#floor shrivel up and die

[delicateimage]

I’m scared because I think I’ve accepted dying to my eating disorder yesterday

[remxedmoon]

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!!!! I’M OLD NOW!!!! so!!! as celebration i’m finally posting my isatsona!!! because a while back i saw someone bring up the idea of making sonas based on our roles in the fandom and i thought that was a fun idea teehees. he is like 2 inch tall and obsessed with a weird card game involving sacrifices. they’ve apparently Changed at some point but no one can tell what’s actually different about them. they keep a small bird in their apron at all times. do enjoy them.

also!! greyscale + alt without his glasses below!!

[jayspilledink]

pretty please i love them so much

im so very normal

[sophieswundergarten]

Guess what it's my blog and we're going to talk about the Waiting Room now.

In the show, it seems rather boring at first glance. However, this is a LIE because they want to throw you off. There's only one chair, and it has a short leg. There's a weird spirograph-type piece of art on the wall. There's a fish tank, for some reason. There's a bunch of very strange shelves. And there's a giant clock on the wall. THIS IS NOT ALL. The normal entry door is invisible due to the paneling, and the back wall MOVES. It is also possible the clock moves to create loss of time and the floor slants, although these might be stress-induced hallucination. It is a perfectly designed horror liminal space, and, depending on who you put in there and why, I'm fairly certain it can be defined as psychological torture. It evokes the same kind of discomfort and lack of control that a convict being placed in solitary confinement experiences.

HOWEVER

In the books, it is entirely different, and arguably worse. Again, depending on the person. In the books, it is a completely dark room full of slimy black mud that isn't thick enough to stand on. It is also a very deep pit of mud, so anyone who enters for a period of time slowly starts sinking. It also has bugs in it.

Now. If you are not the type of person who is terrified of who you are waiting for, or if you are a person who typically enjoys defying the conventional, the show version shouldn't be much of an issue. The chair doesn't work? Find a way to fix it, or sit on the floor. The room is obviously set up so you have to face whoever is going to enter? Face the other direction. Look at the fish. Sit on the really weird and randomly empty shelves. There are many things that can be done physically about what the room is doing to you mentally. It is also easier for the people who are putting you through this ordeal to rationalize. "It's just an oddly decorated waiting room. There's nothing that bad about waiting"

But the book version is another story. One that I have many questions about. One, we learn later on that the mud is created and maintained by the room being connected to an underground stream. (It takes a long time to swim/dig through the mud and other obstacles to reach the stream, so it is not a viable escape option for anyone but Milligan) It also, as previously mentioned, houses a lot of bugs. We do not know what kind of bugs these are. And yet, since they are alive, they must be living off of something in there. Most bugs cannot just live off of mud. So, either the Executives are having to refresh the bug population from time to time (And where would they get the bugs? Do they collect them? Does Curtain purchase them and have them shipped to the island? Does no one question this?) Or the Waiting Room is its own mainly self-contained ecosystem. My prevailing tentative theory is that it was designed for research/as a science experiment and then either abandoned until Curtain needed somewhere to keep people or he deliberately made the decision that it was part of his interrogation methods for the agents he captured (before he brainswept them) and then he simply extended the use to interrogating students.

BUT ALSO

How did Curtain in the book convince teenagers/young adults to leave children in there? It is an entirely different ballgame to tell someone (especially a younger person who hasn't quite got the morals beaten out of them yet) that it is completely safe and not at all detrimental to leave ELEVEN YEAR OLDS in a pitch-black room of slimy mud and unknown creatures for any period of time! That must have left some damage to the Executives, or maybe they had already experienced it and were afraid to be threatened with it again. Either way, that's such a terrifying thing to anyone, especially a child, and especially since they seemed to choose to leave kids in there overnight (Maybe so it wouldn't interfere with too many classes?) and they wouldn't get any sleep. AND THEN the meaner Executives and Curtain would GASLIGHT THEM. "It's not such a bad place" "Nobody likes to wait, but it didn't hurt you" "Waiting can be unpleasant, but sometimes there's no help for it" and whatever else they said. We don't even hear about the Waiting Room from Sticky or one of the other kids who've been sentenced; they just get extremely upset and start crying.

What I'm saying is, while it was a very clever narrative tool and an unconventional way to raise stakes without causing physical harm to children, I can see why it was toned down for the show. However, I think it is a fascinating bit of plot that can be examined in a lot of different ways.

[colourless-hydrangeas]

The gecko in my room has been bloody loud lately. What is happening?

[nazumichi]

hands shaking, teeth chattering, while i frantically search for an image of a specific piece of concept art that isn’t grainy.

[pa-pa-plasma]

ah. just found out why i hate the whole "our attention spans have been ruined by modern technology" thing. it's because all the "symptoms" they're calling pathetic & sad & rage-inducing is literally just ADHD. that's my brain. like. that's how i live, phone or not. i guess we're just reinventing "you have to be looking the teacher in the eye to show them you're paying attention or else detention" then?

[ichangeintothemule]

the level of stress im in: eating kfc

[wraithlafitte]

you need to rest

pairing: sam winchester x reader

CONTENT: fluff, established relationship, reader is shorter than sam (but who isn't)

word count: 724

You tiptoed down the stairs from the second floor of Bobby's house, careful not to step on the places you knew creaked. You had awoken feeling the full effects of your dehydration, and needed a glass of water asap or you were certain your mouth would shrivel up and die.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs, you noticed a faint glow coming from inside the library. The men often stayed up late researching, so you didn't even look to see who it was, beelining to the kitchen to get your water.

The doors separating the library from the kitchen were closed, so it wasn't until you were on your way back to bed when you glanced inside the library.

It wasn't Bobby up late, like you assumed. It was Sam, laying over a pile of books, his head resting on his forearm like a pillow. His laptop was open in front of him, casting his face in a ghostly light that emphasized the tired lines etched into his skin.

You walked to the desk softly and placed your water glass down, leaning over Sam to close his browser windows and turn off his laptop.

You gently shook Sam's shoulder. He jerked upright and grabbed your arm, always ready for a fight. "It's just me, Sam," you whispered. He instantly relaxed and dropped your arm.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Guess I fell asleep."

"It's four in the morning," you told him sympathetically. "You've been working yourself to the bone over this thing. You need to rest."

"I'm fine," Sam croaked. He looked haggard, dark bags under his eyes and lines carved into his brow from squinting.

A few moments from the past week clicked into place in your mind. Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded and eyes closed. Sam dozing off in the car on the way to town. Sam with his forehead pressed to a bookshelf, jumping when the book fell from his hand, and insisting that he hadn't been falling asleep. Going to bed before Sam and waking up with him not there.

"Jesus. How much sleep have you been getting?" you asked concernedly. "You look like shit."

"I don't know."

"Don't know or won't say because you know it's not enough?"

Sam heaved a sigh that turned into a yawn. "Maybe like, three hours a night? Two? I've gone longer with less."

"A year without a soul doesn't count," you said, swatting his arm. "Come on, we're going to bed."

"But-" he protested.

"Sam."

He closed his eyes defeatedly. "Okay. You win."

Sam rose from the chair slowly and grabbed you into his arms sleepily, resting his chin on your head.

You led him by his limp arm up the stairs to the room you two were staying in, although lately it had just been you. Sam didn't bother to put pajamas on, simply kicking off his shoes and falling face-first into the mattress. You giggled, setting your water down on the side table, and followed suit.

Sam peeked one eye open to look at you. You brushed his hair behind his ear. "You gotta take better care of yourself."

He smiled half-heartedly. "That's what I have you for," he teased. As you scoffed, he turned onto his side and pulled you against his chest. You snuggled against his warm body, face stuffed into his flannel, breathing in the scent of him.

You yawned, causing him to yawn as well, sending you both into a fit of giggles. You turned your face solemn again. "Promise me you'll come to bed when I do this week. At least."

Sam looked lovingly into your upturned face and kissed you on the forehead. "Promise," he whispered. His hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you close into his neck again.

You kissed the base of his throat. "I love you. I don't want you to run yourself into the ground."

He exhaled lightly. "I won't. I know you won't let me. And I know it's not your job to take care of me, but... I appreciate it."

Your arm curled around his side, rubbing his back. "I know," you said simply.

As the first pale fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, you and Sam had dozed off in each other's arms, breathing in tandem.

Finally resting.

divider by @saradika-graphics

[chimielie]

sun seeker

summary: you are a princess, a future queen. somehow, this is still not enough.

word count: 1.5k

cw: fighting, oikawa’s an asshole (sorry), arranged marriage/royalty au, fake history stuff, angst to fluff (i guess), i’m not telling you who the love interest is but like. Guess, misogyny, ambiguous ending

a/n: if i tell you that i imagined a whole other side for oikawa will you forgive me? also this was supposed to be a short drabble related to between lightning strikes but it very much was not. my bad

Your betrothed is unexpectedly quiet.

