#and just started airing my grievances

[fingertipsmp3]

There’s something weirdly nice about finding out you’re not the only person who dislikes someone. It’s such a relief to be able to be like “okay thank God I can bitch about this person now”

[horsemage]

I think we should bring back basic etiquette lessons such as shutting the fuck up when you’re watching a movie in a group that is not exclusively your friend group 🙂

[misswynters]

A Stark’s Fury

Cregan Stark x targ!wife! reader

[warning: blood, you getting cut in the arm

[synopsis: You are the wife of Cregan and younger sister of rhaenyra. You get cut in the arm and your son, Eddard, also gets hurt. Which makes cregan furious.

[note | here’s a lil something while i write the final chapter for winters embrace, just a short drabble :) also instead of rhae getting cut it’s you.

[requested: by anon

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting an amber glow across Driftmark. Laena Velaryon’s funeral was a somber affair, filled with the mournful silence of the assembled nobles and the soft lapping of waves against the shore. Among the gathered were you, the younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, your husband Cregan Stark, and your son Eddard, who clung to your skirts, his wide eyes taking in the solemnity of the occasion.

Your silver hair flowed down your back, and your violet eyes glistened with unshed tears as you stood beside Cregan. His strong arm encircled your waist, offering silent support. Despite the warmth of the setting sun, a chill hung in the air, a reflection of the grief that weighed heavily on your hearts.

As the ceremony proceeded, you noticed the tension simmering among the children. Your son, Eddard, stood with Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, trying to comfort them in their shared sorrow. Your heart ached for them, especially for Rhaena, who had just lost her mother.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you and Cregan approached the bier. You whispered a prayer for Laena’s soul, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. Cregan squeezed your hand gently, his presence a solid rock amidst the turbulent sea of emotions.

After the funeral, you found yourself in the grand hall, where the tension between the Blacks and the Greens was palpable. You kept a watchful eye on Eddard, who was playing with the other children. However, the peace was shattered when a scuffle broke out between Aemond and Jace. The sight of Aemond taunting Jace, and the resulting fight, sent a shockwave through the hall.

Eddard tried to intervene, but in the chaos, he was struck and fell to the ground, crying out in pain. You rushed to his side, your heart pounding with fear and anger. Cregan was by your side in an instant, his protective instincts flaring as he assessed the situation.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Aemond taunted Jace, and then the fight started,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion as you cradled Eddard.

Cregan’s eyes darkened with anger. “This has gone too far.”

The confrontation escalated when Alicent Hightower, her face twisted with rage, advanced on Rhaenyra, who was defending her sons. You stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation, but Alicent’s fury was uncontrollable. She drew a knife, lunging at Rhaenyra, but you intercepted the blow.

The blade sliced across your arm, and you cried out in pain, clutching the wound. Cregan’s roar of fury echoed through the hall as he moved to shield you. He grabbed the knife from Alicent’s hand, his face a mask of rage.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “This madness ends now!”

King Viserys, looking frail and distressed, tried to intervene. “Peace! There must be peace!”

Cregan turned on the king, his eyes blazing. “Peace? Look at what your family has done! My wife is injured, my son is hurt, and for what? Petty squabbles and insults?”

Rhaenyra, tears streaming down her face, reached for you. “Sister, I’m so sorry.”

You managed a weak smile, despite the pain. “It’s not your fault, Rhaenyra. But something must change.”

As the maesters attended to your wound, Cregan kept a protective arm around you. He glared at the Greens, making it clear that any further aggression would not be tolerated. The hall was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved grievances.

In the aftermath, Cregan insisted on returning to Winterfell with you and Eddard. “We’ll be safer there,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I won’t risk your lives any longer.”

You nodded, grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Cregan.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your cool skin. “I love you. I will always protect you.”

As you prepared to leave Driftmark, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the family you were leaving behind. You took a moment to say your farewells to Rhaenyra and her children.

“Please, take care of yourselves,” you whispered to Rhaenyra, holding her hands tightly. “We’ll be in touch, I promise.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Be safe, sister.”

With a final embrace, you and Cregan gathered Eddard and boarded your ship, setting sail for Winterfell. The journey was long, but Cregan’s presence and Eddard’s innocent chatter kept your spirits high.

Winterfell welcomed you with open arms. The cold, crisp air and the familiar sights brought a sense of comfort. As you settled back into your home, the events at Driftmark seemed like a distant nightmare.

Cregan, ever the doting husband, ensured you had everything you needed to recover from your injury. He personally oversaw the maesters’ treatments, and his protective nature brought you solace.

A few hours later, as you sat by the fire, Cregan wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders and handed you a cup of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

“Better,” you replied, taking a sip. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, sitting beside you. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

You leaned against him, finding comfort in his strength. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Life in Winterfell slowly returned to normal. Eddard resumed his lessons and playtime with the other children, while you and Cregan focused on the responsibilities of ruling the North. Despite the distance from Driftmark, the shadow of that day lingered.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, you turned to Cregan. “Do you think things will ever be right again between the Blacks and the Greens?”

Cregan sighed, his brow furrowing in thought. “It’s hard to say. The wounds run deep. But we must try, for the sake of our family.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “I want Eddard to grow up in a world where he doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Cregan’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll do everything in our power to make that happen.”

Many moons have passed, and your wound healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of the confrontation. The bond between you and Cregan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity. Winterfell thrived under your joint leadership, a beacon of stability and strength. In the morning, as the first snow of the season blanketed the ground, you stood on the battlements with Cregan, watching Eddard play with the other children.

“He’s so happy here,” you remarked, smiling at the sight of your son’s laughter.

Cregan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Of course he is, this is our home. He’s meant to be here.”

You nodded silently, feeling a deep sense of peace. Your eyes went to the scar on your arm, being reminded of what happened. You looked at your husband, with sadness in your eyes.

“I hope my family will stop this infighting, i wish for all of this today end” Your thoughts began to wonder of all the possible outcomes this conflict can end with. This could very well mean that death will linger in your family. Something no one will ever be prepared for, war costs everything.

The quietness of Winterfell enveloped you as you drifted into a fitful sleep beside Cregan. The room was cold, and the memory of the somber events—the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, the sharp sting of your wound—still weighed heavily on you.

In your dream, the landscape was bleak and foreboding. A storm raged over a desolate battlefield, its fury tearing at the very fabric of the sky. You wandered through the chaos, a spectral figure in the storm’s heart. Amidst the destruction, you saw a vision of a great dragon, its scales a dim and faded silver, bound by chains of ice that slowly constricted around its body. The dragon’s eyes were filled with a profound sorrow, as if it sensed the end drawing near.

A shadowy figure emerged from the storm—a man cloaked in shadows, his face obscured but his presence undeniably menacing. His voice cut through the tempest, speaking directly to your mind, “The chains of fate are not easily broken. A great loss is coming to your house.”

As you reached out to free the dragon, a dark prophecy formed in your mind, clear as day. “Cregan will face a treacherous choice,” you heard yourself say in the dream. “A betrayal will come from within. Death will follow.”

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering like a cold shiver down your spine. Your breathing was rapid and uneven, and a profound fear gripped you. You turned to Cregan, who was lying beside you, his face furrowed in concern.

The sudden movement and your distressed state had startled him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to steady you. His hand found yours, his grip warm and reassuring against your icy fingers.

“My dream,” you managed to stammer, your voice trembling. “I saw... I saw something terrible. A dragon in chains, and a warning about you—”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he quickly sat up, his arm wrapping protectively around you. “What did you see? Tell me everything,” he urged, his voice steady despite the worry etched on his face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I don’t know all the details, but it felt so real. I fear that something dark is coming, and it will bring pain to us and our house.”

Cregan nodded, his expression resolute despite the alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his body. “For now, try to rest. You need it” He cradled your body as you leaned towards him, the warmth of his body bringing you comfort.

As you lay back down, you could feel the storm of fear inside you slowly ebbing, but the weight of the dream’s prophecy remained heavy in your heart.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @travelingmypassion @shoxji @thornsandtulips @spn-obession @giovanna-hyt @r-3dlips

banners: @cafekitsune

[cjayius]

MAGNETIC — PARK SUNGHOON

SYNOPSIS. sunghoon had been stressed for weeks due to their comeback, and an argument with you makes him say really hurtful things, whether they were true or not. but at the end of the day, he knows you love him, and thats really all that matters to sunghoon.

pairing. idol!sunghoon x f!reader wc. 0.4k tw. kissing , slight angst , hoon and reader are fighting genre. fluff ( CATALOGUE )

the tension between you and sunghoon had been building for days. sunghoon barely spent time with you anymore. he was always at work, practicing for his new comeback, and when he was home, he was asleep.

of course, this was not sunghoon's fault at all. it's just that recently your schedules weren't aligning, and you'd rather be occupied than stay home waiting for your boyfriend, so you signed up for more work hours.

this arrangement led to the two of you being able to meet only once or twice in two weeks; you saw sunghoon less often, and you talked to him even lesser.

sunghoon wasn't stupid. he could tell something was wrong. his girlfriend had stopped responding to his messages, and this past month she had seemed off, but whenever he asked her about it, she brushed him off.

it started with a simple misunderstanding, as most arguments do. sunghoon had made a passing comment that struck a nerve, and before you knew it, the two of you were exchanging harsh words, each one stinging more than the last.

" you never listen to me ! " sunghoon's voice was sharp, you could hear the frustration oozing from his voice.

" i do listen, sunghoon, " you shot back, your own voice tinged with irritation, " you never take my opinions seriously ! "

the argument escalated quickly, fueled by the pent-up frustration and unspoken grievances. you both said things you didn't mean, and your words had cut deeper than you'd intended.

you resorted to sitting far from him, on the other end of the couch, refusing to communicate. sunghoon scoffed at your state, " you're always so quiet when it actually matters. you don't even care about us. "

his tone was accusing, and had unknowingly begun to dredge up insecurities you'd tried to bury. suddenly, the argument wasn't just about the disagreement at hand, you could tell that this had been on his mind for a while.

after a few minutes of staring, he was still met with silence from you. sunghoon stormed out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a sinking feeling in your chest.

hours passed in silence, but the argument hung heavy in the air. you tried to focus on other things, but your mind kept drifting back to sunghoon.

just as you were beginning to retire to the bedroom, the front door creaked open, and there stood your boyfriend, obviously surprised that you were still here.

he sighed, walking over to the kitchen counter behind you, pouring himself a glass of water. " i thought you wanted some space ? " he said, voice laced with annoyance.

you glanced up, you had spent enough time alone. " i don't need space, " you replied softly, voice barely above a whisper. " i need you, hoon. "

for a moment, there was silence, then, without another word, sunghoon crossed the room in quick strides, pulling you into his arms with a surprising tenderness.

" i'm sorry. " you smiled against his chest, as he whispered an apology in response to yours.

[soup-du-silence]

Impressions/favourite moments from Ch 9?

god where do i start

there's a whole essay to be written about how their dreams were just mirrors of each other because they're too fucking obsessed with each other to imagine life without each other, that Jamil keeps dream-Kalim around in his perfect world when he could have just conjured a life without him, where's he's fucked off forever, or where they never met? Explain to me WHY dream-Jamil is a horrifyingly chipper, overly-friendly parody of himself but still brainwashes Kalim instead of just pouting and saying "noooo kalim dont wake up you're so sexy we're best fwiends haha" which I can't not read as implying this is something he's fine with? has been fine with?? (we got a hint about the conditions of the manifestation of Jamil's signature spell! we've long known Kalim's been sworn to secrecy about it and he takes that promise so seriously that Jade couldn't get it out of him but like!! I still want to know the details!!)

That they had the most ridiculous shonen jump little boy slapfight because they're both SO stunted and they've been together forever but they never got to be normal-ass kids about it and they finally got to air their grievances with each other because they're trapped in a dreamscape where there's no repercussions to finally just throwing hands and calling each other names? That when push comes to shove Jamil still instinctually puts himself in danger and pushes Kalim to safety?

there's an essay to be written but I'm simply too yaoi poisoned to be the one to do it, I'm sorry. My only note is that I think the fight should have devolved into sloppy makeouts.

[sainamoonshine]

The scene in Exit Strategy where MB is recovering from accidentally deleting its brain is always so funny to me because basically its been telling us all along that it doesn’t know what it wants but as soon as it wakes up with no filter, no memories and no ability to control its mouth it sure as hell tells us what it doesn’t want lol

Like it immediately wakes up and starts complaining like

- I don’t want to be a pet bot

- I don’t want to be human

- I don’t like Gurathin (but Ratthi is my friend I guess)

- Your ship is old and shitty

- I don’t like planets

And then it hits us with the emotional hit of « I don’t like planets because 1. Something is always trying to eat the humans and 2. They’re harder to escape ». And like ouch because yeah okay MB just told PresAux that escaping is always on its mind, but it also just told them that escaping is always its second priority after protecting the humans 🥲

But mostly its grouchy and complaining about everything and that is just deeply funny to me. Deadly murder construct get its opportunity to express its deepest, most unfiltered thoughts for the first time and just immediately starts airing petty grievances and telling you your ship sucks ass

[mediumgayitalian]

“Piper?”

“Here.”

“Damien?”

“Here.”

“Clovis?”

No answer. Nico reaches over and pokes him, hard, and the son of Hypnos startles awake long enough to manage a garbled, “Present!” before nodding off again. At Chiron’s nodded permission, Connor procures an airhorn from what appears to be thin air, grins, and blares it right next to Clovis’ face. He shrieks, flailing off the chair, and would have slammed his face in the ground if Nico hadn’t caught him by the back of the shirt.

“Thanks, man,” he says, yawning.

Nico hauls him back upright, patting him on the shoulder. “No problem. I’m gonna let you fall next time.”

Clovis eyes him warily, shifting at Nico’s too-wide, sharklike grin.

“Noted,” he mutters, sitting straight to try and stay awake. “Jerk.”

Nico pats him on the shoulder again. “There, there.”

Chiron continues with the attendance.

“Butch?”

“Here.”

“Miranda?”

“Yep.”

“And…” Chiron sighs, peering through his reading glasses. “Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…” He glances down at his clipboard, slowly tapping his pen on the edge of it. “Where is Will?”

A groan ripples through the gathered campers.

“Just start without him!” someone shouts, sinking into their chair.

“He always takes forever!” another person agrees.

“Almost like he’s busy running the infirmary that keeps us all alive,” Lou Ellen says drily, but her one vote of confidence is drowned out by several dozen other voices, all complaining.

Before Chiron has to deal with too much of a coup d’état, the rec room door creaks open, and Will comes strolling in after it, ignoring the heaps of boos and launched ping-pong balls at his tardiness. The beam of sunlight from the one dusty window seems, suddenly, to become a great deal stronger, highlighting the blonde of Will’s hair and strengthening the gleam of his easy grin.

“Perforated artery,” he explains cheerfully, settling down in the one empty chair. “Rogue Ares cabin mine went off. Had to do emergency surgery.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth does he kick off his flip-flops, curl up in the rickety wooden chair, place his head on the nearest shoulder — Pollux, this time, who rolls his eyes affectionately and shifts to be more comfortable — and immediately starts snoring.

“Well,” says Chiron after a moment. “Let’s begin.”

“Wait,” Clovis complains, “how come he gets to sleep?”

Instead of answering, because there is no delicate way to say because he’s my favourite and I am a giant hypocrite, the centaur moves on. He gracefully avoids the various mutterings and calls for mutiny, instead running through the usual cabin check-ins at the speed of light to delve into the more interesting — and therefore distracting — things, such as Personal Grievances. This portion of monthly head counsellor meetings is Nico’s favourite, because he gets to sit back, be silent, and watch a bunch of teenagers yell at each other for his own personal amusement. On especially great days, he communicates with Connor through a series of complicated hand gestures to coordinate betting pools. Today, he is up seventy-two dollars. (Did he throw the pool by betting against himself and then inventing a fight with Chiara? Yeah. Did he cut her a deal for halfsies beforehand, making this technically fraud on two counts? Yeah. Can anyone prove it? Absolutely not. Suck on that, Stoll. You wanna be beat at your own game any day of the week? Nico’ll beat you at your own game any day of the week.)

