before you’d pounced on him. “Creature of habit. I did warn you about that. There was bound to be another waiting in the wings. The one he’d cheated with. Or someone else. Either way, the same result in the end. Undeserving of this devotion you cling to. This loyalty.” His lip curls contemptuously around this last word. “Isn’t he?” He prods, the words nearly growled.

“Yes.” Your voice is tight. “But you’ve been ignoring me.”

He blinks, surprised by this declaration. “Is that what you think? You do not dictate the parameters of this…contract between us, if you will. You are the servant, not the master.”

“Playing games doesn’t sound much more admirable than what he’s done to me.”

“Hmm.” William releases his grip on your chin, sighing. “You’re still defending him. Comparing us. You’re not truly over him yet.”

“It’s a little difficult when it’s thrown in your face every day,” you reply bitterly.

“Well, be that as it may, high school isn’t forever. You’ll both move on. And you’ll wonder why you ever made such a fuss over it.” He kills the engine and cranks the driver’s side window down a little. It was getting too warm inside the vehicle already.

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to feel anything right now,” you murmur.

The older man taps the edge of the last package of cigarettes he has against his palm, driving the tobacco down evenly into the filters. He’ll have to replenish his supply soon. “Unfortunately that’s not how life works, sweetheart. There is no quick and easy fix when it comes to these situations.” He cocks his head to one side. “You actually thought using me would help you feel better.”

“You told me to. That day in your office. You said it was okay to get revenge. Anyone could forgive it, being on the rebound.” You squirm in your seat, looking uncomfortable, perhaps feeling a little guilty over your deception.

“Yes, well. I didn’t think you’d take it to heart to quite this extent.”

“What does it matter? You’re just using me, too.”

William stares sightlessly through the windshield. There’s nothing to see in this wooded area past the shoulder of the road he’s pulled the car off into. It irritates him. Earlier he’d been so convinced you’d wanted him, but now it seems you merely want to distract yourself from your feelings for someone else. Settling for whatever you can get. A consolation prize when your first choice is no longer available. He tosses the unopened pack on the dashboard.

“You’re right. I am.” The pizzeria owner leans towards you. “You’re mine to use, remember that.” His tongue forcefully licks your mouth back open. A little moaning sigh escapes you. “You want to forget? I’ll make you forget. You won’t feel anything but the pleasure I gift you.” Aggressive flicks of his tongue now against yours. Fingers knotting in your hair possessively. He feels your body going limp against him. Succumbing. “You understand me?”

“Yes, Mr. Afton,” you reply breathlessly, gasping when his hand moves under the edge of your dress, sliding along the inside of your thigh. Caressing you through the crotch of your panties. You grind against his fingers. So eager. Impatient. But he’s going to make you wait. Beg a little. Earn your reward.

“Come outside with me.” He withdraws his hand, vacating your frantic sex, his lips parting from yours. The driver’s side door creaks when he opens it. Again when he slams it shut. You’re standing outside the passenger door now. Waiting. “Kneel down.” A beat of hesitation before you descend. Bare skin in the roadside dust and gravel, the dress too short to offer protection. The faint jingle of his belt being unfastened. Hastily slipping the straps of his suspenders off his shoulders, letting the loops fall against his hips. Leaning back against the car, steel and glass blessedly cool along the curvature of his spine. Cock freed from its encasement. Your fingers reach for him but he bats them away lightly. “Use your mouth.” Another hesitation, longer this time. “That’s right. First time doing this, isn’t it?” A barely perceptible nod in the near complete darkness. Up until this point he hasn’t really had you service him at all. Doing the dirty work for you. Well, not tonight.

You’re giving him so many of your firsts. Doing things with him you’ve never done with that useless ex of yours, with anyone else. He likes that knowledge. Savors it like he savors that first feel of your tentative lips on the head of his erection. Light tap of moist tongue. Tasting. Testing.

Night sounds in the background. Insects. Birds. The occasional passage of a car on the road nearby. The scent of the trees, the soil. The taste of your lip gloss still on his tongue. He’s debating about briefly interrupting you in favor of lighting another cigarette; a quick reach into the car and he’d have it. Your mouth advances and he discards the thought. Later. Right now he wants to focus on this. The opening you’re providing is so narrow. Jaw tight, almost clenched. Edges of your teeth lightly scraping as the bottom of his dick eases along the carpet of your tongue. Ridged firm roof of mouth dragged over the tip. The forceful gag reflex pushing the intruder back out. A little choking sound from you. Afton remains still, even though the impulse is to fuck his way right back inside. He forces himself to wait. He hears you swallowing down a fresh influx of saliva. The air is cool on his damp cock. Warm again when you take him back in. Brave little thing. Trying so hard. His fingers sink blindly into your hair. Caressing. Your body stiffening and then relaxing. Calming you. He’s murmuring things. Praise. Encouragement. Your mouth slackening. It’s working. Your confidence building. Taking him a little further. Another gag and retch. Your tongue dragging along the opening of his turgid member. Tracing curves. Stroking jagged veins. Wet kisses. His grip in your hair tightening. Hips stuttering forward. A little sound of surprise from you. But you’re adapting. Accommodating him. He’s fucking into your mouth. Shallow strokes. Not as deep as he’d like, but anything he’s receiving is more than he’s gotten in a long time. Thrusting more rapidly. Your hand splayed across the crest of his hip, curling tightly for support. His free hand latching onto it, overlaying your own. Air sawing roughly in and out. Matching the rhythm of his cock spearing your lips.

“That’s it, good girl, so perfect, I’m going to cum…” Pulsing onto your tongue. All the air leaves his lungs in a rush, dragging a moan with its departure. You’re tense again. Rigid. His seed sitting there inside your mouth, pooled beneath his prick. He can feel it as he withdraws, the overly sensitized flesh still twitching. Hears you swallow his seed, a loud gulp. Unexpected. Brave of you. What an absolute treat you are. He loves this little touch of depravity interspersed among the purity and innocence.

The older man helps you stand, his hands offering support, pulling you upright. His mouth immediately finds yours. The bitter taste of himself tainting you heavily but he doesn’t mind. If anything, it pleases him further. You’ve drunk from him. Taken his release inside of you. Let him violate your mouth. His cum filling your stomach. Only his. The other has never had this. Would never have this from you. Would never have anything from you ever again. He would make certain of that.

William’s fingers move back underneath your dress. Inside your underwear this time, fondling your sensitive flesh. Drenched. Ready to slake his thirst. He wrenches the passenger door open. “Sit down. Facing me.”

You hastily obey, settling sideways on the edge of the vinyl seat. The bottom of your dress is flipped back. The sound of Afton’s shoes scraping gravel as he descends. Jerking your panties off roughly and tossing them aside. Your hands scrabble to find support. The seat, the console, the dash. Thighs lifted and pressed back and his face now between them. You keen loudly at the first swipe of his tongue. He mercilessly sucks your clit. Thumb teasing your entrance, not entering, just dipping along the slickened divot there. Fingers of the hand curled around your thigh pressing deeply. Maybe he’ll leave behind a bruise. His mark on you where no one but you and he will ever see. Sweet words spilling from your lips. Pleading. Begging him. Releasing your hooded button just when you’re about to climax. Drawing it out a little further. You had been disappointingly still thinking of that boy earlier, after all. Still longing. He wants to obliterate him from your mind completely. A sound very like a sob. How frantic you are. Pushing against his fervent mouth. Nearly sliding off the edge of the seat. Damp skin squeaking on vinyl. You whine when he finally allows you to come undone on his ravenous tongue. A wounded sound, like an animal dying, so loud in the night.

***

William has no idea where your panties ended up.

He’s beside you in the car again, one wrist resting on the steering wheel, a lit cigarette issuing a thin stream of smoke into the air before him. You’re wedged close to the padded console dividing the front seats. His right hand cups the bare knee closest to him, stroking over the dirt and grit still lodged there in a lazy sort of caress. “I imagine it must be nearing your curfew,” he says quietly.

He feels you shrug. “My parents said I could stay out a little longer because of the party. And since I don’t have school tomorrow…”

“Hmm.” He takes another languid pull from the wrapped chemicals between his lips. “So what do you want to do now?”

