#he wormed his way into my heart and hurt bones

[dustykneed]

everyone knows that if you bring your best friend along on a date with your bf, either your best friend of your bf will end up being third wheeled-- unless you're jim t kirk and you manage to third wheel for your first officer (who is in fact your boyfriend) and your cmo best friend.

no i have not watched bread and circuses yet but i feel in my heart that this applies. and also objectively the bread and circuses outfits are so insanely mind-blowingly attractive?? i needed an excuse to draw them in tight-fitting shirts and i regret nothing 😎

you just know that whenever the pre-mcspirk triumvirate hangs out whoever did the inviting will inevitably end up being the third wheel. like jim invites spock over to play chess and brings bones along to spectate and commentate and IMMEDIATELY spones joins forces to beat his ass (bickering and sassing each other all the while. and by the end bones is basically halfway on spock's lap smug as hell with spock leaning back a little just to accommodate him, a hand ghosting his waist to keep him from losing his balance.) And they beat jim's ass so soundly it would almost be embarrassing if he hadn't been preoccupied with committing the way spock and bones fit so well together to memory.

or spock will ask jim and bones over for dinner, and somehow while he's turned his back for a minute replicating their meals mckirk will have gotten into a playful argument about the worst terran movie and spock watches this eventually escalate into a mock tussle on the couch (and then onto the floor, where jim solidly pins bones (who is voicing his complaints very loudly) to the carpet and sort of pets at him until he goes pliant and giggly. and spock keeps watching because he can't bring himself to look away from how jim's biceps and triceps flex with the exertion of keeping a flailing bones still, and the way bones' shirt has rucked up with his wriggling and is now exposing his midriff in a decidedly... agreeable manner. And now their dinner is getting cold but spock is very much not. the opposite, in fact.

for bones though, generally he has the opposite problem-- whenever he tries to corner jim for a physical, it's guaranteed that spock will show up with him and stand next to his bed and all but hold jim's hand in front of the entire medbay and (with infuriating accuracy and highly amusing, transparent urgency) hand bones the instruments he needs before he even reaches for them, hovering by jim's side all the while. and jim is also TERRIBLE about not physically attaching himself to spock and actually letting bones do his goddamn job when spock gets hurt. if he wasn't so fond of them both, he swears he would've kicked them out of his medbay ages ago. Too bad they've both wormed their way solidly into his heart.

...

prompt fill for @mcspirkevents' mcspirk month day 26 "expectations vs reality" (i know this isn't spicy but by god spirk's mouths are actually touching and given my track record of not being able to draw people kissing properly it might as well be, lol) 🩵💙💛

[thegnomelord]

Demon hunter reader squeezing demon ghost while asleep that it somewhat painful grip having ghost shocked about how fuck did hw manage to go through wtver barrier stopping them from hurting eachother and demon hunter who was clinging out of finding peace and protection with simon in some sort that his pride too strong to admit that he feels afficnated to demon like that

Okay this got my brain worms worming

-----------

It's said what makes a hunter isn't silver or blessed water, but nightmares and blood. You're not a stranger to either, no hunter that's in the industry for something more than stupid pride is intimately familiar with sleepless nights. You know all the ways your mind comes up with to haunt you, and this time you're accosted with the usual frights; cracked claws reaching out to snatch you up, glowing eyes hunting you through twisting corridors of your family home, crooked teeth tearing into your flesh and vomiting your blood back into your mouth until you choke.

Though you are a grown man now, you still whimper like a babe when the nightmares come crawling back. Your body turns on it's own, reaching out and grasping the first thing your fingers touch like a child after a teddy bear. Your grip is iron tight as you pull the warm body closer to you, wrapping all four limbs around Ghost and he's certain he can hear his makeshift bones creak.

Ghost lays motionless, arms by his side, looking straight at the ceiling. Ghost doesn't remember when he last laid in a bed- scratch that. He doesn't even remember when he had laid down at all. Certainly not since he became a demon. And the only reason why he's laying there with his thumb up his ass instead of doing something worthwhile, like finding a way to dissolve this 'marriage', is because you two aren't able to be far away from each other and Ghost would rather get thrown out of Heaven again than lay on the ground like a dog.

