#you carved yourself out a piece of my soul and how do I get that back? I don’t know

[shootingmorningstar]

Anon, I am so sorry .ᐟ I accidentally posted your request wayyyyy too early and had to delete it .ᐟ That being said, thank you so much .ᐟ My favorite part of writing is getting to see it resonate with others, so comments like these really make my day. Anyways, let me just say that I love this rq. You're right, that's such a funny scenario.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀Alastor With a Vee!Reader .ᐟ

You hadn't expected to climb the ranks at Voxtek. Really, you hadn't. You started off as nothing more than one of the many assistants Vox seems to get off by yelling at. Just another spineless sinner that would probably end up selling their soul to one of the three overlords, more than likely your boss.

That is exactly how your friendship with Alastor started out, actually. It wasn't too often you got a day off -- there isn't exactly any form of worker protection in hell -- so you were delighted to be able to take a stroll through Pentagram City. Maybe you could buy a new dress, or even stop by Rosie's Emporium .ᐣ Any hopes you'd had of a nice peaceful day were dashed, however, by your boss' face lighting up your cellphone.

Ugh, he was calling you .ᐣ Really, on your one day off .ᐣ Nevermind, of course he was. It seems you signed away your right to any peace the moment you became an employee under the VoxTek name.

Answering it with a simple ❛ how can I help you, sir .ᐣ ❜ had resulted in a frustrated yell so loud it resembled the high pitched screech two electronic devices echoed when forced near each other. He wasted no time in telling you a report you hadn't even written was absolute garbage and that you needed to come in and fix it now.

Or, at least, that's what you assume he was going to say. He'd gotten no farther than ❛ in ❜ before a shadow crept up on your phone, promptly ending the call.

Confused, you spin around to see Alastor. The Radio Demon, one of the most powerful sinners to ever be sent to Hell . . . . had ended your phone call .ᐣ

Now you were even more confused. You knew both Alastor and Vox despised each other -- that much had been made clear a little bit after the second to last extermination with your bosses power play becoming a duet.. battle .ᐣ

That much was public information but why in Hell's name would he ever interfere with a phone call .ᐣ He hated modern technology. You're spared from your confusion, though, when a staticky voice crackles to life in front of you. ❛ Why on Earth would you ever allow him to speak to you in that manner, dear .ᐣ ❜

From that day forward you began to see Alastor more and more, each time with a new piece of advice he had to offer you on dealing with such a terrible boss. It was absolutely orchestrated on Alastor's part, but either you didn't realize or just couldn't bring yourself to care. What you absolutely realize, though is that Alastor's advice is working. Each little bit of information he gives you dives a little bit deeper on how to deal with Vox -- how to actually have a backbone against his outrageous demands.

Fearing one day that you might push back just a little too hard and be met with the lethal force of an angry Overlord, Alastor gives you a tiny, what appears to be hand carved wooden radio. Your fear is warranted and he knows it -- you wouldn't be the first VoxTek employee to end as nothing more than a written off casualty. The idea is simple ; speak the demon's name into his namesake if any of the Vee's put you in danger and he would come to your aid.

The little trinket acts as a security blanket. From that day forward you tell Vox what you think of his ideas and where exactly he can shove the piles of paperwork he didn't feel like doing and rather pushed to you.

And Vox is impressed. You can't speak to him the way you do without being Velvette or Valentino. He doesn't know whether you're spunky or foolish, but he decides he doesn't care which. He also decides you're wasted as a secretary. In no time you're rising the ranks, going from secretarial supervisor, managing the entire office, all the way to Vox's personal assistant, making yourself known as VoxTek's rising star.

As his assistant, you find yourself attending meetings with the other Vee's often -- and to your surprise, they like you. Especially Velvette. Enough to demand Vox to share.

That's how you became a member of one of the most feared groups in Hell, the newest Vee, their underdog assistant. You take on responsibilities from all three of them, keeping them running smoothly.

All the while you're finding time to go out with Alastor for tea and a stroll through Cannibal Town. He usually despises physical contact, so you can't seem to understand why he wrapped his arm around your waist as you walked .ᐣ

What you hadn't seen was the sinner with their phone out, camera pointed at you and ready to snap a shot of Hell's newest Vee hanging out with their sworn enemy. The picture explodes on social media before Vox can get it under control, and before he knows it it's being reposted to Sinstagram twice for every one he deletes. He's outraged, calling you and demanding an answer. Alastor has long thought of this, though -- so as the two of you planned, he pretends to walk away, leaving the view of the cameras Vox is undoubtedly watching you on before using his magic to cut them off.

It's then you explain that you'd befriended the Radio Demon 'for the Vee's' in hopes of 'gaining intel to sabotage him and his Hotel.' It's a lie, but it appeals to Vox's sense of hatred for Alastor enough to slip by undetected. The idea of finding out his enemies secrets thrills him, actually.

Continuing your friendship has never been easier. Occasionally, you'll ask Alastor an overly intrusive question, he'll reply with a falsehood and you both try not to snicker as you try to act like you're trying to go behind his back to report the answer to Vox.

To be honest . . . Velvette and Valentino don't really seem to care half as much about Alastor as Vox does. They're very interested in the power felling him would bring them and so your fake spy mission does please them, but seeing you beside him didn't really send them into a frenzy like it does Vox. Velvette makes a comment about you trying to get him to change -- ❛ seriously, I know the cunt's all about avoiding cameras, but has he got to avoid mirrors, too .ᐣ that cane went out of style before radio .ᐟ ❜ and that's the end of it.

Alastor had intended you to serve as a tool against the Vee's from the very start, but I think he genuinely does enjoy your company. Sure, most of his motivations are self driven and semi-sociopathic at times, but he isn't incapable of making genuine bonds. His friendship with Rosie seems to be strong, and he's at the least fond of Mimzy and Niffty.

It surprises him regardless. He doesn't even have to be sneaky about his true intentions to you -- you know what he wants and gladly comply all the while enjoying his company. I imagine he enjoys having someone to dish into all of the Vee's shortcomings with, too.

The way I personally interpret this dynamic is platonic, but if it were to step into romantic territory, Alastor would need to be the one to approach it. He has little to no romantic desires or attraction, so I think any sort of confession would be a major turn-off from him. He wouldn't react well to others feelings being pushed onto him. However, if he were to bring it up, you're plenty patient enough to wait while he figures things out. You dealt with Vox's verbal abuse for years, this is lightwork in comparison.

Platonic or romantic doesn't matter, what does is the excitement you get when Alastor picks you up from work at VoxTek HQ and the amusement you share when you hear the sound of a monitor shattering from Vox's office.

If you were ever to be found out and stripped of your title, you have an ally and friend in Alastor, and that's by far the most meaningful thing to come from your work.

Hi, hi .ᐟ Another post out. I've been thinking on this rq ever since I got it and I think this is a good way to both show how evil and manipulative Alastor can be while also having fun. Alastor is a character that is so hard, at least to me, to keep in character while doing x r.eaders. I hope this sits well with any Alastor stans reading this .ᐟ

As always, let me know what you think .ᐟ Hearing back from you guys keeps me writing. Enjoy ♡ .ᐟ

#hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor x reader #kinda #platonic alastor x reader #aro friendly #ace friendly #aroace character #this prompt kinda escaped me sorry anon #i just can't see alastor having a friend in the vees and not using it to his advantage #i aim to stay as in character as i can #aroace alastor #hazbin alastor

[azsazz]

Bloody Knuckles and the Songs of Death

Azriel x Reader

Summary: This lovely piece stemmed from me thinking about how SJM describes Azriel’s voice in the High Lord meeting as “cold death.” It got me thinking that if he’s cold death what if reader is warm death? She is the last hug someone receives before their soul is entrapped in death’s icy snare. She’s the last breath exiting someone’s lungs, the heat of the final exhale passing through their parted lips. She’s the heat of their blood as it spills through split skin and that warm hand cradling their hands as they bleed out.

Reader is everything that Azriel is not. Opposite feelings but equal death in the end.

AKA: Half a rewrite of chapters 43-47 of ACOWAR where reader is now there as part of the Autumn Court, excited to meet Azriel. The other half are my own ideas.

Warnings: Major themes of death, ACOWAR spoilers, blood, gore, mentions of abuse, smut.

Word Count: 1,987

Notes: Sorry about the long summary, but I felt it was necessary to help understand where this came from before reading it. Yes, this will be multiple parts :)

_________________________________________

The Vanserras are late. Undoubtedly and uncaringly late.

You don’t see why it matters, anyway. You certainly aren’t one to concern yourself with matters involved in other courts unless you’re asked. But when Eris had come to you with a request on behalf of the High Lord of the Autumn Court, to tag along to some High Lord’s meeting – the first in nearly three centuries – you could hardly contain the feral grin threatening to carve your face in two.

For you it is a chance to play.

The Vanserra family is silent as you’re escorted through the lavish halls of the Dawn Court.

It’s incredible, what you’ve seen so far, glimpses from the windows of the High Lord’s palace. Your first time to the solar court, and you drink in everything that you can. The cobalt sky tinged by the rosy pinks and creamy oranges, the remnants of sunrise long into the day, the edges of the low hanging clouds gilded with golden light. Dewey freshness lingers in the air, lush with the evocative scents of rain in the countryside, the weight of the summer nearly upon it.

Inhaling deeply, your eyelashes flutter as you listen to the clatter in the meeting room as you approach, your senses nearly overwhelmed by all of the different scents winding together. There’s the one you’re most familiar with, the crisp wind and singed spices of Autumn, but as you part your lips to taste the other aromas in the air, you pick out the subtle tinges of the rival courts: sandalwood and coconut oil from the Summer Court, seawater and clean clothes billowing in the breeze from Day. The overpowering perfume of vanilla that coats your throat thickly followed by the melancholic neutral cold breath that stings your lungs is most definitely the Winter Court.

And of course, the intoxicating night-chilled mist wafting from the Night Court fae, who sit up straighter in their chairs when you enter the room following Beron, his wife, and his sons.

But even sweeter than that, underneath all of the niche and savory odors, is the scent of life.

You see they’ve brought a whole committee, the Night Court. Unsurprising for their High Lord, who always has one of his pets do his bidding for him, not a wrinkle to be had to be put into his pressed suit if he had to help it. Why get all messy when he could have someone do it for him?

You. That is who you are to the Vanserras. Someone to torture and kill for information, just like his spymaster, minus the protective shadows hovering over his shoulders like warped darkness that follows you around at night, always watching and always listening.

The difference is…is that you love death.

You are death…in a way.

Just like him, who sits next to the cocksure commander of armies, behind his Lord and–Lady, you now realize as you catch sight of their clasped hands, the gleaming ring settled snugly around Feyre’s left ring finger, a matching one on Rhysand’s. 

Your gaze travels across them in an instant, and theirs over you. There’s a shift as they assess you, in line with Eris, following closely behind Beron and Amaretto. Perhaps they think you’re Eris’ mate. That would surely be something, you think. You can practically see the gears grinding in their minds as they scramble to figure out who you are, and you know it’s because no one has ever seen you before, Beron wouldn’t ever let someone close enough to recognize you. 