As he’s accepting three dollars from a huffy Nysa (obviously the physical altercation count was going to reach six, c’mon, doesn’t she pay attention to these things), a hoof stamping the ground makes Nico jump.

“Boys,” Chiron says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that’s quite enough.”

Both campers immediately burst into louder arguments, continuing to flail and smack at each other as their voices get more and more raised and illegible.

“Boys!” Chiron stamps his hoof again. This time, they fall silent, staring at the old centaur with flushed, guilty faces. “Sherman, get Malcom out of that headlock. Malcolm, we are not building a pig pen in the dining pavilion so the Ares cabin can ‘eat in an environment more suited to their mannerisms’.” He pauses, nodding in acknowledgement. “As funny as that was, it was entirely inappropriate to say. Apologise at once.”

“My throat is too bruised to do so,” Malcom grumbles.

“My throat is too bruised to do so,” Sherman repeats, mockingly. “Gods, it’s like you’re asking for me to jump you.” At the immediate catcalls and jeers that follow, he reddens, hastily shouting, “Like mug! Jump like mug him, guys, like beat him up! Shut up! Shut up, or I swear I’ll —”

“Sit down, boys,” Chiron says, banging his hoof again. “For Hera’s sake. It’s like you want to embarrass yourselves further.”

Nico snickers with the rest of the counsellors as Sherman and Malcolm return to their seats. In their desperate attempt to separate from each other to assure their status as Heterosexual, Guys, Please, they manage to bump into each other, losing their balance and collapsing on a heap on the floor, more tangled than before. Predictably, this makes the flailing worse, which is unfortunate for them and their misery but a source of great entertainment for everyone else. Among the hooting and hollering and camera flashes, Chiron sighs, putting his head in his hands and muttering something about teenagers and being too old for this shit. Or something.

“If everyone’s quite done,” he says finally, ignoring Connor’s quip about how he could watch a few more minutes, actually, “I would love for this meeting to end. I have to do something that doesn’t involve teenagers for several hours. All of you exhaust me.”

“Except Will,” Sherman says petulantly, scowling at the still-sleeping medic. Pollux, who by close proximity has become endeared to the human disaster (Nico knows the feeling; he’s still convinced Will has weird powers that mess with one’s oxytocin levels by virtue of smiling as there is no way that someone so annoying can be so simultaneously endearing), glares somewhat protectively.

“Sh,” he hisses, at the same time Chiron says, “If the rest of you spent less time trying to kill each other and more time trying to fix the consequences of said attempted murder, I would be more lenient.”

Lou Ellen speaks up. “Also, Will has that whole cute, can’t-stay-mad-at-me thing.”

Various campers nod and mutter in agreement.

(Nico knew he wasn’t the only one.)

Nyssa clears her throat. “If we’re ready to return back to the actual meeting, I have a point of discussion.”

Chiron nods, gesturing for her to continue.

“The vans are breaking down,” she says bluntly. “Again. Because they’re, you know, older than everyone in the room.” She glances at Nico, frowning. “Well, except for him.”

Nico sniffs haughtily. “Youngin’s, these days,” he says, shaking his head disdainfully. “No respect for their elders.”

Chiron raises a bemused eyebrow. “…Indeed. Nyssa?”

“I need parts again. Preferably from that place in Virginia? They don’t ask questions and price fairly. That would be best. Only I need the van to go get the parts, so. You can see the conundrum I’m in.”

“Easy fix with the chariot,” Chiron decides. “Can someone wake Will?”

“Gladly.”

“Without the airhorn, Connor.”

“Aw. I’m not doing it, then.”

“How tragic. Pollux?”

Gently, the son of Dionysus taps Will’s cheek, shaking him until he blinks awake.

“I was totally paying attention and I think we should go with the second option,” he says, yawning.

“Not asking you to settle a debate, but nice try,” Pollux says.

“Well, shit. That one usually works.” He flicks still-tired eyes around the room, smiling when his gaze rests on Nico. Nico rolls his eyes, willing down the heat to his cheeks. Judging by the teasing edge Will’s grin takes, it does not work. “Whattaya need, then?

“The chariot,” Nyssa says. “Vans are breaking down again. I need a part from a shop in Roanoke.”

Will straightens. “Like, now?”

“In the next day or so, yeah.”

“There’s a strawberry delivery on Saturday,” Miranda pipes up. “So sooner rather than later.”

Will nods. “Yeah, that works. Hell, I can probably be back by —” he checks his watch — “late tonight, honestly. Just gimme the part number and —”

“I kind of meant that I could go,” Nyssa interrupts, looking at him strangely. “I know what the part looks like. I just need to borrow the chariot.”

Will presses his clasped hands to his face, inhaling deeply.

“I would absolutely love to lend you the chariot blessed by my father who has gone totally silent,” he begins, in a tone that makes Nico think that he would not, actually, absolutely love to lend out the chariot blessed by his father who has gone totally silent, “only that the last time I lent someone this super important chariot it came back in pieces.”

“I remember.” Nyssa levels him with a look. “I fixed it.”

“Exactly! So you appreciate how much I would like it to not be broken. In fact —”

“Alright,” Chiron interrupts, holding up a hand. “You’ve made your point, Will, the errand is yours. Choose a buddy to lower the chances of you dying and check in before you leave.”

Predictably, this choice is not well-recieved. Because why would things be easy?

“Totally not fair,” Sherman protests, the loudest of all complainers. “Will’s no less likely to break it just because his cabin thinks they own it —”

“Finish that thought and I will curse you in twelve different ways for the next eight months, Sherman.”

The Ares counsellor snaps his mouth shut, sensing the new, hardened edge in Will’s voice. “Noted.”

“He’s got a point, though,” Damien hedges. At Will’s glare — boy, is that chariot a sensitive topic, Nico is noticing — he holds his hands up, shrugging his shoulders. “We draw straws for small errand-quests, Will, you know that. It’s not fair that you just get to call dibs.”

Will takes a long, slow breath, fingers pressed to his temples. When he looks back up, his expression is flatter than the entirety of the Midwest, jaw set and eyebrow raised. He narrows his eyes, contemplating, then clearly comes to a decision, nodding to himself. Everyone watches with bated breath as he climbs up to stand on his chair, folds his hands together, clears his throat, and says, voice carefully controlled, “Who can guess how many surgeries I’ve done in the last week?”

For a long moment it’s so silent that Nico can hear every rustled shirt as people fidget, every aborted cough and uncomfortable swallow. Will’s eyes are piercing, and he takes the time to stare at every individual counsellor until they meet his eyes, squirming, and look immediately away.

Nico’s impressed. Sometimes he forgets how godsdamn rigid Will’s backbone is.

Finally, someone offers a guess.

“One?”

“Try four,” Will corrects, smile more like a bare of teeth. “I have not had a circadian rhythm since I was thirteen years old. I sleep when I can. And yet, somehow, you clumsy fucks manage to near kill yourself at the exact moment my subconscious even considers approaching REM sleep, every single time, and then I get to spend my next several hours piecing your sorry ass back together by hand, since hymns barely work right now. If I have to see another surgical pin I am going to stab it through someone’s eye. Am I making a point?”

No one answers.

“‘Cause I can make it clearer,” Will drawls.

“No need,” Chiron says hastily. “The quest remains yours, so long as there are no further objections.”

Wisely, no one speaks up.

“Perfect. Nyssa, if you’ll stay behind with me to iron out some details, everyone else — dismissed.”

The tense air immediately evaporates as people practically spring out of their seats, sprinting for the door. Nico is among the last to leave, having to stay and stop several fleeing demigods to collect his wares. On his way out, a heavy arm slings over his shoulders, and he’s suddenly enveloped by the intoxicating scent of lavender body wash and pure sunshine.

“Get off me, Solace,” he complains immediately, coming up to wrap his hand around Will’s forearm in the guise of shoving him off. Will is entirely unfazed, holding him tighter.

“But I have a proposal.”

“Take it elsewhere.” He ducks out of Will’s hold and sweeps his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling with an oof. Unfortunately, he doesn’t look any less sunny and smiley from the ground, somehow making it work for him, actually. He settles against the soft grass, sighing, hair fanning out like a golden halo. He pats the spot next to him, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in the late morning sun, and Nico swallows roughly, joining him.

“You wanna come with me to Roanoke?”

“Yes,” Nico says automatically. Will grins, and he flushes. “I mean, I guess if I have to. Loser.”

“Ever so grateful, Neeks.”

“You should be.”

He keeps his voice prim and superior, attempting to uphold his image, and since he is delusional he convinces himself he’s successful. Will, though, is entirely undeterred, lazy smile still on his face and arms stretched above his head, the picture of unbothered. A sliver of skin shows where the hem of his shirt rises and Nico ignores it. He doesn’t even glance at it, or the glint of Will’s belly-button piercing, at all. Nor is he aware of Will’s shorts riding up, or the curve of his calves as he crosses his legs. All of these things go unnoticed. Obviously.

“I have a proposal for you, if you’re done checking me out.”

Nico shoves his flaming face in his knees. “Did you know that in all the corners of the Earth I have been to, I’ve only encountered three things uglier than you?”

Will’s grin only gets wider. His eyes, even, start to get squinty as the force of his smile squishes his cheeks. Entirely unsubtly, because Will is the least subtle person alive, he reaches out and sends a wave of calming energy into Nico’s body, slowing his rapid heart rate.

“…Right.”

“Three things, Solace.”

“Of course, of course.” He removes his hand, graciously allowing Nico the space to breathe and remind his lungs that their job is not voluntary. “I’ll come pick you up in a half hour? Wear a jacket.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Nico pauses. “Yes.”

“Stellar.”

“God, you say such nerdy things unironically. How do you have friends?”

“I dunno.” He gets to his feet, brushing the dirt and grass from his shorts. “You tell me.” He leans down and presses a smacking kiss to Nico’s hair. Nico presses his fingers into his eyeballs until they hurt, screaming silently into his palms.

He waits until the smacking sounds of Will’s stupid flip-flops retreat before braving the world outside his little ball of misery, squinting at his retreating form.

“I think I should get a lobotomy,” he says out loud to himself, because, realistically, if his braincells are already spilling out of his ears like loose quarters every time Solace so much as smiles at him then there’s not much to lose, is there? and stomps off to his own cabin.

Out of spite, he chooses the New York Giants jacket he got from Percy, just because he knows Will hates it.

That’ll show him who’s bossing who around.

Totally.

———

next

[halfvalid]

Hey! I was wondering if you could do a live action Zoro smut where it's enemies to lovers (boy X girl). I don't mind how hardcore smut (18+?) but I would love if there was some tension (argument or fight!) 😁

speak teeth

ABOUT

| 18+ | smut | explicit |

alternate title: i need the lord

rating: explicit

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k

description: you and zoro have never gotten along. after a incident in town escaping from marines, you resolve to sort out your issues with unconventional means. (aka sex.)

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, enemies to lovers, except it's more like frenemies to frenemies with benefits, kissing, kiss to distract trope, no use of “y/n”, reader calls zoro "roronoa", penis in vagina sex, creampie, pwp, cowgirl position

author’s note: thanks for the request! i kind of lost the plot on this one because i'm terrible at writing enemies-to-lovers and there's not much 'lovers' involved in this since i couldn't exactly fit that into a oneshot. hopefully you still like it anyway? i tried my best.

tags make it seem so much worse than it actually is.

Roronoa Zoro did not like you. 

The feeling was mutual, so you didn’t mind the fact, really. Zoro was annoying, with his three swords, and that stupid low voice, and how he never seemed interested in conversation unless it was either about alcohol or beating someone up. You were undoubtedly annoying to him for various reasons not so different in number to your own grievances of his personality. You two didn’t like each other. It was fine. It was normal. 

It was pissing off the rest of the Straw Hat crew. 

In your defense, you were never outwardly aggressive towards the man. You didn’t purposely exclude him from conversations or avoid looking at him if he dared haunt a room you were in with his presence. You just… didn’t speak to him unless spoken to. And maybe you had a tendency to roll your eyes or mutter some insults when he was talking, but it wasn’t that big of an issue. 

Zoro, on the other hand, was a master of discord. He’d killed and hunted so many people it only made sense for him to be, but it seemed he hadn’t skipped his lessons in petty fights either. Because he was bullheaded and a buzzkill and always opened his big mouth when you were around. Those sarcastic remarks of his were common, sure, but when you were in the room they were tenfold and laced with genuine venom. 

You weren’t sure who’d even started the strife between you two. It had been so long that you’d forgotten. While everyone else had seemingly bonded after your journey together, you and Zoro remained firmly in the stage you’d been while trapped in Buggy’s green room—antagonistic. Obviously you didn’t hate each other—when Zoro had nearly died to Mihawk, you hadn’t been happy—but you didn’t get along, and both of you were just fine with that arrangement. 

Nobody else was, though.

And so obviously you didn’t like it when Luffy announced, as you were docked, that you were assigned to scout the surrounding village together. Your lips twisted, but you refrained from saying anything up until Luffy finished his speech with: “And that’s the plan! Any objections?” 

There were head shakes from all around the deck of the Going Merry. You eyed Zoro in the very corner—his arms were crossed, and carefully he raised a hand, just barely lifting it into the air as he motioned. “Why is she coming with me?” 

You bit your tongue, suppressing the irritated sigh that threatened to escape. “Because,” Luffy said, bright as ever, “You two need to learn how to be friends. Think of it as a bonding activity!” 

“I’d really rather go with Sanji,” you optioned, trying to be more civil than Zoro at least. “He could use a hand carrying the stock barrels.” 

“Nope,” Luffy chirped. “It makes most sense for the two of you to be the one to buy the weapons, anyway.” 

“He’s right. You both are the most knowledgeable on the subject,” Nami whispered, though she gave you an apologetic look. You sighed. Zoro opted to say nothing. 

“Fine. Let’s go, Roronoa,” you said, getting up off the Going Merry’s railing to start walking off the ship. You heard Zoro grumble from behind you, but he soon caught up. You said absolutely nothing to each other for the first few minutes of walking, keeping to yourselves until you eventually reached the market. 

“What kind of weapons are we looking for?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder at the man who trailed just barely behind you. “I know Luffy wants backups, but did he say specifically what?” 

“Probably a few guns, maybe some swords,” Zoro replied. “A katana for me. Extra staff for Nami, in case hers breaks.” 

“Right. Nami gave me five-hundred thousand berry. Let’s spend it wisely. No pit stops.” 

Zoro gave you a look. “It’s not like I’m going to slip into the nearest tavern and abandon you. Luffy said we go together, so we go together.” 

“Right.” You turned away so you could roll your eyes in private. You had to appreciate that, at least; Zoro’s loyalty to Luffy at least meant he wouldn’t be a bitch to you if Luffy told him not to, and Nami kept you more or less under wraps too. “Pistols first. Let’s just get two, and save the rest for a sword because those are more pricey.” 

Focusing on business was fine. You could be a responsible adult and not be petty. And it really did go okay for the first half-hour, wherein you bartered one of the weapons sellers down to a reasonable price for two pistols and also picked up a bo staff on the way.

You were just heading towards another district of the town when Zoro slowed to a stop. You glanced over to see what he was looking at—a wall pasted with bounty posters, various pirates plastered on paper with big numbers shouting out their worth. 