“I didn’t eat at the party.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“And now you are?”

“Yes.”

Another puff of smoke. “Well, I suppose we could go somewhere to grab something. Though we should probably go through the drive thru. I don’t think it would be quite proper to have you in public like this.” He gently teases the inside of your thigh again, dragging the hem of your dress upward, fingers creeping along in a light graze. He stops halfway, letting his palm drop down onto your skin, pressing more firmly and eliciting a gasp from you. “You are still hungry, aren’t you?” Speaking now of desires of the flesh.

“Yes, Mr. Afton.” So polite. Obedient. Brought back under his spell. Pulling you away from the other. Making you his.

“Maybe, when we’re alone like this, you can call me William. Only when we’re alone,” he advises before taking another drag.

“William.”

A shiver runs through him. As much as he likes the formal address, that sense of control and authority he exerts over you, there’s something enticing about hearing this more informal declaration. Intimate. Your fingers reach for his face. Touch his cheek and curl around the nape of his neck. Your mouth moving against his. Different than earlier. Not urgent. No subterfuge. Just…properly with him. Something in that sudden soft caress of yours unnerves him nearly as much as the distracted aggression you’d unleashed earlier had. Touching without the goal of an eruption of pleasure, merely enjoying the sensation. Discovery. You’ve found the scars beneath his shirt collar. Tracing the twin pairs of curves that rear up like serpent’s heads forever locked in a staring contest. The furrowed line they rest on. His wife had never once complained about the marks after the accident, but he could always tell she did not care for them. Not outright disgust, but something akin to it. Another division between them. An excuse for less intimacy.

But here you are. Curious. Tugging on the bowtie, unfastening the knot. Thumbing open the collar of his shirt. Seeking out more of the marks that mar his skin. And it feels so good. Almost better than your mouth on his cock had been. Soft fingertips tucking into all those old hollowed spaces. Overwhelming. His fingers close over your probing digits, halting their exploration.

“You don’t like to be touched?”

“Let me be clear. This thing between us, it isn’t…that,” he says. “Not romantic, just because I kiss you or offer to take you out. You understand the difference?” Releasing your fingers from the prison of his own. The column of ash building on the end of the neglected cigarette extending further.

“I know. It’s just pretend. To forget.” Your hand drops back to your lap. You look a little sullen. He supposes you comprehend it. At least partially. Enough for now. “Do you ever regret what you’re doing, or feel guilty about it?”

“No. The older you get, the more you’ll come to realize that the only things you regret are the opportunities you don’t take advantage of.” He wasn’t a man that apologized often. He’s certainly not sorry for what he’s done with you thus far.

William grinds the remains of the unfinished cigarette into the ash tray. Maybe he wasn’t craving nicotine as much as he’d thought. He turns the key in the ignition. “Seatbelt on,” he reminds you, waiting until you’re securely restrained before he pulls back onto the road.

***

In the lighting of the parking lot of the fast food restaurant twenty minutes later, it’s become readily apparent just how disheveled you actually appear.

William sacrifices a napkin saturated with ice cubes from the soft drink you’ve ordered to try to scrub away the worst of the stains on your knees. The thin material shreds and he’s forced to use his handkerchief. You’re struggling to stay still at the icy touch. The chips melt against his fingers, water dripping down your shins. He doesn’t know why he’s so devoted to this particular task. As if he needs an excuse to touch you. Finally satisfied, he leans back and frowns when he notices your smudged makeup where your mascara had run. “Well, there’s only so much I can do. You should probably duck into the restroom before we leave.”

You flip the sun visor down and study your reflection in the mirror. “Wow. I look…”

“Completely ravaged. Properly fucked out.” Your gaze sharp on him. He’d forgotten to avoid the profanity. It seems foolish to apologize at this juncture, though. He digs a plastic spoon into the hot fudge sundae he retrieves from its resting spot on the dash and takes a bite, letting the chocolate sweetness dissolve on his tongue. You’ve got a French fry pinched between index and middle finger, hovering too close to his dish of ice cream for his liking. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You said we could share.”

“I didn’t say you could violate this dessert with that.”

“Lots of people do it. It’s good, you should try it.”

“No.”

You pout, dejectedly munching on the fried slice of potato. The windows are getting foggy. Humid from your breathing, the condensation building in the sharp contrast between warmth and the growing cooler temperature as the night progresses. He cranks the driver’s side window down. Watches as you lift the spoon he’d buried in the ice cream and bring it to your lips. There’s nothing sensual in that gesture and yet…it’s that knowledge. Something in his mouth now in yours. There’s another spoon in the paper bag he’d neglected to remove. You don’t seem to mind. His mouth waters. The impulse to kiss you right then surging through him. But he thinks better of it. So exposed. There’s a fair number of cars in the parking lot. Too brightly illuminated. He wishes he’d brought you back to the trees. To the darkness. Maybe let you touch him a little longer before he’d stopped you.

No. He’d had to end that. Nip that right in the bud. Choke it off before it went any further.

The spoon drags from your parted lips slowly. You seem to recognize the change in his features. The desire in the dilating pupils. “Go get cleaned up and I’ll take you home,” he commands, his voice suddenly rough. Not what you were expecting. Disappointment palpable. Your hand drags against the lever for the door. His head knocks back against the padded headrest after you exit. Something’s definitely changed with you tonight. The new informality with his name. Had that been a mistake? The gentle touches. Removing the stain of what he’d made you do to him. Stroking your skin. Your hands on his face, his neck. On his scars. Guilty pleasures. Except he doesn’t feel guilt, isn’t that what he’d told you?

You’re back inside the car again. Studying him. He can feel the weight if it. His eyes flick to your features. You look presentable now. Hair no longer untidy and mussed, face freshly scrubbed. As long as you didn’t dawdle too long once you returned home, they should be none the wiser. A quick goodnight to your parents. Shower. Bed.

“William?”

He’s thinking about what awaits him at home when you say his name. No warmth, no affection, no desire. He doesn’t regret granting you permission to call him that after all, he decides. He starts the engine and hands you the remainder of the dessert. A mischievous grin blooms on your features when you slather a fry with the sweet chilled substance. “Don’t you dare.” Trying and failing to look stern. You’re attempting to reach his face and force him to take a taste. He’s got your wrists trapped, imprisoned in the shackles of his fingers. You struggle. A giggle and a little squeak of alarm. He’s too strong. There’s melted ice cream sliding down your hand. The smile on your face fading. Staring at him. Into him. That’s what it feels like. Too deep. Too much.

Afton abruptly releases you. Hastily occupies his suddenly empty fingers with shifting gears and maneuvering the vehicle out of the parking lot.

Halted now at the last stop sign before reaching your house. Your gaze has been fixed on him the entire time. He turns to face you. Glancing briefly in the rearview mirror to make sure no one else is waiting. The last moments alone with you for the evening. Touching a knee again. Kissing your mouth. Both brief. All he’ll allow himself. Possessive markers, that’s all the gestures are. He knows the difference.

He returns you home safely. Sees you hesitating again before he dismisses you. Perhaps issued a little briskly. It’s effective. You’re gone.

He’s alone.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #dividers credit @ saradika graphics

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agent-cupcake · 3 months

Text

Flashbang

Chapter 3 - My Ugly

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f!Reader

Synopsis: You have a lot of uncomfortable, complicated feelings about yourself, your life, and Captain Buggy. Buggy has a lot of comfortable, uncomplicated feelings about using you for cheap entertainment.

Word Count: 7.8k

Notes: My dearest says that this is her favorite chapter so far and I'm inclined to agree. It's almost 8k of sexual harassment in the workplace peppered with reader being Not Okay and Buggy riding that line of silly goober and sexy bully. Hope you like it as much as we do~

“I don't care if it hurts meI want to be worthyThe world to be thirsty for meI will grind night and dayLike a cosmetic slaveTill you're 6 feet down bad for me”

Dad liked to go out at night. More often than not, the big grandfather clock’s little hand hovered in the uneasy in-between of eleven and one before he got back. Drinking, usually, although you knew that wasn’t all he did when he was gone. He said it was business. Now that you were older, you understood that the two of you lived beyond the means of a retired Marine, but you never cared to know how. Dad wouldn’t have told you anyway. It wasn’t your place to know. Your place was curled up on the hearth as the fire burned down to cinders, dutifully waiting for him to return in case he needed something from you.