You recognize the familiar glazed look they get over their eyes when they speak into each other’s minds, and then there’s a caress of claws inside of your head, gentle at first, but a slash when it’s met with nothing but resistance, your walls reinforced over years of practice. It’s a warning, a scare tactic, but you are anything but intimidated by the Night Court High Lord and his comrades. 

You commit everything to memory in the quick once over you give, eyes eager to settle back upon the shadowisnger. The jeweled crown upon Feyre’s head, the female behind her with the near-matching facial structure. Lovely Mor is here, too, going stock still as her chocolatey gaze locks on Eris before she’s looking anywhere but.

Your mouth twitches into a wry smirk that the spymaster immediately zeroes in on, clenching his hands where they’re settled on his knees, his gaze fiery and his siphons flickering.

Azriel, the male who separates souls from bodies without so much as a grimace, a blink, a quiver to his perfectly straight lips.

He is breathtaking in more ways than one. The sharpness of his golden gaze as he glares at you from his seat, like he’s ready to wreak death upon you with those large, icy, massacred hands just itching to wrap around your warm throat, watch the light drain from your pretty eyes, the color empty from your lips, face, your body going slack in his grasp.

His wings. They look how you’d imagine an angel’s would, if they had betrayed the Mother and had been touched by flame, the delicate and purely white feathers singed and burnt from the skin and bones beneath, much like the pink and puckered scars adorning his fingers to his wrists.

The Reaper.

The Taker of Death.

But you are the Bringer of Death. The warmth of it all. The last hug one receives before the Reaper swoops their soul into his icy snare. You are the last breath exiting one’s lungs, the heat of that final exhale plating their parted lips. You’re the swelter of their blood as it spills through split skin and the burning one feels in their heart when they realize they’re in love and that searing in their stomachs when they feel sick.

You are everything that he is not. Opposites in feeling but equals in the end.

To you, death is a beautiful thing. Intriguing, evoking, fascinating. 

To Azriel, death is anything but. A finite solution to seek information. Routine and cold and inevitable and lonely.

The violence simmering off of the Night Court party as you enter through the archway is not new, their harsh stares a reminder that you need to be alert, on your game, not itching with intrigue about the male you’d heard so much about.

Autumn Court’s presence alone is enough to make the Peregryns feathers ruffle, the remaining sons sneering at the Court with the most strained ties. The Vanserra offspring are a rowdy bunch, you’ve known that for centuries, have often been on the other side of the leer Pyrolas sends to Cresseida, earning a flash of teeth in warning from Varian.

Beron doesn’t bother to check them. Perhaps he likes having most of the other courts dislike him, letting his kin do as they please like half-wild beasts.

But Eris cares, a sweet soul trapped in a tainted family, of that you know. He is the one you prefer, the most emotionally intelligent, even if only in private. Your best friend, the one you’d run to after a long day of working for his father, someone who understands and you trust with any secret, with your life.

“Enough,” Eris murmurs and his younger brothers finally fall into line. All three of them; Pyrolas, Oakland, and Foxe.

Beron stops halfway across the room, hands folded before him. Even from where you’re positioned behind you know that he’s scowling at the Night Court attendees like they’re a pack of mongrels.

He is the oldest here, and the most awful, something that you and all of the other Courts can agree on.

Rhysand greets the Vanserras smoothly, eyes drifting over you as if you aren’t even there, though you know that he’s seen a lot with that fluttering glance. His power is heavy in the air, a silent rumble that serves as a reminder of the magic coursing through his veins.

As if he’d ever let anyone forget it.

“It’s no surprise that you’re tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate. I suppose it runs in the family.”

Beron’s lips curl slightly as he looks her over, at the onyx clad crown settled upon her head.

“Mate–and High Lady.”

You had to give it to Feyre. You’ve seen many balk from Beron’s hot stare more times than you can count, but she looks everything that Rhysand has just said, High Lady, as she sits in her chair as if she’s the one running all of the overinflated egos in the room, spine straight, chin high, and face neutral in the same way that Azriel’s is.

She turns her gaze to each of Beron’s sons. Eris smiles, amused and aloof before Feyre’s sharp gray eyes flicker to you.

If Eris is smiling, you’re practically glowing, eager to see where this meeting will go, if you’ll get to play or not. Your power thrums beneath your skin, a fervent buzz begging to be unleashed.

The red siphon-clad warrior watches Eris like a hawk studying its next meal. Eris deigns a glance at the Illyrian general and inclines his head in invitation, subtly patting his stomach. Ready for round two.

You stifle the urge to roll your eyes at your friend. He’d told you all about what had happened on that ice when he and his brothers were chasing the female they hadn’t known was the High Lady of the Night Court, animatedly telling you of the battle you wished you’d been there to witness, and grumbling through the parts of the story when the Illyrian had landed a hit on him as you dabbed at his wounds with a healing salve.

You’d even been there to hold him when he whispered so softly about his youngest brother that you were half sure he was delusional from blood loss or that you hadn’t even heard.

You cringe when Eris’ attention shifts to Mor, knowing all about what transpired between the two centuries ago. His caramel gaze sweeps over her with a disdain that makes Feyre’s eyes narrow in anger.

The blonde only stares blankly at him. Bored.

You bite back the twitch of your lips and notice Viviane doing the same.

So more than just a few of you know what had been done.

Azriel sits so still in his chair you aren’t sure the stone-faced male is even breathing as you sit in your chair to Eris’ left, settling into the plush cushion that faces the Night Court members.

Thesean, your Dawn Court host, begins. “Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.”

Rhysand takes his time, blinking slowly before he responds, “Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.”

“So you have called us to do what, exactly?” Helion challenges, bracing his forearms on his muscled, gleaming thighs. “Raise a unified army?”

“Among other things,” Rhys says mildly, in a way that irks you. If he has such pressing matters then why isn’t he getting to the point? “We–”

His words falter as power crackles through the chamber. Everyone falls silent and the scent of spring prickles your nostrils, evading your senses as it sweeps through the room on a pollen-filled gust. Something about it is too sweet, too flowery, too potent, nearly choking you as the beast himself prowls in through the doors, later than your court had been.

Tamlin.

He enters the room alone, like a crack of lightning, winnowing into the chamber, gaze directed at Feyre, smiling like a wolf.

You and Eris share a glance, his face impassive, cool, but you catch the amusement glittering in his copper gaze, the slight curve of his mouth as the air drains from the room and the shields surrounding every High Lord and their courtiers locks into place.

#azriel x reader #azriel/reader #acowar #acotar #acomaf #acosf #azriel #azsazz

[bullet-prooflove]

You’ve created a monster 👿 and because you told me to request you best believe I’m gonna %1000 come thru! So BETCH I am on my knees begging you to please do a part 2 or better yet even a full update 😆 of your Nero/Cam girl series please! I would love her reaction to him confessing his feelings for her and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN PLEASE GIVE US THE SMUT WE DESERVE FINALLY!!! You are literally torturing me with these two because every time I read an update you post of them Im left yelling in frustration because the sexual tension is legit torture when you leave us with just a tease of them!!!

So please put me out of my misery and don’t let me endure another moment of torture because I just might break

💛💛💛

Keep up the awesomeness and can’t wait for your next update Queen

Companion piece to Day Off

This did not go the way I planned...

“I love you.” He tells you. “I’ve loved you since the moment we met.”

You don’t believe him; Nero can see it in your expression. You turn your head back towards the sky, your fingertips slipping from his so that your palm comes to rest upon your stomach. There’s a tension in your shoulders that resonates through your entire body.

“Is that what you say to all the other girls?” You ask him, your voice a rasp as you stare up at the clouds. “Is that why they sell themselves for you?”

“What?” He spits the word out like a curse because never in a million years did, he expect this from you.

There’s an agony blossoming in his chest, and he tries to shut it down, to be rational but truly you’ve shaken him. He can’t understand how he could have been so wrong about a person.

“I know when I’m being played Nero.” You say quietly, toying with the silver rings on your fingers. “I know what it means when a man says that he loves you, I know what’s expected in return.”

“That’s not what…” He trails off, his lips clamping together as he forces himself up into a sitting position, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he inclines his head towards you. “You’re fucked up you know that?”

You lay there still sprawled on the grass; your arm thrown up over your head like in one of your boudoir shots on the website.

So fucking tempting and so fucking infuriating all at the same time.

“Do you think I’d be doing this job otherwise?” You ask him as you flick your sunglasses down from their place on the top of your head so that they cover your eyes. “Do you think I’d be selling myself if I was ‘normal’?”

Something happened to you, he feels it in his bones. Someone turned you out and once that happens you can never go back. You re-live the ways you’ve been used even when you step away from the life, it carves itself into your psyche. This he realises must be the compromise. The camming.

You don’t hook anymore, but you sell yourself in a different way and it erodes at your soul little by little until there’s nothing left but an emptiness right where it used to be. He thinks that’s what he’s looking at right now, that vastness. Someone reached into the depths of your spirit, and they tore it to pieces. He sees exactly who you are, and he loves you for it, the problem is your experiences have always been transactional, no matter what he says you’ll never believe him.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He tells you with a sigh. “It’s too much. I can’t be around you.”

There’s no way to win, he understands that now. In your mind, he will always be a pimp and you will always be a whore, trying to claw your way out from underneath him, even if it wasn’t him that put you there in the first place.

“Alright.” You say, your voice devoid of emotion. “I’ll get myself out of Diosa tomorrow.”

#nero padilla x reader #nero soa #nero padilla #nero padilla x you

[read-and-write-]

2023 Fic Wrapped

Thanks to @anincompletelist for tagging me! This is such a fun thing to do!

Rules: Feel free to show whatever stats you have. Only want to show Ao3 stats? Rock on. Want to include some quantitative info instead of stats? Please do this. Want to change how yours is presented? Absolutely do that. There are no rules!