“Look, it’s Luffy,” you said, eyes catching a bundle of posters near the top. Sure enough, all six members of the Straw Hat crew were there. You noticed with distaste that Zoro’s bounty was higher than yours.

Zoro tore all of the posters off, and you were almost surprised when he took yours off too. He crumpled them up into balls, about to toss them behind his shoulder before you grabbed them, carefully tucking them away in your bag. “What’s that for?” he asked. 

“So I can shoot darts at your face,” you replied. “Come on. Should finish and get back to the ship before anyone recognizes us.” 

Zoro shrugged, but followed you as you led him to the closest armory you could find. The shop was small and rickety, and a silver bell announced your presence as you entered the building. There were blades of every kind in the shop; you could see a table of knives and daggers, along with a stand full of long swords by the front. Near the back, you glimpsed some hanging rapiers, and—

“Katanas,” Zoro muttered, pushing past you to slip to the back of the store. You sighed, but followed, glancing over the array of jians instead. Zoro was already picking one up and pulling it out of its sheath, checking the quality of the blade. 

“Don’t—” you hissed, and he glanced up at you, brow raised in question as he spun the blade around in his hand. “You’re going to knock something over.” 

Zoro sheathed the sword, a satisfying click filling the room with the motion. “Calm down.” 

“I am calm,” you snapped. “If you’d just stop stomping around with those big boots of yours, though—” 

Zoro looked far less affected by the entire ordeal than you did, and that pissed you off even more. Logically, you knew he didn’t show much emotion in general, and even his annoyances tended to be deep and quiet—but still. He strung the katana back up where it belonged. “I am not stomping.” 

“Yes, you are—” You cut yourself off as the bell of the store rang again, announcing the arrival of more patrons. These two were whispering to each other, gruff voices that sounded almost scared. “He came in here, right?” One of them asked the other. “Are you sure it’s him?” 

“He tore down his own wanted poster!” The other hissed back. 

You caught onto what was happening quickly, letting a sigh out from between your teeth and grabbing onto Zoro’s arm to yank him further back into the store. You turned a corner, where a narrow hall cut off at a dead end, a wardrobe of swords blocking off the area to any prying eyes. “Now look at what you did,” you grumbled, before you could stop yourself. “You’ve got fucking bounty hunters after us.” You glanced through the stands of swords for a double take—the pair were standing at the front, outfitted in familiar white-and-blue uniforms. “Scratch that, even worse. Marines.” 

“I can take them in a fight,” Zoro muttered, hand going to his swords. You grabbed his wrist and gave him a look. 

“No. We’re not due to leave the docks for another two days,” you snapped. “Can you figure out a way to get out of a situation without stabbing someone?” 

“How can you be sure it was him, though? The Demon?” The more timid marine asked. They’d started moving, and you shoved Zoro into the corner, attempting to hide his ridiculously broad figure with an armoire of weapons. He scoffed, but made no move to adjust, back flat against the wall.

“He had the three swords. And the three earrings, too. Of course it was him,” the other one replied. You rolled your eyes. 

“Ever try being a little less obvious, Roronoa?” you muttered, shooting another glare in Zoro’s direction. “You’re like a flashing red light for every marine within a two-mile radius with your stupid swords. I’m Roronoa Zoro, the pirate hunter!” 

“I don’t hear you yelling at Luffy to take his hat off,” Zoro hissed back. 

“They’re coming this way,” you answered, entirely ignoring his retort. “Hide your stupid swords. Shove them behind a stand or something.” 

“I don’t see why we can’t just—” 

“No fighting.” You swiveled around, tugging his holsters off his belt and tossing the swords behind him with a graceless clatter. Zoro just sighed. “Shit,” you muttered as the marines turned at the noise, starting to move towards the back of the store.

“Now look at what you did,” Zoro mumbled, mocking your words straight back at you. You glared at him. 

“Shut up and stay put,” you snapped. “Let me think of something.” The marines were coming closer, and you huffed out a nervous breath. Zoro watched you from his position. 

“They know your face, too,” he said carefully. Almost derisively, like he was looking down on your idea; making you seem stupid. “Just let me fight them. It makes the most sense.” The footsteps grew louder, then, the marines moving towards the back of the store. 

“I think I heard voices,” one of them muttered to the other. You shushed Zoro, unconsciously moving closer to him until your arm bumped into his. You startled, and then looked up, finding Zoro’s chest just inches away from your face. 

“Is this some new sort of hiding tactic?” Zoro asked, voice dry as a desert. “Are you trying to melt us into the wall—” 

The voices tapered off as the marines moved closer. Your hand shot up to cradle Zoro’s face, covering his dangling gold earrings with your fingers to hide them away. “Fuck this,” Zoro muttered, leaning back to pick up his swords. You shushed him, and he stopped, bent halfway over you so your faces were just inches apart. 

“Just trust me,” you snapped. Zoro opened his mouth to argue, but then the marines’ footsteps got louder—they’d turn the corner any moment now. 

“Fine,” he breathed. “But if it doesn’t work, I’m taking out my swords.” 

Your mind ran a million miles a minute trying to figure out what to do. The marines were just around the corner now, and your breath caught, eyes meeting Zoro’s as you wracked your brain for something, anything that might distract the marines away from the two of you. Zoro’s lips parted, a split-second away from undoubtedly whispering some grand insult when the marines finally turned the corner.

You were kissing Zoro before you could even think. 

“Oh,” one of the marines said, as your fingers nearly pinched Zoro’s earlobe, still covering his earrings. Zoro was frozen for a moment, but the marines behind you seemed startled enough that he realized it was working. A rush of satisfaction filled you for a moment—see, Roronoa, you don’t have to stab shit all the time—before Zoro was kissing you back.

And. Well. You’d started it, but you had not anticipated this. 

Zoro was almost rough, his hand curling around the nape of your neck and tugging you down closer to him. His other hand came to rest on your waist, so impossibly big around your torso that you shivered. What had started out as a simple kiss slipped into one all messy, your breaths coming out in sharp gasps as Zoro barely gave you a moment to breathe. 

His teeth dug into your lip, and you groaned into his mouth, tongue darting along his gums with the motion. He snickered at that, and you felt a little bundle of vexation starting at the pit of stomach at the sound. You ran your tongue into the crevices of his mouth, licking into him with ease. Another rush of satisfaction filled you as Zoro’s grip tightened on your waist. You were winning.

He fought back just as hard, practically merciless as his tongue slid against yours, prying into your mouth like he was trying to bare you empty of secrets. You felt stripped raw like this, but it wasn’t a terrible feeling—the opposite, actually, soft whimpers leaving your lungs as he dug more fiercely into you. Zoro sucked on your lower lip with teeth, and you barely managed to suppress the stuttered sound it tugged out from the back of your throat. 

There were hasty footsteps receding somewhere behind you, which was the only sound that snapped you out of your motions. You were the first to break away—another score gained there—glancing over your shoulder to ensure the marines had really left before fully detaching yourself from Zoro. The silver bell rung again, signaling the marines had made their exit, and you let out a relieved sigh. 

Zoro glanced over your shoulder, straightening his clothes as his tongue ran along his top teeth. The top teeth you’d had your tongue on just seconds ago. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.” 

“I did not—” You sucked in a breath, all your general irritated feelings towards the man coming back at full force with just that one sentence. “Shut the fuck up. I got us out of the situation, didn’t I?” 

“You have questionable methods,” Zoro replied, leaning over to pick up his abandoned swords and strap them back along his hip. “Don’t think about that all night.” 

“You were not that good of a kisser,” you snapped, though you could feel your face getting hot. Your mouth tingled, like you could still taste him on your tongue; on your teeth; in your gums. There was a vaguely empty sensation at the curve of your waist you tried your best to ignore. “Don’t be so full of yourself. Roronoa. Now pick a sword to buy so we can leave already.”

Zoro seemed irritated, but he complied, brushing past you to inspect a few more of the swords before picking out one. You paid for it as quickly as possible, in a rush to get back to the ship; not even trying to talk the salesman down from his price like you usually would. 

Zoro followed you languidly, absolutely nothing urgent about his motions as you trailed after you back through the village. You wanted to uppercut him so badly. 

“Oh, there you guys are,” Usopp said upon stepping foot back onto the Going Merry. You shot him an apologetic smile before breezing past, beelining for your bedroom without a second thought. “Uh—okay! You good?” he called after you, but you were too far away to respond at this point. 

You slammed the door of your room shut upon entering, heaving out a breath of jumbled emotion all in one go. Fuck Roronoa Zoro and his three stupid swords and his three stupid earrings. He was the most lumbering, bullheaded oaf you’d ever had the displeasure of engaging with. 

He’d been a ridiculously good kisser. Now you hated him even more. 

You locked yourself in your room for the next four hours, busying yourself with various tasks whilst simultaneously seething over Zoro. It wasn’t even that he’d done anything specifically to you in the past. You just—didn’t get along, really. He was irritating, and stupid, and always tried to solve his problems with a blade rather than attempting to use his wits. Not that he had any wits of any kind. He was—

He was, as you were starting to find out, kind of attractive. Which. Okay. You’d known his face was at least easy on the eyes, despite his personality and general attitude not retaining the same qualities. But this was an entirely unappreciated development. 

Someone knocked on your door, snapping you out of your irritated haze. The sun had nearly set, a kiss of dusk coming in from outside as you shuffled over to the door. You yanked it open. “What—”

Zoro was standing in the doorway, arm propped against the side and keeping your door open even as you attempted to close it on him. “Roronoa.” 

“You’re hiding,” Zoro said, a tinge of mirth just barely visible in his eyes. You glared at him. 

“I am not.” 

“Do you have to disagree with everything I say?” Zoro asked. He was still wearing his swords even now, though he’d dressed down as the hour grew late. “You skipped dinner.” 

“Leave me alone,” you muttered. 

Zoro took that as an invitation to step fully into the room. “I told the rest of the crew about the marines,” he said, and you flinched. “Not about that. Just that we got away. Nami wants to leave tomorrow evening now, so we’ll be busy.” 

You stared at him, suspicious right from the start. “And you care enough to tell me? Did someone put you up to this?” 

Zoro stiffened. “I just thought you might want to know.” 

Your eyes narrowed. He looked as normal as ever—face blank, leaving no expression to be seen. But his muscles were tenser than usual, and the veins running up his arm were prominent, like his hand was tightened into a fist where it hid away in his pocket. “You have ulterior motives.”

“You’re so annoying,” Zoro muttered, but he didn’t budge. You scoffed. 

“What, are you here to admit that you were wrong and my plan really did get us away from the marines?” you asked, voice sugary sweet as you riled him up. His jaw clenched, a vein tracing up his neck bulging with the pressure. “You don’t need to inflate my ego—”

Zoro moved across the room swiftly, and you stumbled back in surprise as he pinned you to the wall, hand tight around your arm. Your words died in your throat as his lips sealed over yours with a bruising kiss. His fingers dug into the skin of your bicep—tight, but not tight enough to hurt. 

“I don’t need to inflate your ego,” Zoro snapped, finishing your sentence from where it’d died on your lips. “You do that enough yourself.” 

You stared at him, the tingle of his lips still left as an afterthought on your mouth. “If you’re going to make out with me, take your fucking swords off.” 

Zoro barely suppressed an eye roll, hands working at his belt to slide his holsters off from his hip. “What’s your problem with them?” 

“I think your emotional dependency on a bunch of oversized butter knifes—”

Zoro’s head jerked up, eyes dark when they met yours. “Don’t call them that.” 

You couldn’t resist the quip off your tongue. “You asked.” 

Zoro slowly made his way across the room again, steps careful and languid as he moved closer. “I take it back,” he said, voice a near whisper, every word crisp on his tongue. You shivered. 

This time, you expected it when he kissed you. He wasn’t careful with it, and you didn’t want it any other way—your arms wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging him down closer to you. It got aggressive quick, his fingers coming down to clutch your waist, one of your hands tight around the locks of his hair as you pried open his mouth with your tongue. 

Neither of you complied easily, both trying to get the better of the other. Zoro’s tongue forced itself into your mouth before you tugged on his lower lip with teeth. Both his hands came to wrap around your waist, now, hoisting you up and onto your hanging bed in the center of the room. His fingers dug in hard enough to leave bruises. 

Zoro abandoned your mouth in favor of your neck, biting open-mouthed kisses into your jawline before moving down your jugular. Each one was more hasty than the last, wet and warm with licks of tongue and scrapes of teeth. You didn’t bother moving to give him better access—he had to do that himself, a large hand coming to rest on the back of your skull and pulling your head back to bare the rest of your neck to him. You heard him mutter something in Japanese—probably some obscenity, which pleased you more than you’d like to admit. 

His kisses stopped at the hinge of your neck and shoulder, Zoro pausing to lean over and work his fingers up your spine. They danced over the clasp of your shirt, and you had to choke back a wry laugh, surprised. “I thought the Demon just took what he wanted,” you murmured. 

Zoro didn’t seem to like that. He started unfastening the buttons going down the back of your top. “At least I was polite enough to ask,” he muttered. 

“Just take my clothes off already,” you said, and he stopped his work, leaning back to glare into your eyes. You let out an annoyed sigh, and he rolled his eyes, going back to what he’d been doing. “Are we going to talk about it?” you asked, eyeing Zoro’s chest in front of you. 

You pressed a kiss to his neck, sucking at the skin before grazing it ever-so-slightly with your teeth. His throat hitched under your mouth. 

“Nope,” he grunted, finally unclasping the last button and pulling your top over your head. Since you didn’t have an issue with that arrangement, you didn’t say anything, even as Zoro practically shoved you flat on your back. 

“Rude,” you muttered. Zoro didn’t bother apologizing; he just leaned down to take your breast in his mouth, tongue circling around your nipple. You weren’t fast enough to suppress your gasp this time—a point in Zoro’s favor then, one you allowed with a bitter taste on your tongue. Zoro’s mouth formed a smile against your skin. You brought your knee up between his legs, shoving into his crotch in retaliation. 

“Stop,” Zoro hissed, the consonants of the words brushing across your skin when he spoke. You ignored him, and he let out a groan, hand clamping around your thigh to keep you from moving. “Do you have to be such a brat?” 

“I am not a brat.” You hooked your ankle around his, causing him to slip from where he lay suspended above you, mouths mashing in another too-aggressive facsimile of a kiss. “You’re just a gigantic manwhore with an overinflated ego.” 

“You did not just call me—” You shut him up with another kiss, teeth digging deep into the inner gums of his lip. You ran your hands up the sides of Zoro’s figure, trying your hardest to ignore the stiff muscles of his ribcage. He wasn’t that well-built. He wasn’t even that attractive, you tried to convince yourself. Still, you found the buttons of his shirt, trying to unfasten them quicker than Zoro had with yours. 

One of them caught, and Zoro had the audacity to laugh. You grumbled something incoherent under your breath, tugging his shirt off all the way and tossing it somewhere behind you. “Shut up.” 

“You’ve been the one complaining this entire time,” Zoro replied easily. He leaned down, tugging at your trousers to pull them off, pressing sloppy kisses down your torso now. You resisted the urge to say something in response, knowing it would just give him the satisfaction of being right. Were your points tied now? You couldn’t remember. 

Zoro had pulled your pants down to your knees by now, and you kicked them off all the way, watching as he pushed them off the bed and leaned down to work at the inward slope of your hip. You shivered, legs trembling as you felt your core grow tight, the cloth of your underwear already wet with anticipation. Seeing the ever-steadying tent in Zoro’s pants made you feel just a little bit better, and you were nice enough to let a stuttering moan out as his tongue licked down to the band of your panties. 

He pulled your underwear all the way off, then, but to your distaste completely ignored your fully exposed core to unbutton his own pants instead. “I hate you,” you muttered. 