It had only been a few days since you met the crown prince, having been sequestered in your father’s court in the country for most of your life, learning to fill the seat of someday-Empress. The capital is huge, bustling with people, always noisy—or so you surmised from within your veiled carriage. You had thought, as you bowed before the Emperor and Imperial Heir, that your life was finally beginning, finally growing beyond the narrow confines of etiquette training and religious rituals.

Instead, you felt your dreams shrivel and die as your daily routine proceeded exactly as it had for close to two decades. The only difference was time mandatorily spent with Tooru, who seemed… less than enthused by your match.

You had dreamed of someone who chafed against authority as you had, who felt as bound by propriety despite the privilege of your positions. Alas, you found him to be both sullen and arrogant, eager to rule but in denial of his own dissatisfaction with a noblewoman such as yourself. It made you want to scream. You had not chosen the circumstances of your birth, the path which you had been led to walk. It was not your fault that fate had pushed you two so forcefully together without regard for your desires, ambitions, or personalities.

“I was told you visited the temple this morning,” you say, watching your fiancé pause a long sip of tea, his brown eyes temporarily widening. Your face slips momentarily into a frown; you cannot conceal your frustration with his clear disdain for such small talk but unwillingness to bring anything more engaging to your table.

“Yes,” he says finally, setting down his cup. Light brown liquid sloshes over the rim and onto his fingers; he wipes them on his robes without care for the expensive fabric. “There are many rituals that must be done to ensure the most auspicious wedding possible.” His voice catches noticeably on the word wedding. You take a sip of your own tea to hide your grimace.

It is lukewarm. How long have you been sitting here, trying to force civility?

“Did it go well?” You ask in turn, your pitch straining. Behind you, one of the imperial guards snorts. When you try to discern which of them broke character, they have all returned to a stoic, uniform position. You straighten your posture.

“It was satisfactory,” Tooru says. You hear the snort again, and the crown prince’s lips twitch, just barely.

You shut your eyes tightly for a moment, trying to take in a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, though, bound by heavy fabrics and scarlet ribbon. There doesn’t seem to be anywhere for the air to go.

“What did you do this morning?” He asks, and you throw the cup at him.

His Imperial Highness is athletic beneath his aristocracy, and he dodges it easily. It bounces off one of the silk screens behind him and lies, cracked in two, in a puddle of lukewarm tea on the floor. You bury your face in your hands and scream through your teeth, a short, guttural noise that carves a little more space in your chest to breathe.

When you look up again, he stands over you, his perfect brows pulled into an expression of concern. You know without looking that two of the Imperial Guard are standing behind you, hands on their weapons.

“You have asked me that,” you say slowly, fighting to push the words out through the red haze of rage, “twice now. And you asked what my plans were yesterday. And the answer is always the same: wait in my rooms for you to call, because I am a painting of a woman waiting for you to walk in and criticize my form and decide that I am satisfactory.”

“I didn’t—” he says, and for a moment you become a fairytale heroine instead of a scorned princess, sitting on the floor looking up at him with despondent eyes that betray your desire to be loved. “This is what we are,” he decides finally, expression no longer concerned. “I think perhaps you need some rest.”

“You cannot be serious,” you seethe, pushing yourself to your feet. One of the guards puts a hand on you, ready to restrain you.

Tooru turns, his back facing you. He glances back as he exits, tone bored, eyes cold.

“Do not worry yourself,” he tells you, “I still find you satisfactory.”

You lunge after him, but two strong hands clamp down on your arms, hauling you back. You writhe and kick, but when you look up at your guard, his face is impassive, his eyes distant.

“I hate you,” you snarl, and watch as his eyes flicker down to your face. Seeing you. “I hate you,” you say again, but it sounds much more like a sob.

You can’t sleep that night.

The moon is full, high and bright, and every time you close your eyes, you see visions of your future. A glorified concubine, living in an expensive sanitarium, surely to be driven to insanity before your husband can ascend the throne.

You sit up, wild-eyed, and throw your door open with more force than you realize.

“Princess,” says your guard, startled.

“I can’t sleep,” you say, your heart thrumming in your chest. “Hajime, please, I can’t sleep.”

“I can’t let you out of your quarters,” Iwaizumi Hajime, head of your security detail, says.

“I don’t want—” you start, and he gives you a knowing look. “I know. Please just come and—talk with me. A little.”

He sighs, deeply, a rush of wind through cypress trees, and follows you into your room.

“Sit,” you order him, and the moonlight affords you the ability to see his green eyes flash with panic. “I am your future queen. Sit.”

He sits, trying to maintain his stern, professional face, even as you peel his helmet off and run your hands through his flattened hair.

“You lied to me,” you hum, and he jerks under your touch, façade breaking. “You told me Tooru never shut up.”

“I knew him a long time ago,” says Hajime. One of the few who had come with you to Kyoto, he had been raised here and come to your father’s court as a youth to learn to fight. “He’s not—he’s stubborn. He’ll soften eventually.”

“I don’t care,” you say bitterly. “Why did you hold me back?”

“He’s the prince,” Hajime says, his voice rasping with exasperation.

“I am the princess,” you say, and his lips press together into a straight line.

“My princess,” he murmurs. Hajime has always run warm, much more suited for Kyoto’s climate than your hometown’s. When he wraps an arm around you and pulls you against his side, you can feel his body heat through his armor.

“You let him say horrible things to me,” you say. His hold on you tightens.

“He is my oldest friend.”

“I am your—” you sigh heavily, pushing away from him, looking out at the moon. “I am nothing to you. I will live, though I am ungrateful. Many would say I am the luckiest woman in all the land.” The air is very cold without his touch.

“You are not nothing to me,” Hajime says, and you smile wistfully at his selective hearing.

“At least I am satisfactory.” You don’t see what happens, but Hajime’s helmet clatters loudly on the floor a moment later. “What—”

“He is my oldest friend,” he repeats himself, but his voice is low, so deep in his chest you can barely hear him. It does not matter; you can feel his words. “I wanted to kill him.”

Your lips part on a silent gasp, and he leans in close, so close that you can nearly taste him. You’ve always loved the way he smells, something base that relaxes you instantly. You haven’t been this close to him since you left home.

“He’s the Emperor,” he continues, “I can’t hurt him. I held us back.”

“Us?” You ask, his fingers suddenly tightly intertwined with yours.

“Ask me to help you leave,” he says, and you shut your eyes against his gaze, frightening and familiar all at once. “Ask me to take you away from here. I had—I have plans, and you will not be happy with him, Princess. You will be more than satisfactory, satisfied—you will be loved.”

Something knotted tightly unspools in you, red threads laying themselves out in perfect lines. You duck your head and nod against his shoulder, face rubbing against the metal of his armor.

You aren’t likely to succeed, you know, no matter how thoroughly Hajime has planned. Your fiancé will look for you: a stubborn man, like he had said. You do not know if his disdain for you or his love for Hajime will protect you. You could both die.

“Take me away,” you say, voice ringing out like a queen’s.

The moon, at its fullest cycle, chases its estranged wife into the day. The crown prince wakes without his betrothed. The world only spins forward.

[nicksbestie]

i know it won't work - C. Sturniolo

Summary : "part of me wants you back, but i know it won't work like that"

Warnings : very angsty. crying, heartbreak, yk the drill. nothing triggering though!

Word Count : 1000

Pairing : Chris Sturniolo/Reader (past romantic)

A/N : i was listening to this song in the car this morning, and boom here comes this fic idea!

You regretted ever moving to Boston.

You hated the city, hated who it reminded you of. You couldn’t leave your house without feeling trapped in the space that you had once adored to travel with the person you had loved with your entire heart. If you had the money, you would have moved far away by now. All you could do was be so grateful that the two of you hadn’t moved in together, because you would have actually had to leave. As much as you hated that you were still here, leaving would have torn the pieces you were already in right into shreds. 

You sat in front of the empty closet in your guest room, tears rolling down your face as you processed that it would stay empty for a long time. You couldn’t bring yourself to fill it, wanting it to stay empty just on the off chance that he came back, that he needed someone, somewhere to stay, somewhere to put his things. If he needed space that he could only find in your home, you would have space for him. He could inhabit that space for as long as he wanted, as he inhabited your heart still, living in it despite how tightly it was clenching in pain, as if to squeeze him out.

You couldn’t bear the thought that he might never come back, that you really may never see him again, that you might not get to love him again like you used to. How could you bring yourself to deal with the idea that this might be it? Your number wasn’t blocked, but it seemed like he couldn’t find a way to softly tell you that there was no chance he was coming back, so he simply left all of your texts on delivered. Despite how heartbroken you were, you knew there was no way that you could go back to loving him in a non romantic way. There were two ends of the spectrum, and you knew that you would either love him endlessly, or hate him relentlessly. You hoped it never came to be the latter.