At yet another shift of your body he turns his head enough to look at you. He watches your face twist, eyes screwing shut, lips pulling back into a snarl. But the 'fearsome' visage quickly falls and you burrow your face into his neck with a soft whimper, shivering like a puppy. Your arms tighten, blunt nails digging into his arm.

It hurts.

If he had eyebrows on the skull making up his 'face' they would have reached the center of his skull. He can't even begin to think how you're able to hurt him right now. The mere fact that God's pet project, so ugly in your fragility, could hurt him has disgust curling in his stomach.

Ghost has a stray thought to throw you off and acts on it — he's a demon after all, his existence is focused on the suffering of humans. He raises the hand you're not clutching like a lifeline, sharp claws quickly reaching to grab the back of your shirt, trying to summon up the strength to throw you off despite the damned binding.

He's not sure if it's the binding that stops him or the soft sob you let out fucking hope not. His fist relaxes, large paw like hand sliding down your back to slip under your shirt. His hand is warm like dying coals against your sweaty skin, trailing up the curve of your spine and back again in slow even strokes.

It's as if you can feel how shit he is at this, at, -blech- comforting you, your body shifting and starting to squirm away from him. "Enough good hunter." Ghost grunts, voice like grinding glass on sandpaper as he turns on his side, pulling you close with his chest. "You're alright."

The combination of his voice and the heat coming off his body soothes your mind. He feels you melt into his body, all your muscles relaxing, the frantic beating of your heart slowing as you start to take in slow measured breaths. He desperately wants to think of you as a maggot when you burrow your face into his neck, as some disgusting thing when you wrap all your limbs around him. Cute.

He finds he can't. He can't think at all; the sensation of your body against his leaves his mind empty, Tv static buzzing in his core. His chest rumbles with a low and deep growl definitely not a purr, He doesn't purr. You make a noise in return, your grip relaxing but in no way letting him go, mumbling unintelligent words under your breath.

Imagine that, a demon comforting a hunter. Ghost really did lose his mind on the way down.

His hand wraps around your waist and he can feel your sleepy smile against neck.... Holding you a little longer shouldn't hurt.

[just-another-t-word-blog]

Real Laugh

A Hazbin Hotel fanfiction

Okay so, I saw this fanart done by @kalico-of-doom while scrolling around the other day and I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO WRITE A FANFIC ABOUT IT. Otherwise the nonsense deep in my bones will consume me.

As always on my blog, serving up fresh hot garbage semi regularly, ⚠️⚠️ this is in fact a tickle fic. Don’t like, don’t read. Thank you.

Summary: Alastor thinks he’s funny, Angel thinks he should give him something to laugh about.

Self satisfied laughter rang through the sitting room in the hotel foyer. Alastor nudged Angel with his elbow, trying (unsuccessfully) to get him to join in. He’d been rattling off puns for the better part of 20 minutes now, causing most of the hotel residents to vacate the contaminated area. Angel, however, was trapped.

Not physically trapped, mind you, but he didn’t want to leave the powerful demon alone, fearing he may get upset. A happy Alastor was a safe Alastor, and Angel was not about to open that can of worms.

“Oh! I have another one,” Alastor said, smiling widely. “If you don’t mind the crassness, of course. What is the difference between an unclean bus stop, and a lobster with breast implants?” Angel sighed, but engaged, resting his chin in his palm and looking at his companion. “I don’t know, what?”

“One is a crusty bus station, and the other is a busty crustacean!” The red head broke into another fit of laughter, sounding as if he was faking it for a radio audience. This joke at least earned a smile from Angel, albeit a reluctant one. Alastor trailed off, turning to face the porn star more fully. “Oh, come now, why so serious?” Angel shook his head, offering a more exaggerated smile. “Hey, I did laugh at that one.”

“You smiled, my dear arachnid. I’d say that’s hardly laughter.” Angel scoffed, dropping the grin. “Maybe if you were actually funny, I’d laugh.” Alastor raised an eyebrow. “I am funny.”

This earned a genuine laugh from Angel. “Considering that’s the funniest thing you’ve said all day, I disagree.” He said, crossing his top set of arms. “Well, I disagree as well.” Alastor said, crossing his legs. “I’ve been laughing this entire time, so I’d say I’m pretty funny.”

“Funny looking, maybe.” Angel retorted, mocking his signature grin. “Besides, all I’ve been hearing is your fakey laugh.”