Zoro stopped in the middle of what he was doing, pants halfway down his thighs and length already out. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, voice careful—you could still hear the mocking tone beyond the coolness of his voice, though, and your jaw clenched in irritation. “Did you want something?” 

“Yeah, for you to shut the fuck up.” You pushed yourself up by the elbows, grabbing one of Zoro’s arms and yanking him down onto the mattress. You used both hands to strip him of the last of his clothes—God, his legs were long—before returning to press your own open-mouthed bruises along his neck. His hips bucked up against yours, insistently chasing any friction, but you tightened a grip on his thigh to get him to stop. “Give me a second.” 

“I don’t like that I’m suddenly under you,” Zoro said drily, and you could feel the words as they formed in his throat, still biting hickeys into his skin. You rolled your eyes, lips disconnecting from skin with a dull pop.

“Deal with it, Roronoa. I’m not moving.” With that, you finally reached down to coax his legs apart, hovering your core over his hips as you lined your entrance up with his length. 

There was an audible hitch of breath on Zoro’s part as you sunk onto him. Point. 

One of his hands tangled in your hair when you started moving, the other coming to press on the small of your back as you worked yourself up and down around him. For the complaining he’d done about the position, he didn’t seem so bothered about it, pulling you into a rough kiss. 

You bit back with force, breath escaping you as your hips bucked against Zoro’s. The wet pool in your lower belly only grew stronger with every thrust, pressure building up inside of you as Zoro’s tongue ran across your teeth. You moaned freely now, too lost in the daze of your pleasure to remember to be annoying. Evidently Zoro felt the same way—he swallowed every one of your gasps up, grunting as you pulsed around him.

Your hips stuttered, thigh muscles contracting with the effort as you clenched down on Zoro. Still, you pushed through even as your muscles started to tire, encouraged by the deep, throaty sounds that escaped Zoro's lips between each kiss. He was big, filling you up damn near wholeheartedly, the crevices inside of you seeming to mould to his skin as you worked yourself on him.

Zoro started moving against you, and you gasped as his angle changed, somehow reaching farther in your body and causing tingles to erupt all along your skin. Your mind buzzed as he thrust into you with renewed vigor, core pulsing as you felt yourself come closer and closer to the edge. 

You came all at once, teeth biting down in Zoro’s mouth before you parted from him. You let out a gasping moan, attempting to toss your head back as stars burst across your vision. Zoro’s hand in your hair dragged you back into a kiss, though; this one was slower, less teeth this time, like him coming had lessened the urge to bite. 

Your movements slowed, coming to rest against Zoro’s skin, warm and—although you wouldn’t say so out loud—almost comfortable. His hand hadn’t budged from where it was pressed against your lower back, holding you tight to him. 

There was a sticky wetness spreading fast by your thighs, and you grimaced, lifting yourself off of Zoro and rolling beside him on your back in one fluid motion. He stifled a groan at the movement, clearly irritated at the fact you hadn’t given any warning. 

You lay there, breath heaving, rising out your high and making no move to touch the man laying by your side. 

After you’d regained some of your dignity, you sat up, eyes narrowing at Zoro. “Get off my bed.” 

Zoro gave you an exasperated look, but he didn’t argue; he just climbed off your bed, retrieving his clothes from where you’d tossed them about the room. He donned them slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Your eyes traced along his figure while he did, and you only felt sort of annoyed by it. 

“I still hate you,” you snapped, after he’d finished changing. Zoro just scoffed, picking up his swords and slinging them across one shoulder. You could see a bruise purpling by his neck. At least you’d done damage. 

“Fine by me,” he replied, straightening his shirt and giving you a look—not quite irritated, not quite sarcastic. “Dinner’s still waiting for you.” 

You glared at his back as he opened the door to your bedroom. “Get lost, Roronoa,” you said, and that was that. 

© halfvalid 2023

[nhlclover]

𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 | 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐖 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐒

word count: 1.02k

summary: you and matthew get into an argument, testing the strength of your relationship.

warnings: angst, arguing

notes: finally getting around to old requests…

The air in your apartment was thick and heavy, tension hanging in the air like an oppressive fog. Each breath felt like a burden. A simple disagreement that started an hour ago now had you and Matthew caught in a heated argument, ensnared in a tangled web of emotions that refused to dissipate.

The fiery argument was fueled by the pent-up frustrations and grievances the pair of you held. You took turns shooting your words across the room, each sentiment increasingly more bitter than the last. Each accusation is aimed at the heart, both of you letting your anger get the best of the situation and just wanting to cause pain. It was a standoff with neither of you wanting to concede.

As the argument reached its crescendo, a sense of fragility now hung in the air. You sighed, exasperated. Your cheeks stained with tears and your lungs tight with anxiety. 

“I can’t argue anymore, Matt.” You say softly. 

You were curled up on the couch, knees pulled into your chest, while Matthew stood at a considerable distance across the room. He leaned on the island, the granite was cool against the clammy skin of his palms. The sound of you sniffling softly caused a crack to go through his chest.

“I…” You breathed, your voice trailing off. You struggled to find the right words to convey the turmoil churning in your stomach. “I think I need some space.”

He looked up at you, your frame squeezed into a tight ball. “What does that mean, y/n?” Matthew asks.

His face was so delicate like your next words could shatter him if you weren’t too careful. “I mean I think I need to some space for a bit. Just to sort through my thoughts.”

Matthew pushes off the counter, heading to the front hall. You spring up from the couch, following him. In the foyer, Matt shoves his feet into a pair of sneakers, yanking his coat off the rack.

“What are you doing?” You ask as he grabs his car keys of the key rack. 

“Giving you space.” He replies. 

The door slams behind him as he heads for the parking garage. Getting in his car, he had no destination in mind. He let his internal GPS take him wherever. Soon enough, he was pulling into the driveway of a familiar home. Matthew parked his car in the driveway, the engine clicking as it cooled down. He sat for a moment, staring blankly through the windshield before getting out and going to the front door.

Upon opening the door, John was met with a sad shell of his teammate. He opened the door wider, allowing Matthew to enter. He followed John into the familiar living room, sinking onto the couch. John’s gaze was fixed on Matthew.

“What’s on your mind, kid?” He asked. 

With a sigh, Matthew poured out his heart, retelling the last few days in which the tensions rose between the two of you, before finally boiling over into the argument from this morning. John listened intently, offering some words of wisdom once Matthew was finished.

“Sounds like it’s been a rough couple of days for you guys,” John said, Matthew nodding in agreement. “But disagreements are just opportunities for growth. You know how the two of you navigate these rough patches are just going to make you guys stronger.”

Matthew sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What if we don’t figure it out though?” Matthew asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. 

John couldn’t help but chuckle softly, recognizing the anxiety of going through an argument in a young relationship. 

“It might not be easy, but you’ll get there. You’ve got to be patient with each other, try and see her point of view. Remember you’re a team. You’re in this together.” John said.

A sense of clarity washed over Matthew, John’s words aiding Matthew in navigating this. John’s sage advice was born from years of experience and Matthew took comfort in knowing that John knew what he was talking about. 

Before long, the familiar sound of boisterous laughter and shrieks filled the home. John’s kids enter the room, having just returned from school. Matthew found himself drawn into their world, the simple joy of their company offering a welcome distraction. 

As the evening wore on, Matthew lost track of time, the hours slipping away as he played hide and seek with the Tavares children, as well as being invited to stay for dinner. 

Back at your apartment, you were still sitting on the sofa, nerves wracking your body. Matthew hadn't called or texted. You believed he was safe, that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. But your heart was still in your stomach as you watched the time tick by. 

When you heard the front door clicking open, you sprang up from the couch, meeting your boyfriend in the front hall where he was removing his shoes. 

“Where were you?” You ask, your voice a little louder than you intended. “You didn’t call, you didn’t text…Nothing! I was so worried Matt!”

You launched into a tirade, your words sharp with frustration as you spewed out every single anxious thought you’d imagined since he left. Matthew let you vent your frustrations, upset with the fact that he had been gone for the last 6 hours. When you finally fell silent, Matthew spoke.

“I’m fine.” He said softly. “I just went somewhere to clear my head.”

You fell quiet, not quite knowing what to say next. The pair of you stood there, looking at one another as the tension slowly seemed to dissipate. 

“I’m sorry…” You said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay, y/n.” He reassured, stepping towards you. “We both needed time to breathe.”

There’s another beat of silence before you speak again. “I’m sorry for raising my voice. And for what I said, I’m sorry Matt.”

“Me too. We both said things we shouldn’t have.” Matthew replies.  Matthew reaches out, taking your hand in his. “I’m sorry.”

His touch sends a wave of warmth through you, You reach for him, wrapping your arms around his torso. The words of John from earlier reverberate in Matthew’s mind. You guys were a team and you were in this together. It was going to take a whole lot more than an argument to separate the two of you.

[anna-the-undertaker]

The fic about switching stomachs inspired this idea:

What if the brothers all get into a major fight or something and MC decided to teach them a lesson in how to “walk a mile in each other’s shoes” by switching ALL their sins around (e.g. Satan gets Luci’s pride, Luci gets Belphegor’s sloth, Belphie get’s Asmo’s lust etc etc)

Ooooooh this was so much fun, it took me all day but it was so good to just sit down and write. Thank you for this delicious idea. Song inspiration: Can You Feel My Heart by Bring Me The Horizon

Shifting Sins

The House of Lamentation was rarely quiet, but tonight's uproar was something out of the ordinary. It started with Mammon's usual antics—he had "misplaced" another one of Lucifer's prized possessions. Normally, this would have led to a stern lecture and perhaps a mild punishment, but today, something was different. The air was thick with unresolved tension, and the brothers were all on edge. Beelzebub, already irritable from hunger, had emptied the fridge yet again, leaving nothing for anyone else. Leviathan, reeling from a bitter loss in an online game, seethed in resentment.

As Lucifer berated Mammon for his irresponsibility, Mammon’s retorts were sharper than usual, laced with an anger that felt almost foreign. Satan, who had been brooding over an unresolved issue from earlier in the day, couldn’t hold back his own scathing remarks, aimed not just at Mammon but at Lucifer as well. The argument quickly escalated, drawing in the other brothers. Asmodeus, feeling overlooked, snapped at everyone, demanding the attention he believed he deserved. Beel, driven by his constant hunger, joined in with uncharacteristic harshness, while even Belphegor, usually content to stay out of conflicts, threw in his own barbs.

The cacophony of voices echoed through the halls, a tumultuous mix of accusations and grievances. MC, who had been quietly reading in the corner of the common room, watched as the brothers tore into each other, their usual banter turning into something darker and more vicious. It was clear that this was no ordinary argument—this was years of unresolved tension and unspoken resentment coming to a head. Each of the brother’s sin magnifying their worst impulses.

MC had always known that the brothers were burdened by their respective sins, each one struggling in their own way to manage the weight of their nature. But this… this was different. They couldn’t stand by and let the house tear itself apart. The brothers needed to understand, truly understand, the burdens each of them carried.

As the voices rose to a fever pitch, MC stepped forward, feeling the heat of the argument like a physical force. They had never felt so small in the presence of the brothers, who now seemed more like demons than ever before. But they couldn’t back down—not now.

“Enough!” MC’s voice cut through the din, surprising even themselves with the authority in their tone. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to them. For a moment, the weight of their gazes was almost too much, but MC held their ground.

“You all are so quick to judge each other, to lash out without thinking,” they said, their voice steady. “But have any of you ever stopped to think about what it’s like for the others? To really understand what they go through every day?”

Lucifer, his pride still stinging from Satan’s earlier comments, frowned. “And what would you suggest, MC? That we all just suddenly become empathetic?”

“No,” MC replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I suggest you all learn what it’s like to walk in each other’s shoes. Maybe then you’ll finally get it.”

The room was filled with an uneasy silence. The brothers exchanged glances, unsure of where this was going. Before anyone could protest or ask for clarification, MC reached deep within themselves, tapping into the magic they rarely used. It was a gamble, one they weren’t even sure would work, but it was worth a shot. They spoke the incantation, their voice firm and resolute.

A ripple of energy pulsed through the room, invisible yet palpable. The brothers stiffened, each of them feeling something shift within them, a disorienting tug at the core of their being. As the magic settled, they all looked at each other with wide eyes, the reality of what had just happened slowly dawning on them.

“What… what did you do?” Levi’s voice trembled.

“I switched your sins,” MC said simply. “For the next day, you’ll all be living with someone else’s burden.”

Lucifer was the first to protest. “You can’t just—”

But MC cut him off, their tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to find out exactly what it’s like to live with someone else’s sin. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn to appreciate each other a little more.”

With that, they turned and left the room, the brothers too stunned to follow. As the door closed behind them, the brothers were left in an uneasy silence, each one already feeling the strange effects of their new sin taking hold.

Lucifer (Sloth)

The morning after, Lucifer awoke to a sensation so alien it left him momentarily disoriented. Accustomed to springing out of bed with a mind razor-sharp and a schedule demanding his attention from dawn until well past dusk, he now found himself ensnared in the heavy chains of lethargy. His limbs felt like they were weighed down by lead, and his eyelids refused to obey his commands to lift.

Despite his efforts, the temptation to sink deeper into the soft embrace of his bed overpowered his usual discipline. This was Belphegor’s realm—sloth—and it clung to Lucifer with a tenacity that shocked him. The sheer effort required to swing his legs off the bed and stand up felt like battling through a swamp. Each step was sluggish, each action drained more of his energy, and by the time he managed to dress himself, he felt as if he had fought a war.

The day’s duties loomed large in his mind, but as he made his way to his office, the journey felt interminable. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, reports awaited his review, and the endless list of tasks called for his usually impeccable oversight. However, staring at the documents, Lucifer found his usual sharp focus blurred by an overwhelming desire to do nothing.

Throughout the day, the house seemed quieter to him, or perhaps he was simply too wrapped in the fog of sloth to notice the usual sounds. He tried to push through, to ignite some spark of his usual drive, but each attempt fizzled out, smothered by an oppressive blanket of fatigue.

His interactions with his brothers were strained. Mammon’s boisterous complaints and Leviathan’s subdued mutterings about game losses slipped past him like whispers on the wind. Lucifer’s attempts to command authority fell flat, his voice lacking its usual force. The sight of his brothers reacting to his uncharacteristic apathy with confusion—and in Mammon's case, a poorly concealed delight—only deepened his frustration.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with Lucifer picking at his food, an unusual sight that didn’t go unnoticed. Beelzebub, who sat observing the strange lethargy that had claimed his eldest brother, offered a sympathetic glance. Even Beel could see the battle Lucifer fought against the sin that gripped him.

As the day drew to a close, Lucifer retreated to his study, a place where he had spent countless hours strategizing and planning with meticulous care. Now, it felt like a cell. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, not to think or plan, but simply to surrender to the weariness.

In this rare moment of quiet reflection, Lucifer began to understand Belphegor’s daily reality. The constant pull of sloth wasn’t just a lack of energy—it was a battle of will, a test of endurance against one’s own body and mind. It was a struggle he had never truly appreciated, having always been the one to chastise his youngest brother for his laziness.

A newfound respect for Belphegor’s challenges began to take root. Sloth was not just an annoyance to be berated; it was a formidable foe to be understood and managed. This insight, hard-earned through a day of struggling against an unnatural inertia, brought with it a reluctant empathy. Lucifer realized that understanding and support might be more effective than disdain and commands.

That night, as he prepared for a sleep that he felt had already claimed him hours before, Lucifer made a mental note to approach Belphegor with a different demeanor. Perhaps, he thought, there was room for patience and understanding in the House of Lamentation, even from its stern ruler.

This experience, while harrowing, had peeled back a layer of his own untouchable facade, revealing a capacity for growth and change that Lucifer had not acknowledged in a long time. Tomorrow, the spell would be lifted, and his usual vigor would return, but the lessons from today would linger, altering the way he led his brothers, and more importantly, how he understood them.