This wasn’t at all the same. This was a job. A duty rather than an obligation. The sense of hot determination from earlier had yet to fade. You were going to make yourself irreplaceable. You were going to be the best. You would not fail Captain Buggy or Cabaji—you would prove everybody wrong. You had to. There was nothing else.

To that end, Captain Buggy’s bed was made, the room was tidy, you knew what to use when removing his makeup, you knew where everything was kept. That didn’t stop nerves from buzzing in your stomach like angry bees, or keep your skin from crawling at the idea of being alone with Buggy after everything Crina and Cabaji had said. You tried, as surreptitiously as possible, to find Crina’s missing dress, but to no avail. It left you thinking that maybe you were just confused. Even the parts of last night that you could remember were hazy, and then there were the many, many things you didn’t dare to remember. So how could anyone—let alone people who weren’t even there—assume something inappropriate happened? If anything, you were the one in the wrong for imposing on the captain like you had.

Another reason that you had to prove your worth. You repeated that over and over to keep yourself from spacing out, to remain focused so that you would be ready when Captain Buggy came back. It made the span of minutes feel like days, but paid off because you were on your feet before he even had the door all the way open.

“Good evening, Captain Buggy,” you said respectfully.

He kicked the door shut, not acknowledging you. Too busy mumbling under his breath as he stomped through the antechamber. You followed quickly, a sick pit forming in your stomach. It seemed the poor mood from earlier had not only returned, but gotten worse.

“-buncha talentless idiots. Good for nothing, rotten lot of-” Buggy paused, shrugging his coat partially down his shoulders. He stayed like that for a moment before snapping. “Well?”

“Well?” you echoed nervously. You hadn’t prepared for this.

“Don’t just stand there looking stupid, take my coat.”

“Right, of course. Sorry, sir,” you told him, rushing over to take his coat as he roughly shrugged it off.

“I hope you’re not as useless as everyone else on this ship,” he said. “I can’t deal with another failure.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Buggy,” you said, hanging up his coat while he removed his gloves.

When you turned, he threw them at you without looking. You tried to catch them, but missed. Only having one eye made it difficult to judge where things actually were, and your fist closed around empty air while his gloves thumped to the floor. Buggy seemed too lost in his own world to call you on it as you stooped down to pick them up.

“I’m a clown, not a goddamn miracle worker,” Buggy continued, pulling off his hat and headscarf. Finally free, his hair flopped down, creased from being up all day. To your surprise, the bits of what looked like ribbon were entwined with his hair, only adding to what looked like an absolute nightmare to try and sort out. Absently, Buggy smoothed and tied it back. “Nobody is prepared. Rehearsals start tomorrow and, frankly, I’m not optimistic.”

Scowling, he tipped into his chair, legs outstretched, elbows on the rests, and his chin resting on his fist.

“I could put out a casting call next time we make it to port, replace some of the dead weight,” he muttered.

Since he didn’t sound like he was talking to you, you remained silent as you knelt to remove his boots. What you realized right then, what you hadn’t stopped to consider, was that his boots weren’t the kind with laces, they needed to be pulled off. You frowned, grabbing his foot and getting a solid grip around the heel.

“-check their egos,” he continued, paying you no mind as you tried to wrestle his boot off. Unfortunately, Buggy didn’t seem at all inclined to point his toe and make it easier for you. “I really can’t stand divas.”

You adjusted your grip to get better leverage, bracing the sole against your chest and pulling at the ankle.

“Every idiot with a deformity and shitty act thinks they’ve got what it takes to be a star. They’re lucky to have the chance to be in my show.”

Taking a big breath, you pulled hard. His boot finally came off, but the amount of force you had to use nearly knocked you over. Luckily, you managed to avoid that particular embarrassment. Setting it aside, you grabbed his other boot, mentally and physically bracing yourself to wrestle it off.

“They have no idea of how much blood, sweat, and natural talent goes into perfection,” Buggy continued, continuing to ramble to himself. This time, you avoided falling, but only narrowly. It was good that he was so distracted. “Without me, they’d be nothing. They’ll be nothing anyway, if they keep this up.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, you stood up to set his boots aside. The next part was the one you had been dreading ever since Cabaji told you about it—removing the captain’s makeup. Oil remover first, then soap and water. Mind the lashes, don’t get anything in his eyes. Mentally, you added Crina’s reminder about not drawing any attention to his nose.

Your problem with the idea of it at first was that standing so close to Buggy seemed intimate, but now you worried about his reaction. Buggy was still muttering to himself as you washed your hands and filled a bowl with water, angrily staring at the wall. So far, his ire hadn’t been directed at you, but that could change. Very easily, that could change, and you knew what happened after that.

If you worked quickly and didn’t mess up, then everything would be fine. Telling yourself that over and over, you took everything to his desk. That drew Buggy’s attention just like you feared, but his muttering had stopped.

“I still don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he said.

You froze. “Captain?”

“It’d be nice if you had some sort of skill. Anything, really… You sure you’re not holding out on me?”

You set down the bowl and bottles before holding out your empty hands with your fingers splayed, showing him the fronts and backs. “I’m not holding anything, sir.”

“No kidding,” Buggy said. To your relief, he finally cracked a smile, pressing his hand against yours. “How could you hold anything with those tiny little doll hands?”

You drew back with a frown, your shoulders curling. He sounded like he was teasing, but it reminded you of what Crina said about stunted development. Pushing that thought from your head, you picked up the cloth, but he stopped you.

“Ah, ah, ah. That shit’s messy. Clothes first.”

“Clothes?” you asked.

“Yes, clothes. My clothes,” Buggy said slowly, like you were stupid. Your only response was to look at him uncertainly. “Take them off.”

“Right, of course,” you said with a little shake of your head, stepping in closer. Standing between his legs. He was so indifferent to personal space, yours or otherwise, so it wasn’t as if it was a big deal. It wasn’t. It was fine. Completely fine. It wasn’t as if there was anything strange about this. There were many nights when your dad was too drunk to take off his clothes and you had to help, this was the same thing.

Except that it wasn’t.

With Buggy sitting, you were a tiny bit taller, finally seeing eye to eye. His were so pretty. Disarmingly so, their color divided between the ring of blue encasing the green haloing his pupil. You tried to avoid them, tugging your bandana down a little more to cover the scar before undoing the loose knot of his cravat. Last night, before the alcohol really even set in, you remembered wishing to see more of his neck. Now you were almost afraid of it, overly aware of your awkward, fumbling fingers as you tugged the fabric loose. His neck was pale and smooth, nothing like the wrinkled, leathery tan your father had after years as a Marine. You couldn’t help but let your gaze slip over the pronounced shape of his Adam’s apple, following the strong lines of tendon that descended into his shoulders, down the valley between his collar bones to the trail of hair that disappeared into the deep V of his vest.

“This isn’t a peep show,” Buggy said.

“No, I…” You cleared your throat. “I’m sorry, sir.” With careful hands, you folded the scarf and set it aside. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt, so the vest was all that was left. Buggy leaned back so you could undo the front, saying nothing. Part of you wished he would, just to break the tension. It wasn’t weird. You had seen shirtless men before. Cabaji hadn’t been wearing a shirt and that was fine. You were a pirate now, you had to get used to seeing skin.

It was different though, with him. Of course it was, because you made it different. Wiry as he was, Buggy wasn’t boyish in the way you almost hoped for. The word your brain supplied was adult, not because of the difference in age or size, but because he physically existed in a way you didn’t. There was no curious dip where his neck met his shoulder, and hair trailed all the way down his torso. He was solid. A man. Standing in front of him instilled a very odd sense of vertigo within you, like drowning. A wave of nausea rolled from your stomach all the way to your head, the sickness of shame and something else, something worse.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your face burning as you turned to put his vest aside.