Posted on Ao3: 34,145 (Across 14 fics)

Written total: 152,778 (yes, i do have a lot of docs created, a lot more than anyone wants to see)

3 published fandoms: Red, White and Royal Blue, All for the Game, The Shadowhunters Chronicles

Longest work: and every song reminds me of you (4,088 words)

Shortest work: yo te llevo dentro, hasta la raíz  (546 words)

very real wips, things I'm actively working on

Super Six and the Siren's Call (PJO AU- +100k) co-written with @inexplicablymine and @happiness-of-the-pursuit one of the most wonderful projects I've had the honour to be a part of and I'm so exicted for people to see it

Toe the Line (Figure Skating AU - 20k currently) my dearest child, 60 pages of outline, investigation, character sheets and visions i have at three am for a random scene 5 chapter away

Y recuerda siempre que tú eres la medicina (A bilingual June character study) A companion piece of sorts for a train of thought (of things not to forget), June's perspective through it all, both in Spanish and English like Alex's. and with Natalia Lafourcade lyrics as a title because that's June coded

carved within the beauty, the darkness in between and without (your) love, I am nothing two pieces about religion and firstprince from each of their povs, a question about loving yourself and about loving someone else against the things you've been taught and finding divinity within each other.

not so real wips with a little less real word counts but a lot of vibes

Spiderman AU, my entry for the New Years Resolutions event of @thebrownstone, which means it'll get here at some point

MasterChef AU, my way to put my professional knowledge to good use, it was a silly funny story and it grew a plot

Dancer AU, a drabble fail that was just a vision and then some people kind of made it get a full dual pov, double 5 + 1 plot

Numbers are not everything but I do like data and stats

Kudos: 3,969

Comment Threads: 187

Bookmarks: 946

Hits: 37,149

Numbers do not define an author's worth, but I also can see how far I've gotten with just one day deciding I wanted to write and post my fun little words again

top 3 sorted by kudos

las formas de llamarte amor (2.5k - 630 kudos)

my first fic in the rwrb fandom, it makes me so happy to see it being loved, it was the ultimate show of self indulgence

Henry has been a public figure for most of his life, the reason why he’s been given dozens of titles, some kinder than others, he’s been the gay prince, the spare, the prince of England's hearts, the activist, the author. All of the titles are inevitably a part of his history, but the way Alex calls him is the most important of all. Because to Alex, he is sweetheart, amor, and corazón; Alex calls him mi vida in between kisses and whispers hermoso, lindo, precioso with his wandering hands working through Henry’s body. His name sounds better when it comes out of Alex’s lips. or 5 times Alex calls Henry a pet name in Spanish and one time he calls him by his name or Henry learns Spanish one pet name at a time

to belong to a family (even beyond this world) (2.5k - 578 kudos)

this one, this one i wrote with my own soul, i used my tears as ink, wrote it for the Halloween Huh fest and it all the comments have made me so incredibly happy

“Talk to him. They listen, they always listen,” Ligia says and Henry nods, she squeezes his hand again before turning back and leaving him alone in front of the ofrenda. It's very rare that Henry has been at a loss for words when he tries to talk to his father. He has spent countless nights speaking to the stars, looking for Orion and hoping that —wherever his father is— he is looking for it too. “Hi dad,” Henry says softly, taking another look at the picture of his father, smiling at the camera. “I missed you.” or When Alex and Henry go to Mexico for Día de Muertos a familiar face appears on the Díaz ofrenda

you are an idiot (i missed you) (1.6k - 475 kudos)

wrote this on a whim, blacked out and pulled this out of nowhere, my first fic for aftg and really just an excuse to write Andreil being married for convenience™

The best, and arguably the only, good part of playing on opposing teams from your husband was getting to play a match against him. Therefore one could say that Neil was very excited about getting to play against Andrew tonight. Not only because for the first time since the season started they'd finally be in the same State and City (And later after the game, the same house) but also because Neil thought Andrew was 100% hotter when he was playing (Not that he would tell him out loud), and seeing him live was definitely better than seeing him on a screen. There was also the added bonus of the infamous Minyard - Josten Rivalry. Or Neil and Andrew are having too much fun with their rivalry until someone else takes it too seriously, and then they have a talk.

Being a not native english speaker means that fanfic does teach me a lot of stuff, namely vocabulary this year stars some bangers

Saccharine

Ubiquitous

Litany

Chagrin

Filibuster

I created a total of 19 docs, which doesn't mean there's 19 fics there, but it also doesn't not mean it

Alex's POV wins with total of seven fics

Six fics have the tag of Alex Claremont-Díaz Speaks Spanish

Three of my wips have an outline longer than 10 pages

there's a 30%? chance I will write smut at some point in the new year

my funniest doc title is "If you have religious trauma and you know it clap your hands"

This year has been crazy, for many reasons but I'm glad I found this space and I'm glad I'm back to writing, and on top of it all I'm glad of being able to meet so many because of it.

And the year is not over yet! There's still more to come!

I'm tagging a few people, don't feel pressured to do this but if there's anything you feel proud of I'd love to see it @inexplicablymine @happiness-of-the-pursuit @affectionatelyrs @littlemisskittentoes @ssmtskw @raysletters @14carrotghoul @heybuddy-drabbles @suseagull04 @everwitch-magiks @sherryvalli @rockyroadkylers

#fanfiction #tag game #fic wrapped #red white and royal blue #all for the game #i thought about waiting for this #but I'm impatient #so bear with me #this year was crazy #but you'll get a cheesier post in new years eve

[twst-hanaya]

Rook Hunt: Apathy Wrapped In Kindness

Okay so this is just going to be me ranting about Rook Hunt (finally - despite him being my fave most special little boy, I haven't written one post about him since starting this blog). It's basically just my personal interpretation of his character and how I imagine he would act, specifically with regards to love and romance. Basically just some personal head-canons, so don't get mad at me if we have different views of him.

I do love a man that can give me emotional damage in ways I never thought possible. Let's get started.

My impression of the fandom consensus - at least, the part of the fandom that writes Reader/Character and MC/Character fics - is that Rook is either an obsessive Yandere or a very gushy and romantic that likes to make grand gestures and dramatic declarations of his love for his significant other in French, with maybe a touch of danger, but it's sexy so we're good.

Realistically - (bad word here I know, I like fantasizing just as much as the next girl but this is for the sake of my deep love of his character okay) - I think Rook would make a terrible lover.

He himself says that he's too obsessed with beauty to be tied down, that his eyes will always chase what shines. He won't give up the opportunity to experience the other beauties of the world. He's so caught up in the expansiveness, the endless novelty, that dopamine hit from finding that shiny new thing, that the idea of limiting himself deliberately is foreign to him. He doesn't commit, not because he's afraid, but because he is greedy. Commitment is a choice to sacrifice, and he wants to experience everything this world has to offer.

As he is now, he is overwhelmed with the abundance of experiences available to him, and he doesn't quite understand the beauty that can only be found in that sacrifice and deep connection with another human being. His intake is just that - taking. Receiving. He eats beauty and enjoys his meals, the delicacy of human existence. He enjoys observing and even helping grow what he finds, making precise comments with his sharp, observant eye. He gives quite a bit in that sense - wisdom, encouragement, and most importantly, the truth.

See, my favorite thing about him is that despite his affable and friendly nature, he always keeps people at a distance. And even worse, he's a hypocrite. If he finds you interesting, he has no qualms about ripping apart your barriers and peering into your soul without you even knowing, while simultaneously disliking any attempts by others to probe into his own life in any significant way.

So this is what I think loving Rook Hunt would look like.

He'll shower you with praise and attention and understanding and advice. He will carve you open and lay bear your every fear and hope and dream, and he will consume that beauty, of a person's most secret, vulnerable part of their being - a risk you have taken, a gift you have given him - with shining eyes and even something like affection and gratitude.

He will do all of this, and when you ask him to please - please give me a piece of yourself too? Something precious, the same as I have given you? He will turn away. His curiosity satisfied, his interest sated, he will move onto the next shiny thing that catches his eye.

He will make you love him, and he will take that love in his hands and hold it up to the light to see how it catches it. He will admire how it sparkles so brightly and how it is malformed and dark in certain spots, and then he will put it down. It will have no place in his life, the collection of things he is willing to keep.

And what are you left with? A love that has nowhere to go and is too unwieldy and overgrown to fit back inside of you the way it used to. There's a big hole, and you have in your hands a love with nowhere to go.

So what were you? Just an experience? His kindness wasn't untrue - he meant every word he said. But his detachment, how he cuts himself out of the equation of life and places himself as a spectator who watches a play, is a type of apathy the inevitable cruelty of which will hurt you when you are standing alone under those bright stage lights looking for his silhouette in the shadows of the audience.

His heart will never belong to anyone but himself. Some might catch a glimpse, on accident. Maybe a sliver he's willing to expose in order to protect the whole. What a cold man.

But maybe, just maybe, someone can show him one day that that emptiness isn't just something he only leaves behind in others but grows in himself as well. Like I said, I don't think he quite understands the value of sacrifice, the kind of sacrifice that binds a person to something greater than themselves - the kind of sacrifice that binds oneself. But maybe when he breaks that person open and they inevitably reject him, unable to bear that feeling of loneliness despite standing beside him, he will feel even a hint of what he has let go, of what he has unwittingly lost with his careless consumption of others' hearts.

Anyways I need someone to write me a 100k+ slowburn Rook/OC fic with this in mind otherwise I have to do it myself and that shits fucking hard man, lol.

#the point is I have an unhealthy obsession with this man #i've never really had a grasp of it until just recently #but i think my type in both fiction and real life is the guy who's difficult to catch #rook hunt brainrot all the way babes #twst rook #rook hunt #twst #twisted wonderland analysis #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #meta #disney twst #I was actually going to write a bigger post with most of the characters with my ideas about how they could #punch me in the feelings juuuust right but as you can see here #i had to make a separate post for Rook my beloved bastard man

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I know your life isn't perfect, you speak explicitly about your struggles that you face day-to-day, but you've also lived a lot of life? Like I read your blog, and you've survived a fuck ton of shit. I don't know many older leftists--my family members certainly aren't ones, and talking to people around my age about the state of the world/lived experiences is wonderful, but it can also become so very sad, because we're not sure what to do. I'm a fresh 18-year-old, and I'm terrified of the future. Logically I know that I'm not obligated to complete the world's work, but I can't abandon it either. And that your loved ones, your community is what gives your life meaning under systemic oppression (Experiencing that firsthand where I'm finally making a few friends, and they fill my soul with life). But emotionally, I get so utterly sad, hyperfixating on what's bad when I'm away from my friends. Do you have any advice for living life while you're building that network of friends, figuring out your values, and carving out the life you want in whatever niches you can? Things you wish you could tell your younger self? I hope I'm not putting you on a pedestal, or stressing you out with this ask. I honestly would just like some words of comfort from someone older than me, who's POC, an activist, and also cares about a lot of the same things as me.

I absolutely don't think it's putting someone on a pedastal to ask questions like this! We all have different ways of surviving in this big wild world, and surviving often means different things for different people.

I do want to go ahead and speak to one piece of what you said though, just to make sure I don't wind up appearing to say something I'm not. I'm not a person of color, at least, I have never experienced myself that way. I am many things, including a person in a mixed race family, a person for whom older generations of my family were not considered white during their lifetimes (that doesn't mean that I'm not considered white now though, or even that some of those relatives aren't considered white now), and a person who has a lot of loved ones in a lot of different iterations of global politics. I try to talk about the things that impact people that I love in ways that I have come to understand over a lifetime they often speak of it themselves. If you want to hear from an actual person of color on these topics, you may want to reach out to my wife, @loreofthejungle, who has lived through all of my last ten years or so with me, and has her own experiences with activism and survival politics outside of me.

Something I have learned about carving out space though, you have to really and truly look at that space as if you have every right to inhabit it. Not just that you *should* have every right, or that people generally should have the right to space as needed. You, personally, have the right to inhabit space simply because you have the desire to do so.