Mammon (Wrath)

Mammon awoke to a sensation of smoldering heat coursing through his veins, an unfamiliar, unsettling intensity that jolted him out of sleep. This wasn’t the usual surge of adrenaline he felt when cooking up a new scheme or escaping a debt collector. This was raw, uncontrolled anger—a boiling rage that seemed ready to erupt over the slightest provocation.

As the Avatar of Greed, Mammon was no stranger to intense emotions, particularly the desperate need to acquire and possess. Yet, as he lay in bed feeling this wrath pulsate within him, he realized just how different and daunting this emotion was. The smallest noises—a distant door slamming, the murmurs of his brothers in the hallway—ignited a fierce irritation that clawed at his insides.

Attempting to start his day, Mammon’s usual enthusiasm for potential riches felt overshadowed by this pervasive anger. Every misplaced object in his room, every wrinkle on his clothes seemed to taunt him, fueling his fury further. He snapped at the fabric as he dressed, his hands trembling with an urge to tear rather than straighten his jacket.

Breakfast was a battlefield. As he entered the dining hall, the clatter of dishes and the casual banter of his brothers felt like assaults on his senses. When Levi accidentally bumped into him while reaching for the juice, a surge of anger so intense washed over Mammon that he nearly hurled the glass across the room. The shock in Levi’s wide eyes pulled Mammon back from the edge, and he stormed away from the table with a snarl, leaving a stunned silence behind him.

Throughout the day, Mammon struggled to manage the constant simmering rage. The bustling streets of the Devildom, which usually excited him with their opportunities for mischief and money-making, now seemed filled with obstacles and annoyances. Every jostle was a provocation, every whispered bargain a challenge. Mammon found himself involved in several altercations, each leaving him more drained and bewildered by his reactions.

Trying to engage in his usual trades and negotiations was a disaster. Each interaction felt like a ticking time bomb, his patience razor-thin. The realization that he could no longer trust his instincts, that every impulse might lead not to profit but to conflict, was deeply unsettling.

By late afternoon, Mammon found himself alone in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, head in hands. The anger had exhausted him, each outburst leaving a bitter taste of isolation and regret. It was then that he truly began to understand Satan’s daily ordeal. The wrath that Mammon had temporarily inherited was a constant, all-consuming fire that threatened to consume not just him but everything and everyone around him.

This insight shook Mammon. He had often mocked Satan for his 'dramatic' flares of temper, never fully comprehending the effort it took to contain such a volatile force. Now, bearing the weight of wrath himself, Mammon felt a profound sense of empathy for his brother, mixed with a twinge of guilt for all the times he had provoked him without a second thought.

As evening approached, and the household settled, Mammon made his way to Satan’s room—a journey that felt much longer and harder than usual. He knocked hesitantly, a stark contrast to his usually brash entrance.

Satan, surprised by the visit, looked up from his book, his expression guarded. Mammon stepped inside, his posture uncharacteristically subdued.

“I... I think I get it now,” Mammon started, his voice rough with unspoken apologies. “The anger... it ain’t just some flame you can snuff out when you feel like it. It’s like being chained to a beast, always pullin’ at ya.”

Satan watched him, the usual sharpness in his eyes softening. “It’s not easy,” he admitted, a rare vulnerability in his tone. “But knowing someone understands... it helps.”

Mammon nodded, the tension that had coiled tightly within him unspooling slightly. “I’m sorry, for all the times I made it worse. I didn’t know—couldn’t really know—how hard it was fighting that... that beast.”

A small smile tugged at Satan’s lips, a silent acknowledgment of Mammon’s effort. “We all have our sins, Mammon. Maybe now, we’ll be a bit better at helping each other with them.”

That night, as Mammon lay in bed, the wrath still simmering within him, he felt a glimmer of hope. This brutal day had opened his eyes, not just to the burdens his brothers bore, but to the possibilities of what they could overcome together. Understanding, Mammon realized, was just the first step, but it was perhaps the most crucial one. Tomorrow, the sins would switch back, but the lessons learned would linger, shaping his actions and, hopefully, his relationships, for the better.

Leviathan (Gluttony)

The shifting lights from his fishtanks danced weakly over Leviathan’s room, failing to stir him from his unusual lethargy. When the spell switched his sin from envy to gluttony, Levi hadn’t anticipated how drastically it would alter his daily routine. Accustomed to waking with a gnawing sense of inadequacy, today it was replaced by an actual gnawing in his stomach—an insatiable hunger that felt as deep and vast as an oceanic abyss.

Attempting to rise from his bed, Levi felt the hunger clawing at him with a ferocity that shocked him. It wasn’t just a need for food—it was an all-consuming obsession. His usual morning thoughts, typically filled with strategies for new levels or contemplating the latest games and animes, were now overrun by thoughts of what he could eat, how much, and how quickly.

As he shuffled towards the kitchen, the corridors of the House of Lamentation seemed longer than ever, each step driven by a growing desperation. Reaching the kitchen, Levi began to eat whatever he could find—bread, leftovers, even ingredients that were meant for dinner. The hunger was relentless, unsatisfied by the volumes of food he consumed, each bite only sharpening the pangs that gripped him.

During breakfast with his brothers, Levi’s usual reticence was replaced by an impulsive focus on the food. He barely registered the conversations around him, his attention riveted on his next bite. When Beel reached for the last pastry—a usual act that Levi would typically envy in silence—it triggered an unexpected and sharp response from Levi.

“Leave it! I saw it first!” Levi snapped, his voice a mixture of desperation and anger, surprising himself and his brothers. Beel, taken aback by Levi’s uncharacteristic outburst, withdrew his hand, a hurt look flashing across his face.

As the day progressed, Levi tried to engage with his usual online gaming community, but the hunger made it impossible to concentrate. Each ping and notification seemed like a distant echo, irrelevant compared to the gnawing emptiness inside him. Attempting to play felt futile as his reflexes were slow, his decisions poor, driven by the distraction of his unyielding appetite.

Levi’s realization of Beel’s daily struggle with gluttony began to dawn on him in painful clarity. The constant hunger was not just a physical ailment; it was a psychological torment. It sapped his strength, dulled his passions, and turned every thought painfully towards anything he could consume. Levi, who had always viewed Beel’s eating habits as a mere characteristic of his sin, now understood the true burden it was—a relentless drive that overshadowed everything else.

By evening, Levi found himself back in the kitchen, not for the joy of snacking as he used to, but out of sheer necessity to quell the beast of hunger roaring within. As he stood there, eating mechanically, he felt a presence at the doorway. Beel, his expression somber, watched him for a moment before entering.

“I didn’t really get it before… how hard this is for you,” Levi admitted without looking up, his voice thick with the exhaustion of his relentless hunger.

Beel approached, placing a comforting hand on Levi’s shoulder. “It’s tough, yeah. But you get used to it… kinda. You learn to live around it,” Beel said, his voice carrying a mix of resignation and empathy.

Leviathan paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth, and met Beel’s eyes. “I’m sorry… for not understanding earlier. For all the times I got annoyed at you for eating everything. I see now how much of a fight it is.”

Beel squeezed his shoulder, a gesture of brotherly solidarity. “It’s okay, Levi. We’re all dealing with our stuff. Maybe now we can help each other a bit more, huh?”

Nodding, Levi felt a weight lift slightly—not from his stomach, but from his heart. This shared experience, though fraught with discomfort and revelation, had unexpectedly bridged a gap between him and Beel. They stood together in the kitchen, two brothers newly bonded not just by the house they shared, but by the understanding of each other’s battles.

That night, as Levi lay in bed, the hunger still gnawing but his heart a little lighter, he thought about how easy it was to overlook others' struggles when they were hidden behind the veil of everyday interactions. Perhaps, he pondered, there was more to every sin, every behavior, and every reaction that met the eye. With this new understanding, Levi felt a resolve to not only battle his own sin but to help his brothers with theirs, fortified by the empathy that had grown from walking in Beel’s shoes—or, in this case, enduring a day with his hunger.

Satan (Pride)

The morning dawned with an unusual clarity for Satan, but it was not the clarity of peace or resolution. Instead, he awoke to a searing sense of purpose that felt foreign yet overwhelmingly powerful. Accustomed to the simmering heat of wrath, he now found himself enveloped by the cold fire of pride. Each action, each decision, was magnified through this new lens—a relentless drive to not just participate but to dominate and exemplify perfection in every aspect of his existence.

His usual morning routine, which typically involved reviewing his academic and demonic duties with a critical but controlled approach, now became a battleground of self-imposed standards and unattainable expectations. The books on his shelf needed realigning, his clothes required meticulous arranging, and even his breakfast became a calculated choice rather than a simple meal. Every minor imperfection seemed to scream at him, a glaring declaration of failure.

As he moved through the hallways of the House of Lamentation, the usual disarray he could dismiss with a sneer now felt like personal affronts to his command. When Beel left a mess in the kitchen or Mammon’s schemes disrupted the order of the day, it wasn’t just annoying—it was unacceptable. Satan found himself issuing commands with an iron edge, demanding compliance and perfection not just from himself but from his brothers as well.

The interactions were draining. Each demand for excellence pushed his brothers further away, their responses ranging from bewildered hurt to simmering resentment. The pride swelled within him, urging him to impose his will further, to correct every fault, to mold everything to his vision of perfection.

It wasn’t until a late afternoon reflection in his room, far from the eyes of his brothers, that the weight of Lucifer’s sin truly sank in. The solitude he sought didn’t bring relief but a sharp, piercing introspection. He considered Lucifer—his leadership, his unyielding demands, his isolation. Satan had often resented his older brother, viewed his control and poise as arrogance. But now, encased in the armor of pride himself, Satan began to grasp the burden it entailed.

Lucifer hadn’t comforted him; there were no shared moments of understanding or soft words exchanged. Their relationship, fraught with tension and a history of rebellion, offered no room for such closeness. Yet, in this solitude, Satan acknowledged a truth he had never considered: he had only ever seen the outcome of Lucifer’s decisions, never the agonizing choices that led there.

Satan sat alone, the quiet of his room echoing back his thoughts. He pondered the enormity of what Lucifer must carry. The pride, while a powerful force, was also a blinding one, isolating Lucifer not just from his enemies but from those close to him. Satan realized that he had come into existence after his brothers fall from grace, after the battles and losses that had shaped his brothers into the beings they were. He had not shared their most formative sufferings; he had only ever known the aftermath and the responsibilities that came with it.

Satan conceded a painful truth: Lucifer had suffered profoundly, not just from the external conflicts but from within, from the blame and the expectations placed upon him as the eldest. Pride might have been his sin, but it was also his cage, crafted by both his own hands and the perceptions of those around him.

This realization didn't soften his stance towards Lucifer—it wasn’t in Satan’s nature to relinquish his criticisms easily—but it broadened his perspective. He acknowledged, if only to himself, that there were depths to Lucifer’s struggles he had not considered, layers of sacrifice and pain masked beneath the veneer of control and authority.

As night fell and the house quieted, Satan made a quiet resolve to approach his older brother with a newfound appreciation for his complexities. The pride would leave him at dawn, but it's lessons would linger, shaping his understanding of leadership, of brotherhood, and of the silent battles fought behind the faces of those he called family.

Asmodeus (Greed)

As night enveloped the House of Lamentation, Asmodeus sat surrounded by the treasures he had "acquired" throughout the day. He realized that greed, his temporary sin, was not just about accumulating wealth or objects—it was a deeper, more pervasive desire that could consume one's life if left unchecked.

Each item, once a trophy in his quest for more, now felt like a chain linking him to a deeper understanding of his brother’s. The weight of greed had not only transformed his desires but had also opened his eyes to the burdens that Mammon bore every day. Mammon's battle that involved much more than the simple desire for more, but a constant search for value in an existence that seemed perpetually insufficient.

It wasn’t just the relentless drive to acquire and possess that pained Asmo; it was the realization of how this sin shaped Mammon’s interactions with others. Throughout the day, as Asmodeus felt the compulsion to hoard and hide, he noticed the mistrust in his brothers’ eyes, a suspicion that he had never encountered when driven by his own sin. Every whisper, every sideways glance felt like an accusation, echoing the way Mammon was often treated whenever something went amiss in the house.

Asmodeus now understood that Mammon’s greed was not a simple choice or a whimsical desire to collect valuables. It was a profound, incessant urge that colored every aspect of his life, often leading him to be blamed or ostracized for incidents he had no part in. The realization hit Asmodeus hard; the loneliness and isolation Mammon must feel, always the first suspect, always guilty until proven innocent.

Reflecting on his own sin, Asmo could see the stark contrast. Where lust was often celebrated or indulged, greed was met with wariness and scorn. His own desires, though intense, were straightforward and often welcomed in their indulgence. They brought him closer to others, even if sometimes superficially, whereas Mammon’s greed pushed him to the margins, often seen as a disruptive force rather than a personal struggle.

Sitting alone, Asmo felt a surge of empathy for Mammon. The constant suspicion, the automatic blame—it was a lot to bear, especially when one was merely following an intrinsic, uncontrollable drive. He thought about the times he had casually joked about Mammon’s misadventures and all the accusations he had thrown his way, never considering the sting that might linger behind his brother's forced laughter and bravado.

Resolved to change the way he interacted with Mammon, Asmo began to carefully replace each item he had taken back to its original place. With each object returned, he felt a piece of his burden lighten, not just the burden of greed, but the burden of misunderstanding he had helped place on Mammon’s shoulders.

The next morning, after the sins had returned to their rightful place, Asmo sought Mammon out, finding him in his room, a place where many of his secretive exchanges took place and where he kept his most precious treasures. Mammon looked up, surprise flickering across his face as Asmodeus approached with a genuine smile.

“Mammon, I… I wanted to say, I get it now. I didn’t before, but I do now. What you go through with greed, it’s not easy. And I’m sorry for all the times I might’ve made it harder for you,” Asmodeus said, his voice earnest, carrying an emotional weight that was rare for him.

Mammon eyed him warily for a moment before a slow, cautious smile spread across his face. “Ya mean that, Asmo? ‘Cause it ain’t just about the stuff or gainin' more or winnin', ya know. It’s how everyone looks at ya, like you’re up to no good before you’ve even done anything.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for that too. From now on, I’ll do better. I’ll help them see the Mammon I know, not just the greed,” Asmodeus promised, placing a hand on Mammon’s shoulder.

Mammon nodded, a look of relief washing over him. “Thanks, Asmo. Means a lot, really.”

As they parted ways, Asmodeus felt a renewed sense of connection to his brother. This experience had taught him more than the weight of greed; it had opened his eyes to the importance of understanding and supporting each other’s battles, no matter how different they might be.

Beelzebub (Envy)

Beelzebub awoke with a pang that was unfamiliar yet intensely painful. This wasn't the usual emptiness of hunger he was accustomed to, but a different kind of void—one that seemed to claw at his heart rather than his stomach. As the sin of envy took hold, replacing his constant companion of gluttony, Beel found himself seeing the world through a green-tinted lens.

Morning in the House of Lamentation brought with it the usual sounds and sights, but Beel’s perception of them had altered dramatically. As he lumbered into the kitchen, his eyes were drawn not to the contents of the fridge but to the relationships, possessions, and attributes his brothers flaunted. Levi’s latest gaming setup, Mammon’s closeness with MC, Satan’s intellect—things he’d never paid much mind to suddenly became symbols of what he lacked.

Breakfast was a torturous affair. Each of his brothers discussed their plans and achievements, and with each word, the seed of envy grew thornier in Beel’s chest. He saw their easy camaraderie and felt outside it, isolated by a newfound longing not just for more food, but for more of everything they had.