“I was just kidding. It’s not a crime to admire a work of art,” Buggy told you with a lopsided grin. “You’ve only got one eye anyway, it barely counts.”

“I wasn’t… I don’t mean to,” you said, wishing to be anywhere else. You tried to distract yourself by dousing the cloth in oil, but you could still feel his eyes on you, watching your awkward movements.

“Jeez, relax a little,” Buggy said, grabbing your shoulders to give you a shake. “I know it’s a huge honor to serve me and you’re scared you’ll mess it up, but I’m not gonna bite your head off or anything.”

“I know,” you said, unable to look him in the eye and knowing better than to look at his nose but also unable to look down at his body. The middle ground was to look behind him but that was just as awkward as anything else.

“Just be careful, I wouldn’t wanna end up with an eye like yours,” Buggy said, tapping the bottom of your chin playfully before closing his eyes. Being spared of his gaze helped, at least.

“Yes, sir.”

Taking in a deep breath to steady yourself, you held his head in place with one hand and began to clean his face, starting at the top and working down. You could only imagine how long it took to draw on the crossbones, but the oil made quick work of them. And then the blue, cleaning up the sparkles. You took extra care to be gentle around his eyes, but he didn’t react at all, sitting still as you peeled off the lashes with the aid of more oil.

Without anything else to distract you, your thoughts of last night only spiraled. Now that you were so close to him again, you had vague flashes of sitting on his lap, although you weren’t sure if that was real or not. Hopefully it wasn’t. The embarrassment would eat you alive. And then there was your conversation with Crina. In your head, you had tried very hard to imagine what he might do or say, how he might react if you asked what happened. It was just in case. You needed to know that Crina was wrong, that the entire crew was wrong. You knew, and Buggy knew, that he would have no interest in you. So you would say what you needed to say, confirm that you were right, and move on.

“Captain Buggy?” you asked, pausing to adjust the rag.

“What?”

“About last night… I had too much to drink, and I know I was being annoying and I know that we… um… and that I…”

“Does any of this have a point?”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Nevermind,” you told him, shaking your head and refocusing on finishing your task.

He opened one eye to give you a flat look. “No, no, you can’t just leave me hanging.”

You sighed, carefully working on the corner of his red smile. You remembered, distantly, having drunk thoughts about his stubble, and you were right about it being rough. “It’s just that I can’t remember everything that happened last night,” you said, “but I remember enough to know I embarrassed myself. I’m really, really sorry if I put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“What are you talking about?” Buggy asked, his voice distorted from the way he had to hold his mouth taut for you to wipe off the makeup.

“I want to apologize if I was too forward and you felt pressured or, um, uncomfortable. I’m really sorry.”

“The only thing I felt pressured to do was carry you to bed. My bed, by the way. You’re welcome for that.”

“Thank you,” you responded quickly. “I’m really sorry, truly, but thank you.”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he said, opening his eyes as you cleaned up the last smears of paint from his jaw. “I couldn’t stand the thought of anybody else taking advantage of you.”

Your breath caught with nerves. He probably didn’t mean that in any way, but the phrasing made you blush. Blush more.

“By the way, um,” you said, “do you know what happened to the dress I was wearing?”

Buggy opened his eyes and stretched, yawning loudly. You didn’t want to, but you couldn’t keep your eyes from wandering down for a moment before you caught yourself. “When?” he asked. You busied yourself with the water and soap before he could catch you looking.

“Last night, I was wearing a dress that Crina lent me.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.”

“That’s fine! I was just wondering if you know where it is?”

“Why would I?”

You looked up, but Buggy looked as innocent and bored as his tone would indicate. It was a stupid concern in the first place, there was no way he would have done anything. Shaking your head of the annoying thoughts, you raised the cloth to wipe off the oil and any remaining traces of makeup. He watched you this time, only closing his eyes when you were cleaning them. Very studiously, you avoided his nose—avoiding even looking at it. What you were left with was a very regular, if handsome, man. Pink lips, a cleft chin, beautiful eyes. Maybe that was part of why the nose upset him so much. Before the accident, you liked to think that you had been pretty enough, losing that made your injury that much more hideous.

“Come on,” Buggy asked, still staring at you as you put the rag back into the bowl, “aren’t you going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“You wanna know if we fucked,” he said, dragging out the words in a slow and mocking way. You gasped at his childish use of vulgarity, your stomach twisting up. Buggy grinned. “Don’t look so scandalized, I know you were thinking it. Well, we didn’t. Trust me, you’d remember that. You did get a little handsy, but I didn’t mind it. I don’t feel weird about it or anything. I managed to fend off your advances until you passed out.”

You shook your head, staring at his shoulder. “I am so sorry, Captain Buggy.”

“Aw, are you embarrassed?” he asked, putting his hands on your hips to sway you back and forth. The casual touch made you jump, more aware than ever of his state of undress. But it wasn’t weird. People touched all the time. It wasn’t weird. “I promise I won’t tell anybody how badly my little one-eyed monster wanted my one-eyed monster.”

It took a second for you to realize that he was saying what you thought he was saying, and that was your limit. You stumbled away from him with a choked squeak, covering your face with your hands. They were still wet, but you didn’t care, only wanting to hide from him as he laughed at the joke.

“You are just a treasure trove of new and exciting sounds, aren’t you?”

You slowly lowered your hands, still shaking your head. “I… I didn’t mean…”

“Hey, hey, do you think if I squeezed you real tight and let go it’d sound like a squeaky toy?”

“Um… I’m… I don’t…”

“God, don’t look so scared, I wasn’t gonna try it,” Buggy said, leaning back. “Yet. You’re way too squirmy and I’m tired.” He yawned again to make the point, causing you to yawn in turn. “You too, huh? I’m surprised, you only slept in for half the day.”

“I know,” you said, averting your eye. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry, sir.” You were glad to have the excuse of cleaning up to avoid his eyes.

“From now on,” Buggy told you seriously, “you’re an early riser. I could need you at any time, so you better stay on your toes. That’s the only way you’ll ever be able to reach anything.”

You blinked, realizing too late that he was poking fun at you. At least it was about your height this time. Buggy’s grin fell, disappointed with your lack of reaction.

“We’ll have to work on that,” he said. “Now make like a tree and… Well, more of a stick. Maybe a stump… It doesn’t matter. Get out of here and come back bright and early tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” you said, relieved that he wasn’t going to ask anything more of you after making that comment. “Goodnight, Captain Buggy.”

“Sweet dreams, babydoll.”

Despite how tired you had been all day, you couldn’t fall asleep. Since you often only got a few hours to rest, it wasn’t usually that difficult. It was a talent, mom used to boast about how good of a baby you had been, sleeping through the night while other infants screamed and wailed to be fed. A small and quiet child, so easy to mind.

But you didn’t want to think about that.

You shifted, curling up beneath the uncomfortably thin blanket you had been given. The beds for the crew were dormitory style, set into the walls. You got the top bunk, sleeping above a woman named Pippa. She had heavy eye makeup and clipped words. Her big steamer trunk laid by your feet, she claimed you were small enough to fit with it on your bed. Everybody slept in the same area, men and women. Crina told you to get a knife to sleep with, although you had forgotten to heed that warning. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, you wouldn’t know how to use one. You never had before.

Except for once.

But you didn’t want to think about that either.

Rolling onto your back, you stared at the ceiling. The ship creaked and people snored and coughed and snorted. Footsteps above and waves below, the ocean was a place of endless motion and noise. A constant reminder that you were on a ship with your crew. Which was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not only that, but you had been given a respectable job. You should have felt a sense of accomplishment. This was far better than what you had hoped for when you left home.

Maybe it just hadn’t set in yet. Maybe you would feel better after getting some rest. Maybe you just had to get used to being here.

Maybe you had made a terrible mistake. Maybe you couldn’t handle this. Maybe you were exactly as weak as Crina and Cabaji accused you of being. Maybe it was only a matter of time before you disappointed Captain Buggy and he cast you out with nowhere to go. Or maybe it was that intangible monster that people called fate, the rusty ladder you had trapped yourself on. The only way down was to take each rung at a time, to obey the gravitational weight of inevitability. That’s what took you northside, that’s what made you beg to join Buggy’s crew. And now you were a murderer, was that inevitable too?