Does that mean you will always be able to succeed in occupying that space? No. But the reality of inhabiting it really isn't fathomable until you believe that your desire to exist in whatever manifestations please you is your birthright. How you might navigate inhabiting as much space as you wish while still reasonably allowing space for others requires first knowing what space you want to occupy and not immediately compromising it before ever negotiating that space with someone else. If no one else has given reason to believe that you occupation of that space is a problem, why are you pre-emptively making yourself small?

This is easier said than done obviously, lol, but learning how to ask yourself what you want for your life and understanding what shape you and your world would need to take in order to achieve it are skills that serve us well in life. Some of this is learning to stop acting on assumptions I've made that people haven't communicated, even if I am absolutely sure the assumption is correct. Subtext is one thing (and I still have plenty to say about that on my best days lol) but frankly if someone isn't willing or able to communicate their thoughts and needs to me, it cannot be my job to predict those thoughts and needs on their behalf. Not a fun dynamic, just breeds resentment on all sides.

I have been my most secure, in life, in activism, in community work, when I am able to meet my basic needs, when I acknowledge that caring for myself the way I care for my loved ones is itself a basic need, and when I take the time to think about what is reasonably within my control and what isn't.

Sometimes that looks like prioritizing what issues I get deeply invested in (e.g. dedicating personal time and resources to organizing and understanding it as opposed to making efforts to support other people doing that work). Sometimes that looks like taking space away from the internet and social media because frankly......ugh. I just don't always have the energy to both communicate effective organization strategies and also have literally any time to not be "on" during the day. Sometimes it means taking space from organizing almost entirely because my work itself is community and care oriented, and there are times that is all I have in me. Sometimes it means learning new skills and support strategies in order to continue organizing despite changes in my circumstances. Sometimes it means focusing down to a small local region and not worrying about the whole wide world for a while because my neighborhood or my town is all I can navigate for a bit.

I realize it's frustrating to hear over and over again "connect in person" or "get offline" but like.

The reason for that often has less to do with "oh online activism is worthless" and more to do with "radical organization does not occur online even if its PRODUCTS occur online, because there is no way for us to reasonably protect our members that way. You need to show up to video calls or in person meetings so we can talk with some measure of InfoSec." You're just not going to get a step by step/comprehensive guide of how to organize or how to get involved effectively online because doing so would innately make those access points unsafe and insecure. Beyond that, there simply aren't univeral strategies. There are historic or common methods used within organizing, but every situation calls for tailoring by those doing the work, because organizing will never be one size fits all. You don't get buy in from people when you impose structure top down, but organization is much more effective when those doing the work co-create it together.

The good news is, there are so many groups running organization trainings and groups, and the whole point is to help you cultivate your personal skills in an organizing capacity so you can apply them in ways that work for you. Thus the eternal call to join a union or other organizing body.

I think people forget that the act of community building IS the act of organizing, in many ways. When you make the time to be attuned with the people in your sphere, and talk with them openly and honestly about your needs and the needs of those in your community, you can make great strides, even without the weight of a full campaign behind you. It's amazing what the community is willing to come together and create once they find they pathways and cohesion to do so.

This got rambly, and covered a lot of different versions of my answer to your question. In the end, I think what I mean with all this is just....we're all human, and we're all figuring out this whole "being a person" thing together and regardless of what anyone tells you, no one really has it down. There aren't right answers to the problems that have plagued society for generations, but there can always be the very human intention to help each other figure out a better answer than we had before.

[midnightpillsnacking]

[Loulou*di S3V2 L 3-8] Hana-Doll 3rd Season THINK OF ME:ARK Translation

Translation below the cut. Google Drive link | Listen to the album on Spotify

Rui: Your fever’s a little high. A whole day’s rest for you seems to be in order.

Toki: But it’s boring.

Rui: Toki-bou.

Toki: Why did this have to happen when we just earned ourselves a special break…

Rui: The environment here is optimal for you to rest both your body and mind. It’s one of the luxuries we are afforded.

Toki: I get it, but still…

Rui: Is there anything you would like?

Toki: Something I’d like?

Rui: I can stop by town and pick it up for you.

Toki: Rui-san, you’re not going to stay here with me?

Rui: Would you rather I be here?

Toki: I mean, being all by myself is kinda…

Rui: Mm.

Toki: … it’s lonely.

Rui: I see.

Toki: Just a little! Just only about this much.

Rui: Then I’ll do my best to finish the task while you’re asleep.

Toki: What if I wake up?

Rui: Have PLANTs contact me. I’ll immediately return.

Toki: Something I want… Can I ask for anything?

Rui: As long as it’s something within my abilities.

Toki: I want… to have something sweet.

Rui: Something sweet? Like what?

Toki: Pudding, cake, and… macaroons, maybe.

Rui: (hums)

Toki: … is that a no?

Rui: I will do my best.

Toki: Yay!

Rui: Ageha, I’ll be out for a while.

Ageha: Out? For what?

Rui: I’m getting some things requested by Toki-bou.

Ageha: How diligent.

Rui: What Louloud*di’s Toki-bou truly needs to make a full recovery is you, Ageha.

Ageha: And here I thought you finally have some feelings like a real person.

Rui: I also have a place I’d like to go to.

Ageha: You? Have a place you want to go?

Rui: I will be back in two to three hours. If anything happens, just contact me–

Ageha: Wait. It just so happens the place I need to be at is rather remote, so I’ll come along with you.

Ageha: An art museum… I couldn’t have guessed at all that this is where you wanted to go.

Rui: You can wait in the car if you’re bored. I don’t mind.

Ageha: Who said I was bored? It’s a nice exhibition. This line map… is a scene?

Rui: So it seems. According to the leaflet, this permanent exhibition has been laid out quite systematically. Most of these pieces were donated by the bereaved families of the artists who passed away while staying in the sanatorium.

Ageha: I see. Anyway, it’s even a stretch to say that artists are creatures sound in both body and mind.

Rui: Don’t you think that’s a little too far a leap of logic?

Ageha: Willfully setting their own engine ablaze to the point of destruction, doing things that contribute nothing to the essence of existence and survival… it’s enough to make one puke. Art is that sort of thing. Every work created a reverent piece of excrement, paraded in grotesque shows called museums… It’s unfair for me to say that about them.

Rui: Unfair?

Ageha: We aren’t the exception. Loulou*di, too, is just a glorified fetish, dancing on top of a chopping block. On top of that, no matter how much you carve a piece of your soul to put into it, it doesn’t necessarily give it any meaning. When you place the value of a work on the majority vote of thousands of self-centered laymen, it becomes impossible to control the audience. On the contrary, if the true intention of the work is communicated fully, it would be considered the pinnacle of foolishness. Ha, perfection? Setting our ambitions with nobility? That’s just nothing more than crap’s worth of ego. Even bearing that in mind, you can’t stop yourself from creating something, from spewing something out. Whether the flower’s there or not makes no difference in the fact that I can’t go on with it with a peace of mind. It’s a sickness imprisoned in my body that I can’t be cured of.

Rui: …

Ageha: Hm?

Rui: No, it’s nothing.

Ageha: You’re not really one for words these days, are you?

Rui: The same can be said about you.

Ageha: Me? What is it?

Rui: The look on your face is different than usual.

Ageha: … I don’t think that’s the case, but my head’s been clear since we’ve been at the dual-use facility. As if a part of mind just left the eye of a typhoon. I’ve been able to remember that there are in fact sounds in silence as well.

Rui: Sounds in silence?

Ageha: For the longest time, there’s been a siren in my head that’s ringing like it will split my skull in half. It’s like a constant premonition, always keeping me on my toes. I’ve been grasping at straws, desperately trying to kill that sound. The fact that the world has an overflowing abundance of sounds… feels like something I forgot about a long time ago.

(Ageha and Rui get back into the car)

Ageha: The change of pace wasn’t a bad idea. Visiting art museums is a good choice of hobby for you.

Rui: Visiting art museums was a suggestion from my doctor.

Ageha: You continue to heed orders without fail… just like the obedient mutt you proclaim yourself to be.

Rui: But I understand that there’s no meaning behind it. I suppose it’s just another one of my attempts at pretending to be human. 

Ageha: Hmm?

Rui: Up until now, not a single exhibit I’ve laid my eyes on have stoked any sort of emotion in me. It’s more like I’ve been imagining myself becoming more disillusioned.

Ageha: The moment you step into the world of the arts, there’s not just one type of scenery that welcomes you. Didn’t I mention it earlier? You can’t control how other people feel about it. You’re not me. It’s clear that our opinions won’t be the same.

Rui: I see.

Ageha: Besides, it’s not like I want to talk your ear off about it. 

Rui: I guess you’re right.

(An interface lights up)

Rui: Continue the route. Arrange for a pick-up at a shop that sells western-style desserts.

(Interface sounds off as it processes the task)

Ageha: Western-style desserts?

Rui: Is it alright if we make a few detours?

Ageha: Do whatever you like. …Hm? (rolls down the window) Looks like a shower is going to come down.

(The car pulls to a stop)

Rui: Get indoors first. I’ll get the car to the garage.

Ageha: Wait. That person…

Rui: Hm?

Setsuna: You’re finally back. Rui. And Ageha, too.

Ageha: Yashiro Setsuna?

Setsuna: I have an umbrella. Coming in?

Rui: It’s been a while.

Setsuna: Has it?

Rui: I wonder when was the last time I saw you.

Setsuna: I forgot. Nobody else is here?

Rui: Just the members.

Setsuna: Hmm…

Rui: Do you have business with us?

Setsuna: It’s not business. I heard you all are here, so I wanted to see you.

Rui: In the first place, why all the way here?

Setsuna: Maintenance. But not in this building. Somewhere further away.

Rui: Do you come often?

Setsuna: About once every three months.

Rui: I had no idea. What about the other Anthos* members?

Setsuna: I don’t think everyone’s been here before. Are you curious about Anthos*?

Rui: Not really. But Ageha is, a little.

Setsuna: Really. Can’t blame him. Ageha always talks to me about Anthos*. About Mahiro.

Rui: Have you been in contact with Ageha?

Setsuna: Just a bit. Anyway…

Rui: Hm?

Setsuna: Isn’t Loulou*di going to die soon?

Rui: Why ask?

Setsuna: Aren’t you all here because of that?

Rui: The dual-use facility is a place to recuperate. We completed our tour live and are having a vacation here. All of us are in prime condition because of it.

Setsuna: Hmm…

(Ageha enters the room)

Ageha: Huh. He’s still here.

Setsuna: Ageha?

Ageha: Get out. 

Setsuna: Okay.

Ageha: But before that, how are they? Anthos*, I mean.

Setsuna: What do you mean ‘how’?

Ageha: I remember asking you to report their status to me in detail.

Setsuna: They’ve been the same. Normal.

Ageha: Well, I suppose there’s been no major developments.

Setsuna: Ah, but…

Ageha: Hm?

Setsuna: It’s been decided that we’ll be going to Dream Drama Festa.

Ageha: When… was that decided?