Chris knew you were still waiting on him. He knew you were hoping he would change his mind, that he would turn around and run back to him, and the breakup was killing him as well. He couldn’t lie to himself like he could to you, he had thought about going back. He had thought about claiming it was all a lapse in judgment, that he still loved you with everything in him, but he worried that he wasn’t worth all of the hope you were saving for him. He’d paced around his room so much that he had nearly worn holes in the floor, and even his brothers had begged him to fix things, but he just couldn’t do it. He really did believe that this was the best move for the both of you, but he couldn’t deny the doubt creeping into the back of his mind. After all, it had been a long relationship, one spanning just over five years. How could he just let that go?

You’d run into each other in a store, and you’d both seen your face on the other person’s. The dark under eye circles, the bloodshot eyes, the signs of sadness sinking into your bones. Neither of you could speak to the other one, simply staring before Chris broke the eye contact, walking away. It killed you to look into his eyes knowing that he clearly didn’t want you back, an opinion so different from how you felt. You didn’t know that he did want you back, desperately, but was trying to make it easier for you by cutting things off. He wished that you would find someone else, that you’d put yourself out there, because seeing you with someone else might help him snap back into reality, help him get over it as well. 

He was torn. He knew you were still holding on to him, and part of him wanted you to let go, wanted you to move on, to love someone who wasn’t him, but the other part of him wanted to shrivel up and die at just the thought of your arms around anyone who wasn’t him, your lips on anyone else’s skin. But it would make it easier for him to realize that you really weren’t his anymore, and maybe that was just what he needed. Maybe. He had broken up with you in person, knowing that he owed you at least that, but the call to you to ask when he could come pick up his things from your place had been one of the hardest calls you’d ever received. The ghost of your relationship being inside your apartment had made the entire building feel haunted.

He knew he was being an idiot, but he wanted to think that his heart was in the right place. Both of his brothers knew he was being an idiot, to the point that Nick showed up to talk to you, and Matt was talking to Chris, desperately trying to fix things between the two of you. The conversation between you and Nick just ended up with you sobbing in his arms, him trying to convince you that it would be okay, that Chris loved you, that he would realize and he would come back. The one between Matt and Chris wasn’t going much better, Chris having angry tears streaming down his face, trying to convince Matt and himself that it was for the best.

“It isn’t going to work.” 

“Make it work.” 

You were in Nick’s arms, silent, enjoying the comfort but hating why you needed it, when your phone dinged from behind you. Nick picked it up, checking who it was before nudging you.

“Here. You want to read this.” 

Chris <3 : I know I tried to cut all ties but you’ve never left my mind. Can we make this work?

taglist : @blahbel668 @mattsgirlfrieeend @69isabella69 @mayhem-72 @iculdstealurgf @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @sturnioloslife @heartsforkarina @nervousrebelglitter @sturniclo @elliegrace-7 @mattsturnioloisbae @strnilo @dazsha19 @patscorner @hailee22sstuff @tworosesblackthorn @h3arts4harry @getosuckers @knhxa @scoobydoosnack @tapesmatts @st7rnioioss @st7rnioiossblog @jamiesturniolo @sofie-1 @muwapsturniolo

~ if you'd like to be added to my taglist, click here!

~ my inbox is open, come chat!!

[saturnville]

Voting for more hamilton content!!!

wash day, l. hamilton

pairing: he (lewis hamilton) x she (black fem oc) content: non-physical intimacy is just as important as physical intimacy. warnings: none. an: the girlies want lh content, so here we are! likes are cool, but we love reblogs and comments! let me know what you think <3

The soft pallets of her fingertips danced along his scalp. Her manicured nails brushed the sides of his temples, swiping away any beads of stress and insecurity that might have lingered longer than needed. Her gentle actions pulled a moan from his throat. She smiled softly.

A soft hum from the fan in the bathroom was the only sound that could be heard. That and the sloshing of the water in the tub when they moved ever so slightly. 

She combed through the beautiful coils upon his head with her fingers carefully. With ease, the knots and tangles broke away. Strands of his hair fell upon her wrist as she raked through his locks. 

Wash day was her favorite as much as it was his. It was a time for intimacy between them that did not require any sexual activity. Non-sexual intimacy was important. She stood by the sentiment and was willing to die on the hill most desired to climb upward in competition. There were important things, she noted, that deserved cultivation and just as much attention as learning her partner’s body. If she was honest, she felt closer to him in moments like these compared to when his body was pressed against hers.

She easily remembered the first time she participated in wash day with him. She came over one Sunday afternoon and found him in the bathroom scrubbing away at his scalp with his shirt drenched in water. She vividly remembered giggling at his state and offering to lend a hand, which he desperately needed. Sure, some people did his hair for him, but he figured he’d try it out himself. He did learn, however, he enjoyed it when she did it. There was something about being trapped between her legs as she wrapped his ringlets around her fingers, that he couldn’t get enough of.

“My hands are starting to prune,” she admitted as she dropped her hands into the water. She swished her hands to remove the remnants of deep conditioner trapped between her fingers. “You let this sit for a few minutes. I’m gonna rinse off in the other shower.”

She pressed her hands against the floor of the tub to push her body up, but his hands against her thighs halted her movements. “Mhm, stay.” His fingers danced along her calves. 

“By the time you get out, I’ll be waiting for you. I don’t want to shrivel up,” she replied, tapping his shoulder. With a dissatisfied groan, he released her body from the trap he had her in. She pecked his neck as she stood to her feet. 

His eyes were on her as she walked towards the rack that held her black towel. His eyes followed the droplets of water that slivered down her chest, to her hips, and down her brown legs. His tongue grazed over his lip. She sent him a wink before exiting the bathroom and starting towards the other one. 

He joined her hardly ten minutes later. She jumped when she felt his hands on her hips. She turned in his arms, gently shoving his shoulder as a repercussion for scaring her. The playful scowl on her lips did nothing but only egg on his desire for her. 

“Sorry, baby,” he mumbled, drawing her wet body close to his. She hummed in response, allowing her lips to brush against his. Her teeth gently nipped along his bottom lip before capturing his mouth completely in a steam-filled kiss. She swallowed his quiet noises and broke away before his wandering hands spurred her on. 

The warm water beating against them only intensified the heat burning between them. By the time the fire was extinguished, the water was as cold as a winter day, probing them to exit the shower.

“You don’t make yourself discreet at all,” she said while looking over her shoulder at her lover who smiled innocently. He was perched against the doorframe, a gray towel tied tightly around his waist. His damp hair leaked small droplets of water that slid down his bare chest. He smiled at her. 

She shook her head and continued to moisturize. She slid on a clean shirt and underwear. She sat on their shared bed and ushered for him to get dressed so she could finish his hair.

“You want two pieces left out or not?” she trailed off once he sat on the floor between her legs. Beside her was the “hair bin” filled with the creams, serums, gels, and oils they used on their thick locks. 

“No,” he replied, lifting his arms to place them on her thighs. His fingers drew imaginary doodles on her skin. Mumbling a quiet, “Okay,” she retrieved what she needed from the hair bin and began combing his hair softly.

Small conversations and little comments were made, but, a comfortable, silence dawned over them. She was focused on parting, moisturizing, and braiding his ringlets,  and he was basking in the relaxation he felt. He nodded off a few times, only to be awoken by her giggles.

“I’m almost done, baby,” she assured. She took a nice amount of oil in her palms and rubbed them together, taking the time to massage his scalp softly. She ran her hands over his hair, watching as the curls jumped under her fingertips. She wiped her glistening hands on an old towel and then patted his shoulder. 

“You’re good to go. Tie it up.” She tossed a black durag at him, which he caught with easily. 

“Thank you, baby.” He kissed her gently. She smiled and pushed the hair bin to the side, making a mental note to put it away in the morning.

Tiredly, she pushed her body up the bed and swiped her scarf from underneath her pillow. It was silk and smelled like a variety of oils. She tied the fabric around her twisted hair and laid against the pillow. Just moments later he climbed in bed next to her. He was quick to engulf her in his arms and press a gentle kiss against her forehead.

“You know I love you right?”

“Mhm,” she hummed. “I love you too. That’s the only reason I’ll spend four hours doing your hair every month.” 

“I’m lucky to have you,” he said in response. His words were muffled as his lips moved against her neck. She sighed softly at the feeling of the open-mouthed kisses against her neck and his hands against the flesh of her thighs. 

“I’m lucky to have you,” she replied quietly. “and also lucky that wash day is over. I’m going to bed; cuddle me.”

Lewis hummed and slid his hand beneath her shirt, palming the heavy flesh of her chest. “Yes ma’am.”

[ofsappho]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART I: JESSICA

Lady Jessica focused her intent gaze on the Reverend-Mother’s... gift. This gaze, to which the minutiae of observation was second nature rather than practiced pretense, followed the lines of the girl-child’s high cheekbones up towards large eyes that appeared to overwhelm the face they were set in.