There was something within you that screamed, that thrashed, that bled. Something with gnashing teeth and clawing fingers. The thing that existed in the hollow pit when you were half conscious, the one that took over when you were smothered. She didn’t understand why you acted the way you did, she was different. You made her skin crawl with disgust for letting a man touch you and hated you for what you had done, the betrayal you perpetuated with every mile put between you and the remains of your town. She was a familiar host, always there, always agonized and angry and bewildered by your behavior, holding onto your worst feelings.

Once, you were in love with Randall. He was the neighbor boy, the son of a carpenter. He wanted to be a Marine. You wanted to leave Barley, actually leave, not just the short trips like dad sometimes allowed you to go on with him. But then the accident happened to your mom and Randall inherited his father’s business. He told you it was a matter of responsibility. You had yours, and he has his. And then he had a pretty girl from a nearby town, and you only had your dad. You hated him. Didn’t you? If you hated him, that would be better. You had to hate him.

Eventually, you rolled onto your side and, an eternity after that, fell asleep.

Days began early on a ship, a shift change rather than a good morning. Not that you would know what time it was, buried in the ship’s stomach like you were. The hour didn’t bother you as much as the cold did, it was the first thing you were aware of before your circumstances snapped into place. The facts came easier than they had the previous morning, your reality slightly more real. You sat up slowly, crusty eyed and with a headache, looking around to orient yourself.

Privacy was a foreign concept to the pirates, they all went about their business without any concern for anyone else. To your surprise, the women were as casual as the men in regards to their modesty. Averting your eye, you awkwardly got dressed under the covers before climbing down, fixing your bandana over your eye and breathing deep to try and wake up. Pippa was still sleeping, sprawled across her small bunk with one toned leg sticking out.

Although others were eating, you didn’t join them. Captain Buggy got his breakfast first. The cook made no comment, although you did get another look. Lots of people had given you looks. But nothing more. Cabaji said that having an official position among the crew would keep you safe. Keeping your head down and fighting the dizzy pain of your worsening headache, you hurried to get the food to Buggy’s chambers. After serving him, you would eat. Maybe Crina would give you something to help you feel better again.

You knocked on his door and then waited, listening. On a ship, there was never silence, but there was a sort of hushed equivalent. You knocked again, a little louder, calling his name. And again.

Deliberating for a moment, you decided that it was best to use the key Cabaji had given you. After knocking and calling out your intentions, you awkwardly balanced the tray to unlock the door and enter. The dining area antechamber was empty. You set the tray on the table before venturing further, peeking your head into Buggy’s bedroom. The captain laid in a sprawl of pale skin and blue hair, face down and fast asleep.

Were you supposed to wake him up?

“Captain Buggy?” you called softly. “I brought your breakfast.” He didn’t move, but you could see the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You walked a little closer. “Sir? Are you awake?” Nothing. Carefully, slowly, you approached him until you stood at the edge of the bed. “Captain?” you asked, daring to reach out and touch his shoulder.

“Not now,” he said, slapping your hand away. “‘m very busy.”

“Sir, you told me bright and early,” you said, frowning. With the amount of light peering in through the curtains, it was certainly bright outside.

“Bright and…” Buggy began, his words eaten by a yawn. He finally opened his eyes, rolling onto his side and blearily looking up at you with a smile. Illuminated only faintly and obviously sleepy, the expression was shockingly boyish. “Hey there, babydoll. I knew you’d come crawling back to me.”

“No, I um… I brought your breakfast, Captain Buggy,” you told him, flushing.

“Oh. Right, you’re…” He groaned, exhaling harshly.

“It’s going to get cold, sir,” you told him nervously.

He blinked alert suddenly, sitting up. “Why didn’t you say so? I can’t stand cold food.”

“I-”

Buggy snapped his fingers, gesturing to the side. “Get my robe,” he ordered. He barely opened his eyes as he snatched it out of your hand and stood up, stretching as he left his room. “If it’s inedible,” Buggy called, “I might have to eat you instead.”

While it sounded like a joke, his tone was not at all humorous. You didn’t respond, hurrying so you could pull out his chair for him. Buggy dropped into it heavily, yawning without bothering to cover his mouth. There was something slightly funny about the way he was huddled beneath his robe with a sleepy scowl, his hair a disaster and face scruffy. He ran a hand over his cheek and chin, frowning.

“I could help you, if you wanted,” you offered. “You know,” you gestured to your face, “shaving.”

Buggy blinked at you. Then he burst out laughing.

You shuffled self-consciously. “What’s funny?”

Taking in your confused expression, his laughter came to an abrupt halt. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“You think,” Buggy said, “that I’m gonna let you,” he pointed at your left eye, “anywhere near my neck with a sharp object?”

“I’m very good at it,” you insisted. “Dad… His hands are shaky, so I help him with it.”

“With one eye?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” you said, a hint of defensiveness in your voice.

“Yeah, I’m probably gonna have to say no to letting the one-eyed new girl anywhere near my neck with a razor,” Buggy said with another yawn, taking the lid off the tray.

“Is there anything else, sir?” you asked, knowing better than to push it.

“Yeah, go get something to eat,” he told you. “You’re too scrawny.”

“Yes, sir.”

The rest of the day passed like the previous afternoon. Crina agreed to give you something for the headache in exchange for fetching supplies she needed, and Cabaji continued his lessons from the previous day.

Eyes followed you wherever you went. Regardless of what Buggy said yesterday about you being a member of the crew, you knew that some of it was hostile. You couldn’t fight, you couldn’t perform the basic tasks of a sailor, you didn’t dine with the crew, and you had no talent to add to Buggy’s show. Many of the pirates were already working on their acts, it was just as likely to have to avoid a stray juggler as it was to weave around men minding the sails. There was no strict order like there had been on Marine vessels, but colors and noise and movement of every variety, and you weren’t involved in any of it.

Ostracization came as a natural consequence of who, and what, you were. In some form or another, you knew it very well. What you couldn’t handle was the fear you felt sometimes when you passed other crew members, or when you were too far from the captain or Cabaji or Crina. Sometimes you caught sight of Ivo. Rather, sometimes he caught sight of you, and his expression would darken. Cabaji said you shouldn’t worry about it. You weren’t worth the risk.

The duties Captain Buggy expected you to fulfill, at least, were not difficult. It seemed like Cabaji’s warning was for nothing because the tasks given to you were standard. Delivering meals, cleaning, taking messages, and anything else he needed. By the end of your second night, you felt like you had a handle on it.

Until the third day came and you learned a new lesson. Buggy’s moods were as fickle as the sea, calm as glass one moment and riled into a frothing swell the next. A man with a temper wasn’t very new to you, but Captain Buggy’s rules were entirely different. Where your dad misinterpreted your behavior to be in opposition to what he wanted from you, Buggy had a way of misunderstanding any behavior he didn’t like as direct insults to himself.

The afternoon had been wearing on and on, and Buggy didn’t dismiss you from his office while he worked on the logs, leaving you to sit across from him, just waiting. You had a habit of losing track of yourself, your mind wandering whenever you were left to idle, to seek some distraction instead of having to contemplate your own life or thoughts. It wasn’t always that foggy nothingness. Actually, you were thinking about a story you’d nearly forgotten about. A girl whisked away on a grand adventure by a boy who descended from the clouds, one conjured from childish whimsy. So it wasn’t as if you were looking at anything in particular, you were barely aware of anything until Buggy snapped at you.

“What are you looking at?”

You blinked, shaking yourself free of the cloud filled daze. “Sorry, sir. I-”

“You were staring at my nose, weren’t you,” he said, his voice hard.