Setsuna: Just recently. That’s why I’ve been coming here more frequently. For maintenance.

Ageha: Rui.

Rui: I’ve heard no news about this.

Setsuna: And Mahiro will be acting in a drama.

Ageha: Was he selected by name?

Setsuna: I don’t know the details.

Ageha: Anything else?

Setsuna: Ageha. Are you worried?

Ageha: Mm?

Setsuna: Are you worried? Because of Mahiro?

Ageha: That’s foolish.

Setsuna: But Ageha asked me Mahiro that time, too.

Ageha: That was…

Setsuna: I was told that being really concerned without reason is a gateway to love. But you don’t have to worry. After all, I’m by Mahiro’s side–

Ageha: (splashes liquid on Setsuna from a cup)

Setsuna: … It’s hot.

Ageha: You just need to answer my questions.

Rui: Ageha!

Setsuna: I promised Ageha that I’ll talk about everything I’ve seen and heard from Anthos*.

Ageha: Correct.

Setsuna: But I didn’t promise anything else.

Ageha: Aren’t you a talkative one today?

Setsuna: I talked about Anthos* going to Dream Drama Festival and Mahiro acting in a drama. I kept my promise with Ageha. So, why? Why did Ageha throw his tea at me?

Ageha: I’m unimpressed. I don’t remember asking you to take pity on me.

Setsuna: That wasn’t my intention. But I didn’t say that I was.

Ageha: Full of backtalk today, aren’t we?

Setsuna: Besides, my relationship with Mahiro is always on my mind. I love Mahiro.

Ageha: … What did you say?

Setsuna: I’m… surely in love with Mahiro. I wanted you to smile and be happy for me. I don’t want you to look like you’re hurting.

Ageha: Rui. Throw this cretin out. Now. 

Rui: Understood.

Ageha: You can stay as Yuuki Mahiro’s precious pup for all I care, Yashiro Setsuna. Bear in mind that the enemy is not always lying in wait outside.

Setsuna: What do you mean?

Ageha: Who knows? I don’t feel like explaining it to you, and I don’t remember promising you that I’ll do so.

Setsuna: (in the distance) Ageha?

Ageha: Are all those without units this vague and ambiguous…? I can’t get a clear grasp of it.[1] However… The summit for idols is an existence high above where many that is impure and beyond reason lie… isn’t that right, President Amagiri?

Translator’s Notes:

This line is translated inaccurately as I wasn’t able to make out the dialogue here.

#hanadoll #louloudi #season3 #thinkofmeark #L 3-8 #snacktranslations

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Find the Word Game IX

(Double Feature)

tagged by: @druidx!! my words: basis, boyfriend, bedroom, breath, rack, vehicle, trust, scan tagging: @drippingmoon, @sleepy-night-child, @ashen-crest, @zmwrites, @sleepyowlwrites, @drabbleitout, @oh-no-another-idea, @pertinax--loculos, and anyone who wants to buy my books your words: weakness, despise, reach, relative, solve, arrange

basis (Meridian)—

"I get it." [Warren] sighed. "Your life is your life, now. You can do literally anything you want with it, and doing something to earn money while also fulfilling your purpose is never a bad thing. If you're looking for my blessing or something, you've got it."

"It would mean relocating," Scot said. "Possibly on a permanent basis."

"Nothing's permanent when it comes to ———." Warren smirked. "We'll see each other around. We can communicate. I'm not dumping this friendship, so we're clear."

Scot looked as if he wanted to say something, but refrained, and Warren wondered if he'd wanted to voice his exact thought at that moment—he was the only friend he had left.

Warren extended a hand, and Scot took it.

boyfriend (Rebirth)—

"I lost a lot. I'll probably never see Esther again, and my…Brayden."

Thrive propped his heels up on the desk and reclined in his two-legged chair. He slid his finger against a smooth button on the device and released it.

"—See Esther again, and my…"

Every time. He never touched the recording except for that exact moment every time without fail. He hated the impulse but he couldn't stop it no matter how hard he tried. The instinct for Warren to refer to Brayden as his boyfriend was something Thrive in no way blamed him for, but it still stung, and for reasons he could not understand, he opted to punish himself for it on the regular.

"…And maybe I would've found a better life than the one I had before I met you, but you are the life I needed, E.T."

Thrive looked at the door again, unable to hear the murmuring anymore.

bedroom (Warpath)—

Surprised, Cascidi passed his fingers over his bottom lip. "I've rented a room for the duration of my Node stay."

"Will I get acquainted?"

Cascidi's eyes traveled down Warren and back up once more. "There's something about you I can't get over."

"Chemistry, baby," Warren purred, sidling up to him. "We doing this or what?"

Cascidi's rented room was opulent and modest all at once; reasonably sized and lusciously decorated. Half the size of the Halcyon penthouse but just as luxurious. Warren didn't even realize he'd absconded with the champagne glass entirely until his back hit the bedroom door and it slipped out of his fingers, bouncing harmlessly onto the thick carpet beneath their feet.

breath (Aurora)—

Thrive stopped in front of [Warren], cautiously pulling the hood of his cloak off his own head before reaching up to smooth his fingers across Warren's cheekbones to clear the tears he'd tried so hard to hold at bay.

"Damn," Warren muttered, embarrassed.

Genni cleared her throat between them, and she sounded far away. "Orthrive'poliea. Protector of Tey under the Oath of Caala."

"Yes," he said, voice low. He kept his eyes locked with Warren's, and he smiled warmly at Warren's flushing face.

"You are here to ceremonially bind yourself in the eyes of Consortium law to Warren Levi Cougar. This will tie you in heart, mind, and soul, and here you promise to love him with your every breath, to hold him in your power for as long as you both are alive. Say your piece."

rack (Meridian)—

"Nah, nah," Warren moved to get out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the hand-carved wooden rack beside it and throwing it around his waist. "Thrive, we agreed—"

"I know," Thrive muttered, tipping his head onto the back of the tub.

"We agreed we weren't gonna let the burden of raising the babies fall onto ———."

"It's one morning." Thrive flexed his hands, apparently in no hurry to rectify the situation. "They wanted to help us. Am I mistaken, or were you the one who kept giving me ultimatums about letting ——— take over the brunt of running this planet while I spent time with you?"

Warren slowed his rush to pull on his jeans. "Okay, yeah...but that's different."

"The difference is a whole planet versus a child."

"Look, I just…" Warren gestured to the door. "Whenever I'm home, I like waking [Thoeala] up. I like getting her breakfast ready, I like seeing that tiny alien face light up when she sees me, I like our morning routine. Sue me."

Thrive smiled, draping his arms over the edges of the tub. "This suits you."

vehicle (Rebirth)—

The resulting jolt caused one of the two graha to fall out of the open shuttle. Thrive caught them by the back of the neck and tossed them into the vehicle beside their companion, who'd been pressed into the wall by centripetal force.

He signaled to Sussa and glided into the shuttle after them, planting his feet firmly on the floor while she put a stop to the spinning. Thrive marched to the control console and checked the engines.

"Overloaded. We'll be taking the difficult way down." He turned to the cowering graha. "Where's Ysha?"

They spat obscenities at him in a graha dialect, brandishing their weapons at him and Sussa. She knocked a club out of one of their hands.

"You have a choice," Thrive said, firm, in their language and dialect without the help of the suit's translations. "Tell us where Ysha is located, or we run the shuttle into the ground. Whose side are we on today?"

The graha who lost his club began to advance toward Thrive in a burst of courage, only to be stopped short by the other graha belting him in the face hard enough to dislodge one of his large tusks. It bounced off the floor and zipped out of the shuttle.

trust (Eternal)—

"...Warren?!"

Warren looked up as Thrive's blown eyes met his, enraged and surprised and scared.

"Look," Warren stammered. "I...I can explain—"

"You...IDIOT!!"

Warren grimaced and braced himself as Thrive marched over to him, lifted him by the shirt with both fists, and shoved him against the wall. Tiny pieces of glass jammed themselves deeper into his skin.

"Why, Warren?!" Thrive growled, real hurt and shock in his voice. The rest of the crew stopped at the end of the hall to investigate the commotion. "Tell me why you refused to trust me, now out of all times, when I needed you to trust me more than I have ever needed you to trust me!"

"Because I'll follow you to the ends of the universe and back," Warren shot, blinking back the strobing white spots and his arm going numb. "Even if it means walking directly into the fires of hell, or facing the eliyi, or the Emmuli, or anything else we could possibly imagine and even things we can't. You feel this fear? This terror right here, right now that you're taking out on me"—he thumped the center of Thrive's chest with a fist to demonstrate—"that's me, too, fucker, and for once in my goddamn life I'm being selfish about it. You're gonna need me here, and honestly I don't care what you think—I'm not leaving you ever again and you're not leaving me ever again, and you can fucking deal with it!"

scan (Eternal)—

R'lis looked like a greener, more colorful version of Earth from the last time Warren had seen it. The alien world orbited a star much like Sol, with one moon that Thrive told Varussa to approach instead of the main planet.

"They take their defenses seriously," Thrive told everyone on the bridge. "Their moon acts as a security hub of sorts. Their barrier is deployed from there and nobody can shut it down without extensive verification first, including the DNA of ten individuals living in various, undisclosed parts of the galaxy. At least, that's how they operated when I lived on Slodia."

"Did you say their barrier?" Emnophene said. "They have a barrier around their planet?"

Thrive approached the navigation console and made a few keystrokes, running an infrared scan on R'lis and its moon. A sharp shimmer encapsulated the space around the planet, red laser-like light curving and warping around it, cocooning it within a defense system unseen to the naked eye.

"Whoa," Warren said. "That's...incredible."

#find the word #tag game #have like eight paragraphs per word cuz fuck you that's why /j

[mugiwara-no-toshokan]

Thrice Prophesized

CisFem Reader x Roronoa Zoro

CW: In-Universe levels of violence, amnesia, romance, reader gets some good bad-ass moments, but shouldn't feel Overpowered if I did my job well, surprisingly no smut in this one loves, but it's book 1 of 2.

Still 18+

Chapter 15: (Dis)Connected

The realization of the map sinks into your soul and you look around the room more intently, running from one place to another, scanning the room as fast and as efficiently as you can. You had been keeping out of the details of the crew’s quest, so you hadn’t seen anything they had brought back before, but you find what you’re looking for.

The massive stone cube, the one they had described to you before – completely indestructible. Words carved deep into the surface that nearly made your legs buckle.

“Oooooh.” Your head swims at the implications and you teeter a bit before Chopper steadies you.

“You can read it?” Zoro asks.

You nod. “It’s the language of winter magic. Not of the duchy, not of the kingdom, of the actual magic.” You take in a breath and let it out shakily. “We learn to use magic by doing, much like you learn to master haki, but winter magic speaks to you. In dreams and words, in emotions and symbols. It’s formless and completely set in stone.”

“That… doesn’t make sense.” Sanji admits.