The day progressed, and Beel’s usual straightforward path of satisfying his hunger became a twisted road filled with comparison and resentment. Training in the gym, he couldn't help but notice how effortlessly others could perform each exercise, his own larger, bulkier form suddenly a source of frustration rather than pride. Where he once felt camaraderie, he now felt competition, a gnawing need to spite others.

As he moved through the day, every laughter-filled conversation his brothers shared, every personal success they flaunted, felt like personal slights to Beel. The weight room, once his refuge, became a hall of mirrors reflecting back his inadequacies. He lifted weights with a ferocity driven by envy, each rep a silent scream against the injustices he felt.

It wasn’t until he caught his reflection in the mirror, sweat-drenched and eyes burning with an unfamiliar malice, that Beel realized how deeply the envy had taken root. He paused, hands trembling, not from exertion but from the emotional turmoil that wracked him.

In the quiet of the locker room, Beel sat heavily on a bench. The reality of Leviathan’s daily struggle with envy began to dawn on him. The constant comparison, the perpetual feeling of falling short—it was exhausting. Torture of the soul. Levi, who often seemed so withdrawn, was fighting a battle that Beel had never truly understood until now; it was a deeper, more insidious feeling than he ever imagined.

Realizing he needed to confront these feelings directly, Beel sought out Leviathan. He found him in his room, surrounded by the glow of multiple screens, a digital world where Levi often escaped his own insecurities. Beel paused at the door, taking a moment to compose his thoughts, then stepped inside with a determination that belied his internal turmoil.

“Levi,” Beel started, his voice gentle. Levi paused his game, turning to face him with a wary expression that shifted into surprise as Beel continued. "I’ve been feeling things today. Envy. It’s heavy, like being hungry but for everything at once.”

Levi’s eyes widened slightly, a blush creeping up his cheeks as he struggled to form words.

Beel moved closer. Without hesitation, he did what felt most natural to express his feelings—he wrapped Levi in a firm, reassuring hug. “I get it now. How hard it must be, feeling like this all the time. It’s tough… tougher than I thought. You’re stronger than you think, Levi, dealing with this every day.”

Levi, caught off guard by the hug and the compliment, stammered a response, his usual aversion to touch crumbling under the genuine care in Beel’s voice. “I-It’s not easy. I don’t always handle it well. But, um, thanks, Beel. Means a lot, hearing that from you.”

Pulling back, Beel kept his hands on Levi’s shoulders, looking him squarely in the eyes. “You don’t have to handle it alone, though. We’re brothers, right? We should be helping each other, not just… envying what the other has. I want to help, okay? Whenever you feel like it’s too much, just come find me.”

Levi nodded, a small, grateful smile breaking through his initial awkwardness. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Beel… really.”

As Beel left Levi’s room, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders—this experience had not only shown him the burden of Levi’s sin but had also reminded him of the power of straightforward, sincere communication.

That night, Beel lay in bed, reflecting on the day’s lessons. He understood now that each of his brothers carried hidden struggles. Tomorrow, all of their sins would switch back, but he and his brothers would endure, forging stronger bonds in a house often divided by the very sins that defined them.

Belphegor (Lust)

Belphegor woke up feeling unusually restless, an unfamiliar energy coursing through his veins that seemed entirely at odds with his typical languor. As the sin of lust temporarily replaced his inherent sloth, the quiet calm that usually surrounded him dissolved into a simmering intensity. This new sensation wasn't just about physical desire; it was a craving for emotional connections and experiences, a longing that felt as invasive as it was unsettling.

The day started differently for Belphie. Instead of seeking the nearest comfortable spot to drift back into sleep, he found himself drawn to the livelier parts of the House of Lamentation. He lingered in the hallways, his gaze following his brothers with an interest that felt compulsive. Asmo’s effortless charm, which Belphie usually ignored, now sparked a keen sense of yearning to engage and be noticed.

Breakfast was an ordeal. Each laugh and touch shared among his brothers felt like a sting, highlighting his usual detachment. The ease with which they expressed affection seemed to accentuate his isolation. The longing to be part of that, to feel as deeply and freely as they did, to be the center of attention, gnawed at him with every passing moment.

As the day progressed, Belphie found it increasingly difficult to manage the surge of emotions that came with lust. His usual strategies for dealing with sloth—withdrawal, isolation, sleep—were ineffective against this relentless desire for closeness and intensity. He caught himself staring, reaching out, wanting more from every interaction than he knew how to ask for.

The library became his refuge by midday, a place where he hoped the quiet might dampen the fervor of his feelings. But even surrounded by books, he felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. The solitude he usually cherished now felt suffocating. When Satan happened to wander in, searching for a particular volume, Belphie’s usual nod of acknowledgment turned into an intense conversation about the themes of the book, his words tumbling out with a desperation that surprised them both.

Satan, taken aback by Belphie’s fervent engagement, responded with a cautious interest, which only drove Belphie to push the conversation deeper. The interaction left him feeling both exhilarated and exhausted, a testament to the consuming nature of his temporary sin.

Feeling unsettled by his new intensity, Belphie sought out Asmodeus in his room, hoping to glean some insight into handling these overpowering desires. He found his brother sitting elegantly in a chair in front of his vanity, seemingly at peace as he applied his nightly skincare.

“Asmo,” Belphie started, his voice tight with the strain of uncharacteristic emotions, “how do you manage this? This constant craving... to touch and be touched, to be seen, adored?"

Asmodeus looked up, his eyes gleaming with a mix of sympathy and a flair of his usual dramatic charm. “Oh, Belphie, darling, it’s an art and a battle,” he began, his voice lilting with a practiced grace. “Lust isn’t just about the allure or the rush of desire. It’s also about the ache that comes when the curtains close and the applause fades. You see, even when I’m surrounded by adoration, I know much of it is just for the spectacle of Asmodeus, The Avatar of Lust—not for the person beneath.”

He paused, a thoughtful frown briefly marring his perfect features. “It’s the most easily quieted sin when satisfied, yes, but it’s a hunger that comes back as soon as you realize the feast was all confectionery sweetness, no substance. People rarely seek the man behind the mascara, and that, my dear, can make you crave it all the more desperately.”

Belphie listened, the words reflecting all he had felt all day. “It's a second skin. It clings to every part of you, intensifying every interaction, every glance. I never realized how exhausting it could be—not just physically but emotionally. The constant desire for more, for deeper connections, feels like an itch that can't be scratched. It is relentless, distracting, and disorienting."

“Precisely!” Asmodeus exclaimed, sitting up with a flourish. “It’s a glittering stage where the lights blind you to the emptiness. That’s why we must find balance, seek out those who love not just the allure but the soul beneath. It’s not easy, but oh, it’s crucial.”

Belphie nodded, surprised by the honesty in Asmo’s theatrical disclosure. “How do you find that balance?”

With a wistful smile, Asmodeus stood, brushing off his robes with a graceful sweep of his hand. “By cherishing more genuine moments, dear Belphie. By building connections that go beyond the surface, the press of bodies and the chorus of pleasure it ensues.”

The conversation left Belphie deep in thought as he watched Asmodeus glide across the room, his gait as confident as his persona. The encounter had not only shed light on Asmo’s struggles with lust but also mirrored back to Belphie the complexities of his other brothers sins.

That evening, as the day’s experiences settled like dust after a storm, Belphie felt a burgeoning respect for Asmo’s restraint and a new understanding of his burden. Tomorrow he would return to his familiar sloth, but the events of today promised a fresh perspective on how to engage with the world and his family—a way to bridge the gaps that had long kept him aloof and apart from the warmth his family offered.

[rosesanddecay]

Pt. 2

TW: angst/comfort, reader cries a little and is mentioned to have been in therapy

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The silence was agonizing. The air felt drowning and heavy. It didn’t help that no one could look at each other.

Soap and you have migrated to the couch after realizing that the conversation probably should be had while sitting.

How are any of you meant to address any of this?

Each of you knew just enough to fill in the blanks, but how is-

“So…” Johnny broke the silence and your train of thought. “How do you all know each other?”

“Really, Soap? That’s how you want to start this?” Gaz remarked, letting his grievance show.

“Aye! How else ye expect this to go?! How ye think I feel knowin’ ye’ve shagged my lass?”

“Jesus Christ…” you groan as you hide behind your hands.

“Not everyone-“ Simon murmured leaning back in with his arms crossed.

“Simon!” You exclaim, revealing your warmed cheeks to everyone.

“Well with the way ye look at ‘er I would’ve guessed otherwise-“

“Okay- no, that’s it-“ you stand in front of them all, pointing as you addressed each. “You- Simon, are meant to be dead, I went to your funeral. Fucks sake, I visit those graves everytime I drive past them!”

Simon couldn’t stand to defend himself, because he knew that already. He’d seen you talking to his and his family’s graves every now and then when he went to see them himself. It had torn him apart to not reveal he was alive, but he’d convinced himself it was for your sake. Even if that meant you’d shed more tears.

“You pushed me away for months before ultimately saying that you needed to move for work, that you couldn’t be with me anymore-“ your eyes still held the hurt from long ago as you gazed at Kyle.

“It wasn’t a complete lie…” Kyle scratched at his head, his poor attempt to redeem himself falling flat.

“Shut it, Garrick. You-“ your finger landed on Price, “Why didn’t you tell me you were in town? I assume you’ve been back for a while, so why didn’t you say anything?”

John knew he had no excuse, so he didn’t attempt to deny his reasoning. “Though’ ye might’ve been with yer other man…”

A hefty exhale escapes you as you hold back from saying more. You could slap him, because how, after all this time, does he not see himself as enough? Instead, your gaze landed on Johnny.

“And you, Johnny, you didn’t really do anything, but still, this could’ve never happened if you or John just told me who else was on the team.”

“Or told us who ye were dating.” Kyle muttering was directed to Johnny, but it earned side eye from you.

“Moral of the story,” you continued, “all of you have been keeping things from me. And now we’re here… and I don’t know what to do or say…” your voice broke a little from the festering emotions. Everyone was quick to their feet to comfort you, John worming his way to the front.

“Aye, lass, there’s no need to cry. We just need to talk this out.” John’s hands cupped your cheeks as the tears threatened to spill. “Maybe we should take a break, take a breather. Later, we can talk one on one with you and each other.”

You nod as you try to calm yourself, doing the short breathing exercises you learned from therapy.

John placed a soft kiss to your forehead before being pushed aside by Johnny. His arms quickly envelop you and he kisses your temple.

“Common lass, let’s get ye out of here for a bit…” Johnny whispered and pulled you into the bedroom, leaving the other men standing in a circle, stuck their own thoughts…

————

Idk what to call this series so feel free to leave some suggestions!

Also didn’t want to make this series too angsty, but reader is definitely gonna need some one-on-one time with each of the boys…

[bylrlve]

Warning! Spoilers for Stranger Things 5 mentioned,

Rewatching episode 2, and I’m genuinely staggered by how many times Mike peeks at Will. It’s very clear his mind is on Will, in fact. I am also staggered by just how many small byler details are in here.

His whole face drops after no. 4 too, as @starbylers observed here.

I also want to include these @chirpsythismorning gifs from the roller rink scene, as they’re brilliant:

Mike watching Will get out of the van, and seemingly offering a hand to him.

Mike openly watching Will as they take their skates.

(X) (X)

These are very deliberate acting choices from Finn Wolfhard, and he was certainly doing it on instruction.

Some other notes on 402:

The transition from Mike and El being fake -> Murray looking up looking like he’s experiencing his Seeing Clearly -> Robin talking about Vickie laughing ‘and not like a cheap, fake laugh, but a real, genuine laugh’, right after we saw Mike hiding his genuine disgust at burritos for breakfast behind a tone of fake laughter.

Mike’s whole face just drops into an unhappy, spaced-out espression when it zooms in on El - this is after Will ignored his sock joke (video here by @buckybxarnes)

As many have observed, Mike and El look genuinely miserable when viewed from Angela’s perspective, as opposed to the shot of them skating with Will miserable behind them

It’s occurred to me that in s2, 3, and 4, the byler plot really takes off in episode 2. I’m wondering if that’s also the case with s5 - I’ve reconsidered my theory that the Mike + El rooftop scene takes place after the hospital plot in ep 2, as I’ve heard that the paparazzi at the filming site were told it was in episode 1.

The door slam/open transition between Joyce going to the bank to get the 40k random for Hopper, utterly singleminded, and Mike barging into the womens’ bathroom, being kicked out, and subsequently starting an argy-bargy with Will as opposed to continuing to prioritise El… well!

The disparity in time is so interesting. El counts off 185 days since she last saw Mike - which is roughly six months, as is canon within the show (Sept-Oct 1985-March 1986). And here Mike is, saying ‘you knew she was having trouble for, like, a year’ and Will saying ‘it’s been a year, Mike’ and, in 404, Mike saying ‘the last year has been weird.’ It’s pretty obvious the last one is Mike referring to their fight nine months earlier, plus the time prior that Mike had spent pulling away from the rest of the Party to focus on El. The second one is Will potentially referencing the time that elapsed since their fight - even if it’s moreso subtext from the writers. What, then, to make of Mike saying Will knew El was having trouble for, like, a year? What subtext could be meant by this? I’d love to hear your guys’ thoughts because u can’t quite deduce this.

Mike listing off everything Will did is so hilarious given the surveillance he carried out all day on the boy, and given the fact that poor El being humiliated publicly and assaulted with liquid before she skated off bawling did not, apparently, ruin the day. On second thoughts, I understand what Will meant… she’s in trouble having Mike’s gay ass for a boyfriend.

What’s striking me now is that this fight + El’s iconic roller skate moment, are the real emotional climaxes of this episode’s M/E/W plot. It could have been Mike finding El and comforting her before she lashed out at Angela. It could have been him talking to her afterwards. It could have been at the house - him following her up to her room and silently comforting her until she fell asleep. No, no. Mike and Will airing out their grievances (and Mike betraying which of the two truly emotionally affects him more) + El handling her own shit, while Mike thoroughly disapproves.

The way that Will just wants to be Mike’s friend, but it’s Mike making it so deeply weird.

The way, also, that they stick together at the rink even after the fight, and Mike openly is more preoccupied by Will in the van. I’ve seen it observed before: the parallel between El and Will staring out the same window in the van crying: Mike looks at Will in the shot. He does not look at El in the shot.

I think it’s hilarious that Mike ends the fight by feigning concern for El - he offered her no comfort whatsoever, actively stood away from her when she was waiting for Jonathan and Argyle to arrive, ignored her crying in the van, and of course:

She didn’t look fine.

Mike and Will are blocked together, not Mike and El

The sincerity of Mike’s concern over El juxtaposed with the rank falseness of ‘no, that’s…that’s not true, maybe I was a little upset in the moment’ etc really sticks out - the defensiveness is reminiscent of the tone he took with Will during the fight, but even then he was more sincere-sounding because he was more emotionally affected.

Bylers don’t talk enough about the insanity of ‘who… who said that I didn’t?’ In context, thinking logically, Mike is very likely referring to Will here (the bullies were shouting at her, he could hear what they were saying)- and why would his mind immediately go to ‘Will thinks I don’t love El, and has told her his suspicions?’ Why would he take a defensive tone?

Seriously, 402-403 M/W/E may well be the plot that (potentially) spells out byler endgame the most.

[dyssonant-skyline]

Full Moon Spoilers: The Final Scene

I have some thoughts.

Okay let me start with saying, the Stolas & Blitzo conversation should not have been relegated to the last 5 minutes of the episode. I think the rushed nature of the conversation doomed any chance of it being a satisfying exchange between these two characters that covers the full reality of their situation. I’m listing this up front because a lot of my grievances could have been resolved with more time, which the team spent on 15 minutes of lead up that I believe were ultimately unnecessary to the show's central plot and actively hinder the direction the showrunners want the story to go in.