She’d seen that look in those eyes before. Perhaps a thousand times over, a million times over. Reflected in the mirror back at her on Wallach IX, reflected in the shadowed eyes of the girls she barely remembered. The girls that one by one fell, until amongst a hundred girls there stood five Bene Gesserit.

Jessica’s skirt rustled against the floor as she stalked closer, circling the child, examining every angle.

How interesting.

Such control in the child’s bearing, belied by such fear.

Paul had always been fascinated with off-world animals in the filmbooks; the agrarian creatures that inhabited Caladan for over twenty generations bore no thrill to her clever son. Jessica had never understood his fascination as the filmbooks rendered such organisms dead to her. Mere simulacrums of life with soulless eyes.

Perhaps one such simulacrum stood before her now in the form of a human girl. “Reverend-Mother, does she have a name?”

“We call her Chryse. However, if that name does not suit you, Jessica, you may name her as you wish. It is of no consequence to us.” Reverend-Mother Mohiam’s demeanor certainly hadn’t changed in the slightest from the days when she served her overtly. When Gaius Helen Mohiam spoke, everything from her inscrutable countenance to the even tones of her voice commanded subservience. “You will not harm nor bring harm to the girl-child. It is our one order.”

Jessica watched as Mohiam brushed her fingers against Chryse’s jaw to tilt her still face up towards the sallow light of the glow-globe. Not even a muscle twitched in her smooth facade. Jessica wondered what sort of chaos lay beneath, whether the girl would be like the jagged rocks under the beckoning surface of Caladan’s oceans. Only a fool would dive into the dark water blindly.

There was no other option but to acquiesce. “You have my word. She shall not come to harm under my care or the care of House Atreides.”

“Good.” A look passed between them, lasting only a second. Within that second lay an eternity.

The Reverend-Mother strode from the room with an economical gait, not sparing another iota of energy to look back.

Jessica knew then the precise nature of this “present”.

How many men had failed in the making of the Kwisatz Haderach? How many years, decades, centuries had her sisters carefully tended the most sacred plant, a mind that could bridge space and time. If Paul failed -

She stopped that fearful thought in its tracks, held it in the cradle of her mind’s eye, then let it pass through.

The Bene Gesserit were patient like mountains were patient. Time was an endless resource. It was better to cultivate many plants of good stock than to nurture a small garden and watch as its leaves shrivel and diel. Chryse was not and could never be the Kwisatz Haderach. Perhaps that fact ought to have assuaged Jessica’s fear. Yet - if Paul should die while he was only eleven, the House of Atreides forever extinguished, the child seemed poised to become the next vessel to carry the bloodline of the Kwisatz Haderach. Only ten years old, and she had mastered the prana-bindu like an adept three times her age. Who knew what sort of terror she had been bred to create?

Her son had already shown promise even without her training. Paul might flourish, grow into a man, grow into the mind that the universe needed. That would never come to pass if Chryse supplanted him.

Mohiam must have felt some minute degree of affection towards Jessica. If she hadn’t, the Reverend-Mother would not have left the girl in her care. The blade was double-edged; the Bene Gesserit cared not for which of the two survived, only that one of them did. Motherhood had softened Jessica to the point where she felt some empathy for her poor charge. Not enough empathy to entirely stay her hand, but enough that she wanted the girl to live. Enough that she intended to lift the burden of killing her from Paul’s narrow shoulders.

“Come here, girl.” Once she was close enough that the Bene Gesserit-trained woman could stretch out a single, finely-boned hand and press her fingers to the weapon’s temple, she bade her stop.

Jessica brushed her mind carefully up against Chryse’s, wary of the mind traps the girl had surely been taught from birth.

There were no traps. Not even a token protest.

Chryse had fewer defenses than a newborn infant. Her mind was splayed out in the open; even the slightest whisper of Voice guaranteed complete obedience. The Bene Gesserit had truly forged a weapon of a girl. She hadn’t a psyche of her own - where there should lay a personality was instead filled with iron bars of mind conditioning. Jessica’s heart ached for her. No child deserved to live like that.

A moment passed wherein she further plumbed the depths of her mind. Jessica knew then that Chryse could never use a Voice of her own. The same breeding that had left her mind wide open had left her unable to Speak. But of what use to the lineage of the Kwisatz Haderach was a girl entirely unable to use the Voice and critically susceptible to it?

The vision came on suddenly, as the waves did against the shores of Caladan. A figure whirled amongst dozens of men as they fell to their knees. The lady knew those movements by heart even though they felt wrong. It was the Weirding Way, without a doubt. At the same time, every action was utterly alien. Chryse moved through the battlefield like a valkyrie of old with hands that created ruination with every twitch. Her deficit of Voice was more than made up by her complete mastery over the physical realities of others. Lungs collapsed inwards; hearts refused to beat; nerves froze. Blood. Oceans of blood.

Without meaning to, her fingers fell away from the girl’s temple in astonishment and the vision dissipated like morning mist.

The Kwisatz Mother had bred an abomination.

The laws of nature should have forbidden such a being from coming into existence. No doubt, she wouldn’t have without the careful guidance of the Bene Gesserit. What infinite combination of genes could produce a person who could bend human bodies to their will? A weapon to be wielded against the very molecules of anatomy? Chryse had quite a bit further to go before she would become the war goddess Jessica saw in her vision, but her raw talent remained a cudgel poised over Paul’s head and ready to end his life.

This was an unacceptable outcome.

Forgive me, Jessica thought; forgive me for what I must do. “You will never harm Paul Atreides. You will never allow harm to come to Paul Atreides. You will always remain loyal to him and never betray him in the slightest. You will lay down your life for him.” She swallowed down her guilt as she watched her Voice take root in the blank shell of the young girl’s mind. That Chryse was now freed from Bene Gesserit absolute control was a small consolation for the crime done against her. For Paul to live, this girl must be subjugated.

Her wide, dark eyes blinked. There it was - a tiny spark of life in her young, solemn face. Chryse was just a girl. A young one, at that. Innocent. Guilt ensnared Jessica’s heart and held it in a chokehold. The sisterhood had not completely uprooted her weak personality, but there was no doubt that their conditioning program left permanent scars. Jessica’s Voice would not have affected Chryse nearly as much without it.

The lady resolved always to be tender to the girl. At a minimum, she could improve the quality of Chryse’s life. Jessica told herself this as she called for servants to take the girl, bathe her, dress her, and prepare a chamber for her near Paul’s. Was it so selfish of her to want her son to live? At any cost? Paul’s new companion would always be treated well and never punished. There were worse fates. For the Kwisatz Haderach, the Bene Gesserit could commit any number of sins.

But Jessica knew her mind and herself. This was a blood debt that she could never repay.

Paul would be safe, and the girl’s powers would never be used against him. That would be her consolation.

-

Her palms smoothed over the muscled plains of Leto’s back. The Duke was her husband in all but name, and Jessica reveled in how he relaxed at her touch. At the school on Wallach IX, she’d learned everything but the warmth of trust and partnership built from deep, mutual love. There was no room in the lives of the Bene Gesserit for any kind of love besides the love of the sisterhood. It was this trust and love that had led Jessica to birth Leto a male heir instead of the daughters she’d been commanded to produce.

Leto reluctantly pulled himself away from her to pick through some papers strewn across his desk. “What’s this I hear about a new handmaiden joining our household?” 

Involuntarily, Jessica inhaled. “Ah, my new charge. Chryse. An orphan, Bene Gesserit trained but not suited to the task. Reverend-Mother Mohiam, the Imperial truth-sayer, has entrusted her safety to me.” She kept her hands out of Leto’s line of sight so he couldn’t see the tension in her white knuckles. Ever so slowly, the lady exhaled. Again, guilt. The guilt threatened to consume her whole.

Her husband had always been far too intuitive for his own good. “She is young.” Sometimes a conversation with him was like playing chess. Every word, every tone, every movement playing off those of the other. Jessica enjoyed such a conversation far more when the stakes were not nearly as high. Perhaps he knew even subconsciously what she felt, what she had done.

Jessica let the silence in the air hang.

Leto sat at his desk, his brown eyes never leaving her smooth face.

She conceded first. “It will be some time before the girl will serve as my handmaiden in truth, but is she not of an age with Paul?” Not quite a lie, not quite a truth. A certainty presented as a question even though she had already decided the answer.

With no other child from her in sight and no political marriage alliance contracted to provide others, her son remained at the forefront of his father’s concerns. “Paul must keep his attention turned towards his lessons. I trust you, Jessica. He cannot be distracted.” Leto was known to others as inscrutable and honorable. She could read every emotion that flickered across his handsome face. He was worried; that much was plain. He was worried about what the legacy he’d built and the enemies he made might do to his kind son. His only son.