“You’re right. No one sees winter magic’s language the same way, that’s why you can’t teach it by study, like wizards do for other magic. You can’t commit it to paper, because no one comprehends it the same way. But once you see the language of winter magic for yourself, it does not change.”

“Miss (Y/N), are you saying -.”

“I’m the only native speaker of this language. At least as far as I know.” You slump to your knees and look up at the stone cube. You read it in silence for a moment and feel your stomach knot. “It’s a prophecy. It’s … talking about me.”

“Huh?” Several voices make the noise at the same time as the group looks at you.

Breathing in deep, you begin to read. You can feel your emotions draining right out of you.

“This language will draw into this world one born who can read these when the time is right.” You recite. “I imagine all of these start this way. It goes on, ‘The magic of winter speaks to each of us differently, but one will be born who reads as I do, and they will decide with whom to stand, and virtue of their decision shall the piece of the one be found. Because I have placed upon this item the timeless heart of winter’.”

Your shoulders slump.  You were dragged into this world to be a compass, because someone from your world decided to protect this place some however many centuries ago. You weren’t entirely sure how to feel about it all, but now you had a real predicament.

How could you leave now?

You were the sole being able to read the language. You were the only person on this world who could detect winter magic. If a chance for you to go back home happens before you can help Luffy, what are you going to do? If news of what you’re capable of spreads across this world, you’ll be in immense danger. There are people far beyond Luffy’s crew who are looking for this item, and you’re already well-aware that Luffy and his crew’s kindness is not the standard for this world.

What if you have another prophecy and admit to your ability against your will? It’s bad enough that your words basically turned into prophecy in the port town. Even if the ex-marine kept his mouth shut, the town was full of people, and some of those people wouldn’t know how dangerous it was to speak about the event.

You just want to stay in this cave for the rest of your life.

“You… can find the One Piece?” Zoro questions and you nod.

“According to the big indestructible block, yes.” You reply sardonically.

“Does it say why you’ve been prophesizing?” Sanji asks.

You get yourself to your feet and look over the block – it’s the same text on all the sides you can see and nothing around the room adds to it. “No, not this one at least.”

You realize that you’re having a hard time matching anyone’s gaze. Suddenly, you feel like an object, and you can’t shake it. It was bad enough that the government of this world saw you as a prophet, but now this. You were little more than a divining rod.

“(Y/N).” Luffy’s voice cuts through your haze and you look over at him. He’s staring at the block. “Can you teach Robin to read your language?”

“I… maybe? I think so.” You’re confused by the question and start rambling. “I’ve never instructed someone on it before, but Robin’s already got a grasp on the concepts, so it shouldn’t be too hard-but-why-are-you-asking?”

“You still want to go home, don’t you?” Luffy asks, turning to you with his usual smile. “It’s a long trip back the Metro, you might get a chance to go home before we get back, so you gotta teach Robin!”

“But-.”

“Captain’s already decided.” Zoro says, and you feel an incredible sense of déjà vu.

You smile softly. “It seems my debt to you all continues to grow.”

“Debt? What debt?” Luffy dismisses the concept. “We’re friends!”

“I… I don’t know what to do with that.” You admit, feeling tears start to sting your eyes. “I don’t know what to do with any of this. I’ve yet to see the moon complete a cycle and yet so much has happened in that time and I can barely comprehend any of it. I’m here? Here!? On a completely different world because someone from centuries ago created a language only I know? Some fucking asshole from my world who stumbled into this one by some means and decided to help this world before going back home?

“Or dying here.” You heave in a big breath feeling it all roil inside of you. “I’m going to die here because I just happen to be able to read the winter magic the same way. Centuries, centuries of time between them and I and so here I am – deciding the fate of this world whether I care to or not.”

You’re quiet for long moments and so is everyone else. You feel sick, exhausted, angry and drained all at once. You might be on your knees, but you’re surprised you haven’t just fallen flat onto the ice. The only thing keeping you even remotely upright at this point is spite. Finally, tears drying on your face, you look up at Luffy and manage to match his gaze. “Doesn’t it anger you? That someone from another world decides your fate for you?”

“No.” Luffy answers swiftly, crouching down and putting himself at your eye level. The seriousness of his eyes doesn’t falter, but his body is relaxed and he’s smiling. “I decided my own fate long before you got here, (Y/N).”

You laugh. It’s soft, and half-broken, but the tentative chuckle slips past your lips despite it all. He’s so sure, so positive, so relentlessly mired in his belief in himself. It’s almost terrifying. It’s like coming up against a force of nature and having it pat you on the head. The mountain is a mountain, it can be naught else, and yet if that mountain were Luffy you were certain it could fly if that’s what it so desired.

This is what surrounded him with monsters and demons. He is what pulls this world. If anything, you simply got caught in the current, a rip-tide set up by some well-meaning Winternight knight – or Lord, for all you knew right now.

You slump forward, Luffy’s hands on your shoulders keeping you from face-planting into the icy floor. “Sorry,” you murmur, failing to even lift your head. “I’m exhausted.”

. . . . . . .

You remember vaguely, falling into a deep sleep in the icy cave, but you were so thoroughly exhausted, that you don’t remember leaving the cave. You come around and feel yourself up against something warm. You nuzzle into the soft fur, tightening your grip for a moment as you begin to wake up.

“Mornin’.” The soft deep voice rumbles against your chest more than in your ear and it takes you a moment to take in what’s going on.

It’s light enough outside that you can see, so it’s daytime at some point. If it’s not dawn then it’s cloudy, because the snow’s not reflecting light. There’s a soft steady crunch of snow and you realize that the group is on the march. You’re not horizontal, you’re vertical, and there’s a hand on either of your thighs. Your arms are wrapped around broad shoulders, and the fluffy furry collar of Zoro’s coat was what you had nuzzled into earlier.

You’re not on his back, you’re chest to chest with him as he walks just behind Luffy and Chopper. You can see Sanji and Brook behind him, from your position, and the blood rushes to your face as the two give you a small wave and smile.

You bury your face in the furry collar for a completely different reason. “Zoro.”

“Mm.”

“W-why?”

“Couldn’t fit you in the coat when you were on my back.” He says, beginning to explain. “But you kept slipping off when you were over the coat and walking hunched over was irritating. Then the shitty cook suggested I carry you like a princess, and that worked for a while.”

“But?”

“… You didn’t like it, I guess. You moved into the position a couple hours ago.”

“I moved.”

“Yup.”

You were never going to remove your face from this furry coat collar.

“Mortified again?” You could hear a smile in his voice, this amused bastard.

“Beyond.” You reply, voice muffled as you try to disappear into a coat that is already occupied. You glance up from the fluffy collar and look at Sanji and Brook, both of whom are pointedly looking away from you. The attempt to spare your feelings is appreciated.

Camp was created, food at, and you slept again. The next day you were walking under your own power, and trying not to think about anything to do with the island. Not the revelation in the cave, nor the fact that you had clung to the demon swordsman in your sleep. Such thoughts could be sorted out when you got back to the Sunny.

The revelation especially, since the other clues had been copied and were located on the ship. You were equal parts curious and nervous about having the chance to read them, but whatever impact they had on you wouldn’t be something you’d know until you got back.

Two days later you were nearly back. A few more hours of marching through the snow and you’d back aboard. The journey back had been much quieter than the march to the mountain. You didn’t know if the somber mood was normal, or if everyone was just trying to give you a break. You didn’t have the heart to ask.

The wind shifts suddenly, and you can feel the soft sting of cold nip your nose as sharp lines of cold whip past the six of you. Flurries come from nowhere as the skies are clear, the flakes of snow so big that you can almost make out the individual shapes of each one. A shiver of ice, a glimmer of reflected sun – the long comfortable prickle of winter magic skipping across your fingers.

You stopped walking, murmuring a quiet, “Wait.” As the rest of the group comes to a halt with you.

There it was again, the crackle of magic, the familiar feeling. Barely a foot off the snow, practically at shoulder height, and a mere few yards away from you it was gathering. Coalescing into a tangible circle, crystals in the middle of it hardening into an icy reflective surface that seemed to be a mirror before the spell finished and you could see through the center of the portal.

Just as before, your legs move before you are aware of your own actions. The familiar faces of Lucaren Winternight, Archduke of Winternight, and Lady Elizabeth Winternight, Duchess of the same, are looking back at you. They are in good health; their faces are bright, and their smiles warm your heart. You’re pushing through the snow to reach them.

“My Lord! My Lady!”

“(Y/N)! We’re sorry it took so long!” Lucaren calls out, his hand pressed against the edge of the portal. “We wanted to make sure it wouldn’t cause another ice pillar to form before we tried again.”

You’re shaking your head, you had just a few feet left to go. “It’s quite alright, I have been in good com… pany.” You stop, a tightness in your chest, and turn back toward the others. Five members of a ten-man crew are standing right where you left them. All of them are watching you with smiles on their faces.

Chopper looks to be ready to cry, the poor young soft-hearted doctor, but he’s holding himself steady. Brook and Luffy and Sanji are okay with your choice, but you can see the quiet pangs on each of their faces. You had been in their company for nearly a month, and bonds had formed.

Though not quite like they had with Zoro – the small smile on his face is unusual, but you know what it means. You know how that expression feels because you can feel yourself returning it.

There was more there whether or not you wanted there to be, but this was the inevitable outcome. This was what you wanted, and this was what he promised.

You risk the seconds needed and bow deeply. “THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING!”

You turn and run for the portal, plowing through the snow as though you could still push it aside, fingers reaching for your Lord and Lady. You had to move quickly before your resolve waivered, before your growing desire to stay overpowered your desperate need to return home.

Your fingers touch the portal, and you feel the winter magic connect with your body and soul.

#x reader #reader insert #one piece fanfiction #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #Thrice Prophesized #grandline metro au

[sins-of-the-sea]

My Brother’s Keeper

“Well, now. With all that said and done, we can finally get to the sweet, sweet finale, right? You all do remember that I always win, yes? No matter what Asks you send in, no matter what words of encouragement? You think that a grand gesture was what had Phoebus bring back Guy? Well, I heard it said around the community….

“’A single grand gesture will not bring in any semblance of forgiveness.’” Nor will any of us all forget. I certainly won’t. Though it was tons of fun seeing him think it helped any at all. Far more entertaining than I thought it would be. 

“But as you see, I still need my Eye, and I am a gracious, kind, merciful Master. Even without those words of encouragement, I would have brought Guy back to Phoebus either way as a carrot to a stick. The Sin of Sloth can only do so much damage standing back and smiling as his brother Lust drowns. And more can be done with positive reinforcement in addition to punishment.

“Now let’s see here…. Ah, yes.

“I wasn’t lying: I did crack open Phoebus’s soul as a warning. But I shall admit: I did do a little more. His soul belongs to me, after all. I own it, and I shall do as I wish with it.

“I took a piece. And what I shall do with this piece.... well.

“Trite. Rubbish. You all know how it is in your communities. If there are a hordes of people voicing their dislike for something, then it is for a reason, no?”