During the episode he acknowledges that Blitzo is in a horrible situation. He states that the deal was wrong, implicitly acknowledging guilt for thrusting it unto Blitz and trying to resolve that by giving him the Azmodean crystal. He has decided to end things, and goes through with it even though he displays clear interest in Blitzo’s advances.

Then what does he do when Blitzo assumes that Stolas hasn’t changed? When Blitzo believes that Stolas, the person who he has only had transactional relations with, is setting up a new kind of transaction? 

Instead of further ensuring Blitzo and trying to clear the air. He throws a tantrum. When things didn’t immediately resolve in his favor. Then he immediately goes into blaming Blitzo for only thinking about sex in their, again, transactional relationship. This gets worse because Stolas doesn’t wait to establish a healthy non romantic/sexual relationship before insinuating that he is still interested in Blitzo sexually, opening Blitzo up to misunderstanding his intent… then not being willing to clarify his intent.

“I have wanted you for so long, the fact that you couldn’t believe that I might have these feelings about you, that your first instinct is that it’s always about sex… that’s enough to know what this is.”

My brother in christ, you confront him about this during the sex deal night and don’t expect him to expect sex? You give him ~10 seconds to react to this information before deciding you don’t want to deal with his emotions anymore because they aren’t what you wanted?

The monologue that Blitzo had after that was completely justified and extremely gratifying to hear.

“Fuck you Stolas! You spring this feelings bullshit on me, are you fucking kidding?” - “Can I get a fucking minute to think after everything you put me through?” - “You can’t just dismiss me like that.”

After that sincere outburst, instead of Stolas recognizing what Blitzo is saying and taking some accountability or apologizing… he reacts with

“I didn’t realize you think so low of me.”

HUH? What happened to the transactional deal not being right? Surely if he knows he isn’t right, he knows that Blitzo would probably have a pretty low opinion of him? Breaking the deal doesn’t make his victim required to forgive him, especially not within 5 minutes.

Sidenote but: Stolas’s desire for immediate reconciliation is compounded by the fact that Stolas buries the lead at the beginning of their conversation. He keeps things vague with statements like “I need [the grimoire] back permanently” and “I’ve made up my mind” that lead Blitzo to believe he is being fired. I don’t really believe that the way that Stolas talks here speaks to his character, it reads more like bad writing in favor of a misunderstanding to get Blitzo worked up. It doesn’t seem in character to dwell like this, you could argue it is nerves but I’d argue there is no positive reaction to those first few sentences and Stolas isn’t socially inept enough to fail to realize that.

Honestly, if they were gearing up to have Stolas as a villain still and if Blitzo hadn’t had an apology cut off, I would have loved this exchange as it characterizes Stolas as a villain very well. It shows that Stolas still doesn’t care about Blitzo, just the version of Blitzo he has built in his head in excruciating detail. It shows that despite Stolas trying to make amends through words and actions, he still can not face the hurt that he has caused his victim and will run away when confronted with them. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure the writers are just going to make Blitzo into the one that Stolas hoped would fall into his arms immediately. So whatever.

[bunviie]

you sit on the floor, utterly defeated. your mind drifts over countless thoughts and feelings at once. you stare at the numerous binders and loose paper sheets, eyes hot and threatening to slip your unwanting sorrows.

your boyfriend stumbles into the room, breathless as his eyes dart around before finally landing on you. he’s quick and crouches before you, a blatant startled expression scattered across his features. 

“i heard a loud thud, are you okay?” he scans your body for any injury, hands gently holding your head while adjusting it left and right. he stops mid-inspection and notices your sullen expression. “yn, baby what's wrong?” he caresses your cheeks and for some reason, this only makes you cry. his eyes only widen and he stands on his feet, offering his hands to you. with blurry vision, you take them naturally. he helps you up and guides you to the bed behind you. he sits down first and welcomes you in his embrace. 

you continue to sob, tears now completely clouding your vision, falling freely down your cheeks and onto your shirt. leaving small wet droplet stains.

“talk to me, what happened?” he feels frantic but keeps his composure for you. he didn't want to provoke the situation further. you take a deep breath, swallowing past the awful lump in your throat that left your breath choppy and stuttering. too overwhelmed to steady your cries.

“it's too hard,” you start, agitatedly wiping your wet face. eren doesn't say anything and only stares at you sincerely, giving you the room to speak. “i just…i try my best a-and nothing works out,” you glance at the paper mess below you two and eren follows your gaze. “i-im gonna f-fail and never graduate. i’ll forever be stuck and stressed about things that don't even make sense,” you ramble, pouring your emotions out into the room. his hand smooths over your back soothingly allowing you to air out your grievances as he listens intently.

once you’re done, he kisses the side of your head and wipes away the remnants on your face. his thumb massaging along your now silky skin.

“feel better?” he asks sweetly. you aren't able to see his face, yet you still felt his kind smile, beaming assuringly.  you sniffle and shake your head. he chuckles lowly, finding your response endearing. “well…know that i'm here for you and that there’s nothing at all you can't do. you’ve come so far, there is absolutely nothing you can't figure out. even if you have your moments of struggles, just know that i'm here to support you through it,” his words were even sweeter and were said with so much love. his lips meet your knuckles tenderly before he stares up at you fondly. you swoon internally, wondering how you managed to be so lucky.

“so, how about, we get you something to eat– or sleep, whatever it is you’re in the mood for right now?” he moves to hold you securely in his lap. you shift, making yourself more comfortable as you drape your arms around him, nestling your face in his warm embrace.

“can you just hold me?” you request softly. 

“of course,” 

eren lays down slowly, careful not to ruin your relaxed position. he lays you on his chest and you hug him tightly. he doesn't mind, his hand soothingly rubbing long strokes on your back. your worries went away one by one. emotions quelled down with ease, almost like you were never upset at all. you sigh contently, remaining close to him as you both lay still in each other's affectionate hold.

[temtamtom]

Please ignore the fact I accidentally posted this and then deleted it okay anyways

These two have had a myriad of personal conflicts over the years. They had a difficult relationship as children and then spent the rest of their adolescence and early adulthood separately. They interacted, of course, and they saw each other as brothers, but that was it. We are related by blood, but I don’t see you as FAMILY family. If that makes sense. But if I had to pick their biggest fight, it would be:

Tl;Dr: Emotions were running high and unchecked after Italian unification, leading to a blow-out fight when Romano announced that he was moving to America for a little while.

I need to provide some context and explain my headcanons, so this might be a long one kjdfgk I hope it makes sense! Also, a warning because my Feli isn't all that canon-compliant ;; but I think he's a bit more accurate to the northern attitudes of the time

There's a common headcanon within the fandom that Romano was entirely against unification and resisted it from the start. I think this is a bit of an inaccurate and an over-simplified perspective. By the early and mid 1800s, there were many instances of uprisings against absolutism in Southern Italy, which strove for more liberal ideals. The revolutionaries wanted a constitutional monarchy, or even a republic. Through their uprisings and the creation of a secret, revolutionary network across the peninsula, revolutionary ideals began to spread throughout and inspire others.

This is of course a gross oversimplification of the history, but I’m bringing this all up to illustrate the idea that Romano was starting to grow tired of the “status quo”, and was desperate for a change. Unification wasn’t necessarily what he had in mind at first, especially when we consider that he and Feliciano were pretty distant at this point in time. However he soon got swept up in the fervor and optimism of the patriots, and he began to believe in their vision. He believed in a future where he could finally be truly independent- free to call the shots and live his life freely without the worry of being tossed around and claimed by other European powers. He believed in a future where, maybe, he could have a family again. To fix what was broken between him and Feliciano. Romano may come across as quite crude, but he’s a very passionate man. Someone who loves and craves so deeply, to the point where his heart/imagination can far outrun him.

So imagine the betrayal felt when he realized that unification wasn’t working in his favour. He was practically discarded, and seen as “lesser than” his northern brother. His brother, who treated him as an oddity, and had an air of moral superiority over Romano. They kept each other at arm's length, as though they were roommates forced to endure the other, rather than two brothers sharing a home. Disillusioned and hurt, Romano felt like a fool for believing in a dream that didn’t come true. 

Feliciano struggled with many emotional grievances, which Romano wasn’t privy to. He lost his long-time husband/partner just a few decades prior, and instead of taking the time to confront the grief, he picked himself back up and turned his attention towards independence and unification. He threw himself head first into uprisings, wars, political negotiations, and rallies- all to achieve this patriotic goal of forming “Italy”, and perhaps to distract himself from the loss (though he won’t admit it). He also thought, maybe foolishly, that his life would get better after unifying with his brother. That he would have a family again, that he wouldn’t feel so alone, that he would love and be loved and they could hold hands and skip happily into a field of sunshine and rainbows and everything would be okay– 

What should have brought them together, they both realized, seemed to drive a deeper wedge between them. The reality was that they were incompatible. They couldn’t stand each other. To Feliciano, Romano was nothing but an uncivilized brute who only complained and never wanted to work, and lived to insult him every day. To Romano, Feliciano was a pompous, stuck-up elite asshole who refused to acknowledge the very real pain and disillusionment of his new, southern citizens. Both brothers felt as though everything- all the blood, sweat, and tears- was just a massive waste.

As you can imagine, it was a VERY tense and unhappy household for many reasons. They began to argue. A LOT. Fights that were far uglier than the scraps they had as children. It got to a point where they couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as each other.

It all came to a head, however, when Romano announced that he was leaving. He had his motives, reasonable ones too, but Feliciano didn’t see that. All he saw was his no-good, lazy brother abandoning him and their country after all the effort they put into creating it, leaving him with all the stress and work while he galavants off to America. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The announcement devolved into an explosive fight. Things were said that, to this day, haven’t been fully forgiven. With all the anger and tension, they probably threw in a few good punches as well. Romano eventually left, and Feliciano thought to himself “Good riddance”. However as time wore on, they couldn’t help but think about the other, wonder how they were doing, and reflect on how they parted ways. 

Things were still a bit tense when Romano returned, and they didn’t acknowledge the fight for a while. However, they began putting a bit more effort into rekindling their relationship. It took some time, and it wasn’t an easy journey, but they’re in a much healthier place now than before. They’re glued at the hip, they share everything, they know every little quirk and detail about the other, and they’ve begun to love each other as family (though teasing and head-butting is a common occurrence). 

If you asked them back then if they would go through unification, they would be incredibly iffy. But if you asked them now, they would likely say yes. They wouldn't trade their brother for anything in the world.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Nova Genesis

Part One

Summary: tensions rise as strangers board the ship and turn Dibs' entire operation on its head to obtain critical evidence. But not everyone feels the same at the prospect of returning to Earth | Word Count: 4.5k~ | Warnings: mentions of Ettore's crimes, swearing, mentions of violence, threatening behaviour, masturbation (m)

A/N: A birthday present for @dreamymoomin @in-a-mountain-pool, my fellow Ettore fucker (affectionate 😘). Have a very happy birthday <3

For the last several days, Dibs was irritable. There was something she wasn't telling them, and none of them had the interest nor the energy to ask. But something had spooked her, and that was never good. She stopped the weekly examinations for the females, and started destroying the samples from the males. Both of which were things she previously cherished as part of her twisted experiment for a child.

The rest simply followed their daily routine as usual, just without the lingering, judgemental glances from Dibs, replaced with a sense of unease and confusion when she’d shut herself in her office for days on end. It was a good and happy coincidence that at least without her help, they knew how to look after themselves. 

Loud alarms startled their otherwise quiet lunch. Some didn’t move an inch and others merely looked around, eyes wide with fear, not knowing what to do with themselves. And the second they felt the ship quite literally jolt, as if something had docked against them, Ettore had a sense of where the situation was headed. No more than fifteen minutes later, the doors where they had boarded the ship, opened once again, revealing quite shockingly a band of official looking people.

Several armed guards stood like pillars beside the army of lawyers and technicians, prepared to both shut down the operation and steer the spacecraft back towards Earth. They held their weapons casually, their gazes insistent that violence would occur should the team be threatened in any way.

“If you all know what's good for you, you'll let them do their work. And you'll all get to go home.”

Ettore watched with a stoic expression, as if uncaring and neutral at the idea of returning. He highly doubted that everyone shared the same opinion about the prospect of returning to Earth, to their prisons, where they all knew too well. 

His eyes watched with a deep interest as the team split off to start their investigation around the prisoners, starting with downloading the encrypted files Dibs had attempted to hide. Each one potential evidence for the twisted doctor's misconduct.

He watches one of the lawyers particularly closely, unable to admit to himself exactly why he finds her interesting to look at. They all wear casual clothes, something he has not seen since leaving Earth in the first place, and now something that seems so undeniably foreign and alien.

Her lanyard displayed both her name and her title. Legal Representation.

She started by organising individual meetings with the prisoners, for them to air their grievances, with evidence of course. Documenting each one regarding their treatment, health and level of punishment. Some were forthcoming and some, predictably, were not. And could she blame them? For so many months, years even, distrust was just another fact of life up here. 

Dibs watched with frustration her life work being dismantled and dissected. At first her attempts at justification were met with cold looks and shakes of their head from the legal team, eventually turning into silence. They were there not to debate ethics but to enforce the law and protect the rights of those who had been under her control.

The little lawyer, Ettore so affectionately named her in his head, was diligent about her work. And when he spotted her next, she was deep into downloading onto an external hard drive the encrypted data on Dibs' computer in the infirmary. He couldn’t deny, it was strange to have other people wandering the ship. The otherwise wide and meandering hallways now felt cramped, with barely two people able to stand side by side while letting another pass. It felt suffocating. And he knew it was only a matter of time before someone snapped. 

His jaw clenched as he watched her from the doorway, attempting to make sense of the software Dibs' had so often fiddled with to make it near impossible to infiltrate. And he wondered with a sense of defensiveness and perhaps immaturity, or naivety, that this woman was pushing change, and he wasn't sure if he liked that.

She let out a pleased sound when she cracked the last layer of security, and Ettore laughed through his nose.

“Suppose she didn't account for someone like you, hm,” he mused dispassionately and somewhat uninterested. A flash of irritation gnawed at him when she didn't look up from her work to address him.

“‘Dr Dibs’ didn't account for a lot of things,” she started, her tone neutral, “nevermind taking accountability.”

His eyes darkened, roving over her form behind. She was easily smaller. If he really really wanted, she wouldn't be able to fight. But did he want her to?

She finally paused and swivelled on her chair to face him, her expression insistent, making his darkened thoughts pause for just a moment.

"You don’t seem too thrilled about the prospect of going back to Earth. Most would be eager to leave this place.”

It wasn't a question, but he could smell that she wanted an answer. And normally, he would have entertained her. But her expression, coupled with her expectancy for him to bend, made him huff and turn away.

“Content with staying here and giving Dibs sperm samples for the rest of your life? Not that I think that's the part you dislike.”

She mumbles that last part under her breath, turning back to the computer to check its download progress. And while her back is turned, something is stoked in his eyes. That was an incredibly dangerous thing for her to say. Especially to him. To someone like him.

He shoves his hands in his scrub pockets, mostly to touch himself.

“And what is there to go back to?” He inquires, watching with interest when she turns back to him halfway. He raises his eyebrows, tone somewhat mocking, “something about the devil you know.”

She gives a breathy laugh, “suppose it's comfort in its own way. Wouldn't you rather live than just survive?”

He narrows his gaze, stubbornness enhancing his disbelief.

“You really believe that it's just step off this ship and poof, everything's fine?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Why would I want to go back to a world that forgot me the second they sent me up here?”

She sighs. “It'll be what you want it to be, if you keep thinking like that.”