Even though he would never know it, the solution to his worries was close at hand. “My love, every child needs a companion. There are no children of an age with Paul on Caladan and certainly none suitable for his station. I’ve seen his loneliness. I know you have too.” The truth in her words was undeniable. Only eleven years old, and Paul had never known a friend his age on Caladan. He glued himself to his filmbooks and the stories of Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck. Leto cared for more than just raising an heir. Jessica knew he loved Paul. He worried about his well-being. Her husband would grant her this wish. Check.

“What better place for a friend than a girl in his mother’s service? They won’t have to be parted for quite some time. And there is no better judge of caliber than the Bene Gesserit.”

His resigned sigh echoed in the quiet of his study. Checkmate. “You’re right.” Leto’s footsteps as he got up and drew closer to her were a comforting rhythm. She knew that rhythm by heart.

“I do tend to be.” The impulse to feel the rhythm of his pulse beneath her hands overtook her, and she let it. Jessica reached out to press herself to him. Her Duke responded in kind as he gently drew her arms around his neck and brushed his forehead against hers.

It was more than enough sometimes to breathe in the same air as her beloved. To know that she shared space, time, and life with him.

Leto pressed a kiss to her mouth. Without any further words, he left the room.

Her fingers pressed against her closed eyes as if to alleviate the burden she’d taken upon herself. All of this would be justified in the end. Jessica had to keep faith in that.

Reposting this unfinished dune fic i started during the 1st movie and orphaned on ao3! Seems as if there's interest. LMK if you want on the tag list.

[lorelune]

braised

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 3.2k  || ao3 || previous + next ->

The Stellaron Hunters and their newest prize settle in and find routine.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: HELLO >:3c this lil story has me gripped!! this piece is meant to be read after "scrap metal" but can be read as a standalone. mind the tags and enjoy 💕

CW: dark content, captive/pet reader, violence, implied/partially depicted physical abuse, force-feeding, general talk about food and eating, thoughts of violence toward the reader

"They didn't eat again."

Silver Wolf tosses the metal bowl on the counter with a frown. It’s full, heaped with eggs, kixi wafers, and some yogurt-based sauce. It’s untouched, sauce gelatinized from being out in the open air.

Kafka clicks her tongue from the cockpit, pausing her scrolling. Her gaze flicks up, "Not a bite?"

"Nope." Silver Wolf frowns and fidgets. "They didn't even look at me when I gave them their lunch either."

"They haven't eaten since the day before yesterday then. That’s no good." Kafka sounds concerned, but there's an edge to it.

Blade feels antsy. Out of his skin. He doesn't know why.

“They haven’t been drinking much either.” Silver Wolf frowns. “They’ll shrivel up and die at this rate." 

Kafka nods, "That’s more than likely their intention, even if it's a long and foolish way to die. That’s a shame. I thought they'd be better than this."

Blade drums his stiff fingers over the hilt of Shard Sword. He hardly remembers summoning it. 

"Bladie, dear? Try and convince them to have a bite or two tonight." Kafka's attention almost drifts back to her phone before she meets his eyes. Her own are clear, pupils intact. "Be careful, though. Hungry pets will still bite the hand that feeds them."

Blade doesn't reply with anything other than a jerky nod. He ferries himself across the ship to a padded training room and shreds two dozen practice dummies until they're nothing more than piles of polymer leather and filler.

...

Kafka had implemented a rotation. A 'feeding schedule' to acclimate you to your new environment, and get you used to your new comrades. You’re pricklier than she originally anticipated, but she doesn't seem concerned.

(If anything, she seems... delighted. She has a spring to her step that she usually doesn't. She leaves your room glowing.)

It’s Blade's turn to bring you dinner. Your meal is piled into the same metal bowl. Heaps of rice, covered in a sticky sauce with chunks of meat and veg. It’s still steaming as he walks silently to your cell— room. cell. He's not sure.

He undoes each lock (seven) and enters your room without any announcement.

The room is... less destroyed than it was yesterday. When Blade brought you lunch the day before, your mattress had been dragged onto the floor, sheets torn to shreds and spread around the room. You’d thrown a book at his head when he'd entered.

(Which he caught and gave back to you. You looked terrified when he got at all close to you.)

Blade didn’t like it. And he isn't sure why.

Today, you're less frantic. Instead, you’re balled up on your mattress, tucked in a corner with your knees up. Your head is down. You only flinch when Blade enters, but don't regard him otherwise.

Blade's frown deepens.

"Dinner," he says, and sets the food on your nightstand. Kafka has replaced the diffuser you broke the day prior. A new one pumps out an herbal-scented mist. "Eat it."

"Just leave it,” you reply, voice scratchy and raw. You rarely speak to him.

"No. Eat it now."

"I will later."

"You won't. You aren't eating."

"And what's it to you?" You unfurl just a fraction and shoot him a glare. It’s angry. vitriolic and guarded. (But a scared stray will bear its teeth and bite, won't they?)

(What is it to Blade? Other than Kafka's order. There’s something there. There has been something there since he saw you muzzled and dead-eyed, and Blade's always half-aware of it. How it refracts and shudders and fills him with such intense unease. He knows the feeling— recognizes it like the scent of an old lover. But he does not like it. It does not feel like it is his.)

He’s struck with the particular urge to throw you against a wall and watch your skull splatter against the metal paneling.

He doesn't. Because his mara isn't that uncontrollable, not now anyway. Instead, he frowns at your scowl.

"You'll die if you don't eat."

"Ah, and if I die, you'll lose an asset, right? I'm not stupid, I know how these things work." You sound... almost petulant. Blade does not know how to approach you, or it, or this attitude.

"You'll die. You shouldn't die. You should eat and live."

"Fuck you." You snap at him, fist balling up in the sheets at your side. You've picked your nails short and raw. "Fuck you."

Blade doesn't know what to do.

He pushes the bowl closer to you on the nightstand before departing.

Kafka catches him as he heads to the training rooms (again, because he needs to shatter a few holograms with his bare fists if he wants to feel close to sane in the next few hours.)

"Any luck, lovely?" Kafka's expression is kind. She must already know.

"No."

Kafka sighs, and shakes her head. "I'll take care of it, Bladie. I suppose we’ll have to do things the hard way.”

...

Kafka is the one to bring you breakfast the next morning. Blade does not normally keep track of Kafka's morning routine, because she is insane, but considering it involves you, he's more keen to it. Kafka prepares a light breakfast of garlic and shash rice, and secondarily, a shake of greens and nutrient powder.

(He... he thinks he knows the substance. Recognizes the acrid, must-driven smell of it, and remembers how awful it tastes. Like bile mixed with metal shavings. Who knows where Kafka acquires it from. He has smudged out memories of choking it down when Kafka first pulled him out of a crater, covered in blood and scarred— but not dead. Never. Never, never dead— )

Blade fractiously goes to your room and waits outside your door. Kafka is still inside when he arrives, speaking to you in that sweet, syrupy tone that drips into muscle and bone like molten metal.

"You need to eat, darling."

"Fuck you—"

"The more you fight, the harder this will be. Why don't you be good and let me help?"

"Don’t fucking touch me—!"

There’s the muffled sound of a struggle, which Blade assumes isn’t much of a struggle because Kafka is far stronger than she looks. Blade leans against the wall, next to your door. He can feel vibrations of a fight in the soles of his shoes through the floor. The thump of a body hitting the wall echoes.

Blade hears crying. You’re crying.

"Oh, tears? I’ve hardly done anything."

"You’re fucking monsters. Just let me go—!"

"You know that won't happen. Play nice.”

"Don't—!"

You sob, probably, and there's another sharp sound of flesh on steel. Blade would've flinched if he wasn’t an abomination.

"Let me take care of you, sweetheart. The sooner you give in, the easier this is. This doesn't need to be difficult."

"Get off of me—!"

More struggling. Blade closes his eyes and tries to imagine it. Kafka is ruthless in getting what she wants. She knows how to pry people apart, pick at their inside, and pull strings until they fracture. It is why Elio is such a fan of hers. It is why Blade keeps her close, as she knows the delicate, bowstring dance of keeping his mara in check.

He wonders what Kafka sees in you.

(He wonders what he sees in you. You're nothing like— like— who? Who are you so different from?)

Blade has a headache.

The sounds echoing from your room dissolve into muffled sobs and the occasional sharp cough. A gag. Inhaling and what must be your fist beating against the metallic paneling of the floor. He hears Kafka hush you, over and over. Quietly praising you after each gag and retch.

Blade's not sure how long it goes on before things feel still and quiet.

The sound of a kiss, audible, "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"... F-fuck you.

"Such a filthy mouth. Do you need me to wash your mouth out with soap? I'm happy too."

"Wait, don’t— no—“

Blade realizes his shoulders have hiked up. He forces them to lower. You scream and fight just feet away, really. All that separates you is seven locks.

Kafka seems to be handling things. The sounds continues, and become dull background noise. Shouts and pants fade into his thoughts as they get sap-sticky.

(Someone beloved, something far away. Bitter liquor on each other’s lips. Blade can’t recall the name.)