“You are aware that many other siblings have broken apart and murdered each other, yes? Being born from the same father or mother means nothing to many. Look up the actual Cain and Abel of the Abrahamic Bibles. Upon Marcus Aurelius Antoninus and Publius Septimius Geta. Upon Li Shimin, Li Jiangchen, and Li Yuanji. The Ottoman Empire even legalized fratricide starting with Mehmed II due to the struggles of Mehmed I. Brotherhood means nothing throughout mankind.

“Do you even listen to yourself?”

“I believe the Internet adage for this certain scenario is for you to ‘cope’.”

“Oh, he got scared, all right. Far more than you’ll ever know.”

“There shall be no other Gods before me....”

“Hahaha! You almost made me like you. You. You’re a fun one.”

“Blah blah blah blah-”

“You took too long, I almost fell asleep.”

“I am curious, this one. Do you talk to your salt shakers like little children? Your life up to this point must have been absolutely dreadful, going about in the dark to gather all the lost fatherless men like dolls to collect for your shelves. What would work for princes wouldn’t work for paupers. All to fill in a void carved out by the ones before you. 

“How long will it be before that void swallows you up and those who care for you? I wonder...”

“Words thrown in the wind. As all these would be.” The Master then crumples up all these messages and turn them into sea salt, sprinkling across the waves until nothing is left. “And now for one final touch. And don’t even think of going through the tags or the blog for a double-check...”

#[My Brother's Keeper] #gaslighting tw #manipulation tw #abuse tw #murder tw #[The Master]

[montagu3]

What one of my issues are you?

Depression

Everyday I wake up submerged in cement that’s nearly dry. I have to pull and push against the edges, fighting against the suffocating grip until I’m finally sitting on the edge of the bed. I open my eyes to see my drab reality and I’m ready to go back to bed. I don't want to shake off and peel away the pieces of cement that stuck to me. The casting separates me, muffling the voices of others and masking the monster that gnaws at my core. You’re tired. You’ve been holding onto a rope in the overcast waves, in the relentless churn of water. You could pull yourself in, maybe, but you don’t want to. The water is comforting, even when it cascades over you and you think you’re finally going to drown. You didn’t even have to drop the rope. It wasn’t your fault.

Possible Psychosis (undiagnosed)

A voice of a loved one comes from behind me, telling me how I should do it. I know it’s not real, but I let them talk anyway. Time is a slippery eel, wriggling out of my grasp with every attempt to hold onto it. It moves erratically, twisting and contorting until yesterday bleeds into tomorrow and today is lost in the chaos. The maggots eat me in my dreams even though I let them know I’m not dead yet. I know I’m not dead, I have to remind myself every night, but it never stops the maggots. I repeat the mantra like a prayer, a desperate attempt to rid the maggots that are eating the last sane parts of me. But with each repetition, the line between reality and hallucination blurs until I’m no longer sure which is which. I’m greasy and soaked in my own sweat, the stench of decay clinging to me like a second skin. I'll have to shower and change the covers before I can go back to the dirt. You need something to be wrong with you. It has to be some type of outside force, an unseen hand guiding the puppet strings of your existence. If it is you (and you alone), it means that there’s no chance for redemption or normalcy. It means that the maggots will never rest in the grave with you because you’ll never be dead. And so, you cling to the illusion of external influence, a disease, a psychosis, a fragile lifeline in the maelstrom of your madness.

Abuse (from others)

I try to hide in plain sight until the time I can move out, navigating each day with a carefully constructed facade of normalcy. Behind closed doors, I wrestle with the memories that haunt me, the echoes of pain reverberating through every fiber of my being. I attempt to subdue any inch of care that I still hold onto, burying it beneath layers of self-preservation, yet inevitably, something small will peek through, a glimmer of vulnerability that they'll seize upon as an opportunity to inflict more harm. I'm not invincible. Despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise, the wounds of being drugged, touched, and hurt by those I once trusted have left indelible marks on my psyche. It's as if they've carved out pieces of my soul, leaving me feeling fragmented and lost. I can pretend that it hasn't changed core parts of me, that it hasn't eroded my sense of self, but the truth is undeniable. I am wounded and it hurts. I cling to the fragments of myself that remain, determined to reclaim what was taken from me, one shattered piece at a time. Most of the shards fall through the gaps in my fingers. You can resonate with that. It doesn’t have to be anything big (if it is, I’m sorry, I really am), but it still tore the same hole inside of you. It took something from you, something precious and irreplaceable, and now you're left grappling with the aftermath, trying to piece yourself back together in a world that feels irreparably broken. Keep holding on and keep pulling. I hope you can get it back.

Abuse (from myself)

Hurt becomes the balm for the ever-aching hole inside of me, a void that seems insatiable. With each added hurt, I find solace, as if I'm closing another small hole of Tartarus, where a piece of me was imprisoned by my own transgressions. Why I ended up in Tartarus, I don’t know; perhaps I committed some unforgivable sin, or maybe I simply exist as a vessel for suffering. Regardless, I know I belong, it’s woven into the fabric of my being. As I navigate this labyrinth, I don’t know which will come first: when my body inevitably gives out or the eventual closure of each festering wound inside of me. The prospect of release from Tartarus terrifies me. There's a comfort I can’t find elsewhere in the hurt. Whether the pain is self-inflicted or delivered by the hands of others, it serves as a reminder of my existence, a validation of my worthlessness. You, like me, share a perverse communion with pain. Maybe it’s the guilt and self-loathing that make you seek absolution through hurt. Or, maybe, it’s a subconscious desire for punishment, cemented by your believed unworthiness. The only question is, do you know what you did to deserve your own personal Tartarus?

Obsession

The old Christmas lights that light the depths of my mind come alive in a way that they never do. They throb with the pressure of my heart, my gut thrills and I feel. I’m going to win this war, regardless of the cost. Obsession is passionate, it’s one of the only (usually) non-malicious things that remind me that I’m alive. But with every flicker of light, there's a shadow lurking in the corners, threatening to engulf me in its darkness. Like a moth to a flame, I'm drawn deeper into the allure of my obsession, unable to tear my gaze away even as it consumes me from within. Every thought, every action becomes consumed by the object of my fixation, distorting my perception of reality until it's unrecognizable. The highs of euphoria are matched only by the crushing lows of despair when reality comes crashing down around me. It's tearing me apart and slowly eroding my sense of identity. I yearn for someone to share this intensity of my passion, to see me as I see them. But the bitter sting of unrequited longing only serves to deepen my sense of inadequacy and isolation. Each rejection feels like a dagger to the heart, reinforcing the fact that I am inherently undesirable and unworthy of love. God, you want to be wanted, no matter how much you believe you’re undesirable. That same hunger you pour into your passion projects, you long for someone to reciprocate that fervor towards you. It's a yearning that, if fulfilled, could make you feel complete. That you would die happy with. But deep down, I believe you don't seek death; rather, you crave the raw intensity of emotions that obsession ignites. I hope in your passion you don't succumb to despair but instead learn to navigate the intricate maze of desire, emerging on the other side with your humanity intact. May you embrace that insatiable hunger, finding purpose amidst the chaos that surrounds you.

Burnout

Although the light is already out, the whirring of the electricity never stops ringing. The light I produced stopped hitting the earth lightyears ago and the only thing still present is the decaying of my final form, a reminder of what once was and can never be reclaimed. As I languish in this state of deterioration, the relentless drone of the machinery persists, a haunting soundtrack to my descent into oblivion, into the void of nothingness. There was a time when greatness seemed within reach, you had potential, but now it feels like a distant memory, a ghost of your former self haunting the corridors of your mind. The picture you painted was that of the classics, but now you’re one of the starving artists. Every day, you pass by the remnants of my aspirations, your painting, you’re reminded of what could have been—a masterpiece left incomplete, a dream left unfulfilled. With each passing moment, the chasm between your former self and your current reality widens, stretching further into the depths of uncertainty. Is it better to continue grasping at the fading embers of your former glory, or to come to terms with the fact that you may never reclaim that lost brilliance?

#ramblings #I can’t believe I wrote this #from my uquiz

[mxrethanasilhouette]

You should do whatever you need to make yourself feel better. Be whoever you want to be, put away whatever you need to put away, make whatever space you need to make. But from our perspective, you were strict. You were angry. You were harsh and scary.

And that will never change.

We can try to understand where you were coming from and what the intent was behind your words, but at the end of the day, you had the impact you did. You did that. You were scary. It's just the truth. And that sucks. And it's hard to hear that from your kids because you didn't want to be that. But you were. Own up to it.

You say you want to break out of just being mommy. And that is so fair. You are your own person and I fully always believed that. That doesn't change the fact that to us, you are mom. That, unfortunately, will never change. Because you are our mother. And because you are our mother, when you say the meanest shit followed by "only i will say this to you straight so i have to say it", we just sit and take it. Because you are our mother. When you say, "Deanne, if you wear makeup you'll be able to get a boyfriend easier", I laugh it off because you are our mother. When you make homophobic comments, I bury my anger deep down inside of me because you are our mother.

So don't think it was a one-way sacrifice. There are a lot of things we let go because you are our mother. Don't think you gave up your entire life for us and now what. Because I give up part of me too. I wake up every day ready to carve out a little piece of my soul and set it aside, just to feel like I can face you.

Your words have an impact. And every time I try to tell you how they impacted us, every time I try to explain what it felt like growing up in this household, I feel guilty for saying out loud. I feel guilty for trying to express my frustration, trying to be understood. You said you were never understood by Daddy, and that it made you really sad. Well I will never be understood by you, and that breaks my heart just as much.

[sheinvanilla]

I ache.

I am petrified.

Why does it feel like I am a million miles away?

Did I even choose the right thing or am I screwing up in between?

My devils and all of their horns come crashing down like they're ready to strangle me to the core.

It's excruciating to only read.

It's pathetic.

I feel pathetic.

What hold do I have?

What remedy is there after you lose a part of yourself?

And why does it always have to be the better part?

I don't know why time can't just stand till for a while and let me pick up all my pieces longing to be nursed.

Why can't it all just stop.

I can't think straight.

I haven't been processing any emotion the past few months.

Should I let it swallow me whole and feel my pitch black soul hang on to one heavy emotion?

Grief.

I don't know if I'm human or if the process is just freaking me out carving another wound that I am not even sure how to heal.

You can't run back and see us.

You can't see all your better dreams.

You can't take all your chances.

You can't leap

You can't jump.

You can't aim for all the things you've wished for.

You'll be the same.

You'll always stay the same.

You're still seventeen.

You'll always be seventeen.

That bitter part haunts me.

I cried on the phone talking to my mom if I could go home just to see you once more.

I couldn't, I am so sorry that I couldn't.

No one knew. I had to fake it.

I had to act like I was okay and that I don't feel anything just to get by.

It's hurting me so bad that I can't even remember the last time I saw you.

Why do we all need to slowly let you go?

We were all just starting.

Why'd you have to go so soon?

Why do we have to go through losing you?