Alastor turned again. “Fakey?” He placed a hand on his chest, as if wounded. “That is simply untrue and hurtful, Angel. My laugh is genuine.”

“There is no way in any circle of hell that you actually laugh like that.”

Alastor gave a half hearted chuckle at that. Angel pointed. “See? No one fucking laughs like that. You sound like you’re reading off of a queue card!” Alastors smile faltered, going a little crooked. The two sat in silence for a moment, stewing.

“How’s about this one?” Alastor chimed. “What do you call a cow with two legs?” Angel gave him a flat look. “Lean beef!” Just as Alastor finished, Angel lunged, tackling the radio demon to the floor. They struggled, Alastor letting out a surprised yelp as the younger demon grappled for dominance. Having a weight disadvantage, Angel attempted to straddle his waist, only managing a half perch with one leg trapped under him, fighting Alastors wild bucking. He leaned forward, grabbing his upper arms from the underside and pushing them up, pressing his body weight into the hold. Alastors ears bristled, antlers threatening to grow and spike. “Enough with the bad jokes. What do you say we see what your real laugh sounds like?” A confused look crossed Alastors eyes.

With another set of arms, Angel dug clawed fingers into his ribs. Alastor gasped, holding the breath. He looked up at Angel, signature grin wobbling, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head to the side. Then, Angel lightened his touch.

The dam broke.

A stream of high pitched giggles erupted from the radio demon. Unrestrained, uncontrolled.

But most shockingly, happy.

Angel felt his face tinge red, a fond smile forming. He carefully scribbled his nails up and down Alastors rib cage, following his squirming. “Now that is a real laugh.” He cooed. He shifted his hands downwards, focusing on the skin where Alastors ribs turned into his sides. The older demon squealed before falling into more frantic laughter. His one free leg flailed about, the heel of his shoe scraping against the floor. “Woah there,” Angel teased, picking up the pace on his scratching. “You’ll wear a hole in the carpet! Niftys going to have a fit.” Alastor worked up the gall to look him in the eye.

“Fuck you!”

Unfortunately, the giggles took all the venom from his voice. Angel laughed. “I don’t know what your deal is, but you don’t need to swear at me! It’s not like you’ve asked me to stop!” A deep red blush painted Alastors face, eyes going wide for a split second before melting into another round of laughter. He finally spoke. “No! No, please-“ his pleading cut off with a yelp, Angel having gave his sides an experimental squeeze. “Ah-ha!” Angel exclaimed. “Another spot, jeez you’re just sensitive everywhere, aren’t you?” Alastor stuttered, trying to get out that he absolutely was not. To be fair, English is hard, and it’s substantially harder when most of your breath is being used for other things.

Angel paused his ministrations and grinned, catching Alastors eye. He brought out his third set of arms.

Shit.

Alastor began to plead again, shaking his head frantically. He was unable to keep the mirth from his voice. “No! Please, no more! I’m sorry, okay? I’ll stop with the puns!” His eyes never left that extra set, watching the wiggling claws hovering over him. “Aww, the big bad radio demon is begging now?” Angels voice dripped with playful sarcasm. Suddenly, he lunged all four free hands down.

Alastor shrieked.

And nothing happened. Alastor peered up at Angel, confused. The porn star had broken into his own stream of cackling, hunched over with his hands hovering inches away from Alastors skin. “I didn’t even touch you! What in the hells was that noise?!” Alastor made an incredulous face, for once his signature grin absent. “That sound was absolutely adorable.” Angel said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Do it again?” He lunged again, this time making contact. One set of hands scribbling up and down his ribs and sides while the others dug into his tummy. Alastor shrieked again (much to his dismay), falling into loud belly laughter. He threw his head back, unable to control himself through the onslaught. He yanked on his restrained arms, kicked with his free leg, and tossed his head side to side. He finally had enough.

Two black tendrils appeared behind his tormenter, wrapping around his middle and dragging him backwards off of Alastor. Angel screamed in surprise, flailing at the sudden jolt. Alastors tendrils held Angel there on the floor while he caught his breath, slowly sitting up. He smoothed his hair with his hands, taking a few deep breaths before putting on his sinister smile. “That was fun and all,” he said, standing to make his way towards Angel, “but I think it’s time to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

————

Charlie watched with teary eyes and a soft smile as her friends played. Hidden just around the corner, she had stopped to make sure no one was getting hurt. She had heard Alastor screaming and came running, finding a much more welcome sight.