(A comet with a tail burning yellow. It is cold. A blade, driven into his chest. A blade stabbed into his eye. A blade put sidelong through his skull. A blade splitting his throat. Cold, cold, cold, cold.)

(Do you know cold? Do you know how frostbite turns flesh black? Do you know necrosis? What pain do you know?)

Blade, startlingly, does not want you to know pain. He wants you to eat your meals.

Kafka exits, almost startling him. She does not look surprised to see him hovering. She rearms the locks and glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“Down, loverboy. A scared dog will bite.”

“Do not call me that.” 

"Alright, alright,” she laughs and her grin grows sharper. “I’ll be taking care of their meals for the next few days. Listen, grab a medkit, the poor thing needs it. Though, I’ll let them hurt for a while first.”

Kafka walks off, and Blade follows at her heels. There are indentations in Kafka's gloves-- half-moon bite marks of teeth.

He decides he is going to break his own fingers, maybe. He can watch them heal back into place.

It’s meditative.

...

Several days pass with your ‘new routine’. Kafka handles each meal. Blade stays away from your room. The entire wing you’re located in feels nuclear. He stays in the training room. Throws himself at matted walls until his shoulders dislocate, only to pop them back into place to repeat the cycle.

He makes a point to check the kitchen after each of your meal times. There’s always an empty dish, a clean plate. A chunky-looking film left on a glass in the sink. Kafka is diligent, Blade doesn’t doubt this. 

The whole thing fills him with unease.

He asks Kafka to wipe his memory, but she denies him. She’s in the cockpit, swiveling in her seat.

“You don’t need that yet, Bladie. Give it some time.”

“But—”

“Discomfort isn’t mara suffocation, dear.”

“You’re patronizing me.”

She sizes him up, sighing, “Listen to me, keep it together. You’re alright. How about this, you can feed your pet starting tomorrow for lunch. Would that make you feel better?”

It would. He’s not sure why.”

“It would.”

Kafka looks pleased with the outcome of the conversation. She tells Blade to get some rest, pats his cheek, which does take the edge off the mara rooting around in his psyche for purchase. 

Blade takes a long route through the ship to his chambers. A deliberate path that brings him in front of your door. He doesn’t dare to enter, only listen. It’s late, you could be sleeping given the hour— but Blade can hear you shuffling around. Grumbling to yourself. One of your feet is dragging on the floor as you walk. Blade wonders how it was injured. 

He departs after hearing the shifting of your sheets, and the light under your door goes out.

(He feels insane. Insane in a way that isn’t mara-ridden, which is more terrifying. He knows the gnawing beast of Abundance that crawls around inside his skull and bones, he doesn’t know madness that has burrowed itself between his ribs. It feels light, like the carbonation bubbles in the bottled soda back on the Luofu. His palms sweat when he becomes aware of it with each thought of you.)

(Maybe he’ll try tearing out his organs again. That could fix it.)

Blade returns to his room and paces, before stripping and climbing into bed.

It’s only when he’s half-asleep that he realizes he’s hard.

He’s not sure why. 

...

Lunch is some takeout. It scalds his hands through the bowl he heaps it into. Braised trelk ribs with scallion and carrot, ladled over a bed of chewy-looking noodles.

"Bladie," Kafka tells him from the cockpit. She glances at him with a curling smile. "Be careful, they're sensitive."

Blade does not know how to be... careful. Not like how Kafka is implying he thinks anyway.

Silver Wolf snorts from her seat, speaking through a bite of noodle, "You’re asking a human-shaped hydrokenia bomb to be 'careful'?"

"Blade's a good boy, I'm sure he'll do great." Kafka's eyes are that spatial, nebula magenta. He feels pleasantly high when she looks at him. "Won’t you?"

"Yes."

Kafka looks pleased, "Listen, take your meal too. Eating with them will get them comfortable."

Silver Wolf raises an eyebrow, "Is that really a good idea?"

"I think so. Blade can handle it if they get testy."

She looks at him with a grin that's collapsed empires and immolated planets. Blade leaves the room with two bowls in his hands.

When he arrives at your cell— room. It's your room. He unlocks the locks methodically and enters without a greeting.

Today, you are not tucked in the corner of your bed. You’re instead perched in the rounded window, gazing at the starscape. Your knees are raised, and your arms are wrapped around yourself. You look small and defeated, eyes darkened and downcast. Blade watches you rub your shoulders.

You look up when he enters. Blade sets the bowl on the ledge next to you, and sets a pair of chopsticks on top, "You will eat."

It's not a command, but a statement of fact.

You scowl, looking so angry. Alive with it. He recognizes vitriol so easily. It's in your eyes and in the way you bare your teeth at him, ready to strike. Maybe you'll bite down on him, into him, until you taste blood. Blade's sure you wouldn't leave a scar— he heals too quickly from the types of flesh wounds to give him a lasting mark.

(There's something enticing about you trying. Blade does not know the floating, filmy part of himself that suggests such a desire.)

You carry Kafka's mark. There are bruises around your throat, the clear shape of hands. There are lumps across your jaw, darkened in color. Scratches of nails over your neck, down to your collarbones. Your eyes are red-rimmed. Your lip is split, barely scabbed over. You're shaking.

You open your mouth, ready to snap. Maybe you'll spit venom— Blade doesn't know your species. You could.

(Blade remembers your expression on different faces from the glitter of your canines. It reminds him— of—? Jingliu was colder. Frigid in her rage. Dan Feng was always so calm with his, Only shattered near the end, like a tide that swelled too high on the shore to swallow the world whole. Your expression is white-hot, like metal pulled fresh from a stoked forge. Desperation and terror make dull teeth sharp. Actions become erratic and desperate.)

(Blade has not remembered so much, so clearly in a long time. He really needs Kafka to wipe his memory again.)

The mara in him writhes. It’s a necrosis, a vitality that has long since sank into his marrow and will not leave. It rolls through him. Blades tips back his head and rolls his shoulders. There's a high to it, followed by an immediate and tumbling withdrawal and dread and clarity—

And it's all interrupted by the little gasp you make. The abrupt jolt you take backward, into the window, closer to the depths of deep space. Your body thumps against the glass. 

('Fragile', Kafka had said.)

Your mouth closes, and your bloody lower lip wobbles. Tears glitter on your lash line as you retreat. Maybe, Kafka broke you. She’s good at that. 

"Fucking— I-I mean, fine. I’ll fucking eat." You stumble over your words with a sniffle. Your voice is raw and strained. You rub your nose on your sleeve and scramble for the bowl and utensils.

Blade stares as you eat your first bite. Then your second. Followed by your third. You start crying after the fourth, sobbing with the fifth, and hiccupping between mouthfuls. You're eating too fast, occasionally looking at him with an expression he recognizes as terror. He's used to seeing a look like that at the end of his blade. Frozen before draining of blood and death.

He frowns. You should not look that way..

"Slow down," he says, sitting next to you.

You look at him and wipe over your mouth, lips parting, but seem to think better of speaking. You take another bite, chewing slower. Blade picks up his own bowl and eats small, meticulous bites.

(He shared a meal all the time. Shoulder to shoulder with Dan Feng, splitting casks of viridian wine in the moonlight. Food tastes better when someone you... like is near.)

You finish before him, and don't stop crying. If anything, you cry harder. It sounds painful.

Blade pauses his meal, idling. searching. There's something there. A feeling coated in the roots of mara, but... perhaps it's a delicious agony. Not so much a memory, but a want. Something other than— than what and why—

Blade stands. He departs to your bathroom (there are blood stains on the counter) and grabs a cloth towel. He dampens it with water, letting the sink run until it's pleasantly warm.

He sits closer to you when he returns. You flinch away in retreat, leer away as he comes close, hands up—

"Please, don't, what are you—"

"Hold still." Blade grabs your wrist and you wince.

With entirely conscious thought and great effort, he loosens his grip. And... gently, Blade brings the cloth to your face. He dabs around your eyes, then your cheek and nose, and lastly your mouth. you're frozen, wide-eyed, and still shaking.

When he's done, he grabs a blanket from the bed. He wraps it around your shoulders. It feels... somewhat right.

"You should rest." He tells you. "You need it."

Blade thumbs over a swollen round on your jaw. You tremble, eyes wide.

But maybe a little less scared.

"... Are you gonna stay while you finish eating?" You eye his half-full bowl.

"Yes."

"... 'kay... and you're not gonna rough me up like Kafka did?"

"No." He has no plans to.

"... Fine."

You cautiously make your way back to your little bed, sitting at the head of it, and half-slipping under the covers. It's... cute.

(Blade has not thought of anything as cute in several centuries.)

Blade wants to break your legs.

When he finishes, he collects both bowls, and looks around your room. It's sparse, though. There are a few books on the nightstand.

"... Are you bored?"

"Huh?" You ask. You'd been lost in thought, eyes lost. "Oh, I mean. yeah? There's not much to do."