—sheinvanilla

#sheinvanilla #poetry #poems #quotes #writings #musings #thoughts #grief

[brundenn]

"Why do you persist? Is the vain struggle for knowledge worth the suffering?" The shrouded figure questioned coldly as it turned away from Brundenn to place the smoking pokers back into the coals of the forge. Brun hung limply from the shackles, his head lolling against his chest for a moment as the cold iron cut into his elevated arms. "We were content to let you carry on and live after you and your little band of mercenaries cut down our summonings in La Noscea, but you...you continue to press on. What do you have to gain from your hunt? You have your life and health. We've turned our focus elsewhere. And what has your obsession brought you? Isolation from your compatriots? Pain and suffering? Is it vengeance that guides you? Vengeance for a life you know nothing about? Or is it some self righteous desire to eradicate the lands of what you consider an evil cult? Some misguided 'hero' complex in which you're this knight in shining armor doing their duty to the people of the land? The people of these lands couldn't give two shits what you do. I'm sorry to be the one to inform you, but the actions of one man matter not to the world. Especially one who sells his blade for Gil." The figure turned back to the shackled Brundenn, carrying the glowing pokers before him. "We know much about you, Brundenn Ceylon. You've bloodied your axe with the blood of innocents just to earn some coin. Those assassinations you've undertaken weren't as anonymous as you might believe." The figure stepped close to Brundenn and held a poker close to the soft flesh of his forearm, letting the heat linger over the tender skin. "You're little better than the beasts you hunt. Fueled by instinct and bloodlust. And yet...somehow you've come to learn how to find what we seek. Something your 'parents' were unable to share with us before their untimely demise...something you *will* be telling me." The figure growled lowly and pressed the poker into Brun's skin, the sounds and smell of searing flesh filling the air. Brundenn winced and let out a roar as his head snapped upwards and he fought against the pain. The figure kept the poker pressed against the man even as the flesh blistered and charred around it, unmoved by his protests. "Every bit as stubborn as I was led to believe. But every man has their limits and their weaknesses. It is but a matter of time before we find yours." The figure twisted the poker against Brun's arm until just the tip was nestled in the charred flesh and with a grunt, he thrust it into Brun's arm, piercing between the bones and sticking out the other side. Looking it over for a moment, he released his grip on it and left it within the man's arm. "I wonder how much of this you can withstand before you succumb to the pain?"

Brundenn panted and spat at the figure despite the pain raging through the wound. "For a torturer, you talk too much." He said with a wicked grin. "I've taken worse wounds fighting a fire sprite. Now impress me. Show me what sick pleasure you take from torturing a defenseless man!" His words earned a heavy backhand from a gauntleted hand. Brun spat a bit of blood and tooth before smiling broadly up at the figure. "Where are your words now, o' mysterious one? Don't know how to handle a subject that talks back?" He spat again as his mouth continued to fill with blood. "You know, you might not be the first one I kill on my way out of this pit...but you will be dying. Likely with this very poker you've given me." He shot a bloodthirsty glare at his tormentor. "Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just break your knees and leave you to be found by your fellows here to send a message." His glare turned icy. "Yes...I think I'll do just that. Break your legs in such a way that you'll never walk again and leave you laying in the filth letting the wounds fester and leave you to die a painful, slow death of infection and disease. Yes, a man of the cloth such as yourself deserves nothing but the best."

The shrouded figure remained unmoved by Brundenn's words and turned back to a table littered with various blades and torture instruments, turning a few in his hands and debating while Brundenn continued to taunt him. Settling upon a cruel looking long knife, he stepped back to Brundenn, he unleashed another back hand before gripping the brute's wrist. "Every bit as stubborn and foolish as I was led to believe. Pain won't get the answers we seek, but that doesn't mean I won't enjoy our time together until the others arrive. There are more ways to loosen a tongue than simple tools. One can do so much to the very aether of someone with the right motivations." The figure grinned wickedly underneath his shroud before pressing the knife to Brun's remaining untouched forearm. "Now...my personal favorite..." He pressed the blade into the flesh and started cutting long, shallow lines around it. With surgical position, he turned the lines into squares and began systematically carving pieces of skin from the arm. Brun's cries of pain reverberated off the dungeon walls until finally it became too much and he passed out.

Faint flickers of dimmed torches were all that answered Brun when he finally regained consciousness. Blood ran freely down his arm and there was a pool at his feet. A groan of pain left him unwillingly as he looked upon the muscles and tendons of his expose arm and he tested his restraints again. "You know Brun, for someone who hides such intelligence...your façade as a mountain of muscle and stone is quite impressive." Whispered a voice from behind him. Brun let out a breath of relief at the familiar voice. "Now, let's get you free from this place and to a chirurgeon." A shadowy Hrothgar stepped into the torchlight before moving to the restraints and deftly picking the locks. "I'll just add this rescue to my tab then."

Brun collapsed to his knees and rolled to this side, the blood on the ground soaking into the ratty furs that clung to his shoulders. "Grentt Maddox. Of all the souls to see in this pit...you're the last I expected."

The Hrothgar smiled down to the Highlander and tossed an axe down beside Brun. "Your uncle was concerned when you didn't return from the fighting pits and sent me out to investigate. It wasn't easy to find where they hauled you off to, but we'll leave that discussion for later." He reached to his side and pulled out a waterskin to press to Brun's lips. "Now, drink up and gather yourself. I've dispatched the guards but your captor still lingers in his quarters. I'll keep watch if you want to say your farewells."

Brun drank deeply of the water and remained still for a few long moments as he gathered his strength. With great effort, he pushed himself up to his feet and collected his axe. Without a word, he nodded and disappeared down the hallway that led to his cell. Staggering weakly, he made his way down a few winding corridors before coming to a heavy wooden door. Resting against the fall for a moment to take some deep breaths and gather his strength, he reached to pull the poker from his arm and toss it to the ground with a clatter. With a loud roar, he burst through the door with the rage of a wounded animal and descended upon the man within. The sickening sound of cracking bones and cries of pain echoed off the stone walls of the dungeon for several minutes until an uneasy silence fell upon them. Grentt grinned wickedly to himself as he took position at the entrance.

Several minutes passed before Brundenn limped up next to Grentt's position. Without any words being exchanged, the pair departed into the darkness of the night.

#ffxiv roleplay #grimdark #triggering stuff

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #tw dubcon #tw sacrilege #tw christianity #overhaul #chisaki kai #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #my hero imagines #boku no hero fanfic #smut

[throbbin-bobbies]

Volo x f!Reader - The Special Spot

Warnings: lemon 🍋, sexual activity, 18+

Y’all comment or dm me what you think 😅💕

Volo walked beside you as the two of you wandered Hisui’s land at night. A place that you usually go to have a peaceful view of the Obsidian Fieldlands. Where you don’t have to worry about one of the three clans or Pokémon bothering you.

“So how has that Pokédex thing the professor assigned to you going?” Volo made chat, “isn’t it exhausting doing all that work? Especially for someone else?”

“Eh, I don’t see harm in it either way. I enjoy helping people and seeing them happy. I mean, isn’t it hard traveling all over Hisui by yourself, Volo? Don’t you ever wish you had someone with you?” You asked as Volo helped you up the last ledge to your favorite spot. “I mean, I can’t say I’m not guilty of not feeling lonely. Sometimes I wish I had someone to keep me company. Someone to…” you started to blush before clearing your throat and looking out at the view, avoiding eye contact with Volo. “Would you look at that view! It’s mesmerizing isn’t it?” You smile.

You could feel Volos eyes on you, so you decide to glance over to him. “Indeed, a very beautiful and mesmerizing view.” He smiled.

“Volo, you’re not even looking out to the…to the land?”

“I’m looking at something far better, far more beautiful than the land of Hisui.” Volo breathed, stepping closer to you.

Blushing and stuttering as he came closer, you tried to speak as smoothly as you could. Tried. “W-wait! Are you saying that I’m…?”

“Beautiful?” He finished your sentence, brushing a piece of you hair out of your face and then cupping your cheek. He gave out a small hearty chuckle. “Yes. Yes I am.” He smiled as he placed his free hand on your waist.

“Sorry if I’m bad at reading social cues,” you gave a half nervous, half excited chuckle. “But are you saying you….”

“Like you? Yes, my queen, I do. I’m ashamed I never told you sooner. Being this close to you feels as refreshing to the mind and soul as it is enticing.” Volo smirked as he looked to your lips and back to your eyes.

“Well, I am too, because I’ve liked you for a while actually” you smile, bringing your arms around his neck.

“Oh really? Well, what do you say? Do you want to carve out the future of the Hisui region together?” Volo smiled.

“Be known as the lovers to be undefeated in all land of Hisui and beyond?” You smirked as the two of you swayed in each other’s arms.

“I say that sounds like a great idea. So where should we start?”

“Right here would be good” you wink, starting to pull slightly with your arms to bring Volo towards you. With no hesitation he brought himself down to you, and your lips met. At first it was a yearning kiss, as if the two of you had been waiting forever to finally kiss each other. Which in honesty, is true. The two of you really liked each other and had strong feelings you liked one another. The two of you were just busy and traveling to different parts of Hisui.

But soon you two yearned for more. Still locked in a kiss, you lead Volo to the grass beneath you. Volo was now on top, grabbing your breasts, and you could feel him getting harder with each second through his pants.

While your kiss was broken, your hands went to his belt but you stopped. Looking up at Volo you could see many emotions running wild in his eyes. “You don’t have to, but if you’d like to I won’t oppose” Volo said as he caressed your face.

“Just go slow until I say faster, okay? I didn’t want to force you to either, that’s why I stopped.” You explained.

“Oh, baby girl, I appreciate you making sure I wanted to too.” Volo smiled, catching your breath and heart at baby girl, “let me know if I have to stop”.

You both undid and pulled down your pants, and you noticed how big and hard Volo was. “You’re already so wet, baby girl. I’ll go as slow and easy as you need”

Lining himself up, he slowly went in. Stopping when you tell him to until you’re ready for more of his big cock. Once you were adjusted and ready, the two of you couldn’t help but to go as hard as you could go. But it wasn’t fast and hard. It was slow and hard. Volo hearing you moaning and blushing underneath him drove him mad deep inside. He was just eating you up inside his mind, balls deep inside you.

“Y/n I’m- oh - I’m close to cumming, I’ve got to pull out soon”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to” you looked up into his eyes, mere inches away from each other. He seemed surprised and like he almost wasn’t sure what he should do.

“But? Aren’t you concerned about..?”

“No. Im not going to go anywhere anytime soon. As far as I’m concerned you’re mine. And I’m all yours big guy.” As soon as he hears you say that, you both know almighty Sinnoh had it sealed in fate that you two were meant to be for each other. 

“That’s right, baby girl, you’re all mine” he smirked, placing a gentle kiss on your lips before he started thrusting into you again, his tight feeling was no longer there. He was going to show you what it feels like to be his.

#Pokémon Volo #Volo x reader #pokemon Volo #loa Volo #loa Volo x reader #Volo x reader lemon #Volo x reader smut