Knowing neither of them were used to positive touch, she let them horse around. It might be good for them, after all.

Maybe she should find a way to work this into a lesson plan.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔

pairing: johnny soap mactavish x medic!reader (stitch)

summary: a night of drinking with 141 pushes you to the brink of your friendship with soap.

warnings: [ 1k words ] pathetic levels of mutual pining, yearning, alcohol and drinking, (f) masturbation, reader fantasising about sex with soap.

notes: i had so much fun writing this <33

Soap leans back dangerously on the stool at the bar as he laughs, a deep rumble that rattles his ribcage. The legs of the seat teeter precariously on the edge of a broken floor tile, threatening to slip into the grout grooves and knock him from his pedestal. He’s like sunshine, glowing with the grin plastered on his face as he guffaws at something Ghost had grumbled across the bar.

Even in your drunken stupor, you manage to place your palm on his lower back, curbing gravity’s inevitable pull by easing him back into an upright position. He chuckles weakly, still struggling over Simon’s ridiculous comment as he blinks back humorous tears.

“Cheers, Bonnie,” he grins, the ocean in his eyes swimming with the whiskey The Captain had been plying you both with all evening. It knocks you seasick, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, weathered by emotional storms. They creased for you, now, his wide grin carving out crevices that would last a lifetime simply because he offered you a smile. “Always lookin’ after us, aren’t ye?”

“Y-Yeah, don’t go expecting me to catch you in the field. My job’s to treat injuries, not prevent them,” you murmur, heart cracking against your chest as it flooded your cheeks with blood, heating the skin beneath his gaze.

“Mhm- it’d mean y’d have less work,” he pointed out with a pert raise of his brows, picking up his glass of whiskey and swirling it around so that the ice tnk’d against it. Johnny doesn’t break eye contact, basking you in the warmth of his gaze that could only be rivalled by the sunshine on the beaches his salt-water eyes reminded you of.

Did other people bathe in that everglow? Did the golden rays of his affection colour the cheeks of other girls, or was that look of adoration reserved only for you? You dread to think of the possibility that you were misreading Johnny’s tender gaze, that what you had hoped were exclusive expressions of enchantment had, in fact, been handed out as frequently as the insults that Soap consistently levelled at the members of task force 141. Or even worse, there was a single ‘lass’ back home, waiting in the cobbled streets of Glasgow to receive his embrace.

Genesis: the split on his forehead that went straight to the bone. No bullets were fired; instead, Soap’s skull connected with Ghost’s knee during a football game with the rest of 141. Inexplicably, he and Simon had been on the same team, yet Johnny still managed to end up hurt. He’d smiled at you, and the sight had wormed its way into your bones, the sound of his accented voice all hushed and husky ringing in your ears. ‘Bet yer not used to fixin’ daftys like me.’

You’d assured him he wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Swallowing thickly, your fingers trail up the ridges of his spine through the thin material of his t-shirt. His back is muscular, leaking the heat of far too many whiskeys for so early in the evening. You’re sure you can feel his vertebrae ripple beneath your touch, his eyes zeroed in on your lips like he was aiming his sniper rifle at a target.

“It’s not work if it’s you,” you whisper, feeling the rest of the bar, the team, wash away in those ocean-blue irises. Soap hums softly, the weight of his hand resting on the top of your thigh beneath the sticky countertop of the bar. He seems to calculate the distance between you; the logistics of the shot.

You can’t breathe.

Defibrillator, chest compressions, mouth to mouth.

“Yer too kind, Stitch,” he murmured softly, giving your thigh a squeeze before withdrawing his touch almost as quickly as he’d offered it. Instead, he wraps his fingers around the glass containing the rest of his amber whiskey, the condensation clinging to the sides of the glass dribbling down the length of his fingers to the knuckles.

Code blue.

☆ ☆ ☆

Breathless, your back arches from the cot’s mattress as you sink your fingers into the dripping head at the apex of your thighs. You can’t help the moan that spills over from your lips as you feel how wet Soap’s single touch had made you, the burn of his palm still simmering in the flesh of your thigh.

You’d barely made it back to the barracks. Stumbling over your own feet, you’d whimpered in frustration when tearing off your clothes, needing to rub your throbbing clit to ease the pulsing need Soap had instilled in you with his fucking smiles.