“I wasn’t,” you told him, shaken by the cold anger of his random accusation. And you didn’t mean for your eye to flick down to his nose, it wasn’t like you had been staring at it in the first place, but Buggy clearly noticed, a muscle in his jaw ticking with barely contained rage. Your heart dropped, your tongue clumsy as you tried to desperately placate him. “I wasn’t looking at anything, I was thinking about a book I read-”

“Red?” he shouted, abruptly standing up with enough force to knock his chair over. “You were staring because you think my nose is red?”

“No,” you said, shrinking back. “I wasn’t, I swear.”

“I saw you doing it and, unlike you, I’ve got both eyes. Pretty soon, that’s gonna be two more than you’ve got.”

“Captain Buggy, I wasn’t-”

“Get out,” he demanded. “Right now.”

“Yes, sir,” you said, bowing your head and scurrying out of his office, carefully sliding the door shut before escaping into the bright afternoon.

There weren’t many places on a ship to hide, but you were small enough to fit in between the large crates of supplies in the cramped storage room beneath the forecastle. Luckily, you managed to avoid any attention until you were safely hidden. You didn’t cry, but it took you a while to stop shaking, composing apology after apology in your head. When you emerged from there, you returned to your chores, and you kept waiting for him to summon you again, to hit you and get it over with. That’s what the aggressive posture he’d taken always led to. A black eye, sore ribs. And you were prepared for it.

But he didn’t.

You weren’t summoned again until you were informed that Captain Buggy decided to dine in the officer’s mess and you, of course, would serve his meal.

When you entered from below, the colorfully decorated room was abuzz with activity and laughter. You recognized Crina and Cabaji, of course. The former was in deep conversation with a red-faced officer you thought was called Newt. Mohji sat in the corner with Richie at his side. Buggy sat in the center of it all. The star. Having an audience didn’t do much to set you at ease, Buggy had no reservations about dealing out punishment in front of his crew. Nobody would dare to stop him. You kept your head down, taking Buggy his food and desperately wishing to be invisible.

“Is there anything else you need, Captain Buggy?” you asked softly, staring at the floor rather than risk meeting anybody’s eye.

“Yeah, sit down,” Buggy said, pointing to the chair next to him. You peeked up at him, confused, but he was far more concerned with his meal than you. After earlier, you expected red hot vitriol, but Buggy was relaxed, and you didn’t see any anger in his eyes. That was another lesson about the captain. His temper flared at the slightest provocation, but burned out fast.

You sat down nervously, looking around again. The other officers were only just being served, but that didn’t stop Buggy from immediately digging in.

“I heard that you don’t eat enough,” he casually said, talking with his mouth full. There was only one person who would have been able to tell him that. You looked over to where Crina sat, but she seemed to be reading Newt’s tea leaves. “What kind of message does it send about me if my little protégé is starved half to death? From now on, you’ll eat when I do.”

“I’m sorry, captain. You really don’t need to…” your words died out, withering away beneath his hard stare. “Thank you, Captain Buggy.”

And so you were served with the rest of the officers, given a larger portion than you usually took. Buggy insisted you eat every bite. And then, after that, he insisted you stay in the officer's mess while they all drank and talked. Ale, mostly. A few bottles of the harder stuff were broken out, but nothing that interested you. The mere scent of it was sickening, let alone the taste. You wouldn’t want to drink anyway. A liquor-loosened tongue could very easily upset Buggy again.

Cabaji began to idly juggle after a little while, which caught your interest far more than any talk about the winds or raids or treasure. He made it look so easy, tossing and catching the balls without any added tension in his posture or change of expression.

Very abruptly, he caught the balls, looking at you directly. “Do you need something?”

“Oh, no,” you said, embarrassed at getting caught staring. “No, sir. It’s just so cool to watch, that’s all. I can stop.”

“Maybe you should give that a try,” Buggy said, leaning in to catch your attention. “It could be your secret talent. Cabaji, hand those over.”

“Captain Buggy, I don’t think I can juggle,” you said. “With my eye-”

“That wasn’t a problem when you were watching Cabaji,” Buggy said, handing you the balls Cabaji had just tossed over. “Nobody’s gonna laugh at you, I promise.”

You weighed them in hand, your stomach twisting because you knew that this wouldn’t end well. At the very least, the only people who were watching were Buggy and Cabaji. You let out a big breath and, with all of the grace you could muster, accidentally threw two balls in the air while dropping the third. You tried to catch one, but your hand closed around empty air to the side of the ball where you thought it would be, a common occurrence when you only had one eye. They all hit the floor with dull thumps, rolling away in different directions.

Almost immediately, Buggy cracked up, leaning back in his chair with how hard he was laughing. Ducking your head, you got up to hunt down the dropped balls, your cheeks flushing red.

“You’re supposed to catch them, genius,” Buggy said, breathless from laughing. “Here, hand ‘em over. I’ll show you.”

He set down his bottle and you gratefully let him take the balls. Buggy straightened out, lining them up in his hands. He did far better than you, smiling at his own success, but slipped up when his eyes flicked away for a second. One of the balls escaped and hit the floor for the second time.

Buggy scowled, tossing away the other two in exchange for his bottle of ale.

“Clearly there’s something wrong with those ones. I think they got broken or something when she dropped them.”

“I am so sorry,” you said, meeting Cabaji’s dark eyes.

“I have more,” he said, unconcerned.

“How about cards?” Buggy asked you, quick to move on. “Do you know any card tricks? You gotta be hiding some sort of talent.”

To nobody’s surprise, but Captain Buggy’s immense amusement, you were not.

That seemed to be the point because, rather than be upset about your consistent ineptitude, Buggy laughed at each failed trick just like he had with the juggling. At a certain point, you began to feel a bit less insecure because at least he was entertained by you. Not to say it wasn’t humiliating, but you could accept that as long as Captain Buggy was happy. You liked his laugh, mean or amused or raucous, you didn’t think you’d ever get tired of it.

When he finally called it a night and your decided lack of talent was exhausted, the full moon had reached its highest point and Buggy was more than a little drunk, needing you to steady him on the way back to his cabin. He was heavy and hot, singing a song you were pretty sure was entirely made up and you worried that if he collapsed, you would both go down, but you managed to get him all the way into his cabin and onto his chair.

Buggy told you stories as you fixed his hair and got his clothes off, drunkenly meandering between his prowess in combat, awkward encounters with fans, and tricks he’d effortlessly pulled off on idiot nobodies.

When you stood in front of him with a washcloth, Buggy blinked a few times, his eyes focusing on you with more clarity than you expected. “You and me, babydoll, we’re the same,” he said seriously, the words muddled by his drunken slurring. “Like, obviously you’re way more pathetic and less talented, but both of us were kept down by people who didn’t see our value. People who wanted to—to stifle our light, to keep us from ever shining the way we’re destined to.”

“Do you believe in destiny, Captain Buggy?” you asked, beginning the process of washing his face.

“Of course I do,” he said, his eyes closed. “I’m destined to find the One Piece, to become King of the Pirates, to be loved by everyone. You agree, right? That’s why you wanted to serve me.”

“No, I wanted to serve you because I-” you cut yourself off, realizing that now probably wasn’t the time for you to start talking about your feelings.

“Because you… What?”

You sighed, kicking yourself for saying anything. “When I saw you and your crew northside, I remembered my dad mentioning you a while back. You were involved in a raid on a town he had been staying at,” you explained as you removed and set his false lashes aside. “He called you a freak. There are a lot of weird pirates, but only you were a freak. Buggy the Clown, the Fool, the Jester—I’d never seen or heard anything like that. And then I saw you and your crew and it was just… I had to. No matter how scary or difficult it would be, I didn’t see any other option. I know you’re going to do everything you say, but I ran away and all of that because I wanted to serve you, Captain Buggy.” You shrugged even though he couldn’t see, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “If that makes sense.”

By now, you had gotten to his cheeks, but his growing smile made you stop.

“I knew it,” Buggy said with a huge, manic grin.

“What?” you asked, dismayed.

“You’re in love with me,” he said. “I knew it the whole time. I mean, the signs were all there, I just figured you were too shy to say it. But this… sheesh, you’ve got it bad.”