"I'll bring some things. Bear it until then."

"Oh! Okay." You wrap the blanket around your shoulders tighter. "You're... Bladie, right?"

"Just Blade."

"Oh, okay. sorry." You wring your hands. "Thank you, Blade."

The thing in his chest blooms. A monstrous flower, mycelium under acres of land in a network that eats and never dies. Undergrowth that does nothing but rot and grow, grow and rot. 

Blade doesn't reply as he leaves the room. He gets halfway to the training wing before he has to pause, withdraw his phone, and send Kafka a frantic text: 'Meet me in the weaponry room.’

He pockets his phone before punching the wall. Clumsy fingers break upon impact, and the indentation of the fist remains in the metal. 

[ataraxiaspainting]

New Dawn.

Scaramouche x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Kuni brews tea.

Word Count: 700.

inspired by this concept by @ddarker-dreams <3

*~*~*~*

“Hello? Teyvat to Kuni? I repeat, Teyvat to Kuni?” He keeps grimacing in the corner of the kitchen with his arms crossed. His scowl only deepens and he points to the crime. A bowl of sugarcubes beside your freshly brewed cup of tea.

You guess you’re a criminal now in his world.

“Teyvat to Kuni this, Teyvat to Kuni that, you know why I am mad at you, you little sh-”

“Hey, language. You know I like my drinks sweet.”

He jumped up from his wooden stool when you put a few cubes in like you had just set the table on fire, running to hide from the utterly horrifying scene.

“So?” He responds, stomping his foot down with a huff and puff. “This is an insult, [First]; an insult to me, the tea kettle, the water, the fire, the cultivators, the sellers-”

“So, sit down. You have to think about other people’s points of view sometimes.”

“No.”

“Kuni, you are acting like you are two years old. If you keep doing this I am going to make you drink it.”

“Over my dead body.” He mutters. “I’d shrivel up and die, come back as an undead, and tell the people who sold me the tea leaves that you are putting shame on their name.”

“You are so dramatic. Just because you like bitter drinks does not mean I have to too. Tell me, if this was reversed, would you be mad at me for drinking black tea and not putting a mountain of sugar in my cup?”

“N-No! Of course not.”

You smirk at his stutter.

“Correct. And why not?”

His expression sullens even more at this question. You got him; hook, line, and sinker.

“...Because… Archons, you are annoying. You can’t just swap our places like that. Argh. Sigh. Because… it’s wrong. Everyone has their own tastes. There, you happy? I said what you wanted me to.”

Your smile broadens, stretching from ear to ear.

“Very happy. Now sit down, your tea is getting cold. I know you have no care for cold things. That’s why you like me.”

In a fleeting instant, Kuni's hand instinctively shields his face, though you could've sworn you glimpsed your partner concealing a smitten grin. A noticeable crimson flush paints his cheeks, as he averts his gaze from you, searching the kitchen aimlessly. A faint rosy tint lingers on his ears, accompanied by a twinkle in his eye.

“Cute.”

“S-Shut up.” He says, his voice barely audible. “N-Not.” You can't help but smile as he stumbles over his words twice more. “Take that back this instant.”

“I don’t think I will.”

He stomps back to the table and sits down. You win.

“You’re pouting.” You yelp as his leg clashes with one of your defenseless ones. A kick, huh? Well, two can play that game.

“You’re so–Hey!”

While still hiding his face, he lets out a mocking laugh.

“Oh no you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t just do that.”

At your chuckle, he stands up once more and goes around the table to your side.

“Uh oh.”

In the blink of an eye, your back meets the ground. He is on top of you with eyes sharp enough to cut a rock in half. He’s not happy.

“Confess your sins,” He says, his face now sporting a smirk of his own. Though his blush is still there, and now visible because he cannot hide it as he pins you to the floor. “And I’ll let you drink your abomination of a beverage. Maybe.”

“Oh no,” You feign innocence as you shake your head. Kuni scoffs. Adorable. “Please, oh great and all-knowing Kunikuzushi, bless me for I have sinned by having functioning taste buds.”

One of his hands chops at your forehead, making you cry out bloody murder. “Archons, you are all bark and no bite.”

“So? The same can be said about you.”

“No.”

No?

…He does not plan to leave you here all day until you are actually sorry, does he?

[midnighmoonligh]

Can you maybe write Ghost + Child Regressor Reader who had an accident and got scared that Ghost would get angry or be disgusted? :3 You're one of the only people who write COD with a regressor reader and I love it!! 🩷

A/N

Ironically I had just been finishing up a oneshot book I made with this concept! This is just a chapter of it 🫶. If you want to read more I have the entire store post on wattpad here! Hope you enjoy overall and thank you for your request!

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Fandom

Call of Duty

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Characters

Y/N ; 17 ; Gender Neutral ;; They/Them ; little

Simon " Ghost " Riley ; 31 ; He/Him ; CG

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

⚠Content Warnings⚠

Violence, War stuff, COD yk. Potty accident & internally shaming of self!

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

A sudden anxious urge washed over you. You tossed and turned over the covers you had not put on yourself. You were trying to go back to sleep, but instead found yourself awake anyway. With a huff, your eyes finally peeled open. You looked out the window to your left, enjoying how pretty the moon looked tonight with the way the snowy clouds dropped layer after layer. The window seal was covered in snow, making it pile up on the sides to reach higher. You found it pretty, peaceful.

Until you felt it.

You felt a strange wetness, almost coldness too. Well, it was warm in some spots cold in others. When you shifted, the jeans you had fallen asleep in stuck to you. You froze in place at it.

The seconds ticked by as you began to process what happened. The anxiety you had felt when you were refusing to wake before hit you like a train when it had clicked. It was suffocating, quickly becoming hard to breathe as you process how embarrassing it was.

You had wet the bed.

You've never done that before, genuinely. You didn't understand what had happened and god you rather shrivel up and die than really acknowledge what had happened. You suddenly sat up in the bed, eyes darting across the room. First, they focused onto the alarm clock placed on the suspiciously chewed up night stand. The clock read 3:48 am. It was really early, or late depending on your standards.

Then your eyes fell onto Johnny and Simon. Both were now settled into the air mattress on the floor. You've never actually seen them sleeping together, so it was a bit of a shock to find Simon without his mask and laying on his side toward the door. John was also on his side, but pressed against his larger partners back with an arm tossed over his side in a loose hold. They had about four or five blankets tossed on then, most leaning toward the larger man in the bed.

You shook that shock from your mind since you confirmed that they were asleep still. With a shaking body, you began to rip off the sheets from the bed, tossing the blankets onto the floor at the foot of the bed since that was the only space free. You grabbed a spare pair of pants and underwear before scrambling out of the room. You'd worry about searching for new sheets later. For now, you went around as quiet as physically possible searching for the laundry room. You found it on the main floor, in the hallway under the upstairs. It was a small space, had a door too.

When entering, you closed it and turned the lights on. The sudden brightness made you flinched, but with the tears quickly filling your eyes you needed it to see better. You tossed the bedding onto the floor, the clean clothes on the surface of the dryer. Then you opened up the washer, happy to see it empty. With that being confirmed, you began to stuff the bedding into it. You were clumsy, feeling that fuzzy headspace wash over you as you berated yourself in your mind. Insult after insult, you didn't hold back on yourself. You couldn't believe you had done this. It was definitely a new one for the books, one you hoped to take the secret of it to your grave.

Suddenly, the laundry room door opened.

" What are you doing? " Simon's exhausted voice rumbled out from deep within in chest.

It scared you, making you visibly jump. He had caught you mid struggling to shove the thick sheets into the machine. You were quickly loosing your usual motor skills as you fell further into that, normally, comforting headspace.

" Um- I, uh, spilled somethin, " you told Simon awkwardly while trying to shove the bedding harder into the washer.

Ghost's expression was a mix of exhaustion and irritation as he observed the mess in front of him. It was evident that Ghost was already in a bad mood, and your little accident likely added to that.

" What the hell did you spill? " He sighed, moving closer to you and reaching out to take the sheets from your trembling hands.

You flinched as the bedding was taken from your shaking hands. You sniffled as quietly as you could manage while stepping back. Now you knew it was a matter of time before Simon smelled it. You stared at the floor in shame. The anxiety of the fact of what had happened hammering through you harshly. You've never done it before, it scared you.

" Don't remember, " you mumbled.

Simon's frustration was palpable, and as he picked up the damp bedding, his expression darkened. The smell of the accident clung to the sheets, and while not the most pleasant, he has endured far worse on the battlefield.

" Bloody hell, " he muttered as he looked down at the sheets in his hand before giving them a rough twist and shoving them into the washer. " I hope this was a one-off, " he said gruffly as he reached over and turned the washing machine on.

You continued to stare at the floor of the laundry room. You still wore soiled pants, tears spilling over uncontrollably while you wished you could just sink into the ground and completely disappear from shame. You didn't reply to Simon, deciding it was likely better not to.