They’re a nuclear weapon, so bright it hurts your eyes.

Alcohol made it so much worse. Your mind runs away with itself, imagining Soap had tripped into your bed alongside you. He’d be rubbing at your swollen clit with his thumb, sinking his fingers deep inside you while praising you for how well you received him.

‘Steamin’ Jesus, Bonnie,’ he would groan, kissing across your sternum while searching for that mind-numbing spot inside you that had your toes cramping as they curled, ‘so fuckin’ wet for me. Can ye take another? C’mon, that’s it-‘

You wail softly, rocking your hips up to meet the thrust of your fingers as you imagine the sensation of his lips on your neck, the scratch of his stubble against your pulse point.

“‘M gonna cum, Johnny,” you wheeze aloud, urging the ghost touch to keep going. Your fingers sink deeper, the ridges of your fingerprints scraping something cataclysmic when you curl them just right.

A long, anguished whine ricochets off the walls of your dorm as you drench your fingers with your cum, eyes squeezing so tight that you can almost see the ghost of Soap’s silhouette behind your eyelids, praising you for your devastating orgasm. It’s so slow, utterly debilitating as it obliterates every inch of your drunken limbs with a white-hot ecstasy.

Your lungs rattle with the force of your inhales, bleached knuckles gripping the bedsheets in a desperate attempt to brace against the explosive orgasm. Soap’s touch still simmers beneath your thigh muscles, buried into the sinews despite the trembles that wracked them.

Did he feel the same? Had your palm burned into his vertebrae, or did he imagine the touch of a girl from home, whispering her name when he came?

You dread to think. 

join the taglist here:

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art

[jacksdinonuggets]

~Bandages~

Summary: Can Charlie bandage vaggies hand up from When lute stabbed her in the finale and vaggie age regresses?

Requested by Asher bowls of cereal on Ao3

The day had been exhausting. They had fought and defeated heaven in battle. Tons of exorcists verses a bunch of rando’s, the princess of hell, and all of cannibal town who weren’t even trained in combat. It was so tiring that all Vaggie wanted to do was go to sleep but the stabbing pain in her hand made it hard to make her brain sleepy. The hotel was wrecked so she couldn’t even rest. However, Lucifer offered to let them stay at his palace while they rebuilt the hotel. She would be able to fix up her wounds there. Surprisingly, not many wounds were sustained during the battle. Vaggie might’ve gotten the worst since she had a 1 on 1 battle with lute. Her nose and face still hurt from being smacked into a table two times.

As they were walking towards the palace, Vaggie remembered the feeling of the blade against her bones in her hand. It made her want to puke just rethinking about it. Now that the adrenaline was gone, she had to force herself not to cry out in pain. Gold blood leaked out from her glove and onto the ground as they walked.

Charlie’s dad quickly got everyone set up in their rooms so they could rest. Vaggie and Charlie were allowed to share so they got one of the master bedrooms. Vaggie immediately grabbed the first aid kit and tried to open it, but any sudden movement of her hand made her pain ten thousand times worse. She hissed in pain and dropped the kit, taking her glove off. Some fuzz from her glove made its way into her wounds. Charlie overheard and came rushing in.

“You okay?” she had a concerned look on her face that made Vaggie start to slip.

“Oh my god! What happened to your hand?!” Charlie rushed over and grabbed her hand, looking over it. She could see how deep the wound was. The flesh from the inside was easily seen through the golden blood and bits of it were starting to slowly peak up and out of her hand like little worms.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?!” She said in a loud voice that kind of scared Aaggie. She was already teetering between headpsaces, now was not the time for yelling

“I w-was going to tell you-”

“Yeah, just like how you were going to tell me about being an angel and then waited until Adam spoiled it!” she bellowed. She was just really stressed. She had to try hard not to puke when looking at the ripped up flesh sticking out of her lover’s hand.

Vaggies lip quivered before she started bawling.. Charlie realized what she had just said and the tone and immediately took it all back. She also knew that if Vaggie started crying this easily from a little bit of yelling, she was slipping right into her little headspace. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I’m just worried,” Charlie put a hand on her back and tried to soothe her. However, Vaggie kept crying. She already had so much on her mind as it is, as well as the pain, the yelling just made it worse.