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. These lawyer human rights fucking types will always cling to some kind of hope, however naive. It was a word long flung out of Ettore’s vocabulary, not that he was usually the hopeful type. She sighed through her nose at his lack of response and turned back around, typing quickly and practised on the keyboard. Her messy, plaited hair fell down her back, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he thought of what it would have been like to grab the end, and twist it over his fist he’d be strong enough to subdue her, that was for sure. Even thinking about it, he ran his tongue over his teeth.

He wondered if she knew what he was here for. Did she know the ins and outs of what the jury said about him? Or what the judge condemned him to? Or was he just another tick box on her list, just another name? Did she either understand the man he was now, or what he was capable of? It both thrilled and unsettled him in equal measure. He watched her slender fingers move across the keyboard, thinking, how would she react when she knew how dangerous he really was. 

Would she still carry that same determination, or would fear finally colour those idealistic eyes?

He smirked slightly, thinking that he had met many women like her that used her indifference as armour over her, shielding her from the darker truths of the world, or perhaps, just the darker truths of his world.

“You’ve read my file, haven’t you.”

His voice was low, almost a growl, daring her to acknowledge the monster many believed him to be. She paused, her fingers halting mid-type, and her lips parted. For a moment he thought she might turn around again, but she wet her lips and continued typing.

There was a firmness in her voice that surprised Ettore. “I've read your file, yes. I know what you've done.”

“And?”

“I’m not giving a glowing review on your crimes.”

He gave a huff of a laugh. “No need to get antsy, sweetheart.”

She turned her head, her face calm with an expression that belied any fear in him. “My job isn’t to judge, it's to defend human rights, yours included.”

Ettore's smirk widened, his eyes narrowing as he processed her words. "That's a neat way to put it. Defending human rights, even for someone like me? Must make you feel pretty good, huh?"

Her expression remained unchanged, her resolve as firm as ever. "You think I do this for my health?"

Before Ettore could respond, the sudden clang and shout from the other end of the corridor cut through their conversation. Both turned toward the noise. A group of guards hustled past, their faces tense, moving toward the source of the disturbance.

Ettore's attention briefly flickered to the commotion, then back to her, a victorious smirk on his face. "Looks like not everyone's as cooperative as I am."

She cocked her head, “and you’re being cooperative are you?” she asked firmly, with a harsh rhetorical edge. “Anyway, it’s not about that. It’s about your safety as a whole-”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried an unmistakable edge. "And what if I wasn't safe? What if I was the one out there causing trouble? Would you defend me then?"

She met his gaze, unflinching. "I defend the rights of all prisoners, no matter their crimes."

"Theoretically, right?" Ettore pushed back, amused.

"Practically."

Their intense exchange was suddenly interrupted by the return of the guards, escorting a handcuffed prisoner between them. The man was shouting, struggling against the restraints, his eyes wild with desperation.

"Fucking assholes! You're all just dressing it up as justice!" he yelled as he was dragged past them.

Ettore watched the scene unfold, his expression unreadable. Once the noise had died down, he turned back to her, his voice low. "Not everyone believes in your justice. Being out here…it changes people, makes them into monsters."

“I don’t believe that.”

Ettore's smirk faded, replaced by a contemplative frown. "Maybe you should. The monsters are real. And sometimes, they're closer than you think."

His words lingered in the air, thick with an ominous undertone, he turned and walked away, his steps deliberate and heavy against the metallic floor. She watched him go, his broad silhouette gradually merging with the shadows of the spacecraft's corridor. It was only when he disappeared from view that she realised she'd been holding her breath, her chest tight with apprehension.

She exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the tension that had coiled inside her during their conversation. The exchange had revealed layers to Ettore she hadn't fully appreciated before, depths of cynicism and a hint of something darker, perhaps a warning or a challenge. His parting words echoed in her mind, a reminder of the complex human narratives woven into the fabric of this mission.

Her eyes lingered on the corner where Ettore had vanished, the unsettling feeling of his presence still palpable in the air. She was left with a profound sense of the weight of her task, not just to administer legal justice but to understand and navigate the human elements at play. The reality of Ettore's warning, that the monsters might indeed be closer than she thought, settled heavy on her shoulders as she turned back to her work.

The mission to dismantle Dr. Dibs' operation continued, but a quieter but equally dangerous plan was brewing among a faction of the prisoners. These were men and women who, for various reasons, fears of retribution on Earth, lost ties, or simply the terror of facing their past crimes, had decided they were better off lost in space. They saw the arrival of she and her team not as a rescue but as a threat to the precarious stability they had found, or rather forged.

Ettore, caught between his newfound interest with his little lawyer and his inherent distrust of returning to a world that had discarded him, found himself pulled into this group’s orbit. Monte led the group, not particularly charismatic but he was seen as trustworthy, had quickly identified Ettore’s influence among the prisoners and sought to leverage it, despite their dislike for each other. There was something in Monte that was also as antsy as Dibs, as if he feared returning to Earth not because of the consequences, but because it meant confronting ghosts he had long buried.

With them, huddled in secret within the confines of the storage room, Mink leaned, arms crossed, as if she were still on the fence and could be persuaded. 

“This ain’t redemption,” Monte started, his eyes firm, “up here we’re forgotten, nothing but fuckin’ dust. Back there, we're monsters on display.”

Ettore scoffed lightly, “and what? Hijack the ship? You think that ends well for any of us?”

“You know Dibs wants ‘em gone too.”

“We’re not killing them,” Mink interjected.

Monte glared at Mink, his frustration evident. "You think I don’t know we can’t kill them? We take control, redirect the course. We can find a place out here where they can't just drag us back to face whatever hell they've cooked up for us on Earth."

“So they’re hostages,” Ettore added bluntly. “They’re not like us. They'll come looking for them."

Monte nodded, his voice steady. "Then we make it too costly to come after us. We send a message back, make it clear we’re not their lab rats anymore, not their spectacle."

Mink shifted uncomfortably, her arms still crossed, her gaze flickering between Monte and Ettore. "Okay, stop measuring dicks for one second. We're talking about potentially starting a war here. What if they send the military after us? We're equipped to handle guards, maybe, but not a fucking assault."

The two men beside her fell quiet, and Ettore glanced down the hallway as if to check they nobody was listening in.

Mink filled the silence, her decision torn in two different directions, “And what about the others? The ones who might want to go back?"

Ettore rolled his eyes slightly. "Sometimes you gotta make the hard choices for people. Look at where trusting Earth got us in the first place." 

His point didn’t at all mean to sound like he was supporting Monte, so he hated the little nod of agreement he gave. The way his eyes lit up.

But Monte caught it, misinterpreting Ettore’s reluctant agreement as support, his own resolve hardening. "We were discarded, forgotten. If we don't take a stand now, when will we ever?" he speaks erratically, as if even now pleading his case, “I killed a man. His family won’t rest until I’m buried. Talking won’t change that.”

Mink and Ettore remained silent. But their expressions could not be any more different.

“It won’t change it for you two either,” Monte added with venom, “You think any of us got a fair shot down there? You really trust this lawyer, these people, to make it right? Open your fucking eyes. She's here to make herself feel better, not to save anyone."

Ettore, who had been following the exchange silently, felt a surge of concern. His thoughts briefly flashed to his little lawyer, her conviction that the law could serve justice, her determination to fight for their rights. It contrasted starkly with the raw survival instinct that drove Monte.

“So that’s it then,” Ettore mused, “you want violence.”

Monte turned on Ettore, his gaze fierce. "If it’s violence they understand, it’s violence they’ll get."

Ettore met Monte’s fiery gaze with a steely resolve of his own. The tight confines of the storage room seemed to shrink further, suffocating under the weight of impending decisions. Decisions that could very well define the fate of everyone on board.

“You want to lead us into a war we can’t win,” he countered, “you’re gonna fuck all this up, and for what?”

Monte's breathing was heavy, his chest heaving with each breath, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He looked as if he wanted to say more, to argue that his plan was their only chance, but the fight seemed to drain from him second by agonising second. 

“Fine. We’ll see what your lawyer can do. But if it doesn’t work, if they don’t listen...” His voice trailed off, leaving the threat hanging, an unspoken ultimatum that they all understood.

After a week of tireless work aboard the spacecraft, tension simmered under a deceptive calm. She and her team had catalogued countless files and dismantled numerous experiments, yet they were still not close to gathering all the evidence they needed before the planned return to Earth. The ship was suspended in the vast silence of space, a temporary lull in their journey both literally and metaphorically.

Ettore leaned against the doorway, the threshold between their ship and the prisoner's felt so inescapable. The distance between their daily lives aboard the ship was not lost on him, and a cynical remark bubbled to the surface, and he couldn't help but run his eyes over her as she made her way past him to go to her own quarters.

With a sardonic twist to his lips, he approached her, his voice carrying just enough edge to be provocative. "You look tired, sweetheart. Must be tough, being so close yet so far from all the answers you need.”

She merely glared at him sideways, and despite her composed exterior, there was a fatigue in her eyes that spoke volumes about the strain they were all under.

“It's part of the job. And Dibs hasn't exactly made it easy.”

Ettore chuckled softly, the sound more mocking than amused. "Sure, but at the end of the day, you get to retreat to your safe corner of the ship, away from all of us. Sleep better thinking you’re not surrounded by monsters?”

Her face remained impassive, but her eyes hardened slightly, a hint of steel beneath the surface.

He huffs. “Maybe one night you should try sleeping over here, see how dangerous we really are. Maybe then you’d get all your evidence faster.”

There was a moment of silent acknowledgment between them. It was a threat. One meant to hit deep. If she was smart, she'd see the larger threat beneath it.

"Just remember, justice feels different depending on which side of the ship you sleep on.”

She cocked her head at him, but not in question, her eyes remained steadfast and firm. It was as if she merely wanted to see a different angle of him.

“Maybe it’s less about where I sleep,” she muses, “maybe it’s understanding the lay of the land, hm? Knowing where the landmines are buried.”

Ettore’s expression shifted only barely, whether she caught it or not, he couldn’t tell. She had obviously been interviewing all the prisoners. And if he had to guess about who was likely to blab about this plan Monte had cooking, it was most likely Boyse. They’d notoriously disliked each other.

But a subtle smirk rose to his lips. She was trying to prod him, thinking he was the leader in all of this. Where she could not be more wrong.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart.”

Her jaw tightened at that. And his warning was cryptic enough and yet clear enough to read the hidden meaning beneath. There were dangers lurking within the ranks. Uprisings. That not only jeopardises the mission, but their lives as well. She felt her heart thud hard in her chest, feeling right now more than ever, that she did not belong here.

With a thick swallow, she sighed, trying to appear calm, “I appreciate your concern for our safety.”

Ettore gave a half-smirk, recognising her diplomatic reply. And though he was tempted to say more, to see how she’d squirm, he pushed off the wall and turned his back to her. He recognised he had shared too much with her, a crucial piece of information, but something that also revealed a concealed trust for her. 

When he turned back to glance at her, he felt a smug pride in his chest, she was still watching him. And her eyes flickered upwards when she felt she had been caught. And the little lawyer scurried away back to her haven, with not another word.

She returned to her quarters, the sound of the door sealing behind her echoing slightly in the compact, utilitarian space that served as her temporary sanctuary. She slipped out of her shoes, feeling the cool metal floor beneath her feet, a small comfort after another long day of navigating the tight corridors and tighter tensions of the spacecraft.

After a long and decompressing shower, she moved to her small desk, where she activated her datapad, to record her nightly entries for the team back on Earth, to update them on the progress.

Day 23.

Looking at herself on the screen, her hair wet over her shoulders, she felt she looked tired and more weary, compared to when she first arrived. And wondered briefly how the prisoners had not yet gone mad. 

“The evidence we need to solidify the case against Dr Dibs is…extensive and…elusive. She’s trying to hide things, which doesn’t help, behind walls of useless other data she thinks we’ll miss. The crew’s morale fluctuates, as expected. They are under immense stress, given that the cooperation of some of the prisoners has been divisive at best.  Boyse’s interviews are particularly interesting. She’s afraid of going back to Earth, seeing as there is little support for her. But she seems rather excited to see Dibs see justice for the horrendous things she's done to them. She made me aware of a former prisoner, Elektra, who died shortly after childbirth due to lack of proper care. The baby... also did not make it. Boyse has made it very clear that the experiments and examinations on the women have both become more frequent and more desperate after this incident. Mink tells a similar story, albeit with some details redacted. Unfortunately, Dibs disposed of the bodies shortly after their deaths, so they won’t be recoverable.  They both heavily dislike most of the men on board, with the exception of Tcherny. He seems keen on returning to Earth. Mostly because he has nobody there to judge him anymore. Monte…has refused interviews. And too refuses interaction with any of us. Ettore. Well, he was cryptic today, as usual. I believe he is the type of person to lure people in just to watch them try and escape him.”

She paused, with a heavy sigh, running her hand through her hair. Stress gnawed at her temples. And something else tugged at her gut. Something she could not mistake as sickness.

“He refuses to say anything outright. But we must tread carefully. It’s clear some, if not most, of the prisoners do not wish to return, fearing retribution and violence, or whoever awaits them who will not share in our opinions of them. I can’t help but…wonder why we are here.”

She couldn’t concentrate after that. Her thoughts involuntarily drifted to Ettore. There was something undeniably compelling, beyond the complexities of his personality. Her racing thoughts could not keep up with her mouth, it felt.

“He’s an enigma. He has strong features but…manages to control them under a mask. And yet, there’s an intensity in his eyes that’s so piercing. The way he looks at me sometimes…it’s unsettling. And yet I can’t find it in myself to look away. And his voice, even when he whispers it’s…”

“The monsters are real. And sometimes, they're closer than you think."

She swallows, her fingers resting on her throat as if to feel her own pulse.

“It carries a weight, one that commands attention. Like a threat but also…like he’s testing me, measuring my reactions…”

“Maybe one night you should try sleeping over here, see how dangerous we really are.”

“...like a predator.”

She paused, clarity rushing back to her like a wave, pulling her under and robbing her of breath. With a quick flick, she turned off the video, taking a moment to really consider her words and her runaway thoughts. Why was she focusing so much on his physical details? She argued perhaps that it was the amount of time she’d spent with all of them. But she shook her head slightly, trying to steer her thoughts back to reality.

After a moment of pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, the stress and internal conflict caused her to hastily climb into bed, hoping perhaps that the sweet escape of sleep might rid her of these thoughts. As she lay back in her bed, staring up at the ceiling of her quarters, the ship's constant hum a soft backdrop, she couldn't help but replay their interactions. There was an undeniable tension there, something that went beyond the usual professional dynamic. Was it just the stress of the mission making her over analyse, or was there something more, something real and tangible in the way he moved and spoke that kept drawing her thoughts back to him?

Ettore too, lay awake, lost in turbulent emotions. His mind replaying his interactions with her, each moment etched into his memory. The way her eyes narrowed in concentration, the subtle shift in her posture when he spoke of their harsh conditions on the ship before their arrival, and particularly, the flickers of fear when he would tread into dangerous territory with his words alone. Not even having to be near her. He was captivated by those expressions, those nuances, and the challenges they presented. 

In the quiet solitude of his cell, Nansen asleep in the top bunk, he allowed his hand to slide beneath his scrubs, eyes slipping shut as his hand lazily stroked his length to full hardness in no time at all. He indulged in the image of her. Her intelligent, alert eyes seemed to follow each word he said. Always evaluating.  Evaluating him.

And fuck, did it feel good to be picked apart by her. 

He returned to the same recurring thought he’d had every night, that if he pushed her boundaries, how would she react when truly tested? He wanted to see her rough, unguarded. Would she shrink or rise to the challenge? The mere thought of breaking through those defenses to a place where she might react out of sheer instinct, rather than reason, was intoxicating. 

With a stuttered moan, and coming hard into his hand with a jerk of his hips, the challenge was set, and Ettore was eager to see it through, to discover just how deep the layers of his little lawyer went.

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