“No!” you exclaimed. “No, that’s not what I meant. You’re my captain, it’s not anything like… like…”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he told you, grabbing your shoulders, “it was bound to happen at some point. I’m willing to help you out, I’ve just been waiting for you to get desperate enough to ask.” He released you, sitting back. “Okay… Go ahead.”

“Go?” you asked softly.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Strip, idiot. Take off your clothes.”

You stared at him in pure shock. “I can’t… I can’t do that.”

“There’s no point in being shy now. I’ve already seen you in your undies.”

You shook your head fast. “Captain, it’s very late, and-and you’re drunk.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I was drunk the other night and that didn’t stop me from coming my brains out thinking about how you’d look—”

“Please stop!” you interjected in a desperate whine.

Your reaction made Buggy erupt into hoarse, drunken laughter.

“You’re… you’re teasing me?” you asked.

“Of course I am. You didn’t seriously think I wanted to fuck you tonight.” He slumped back into his chair, yawning widely. “Don’t get me wrong, I thought about it but, frankly, I’m exhausted.”

Your shoulders tightened, a pit forming in your stomach at how stupid you felt for assuming he would mean that. You were the one who insisted over and over again that you knew Captain Buggy didn’t want you in that way. To think that he would was nothing but undeserved ego. You couldn’t be surprised. You especially couldn’t be hurt.

“You gonna finish or what?” Buggy asked, opening one eye. “I’m falling asleep over here.”

“Sorry, captain,” you said, glad to throw yourself back into the task.

Buggy didn’t talk very much after that. The liquor set in heavily, and he was half asleep by the time you were done. You helped him get up and into bed, and you very, very, very professionally ignored how hot his bare torso felt, even through your own clothes. You decided after a moment that you could not handle removing his pants, but you took his belt. And then it was a familiar ritual to get him to lay on his side, tucking a pillow behind his head to keep him like that.

“Is there anything else, Captain Buggy?” you asked as you covered him with his blanket and put a cup of water on the table.

“You do love me, don’t you?” he asked, his eyelashes fluttering so he could look at you with bloodshot, filmy eyes. Compared to earlier, he just sounded vulnerable, his voice fried and sleepy.

“Of course I love you, Captain Buggy,” you said, unable to keep yourself from brushing his cheek with your thumb. He sighed, his eyes drooping shut. Part of you wanted to stay and watch over him, to make sure he didn’t throw up and choke, to force him to drink water, to ward off any alcohol induced nightmares. To stay by his side and just be. Be with him.

It was a silly impulse. He didn’t need that from you, and you doubted he would accept it anyway. So you left, and you hoped he could sleep through the few hours of night that remained.

Despite how late it was, you didn’t feel very tired at all as you climbed into your bunk. You wrapped yourself in a cocoon of blankets—the only way you could stay warm—and stared up at the ceiling. Thinking. Just thinking. Every day was a barrage of new information and activity like you had never experienced, but today felt like more. Being yelled at, being made fun of, but also taken care of. You knew better than to read too far into anything Buggy did or said while he was so drunk, but that didn’t stop you from shivering with a brand new type of warmth and disgust when you thought about it. Pure, blazing, white-hot, and unambiguously terrible because you knew it was stupid. And wrong. And gross.

Captain Buggy teased you about sex things because it was easy, because you reacted so strongly to it. That was the only reason. You knew that. Really, if you thought about it, the way he treated you wasn’t all that different from your dad. At least in his gentler moments. That was kind of the role of a captain, wasn’t it? If you only thought about it like that, then you could condemn and ignore the weird things you felt.

Huffing with irritation at yourself, you turned onto your side. You were being stupid, it had only been a couple of days. The love you felt was the love of a servant for their master, and it was the only kind of love that actually mattered in any measurable way, not any of the jittery anxious feelings in your gut, or the heartache you felt when you thought about your dad. Love through respect. Love through obedience. Love through service.

And to serve, you needed to sleep.

#opla buggy x reader #opla buggy #buggy x reader #one piece live action #opla #my writing #flashbang

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debbiecolon · 4 months

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Something something let the last cinders burn

#digital art #fan art #handler walter #armored core #armored core 6 #character design #that one jujutsu kaisen meme #artist on tumblr

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qqueenofhades · 2 years

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Had an great angsty Dreamling idea - somehow either Hob or Dream gets trapped in Hell and instead of playing the oldest game with whoever is breaking the other out, Lucifer forces Dream to experience what his son had to: to walk back through Hell, his love behind him, unable to check if he's still there. And no doubt Lucifer would pull out all the stops to make the leader look back. I think it'd hurt so much more for Dream to lead too, but either way would be So Painful.

The sky is the smeared grey of ash and soot and a world that never sees the sun, that never feels the touch of warmth or the taste of joy, and endless burned cinders sift down like snow. High on the hill, the dark citadel stands alone, towers buried in the sulphuric clouds, and Dream forces himself to keep to a steady pace, his expression cold and unmoved, even as Squatterbloat snickers and hisses and cracks his whip. "Come on, Dreamlord! Move your eternal arse! You aren't going to keep the Morningstar waiting, are you?"

"Of course not." Dream can hear moaning and whispering and wailing from the catacombs that surround them, shadows flickering just at the edge of perception, weird and wild monsters that have waited an eternity for just such a chance as this. He does not turn his head, he does not look left or right. "Lead on, Gatekeeper."

Squatterbloat looks disappointed that he's being deprived of the chance for some high-quality taunting, but Lucifer must really be impatient, because the demon mutters, clacks his teeth, and speeds up again. They climb the narrow, winding stair, where a freezing wind is blowing so hard that Dream staggers, almost losing his balance. For a terrifying instant, he sees nothing but the endless black-rock abyss and the hordes of chittering, howling, hungry demons gathered at the foot of the mountain, burning torches and beating drums, slavering for blood. If he is so unfortunate as to fall, he will not be getting up again.

In a few more moments, however, the dreadful ascent is over, and Squatterbloat pulls the bell-rope. The torches burn with greenish, eerie flame, the portcullis rattles up, and the Gatekeeper proceeds inside, Dream following close on his heels. "My lady," Squatterbloat announces, in the odious, groveling persona of extreme deference that he adopts around his infernal mistress. "He's here."

"Ah. Dream of the Endless, at last." Lucifer Morningstar turns from where She stands in icy majesty, Her wings black against the white silk of Her robe. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

Dream has no time for this. "Morningstar," he growls, low and dark as the storms of hell itself. "Where is Hob Gadling?"

"He's there." Lucifer points with one carelessly elegant hand. "You have my word, I have visited no undue harm upon him. Yet."

Dream hardly hears Her. He races toward the dark cage that stands at the far side of the throne room, watched gloatingly by the Lilim, Mazikeen, who doubtless is hankering to practice her torturer's art upon the occupant. Dream reaches out, grasping desperately at -- yes, it's Hob, he is scruffy and dirty and freezing and frightened, but at least he is in one piece and he is breathing, and does not appear to have been used as a demon's chew toy. Dream's voice is more frantic than he has ever heard it. "Hob. Hob, are you all right?"

"Alive, at least." Hob manages a smile, but Dream can see the abject terror in his eyes. "So, any chance of us getting the fuck out of here?"

"I'll attend to that," Dream promises, with one more quick squeeze of Hob's hand. Then he lets go and turns around, facing down the Devil Herself with just as much cold imperiousness. "Our quarrel has nothing to do with the human, Morningstar. Release him."

"Oh, I promised that you would regret the day that you tricked me and stole your helm back, Dreamlord." Lucifer's voice remains smooth as satin, deadly as poison. "You thought yourself so clever, in summoning hope to beat me? So, how powerful is it really, do you think? Do you actually trust in it yourself, or was that all a clever lie?"

A chill goes down Dream's back, which has nothing to do with the bone-deep cold of hell. (The humans always think it's hot, but they know nothing.) He stands as straight as he can, staring Her in the eye, unflinching. "If it is a contest you intend, name your terms."

"Not a contest in the traditional sense, no." Lucifer paces toward him, Her elegant robe whispering secrets to the black-polished floorstones. "I'll indeed let the human go, and you with him. On only one condition."

"And?"