Simon made sure the washer door closed properly before turning it on. Then he turned around and saw the tear stains on your face. His annoyance softened slightly, replaced by a mixture of surprise and concern. He crouched down to be more on your level, knowing it tended to comfort you when agere-related things happened.

" Hey," he placed a hand on your shoulder, "look at me, " he requested as gently as he could manage. It helped you realize his frustration was more at being awake, not directed toward you. Although it ate at you, you did lift your head for him. You blinked heavily at him so you could see him clearly. This caused your tears to practically pour.

" You know this is not your fault, right? Even the big boys have accidents sometimes, it's part of life. I'm not mad about the sheets, just... just be careful in the future, okay? "

Shock quickly washed over you. He was comforting you, not scolding you? It was gross what you had done, yet he was being so patient and sweet. You didn't deserve this, at least that's what you had convinced yourself. Despite what you told yourself, you did deserve this. You deserved every ounce of his love and affection.

" 'm sorry, " you mumbled up, raising your arms up to wipe your face even if it wasn't worth the effort. The words seemed to make you crumble. " Don know what happened, " you hiccuped as you began to cry freely at last.

Seeing you break down, Simon sighed and pulled you in for a hug. He held you tightly. It didn't feel right or fair, especially when you were still wearing gross clothes. It made you feel more guilty as much as you wanted the comfort.

" Don't apologize, it's okay, " he mumbled against your shoulder and slowly rubbed your back in soothing circles. " Sometimes these accidents happen and no one's to blame, " he said with a softer tone as he tried to soothe you. " Let's get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes, yeah? "

" 'm gross, " you whined quietly, squirming in Simon's hold to get away from the hug. " 'm sorry, " you added, soon hiccuping out a sob.

Simon sighed, his annoyance returning as he tightened his hold. He wasn't as patient as John, unfortunately for you both.

" You're not gross. You just had an accident, it happens to everyone," he said firmly, hoping it would get through to you this time. "Now let's get you cleaned up, silly bug. "

With that said, he picked you up in a strong but gentle grip. Being picked up us 100% you're weakness, something you had found our several months ago. Mostly because Johnny absolutely loved carrying you around. In his arms, you slumped against him and calmed your crying faster than you'd care to admit. You buried your face into a mixture of his shoulder and chest, your favorite spot. Simon had turned off the laundry room light before leaving. He was quiet as he walked through the hallway, only a few steps before pushing obathroom downstairs bathroom door. He continued to hold you as he pulled the shower curtain closed and turned on the water. While standing there, he tested the water to make sure it didn't get too hot or cold.

It made you nervous, hoping that no one would be woken by the sound. The last thing you wanted to explain was your regression to John's family, let alone the fact you had an accident in the bed as a, now, 17-year-old. You didn't even want to tell Johnny.

Simon seemed to pick up on your nerves and spoke up, " Don't worry, Johnny's a deep sleeper and the others usually mind their own business. The shower won't disturb them," he said as he gently set you onto your feet. " Do you want help? "

You nodded without missing a beat. Both pair always made sure to ask, which helped in general. Even if sometimes the asking for permission to do something got a little out of hand. Without missing a beat, Simon began to help you out of your pants. He's become a pro at helping you with closed eyes too. You held onto his forearms for support while doing your part to get them off.

He knew how vulnerable you were feeling, so he spoke softly to soothe your nerves. " You're okay, " he repeated as he helped you step into the shower, clothes now disguarded safely. " Let's get you cleaned up, alright? You'll feel much better once you're clean. "

You hiccuped quietly and sniffled as you pulled the curtain of the shower closed. Simon waited patiently outside the shower, likely standing half leaning against the bathroom sink like he usually did at home. You did your best to bathe yourself, but you kept dropping the soap bottles and just about everything you tried to hold. The sound of it hitting the tile floor kept making your flinch. You felt so little, making it hard to control this bigger body of yours.

" It's okay, take your time, " Simon spoke up from the other side of the curtain, " You're doing great. "

The praise helped you. You sniffled and did your best. Somehow, you managed to not drop stuff as much. It did still happen, just not as frequently. When you finally finished, you turned off the water and peeked out from the curtain.

" Towel? " you mumbled quietly.

Simon's expression softened as he saw your clean face peeking out from behind the shower curtain. " Yeah, " he said gently, stepping closer to the shower and handing you a soft white towel. " All clean, eh? Good job. "

He remained nearby as you dried off, making sure you were comfortable and giving you a small smile of reassurance.

You to on the towel when it was offered, soon disappearing back behind the curtain to dry off. When you felt you were finished, you wrapped the fluffy towel around yourself then carefully got out of the shower. It wasn't an easy task, barely trusting yourself to not slip right now. However, with Simon keeping an eye on you, you didn't feel as anxious about it. You stood in the bathroom, shivering now from how cold you were without the warm water.

Simon looked around before spotting a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It had one of John's sister's names on it, so he just grabbed it and plopped it onto you.

" Here, use this for now. "

" is okay? " you whispered as you wiggled around a bit to tie it in place and free yourself of the towel. It was big on you, not that you minded. Though you quickly noticed the ducks on it in a few spots. It made you giggle, so you showed him too.

" Oh that's cute, " Simon told you with a nod. He may not have agreed, but you didn't really care that much. " And yes it's okay, we're just borrowing it. "

You nodded slowly at that information. Taking his offered hand, he lead you all the way upstairs and back to John's childhood room. Much to your surprise, he was awake and laying on the air mattress, just on his phone. He blinked a few times when he noticed you two come in. First you, then Simon. He made sure to shut the door behind you two.

" Everything okay? " Johnny asked, quietly and gently.

You only nodded, looking to Simon who did the same. He didn't say a word. That much made you feel relieved and genuinely cared for.

" I noticed the sheets on the bed were gone, so I put a fresh pair on, " John told them while turning his attention back to his phone.

Nothing was added nor asked. It relieved you. Simon shuffled with you to the foot of both the beds, where there was a lot more space to comfortably stand.

" Anything you want to wear in particular? " he asked as he tugged open a drawer of the dresser in the closet. You quickly noticed the same, probably bite marks, all over the wooden furniture.

" 'm dunno, " you mumbled as you lifted your hand, soon chewing on your fingers. You just felt the need to have something to chew on.

" Hmmm, " Simon hummed as he shuffled through the clothes. " How about some sweatpants? I'll let you wear one of my shirts if you want. "

You paused your chewing to blink at you, even catching John look up from his phone in the corner of your eye. It had surprised you both. Simon was not a big clothes sharer, well willingly.

" Really? " you asked, sounding a tad more excited than you had meant to.

" Sure, why not, " he shrugged.

" kay! " you agreed, nodding your head and even bouncing a little.

It made him smile. In return you found yourself smiling too.

After getting dressed, with some help too, you ended up snuggling into the air mattress with Simon and Johnny. You were squished between them, though comfortably. John was still on his phone, smiling contently while he did whatever it was he was doing.

" Comfortable? " Simon has asked, getting you to look at him. You nodded after, moving to your side to face him then cuddling into his chest. He pulled one of the blankets to be around you better. " Good, " he sighed contently.

" Just relax now, we've got you, " he whispered before yawning and settling down himself.

You gently tugged on his shirt, making him look down at you. He looked barely awake, yet he still wanted to make sure you had everything yih needed.

" 'm wan 'm paci, " you mumbled you him, moving to chew on your thumb to emphasize what you wanted. He frowned.

" Not sure we packed it kiddo, sorry, " he told you sadly, hand rubbing your back.

You shook your head, shifting a little to your back to point to your backpack still settled in front of the nightstand.

" You packed it? " Simon questioned with surprise peeking on his tone.

" Mhm, " you admitted shyly. Yet, he was clearly proud of you with the way he squeezed you into a hug. Then he pulled out a spare pillow and smacked John with it.

" What on EARTH-" John yelped louder than he really should've.

" Y/N's pacifier is in their bag right next to your head. "

" Oh. "

John turned over to face where the bag was, tugging it over then shuffling through it. Soon, he turned over to face you both, showing off the prized pacifier he had fished out. You rolled to your back, opening your mouth for him to nicely place it in. Happily, you chewed on it. You didn't really move from there, clearly soothing yourself into such a sleepy state it was hard to move.

" So sweet, " the scot cooed as he shuffled over. He brushed some of your hair from your face, then snuggled up to you and Simon.

Judging by how quiet the older of you three are being, you figure he fell asleep at last.

" Better not kick in your sleep, " the younger man teased you. You huffed at him playfully, making him smile wider. " Okay okay, try to get a bit more sleep. Sure we'll all be up in a few more hours if you can't, " he told you, soon yawning too.

You caught the yawn, making him absolutely beam. He laid his arm over you, just above where Simon's was. Soon after, you were both falling back asleep together.