"You must face the same trial that your son did. Orpheus." Her voice drips with barely concealed relish. "You must walk out of hell, Hob Gadling behind you, without ever looking back to make sure that he is still following. If you can manage it, he will be free to return to the waking world, untroubled by me. But if you look back -- well, doubtless you recall what happened with Eurydice. Truly, you should."

Dream opens his mouth, stands like that for a long moment, then shuts it. He feels as if he's been hit by lightning, as if he can't catch his breath, as if he can hardly stand upright or remember his own name. It is, of course, diabolically perfect on any number of levels, a piece of exquisite artistry worthy of Lucifer's craft, but he has never been so terrified of anything, ever. "I don't -- "

"Yes or no, Dreamlord?" Lucifer's voice has turned even more silken, dripping with self-satisfaction. She could not be enjoying this more if She tried, and indeed, it is fitting. Force him to hope, to trust, to put his money where his mouth is, and prove that last time he beat Her fair and square, or replay the oldest and most irrevocable tragedy that he has ever known, that lost his son and his wife and everything else, because -- it's a sad song, but we sing it anyway -- everyone knows how it went. Giving in to a single moment of weakness, Orpheus looked back to make sure Eurydice was still following him out of the Underworld, and then in that instant, forever, she was gone.

"Hey," Hob says, from the cage. "Oy, Dream. Listen to me. We can do it, all right? We can."

Dream still can't muster up a response, even as the seconds continue to drain by. The longer Hob spends down here, the harder it will be for him to leave; even an immortal human cannot resist Hell's baneful power forever. So Dream lifts his head and stares Lucifer down. "Very well, Morningstar," he breathes in a voice absolutely dripping with snow and steel. "Since it pleases you to set those terms, we accept."

"Very good, Dreamlord." Lucifer beckons with the same languid carelessness, and Mazikeen moves to unlock Hob's cage. He falls out hard, and Dream makes a reflexive move to go to him, but Lucifer shakes Her shining blonde head. "Ah-ah-ah. No bending the rules before we have even begun to play. You cannot touch him, you cannot speak to him, you cannot look from the moment your climb begins, from the instant you cross the threshold of my citadel. Is that clear?"

I will kill you, Dream thinks. I will rend even your angelic bones into dust, burn you as you did at the Fall, throw you to your own demons and bid them feast. What he says is, "Yes."

"I'm all right," Hob says bracingly. For a man born a medieval peasant who has now been plunged bodily into Hell, thus to serve as a pawn in the long-running feud between his immortal lover and the literal bloody Devil, he seems to be handling it rather well. That, of course, is just Hob for you. How perverse that Hob's own fate should hang on whether Dream can feel even a modicum of the hope that Hob himself feels all the time, in the worst of circumstances, the darkest of hours. I must do this, Dream thinks, close to panic. I must not fail.

"Well?" Lucifer asks. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Hob straightens up, wipes the blood off his chin, and gives Dream a long, desperately intense look -- trust me, trust me. "We are."

"Very good." She waves a hand, and the portcullis opens. "Your test begins now, Dreamlord. It ends when you both reach the waking world, or you fail, and Hob returns here, as my prisoner, forever."

"Understood." Dream's voice is ice, but his insides are water. He paces smoothly across the floor and under the gate, and back into the teeth of the scouring, screaming wind. It takes every inch of his self-control and then some not to turn his head, to see if Hob is following him down the narrow, cracked steps, or if he has been blown off to the eager demonic hordes far, far below. One step after another, through the split, sliding rocks, steep and sharp-edged and dangerous. There are a thousand and one perils for a human here, even a deathless one. The demons' roars sound like the susurration of waves on a distant shore, and geysers of smoke and steam jet up through the broken ground. That isn't even to mention the looming prospect of the catacombs, and what Dream already knows will be waiting for Hob in there. At the least, Eleanor and Robyn, the wife and son he lost just as Morpheus lost Calliope and Orpheus. Perhaps more. Hob has had a long life, and a great deal of heartbreak. It might just be Hell's phantasms, poisoned illusions, but those can be very convincing.

The wind is still blowing too hard for Dream to hear any sound of footsteps behind him, and he knows that it will not abate for this very reason. He keeps walking, head held high, even as his nerves are shredded. I must do this, he repeats to himself. I must avenge Orpheus, even as much as I must save Hob. I must. I must.

Dream enters the catacombs, and walks past the cells with the flickering shadows, the whispers, the wails, the weeping. His head aches with the effort to hold it still, to not even turn it the merest suggestion of an inch. Dust and bones and other dark things crunch beneath his feet. Far off, water drips like the tears of a heartbroken lover, and the chill is deep and savage. Fuck, this is impossible for a human to make it through without losing their mind. If he just --

No. No moments of weaknesses, no faltering or failures. Step by step by step by step. If you want to walk out of hell, you're going to have to prove it, before gods and men. His heart is thundering in his ears, his breathing echoes wildly. Step by step by step. It is very, very dark.

On the far side of the catacombs, Dream crosses the plains scattered with wind-bleached bones, his coat whipping against his legs. The slope starts upward, and Dream hunkers down and climbs steadily. Dust stings viciously in his eyes, and for a terrible moment, trying to shield his face, he almost looks back. He can hear a distant, disembodied screaming that probably isn't Hob, but sounds just close enough that he can't discount the possibility entirely. Oh gods. Oh gods, this is torture. Torture beyond torture, worse than anything he ever thought. Orpheus, forgive me. Forgive me.

At last, at the top of the slope, Dream knows that they're close now, they're almost out, he can sense the veil between worlds, and the compulsion to look back is almost overwhelming. It buckles his bones, it rattles his teeth, it twists his chest, it tears at him like skeletal fingers, trying to drag him back down with the dead. Hope, he chants to himself. There is hope in hell, you know there is. It is the very thing that even the Devil Herself cannot overcome. Hope. Hope. Hope.

Up ahead, the veil shimmers. Dream staggers, hands on his knees, desperately careful to not look back even as he does. His mouth tastes like chaff and ash. He is so -- very -- close.

The screaming is louder. It sounds terribly like Hob. Lucifer must have tricked him -- must have sent Squatterbloat or the other legions after them both -- doubt comes in, darkness falls --

Dream of the Endless straightens up and runs for it.

He runs with everything he is, everything he has, arms over his head, eyes closed, so he cannot be tempted even for a moment, but still does not even make the motion. He has no hope, not really. He does not know how. But he has Hob, and Hob is hope, and he asked Dream not to fail him, and Dream cannot, he cannot, he cannot. He feels something shimmer, then part and tear, and all at once --

Warm, humid air hits him, and a scatter of rain, and then the sound of traffic rumbling down the road nearby, and Dream sprawls headlong on very hard concrete. Even for an Endless, it hurts to fall on it, and it hurts even more when something heavy lands directly on top of him. They roll over and over, sending nearby rubbish bins flying. The bins are helpfully emblazoned with LONDON BOROUGH OF CAMDEN -- it's here, they're back, they're in the waking world, and they --

Fuck, is it Hob or is it something much worse? What came out of Hell with him, what is here, what has been unleashed -- if Lucifer broke Her bargain, or tricked Dream more than even he knew-- what if it was just a demon that looked like Hob, and Hob himself is long, long gone --

"Dream," a rough voice is gasping, and dirty hands are clutching at his face, and Dream stares up to see Hob Gadling, in the flesh, grabbing at him desperately. "Dream. Fuck. Fuck."

Dream sits upright, as Hob pulls him, and they clutch hold of each other right there in the alley, shivering and shaking and sobbing so hard that they barely make a sound. Hob's arms wrap around Dream almost twice, and Dream fists handfuls of Hob's filthy shirt, and they kiss once and then again, again, not caring who might see them or about anything else at all. It tastes like salt and smoke and sulfur. "Is it -- " Dream can barely get the words out. "Is it you?"

"Aye, love." The London sky is cloudy, as usual, but Hob Gadling's smile is brighter than the sun, brighter than life. "It's me."

#patchworkgargoyle #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #AS I SAID #SO RUDE #SO VERY RUDE #(thank you a+ bless)

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