“Sh, shh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m not mad,” Charlie promised, going over to her and giving her a side hug. She cried and cried and Charlie knew she needed to bandage her wound before it got infected. 

Since she was already crying, she decided to kill two birds with one stone and clean the wound so Vaggie wouldn’t have an intense headache from so much crying. She wailed when Charlie rubbed her hand with the cotton swab that had alcohol on it.

“I know it hurts, but I need to clean it,” She told her. 

By the time the bandage and gauze was wrapped around her hand, she was half asleep. She seemed to fall deeper into headspace too.

“Wan Bucky ‘nd paci,” she mumbled when Charlie was finished. Charlie didn;t have the heart to tell her that Bucky was… well gone. He was either blasted from existence due to Adam’s ray of disobeying the law of conservation of matter, or buried in rubble.

So Charlie pulled out her phone and quickly texted her dad.

<”Random question, can you summon a replica of Vaggie stuffed goat and purple pacifier? She’s regressed and asking for them”

Luckily, two moments later, Lucifer barged into the room, carrying three rubber ducks, an exact replica of Bucky, and a pacifier inside of a plastic case in his hands. He set them on the bed and walked into the bathroom. He saw Vaggie trying to curl up on the bathroom tile while Charlie was waiting for a text back. She turned around and saw him standing there.

“Oh, you’re here! Did you get the stuff?” she asked.

“Yup! Take good care of her,” he patted her shoulder before disappearing in his puff of smoke. He could’ve just used the door but it was more aesthetically pleasing to just disappear.

She realized how sweaty and kind of smelly Vaggie was, indicating that she hadn’t showered yet. Charlie showered right when they got there which was why she wasn’t all that smelly.

“You need a bath. I think there’s some bubbles,” Vaggie looked up happily at the mention of a bubble bath. She was still extremely tired but wanted to feel clean.

Charlie grabbed the rubber ducks from the bed and towel and began to fill the tub. After she made sure it was the right temperature and put the bubbles in, she helped undress Vaggie and put her in the tub. Luckily, she was very cooperative and didn’t even splash. She just played silently with the duckies and bubbles while Charlie washed her body and hair. She made quick work of it too because she didn’t want Vaggie to fall asleep in the tub either.

When she was done, she took out Vaggie before drawing the tub because she knew how scared she was of the drain. She took out the toys before pulling the plug out too. Couldn’t risk any of them getting stuck. That would make both Lucifer and Vaggie have a heart attack.

After drying her off, she helped her get dressed in some of Lucifer’s old pajamas. They were about the same height so it worked. 

When Vaggie was lead out of the bathroom, she squealed with delight as she saw her favorite stuffy, Bucky. She grabbed him off the bed and hugged him tightly. Charlie washed the pacifier in hot water before giving it to Vaggie. Then she tucked Vaggie into the bed before exiting the room since it was still early and she wanted to check on everyone else before she went to sleep. As a flip with a caregiver lean, she always found herself needing to check on everyone. It was just part of her personality, I guess.

[kaftan]

Some Notes on Arcs 18-20

(Long post! Here there be ramblings! Sorry)

- I forgot this was an arc 18 moment till I checked — Taylor feeling seduced (her words) by Dinah’s power, longing to hold on to her despite her mission being to free her… goosebumps. I love how the villains she hates rub off on her, worm (ha) into her.

- And then describing the act of returning her to her home as throwing away a resource… something that felt dumb to do… being proven right, in a sense, in arc 20, when it comes back to bite her… I’m reminded of some dialogue from animorphs that I’ll have to paraphrase, something about how what matters isn’t what’s right or wrong, it’s what’s expedient. Taylor isn’t all the way there yet, but feels like a matter of time.

- More on Taylor and morality: it’s fascinating to see her go through the same rough trajectory for every major battle — she starts from her baseline, being disturbed at the notion of seriously hurting or killing anyone, slowly numbs that sentiment with plenty of half-hearted strands of reasoning, eventually escalates to the point of cold-blooded violence or the enablement of such… and feels nothing. “Dissociation as an integral aspect of being” moment!

- I love Jessica Yamada. Not enough to read Ward, I have my limits. Getting a better perspective on the “all Amy’s horses and all Amy’s men couldn’t put Victoria back together again” situation was a treat. I love the horror elements in Worm. I love the horror of having the face of your trauma etched into the folds of your brain.

- Met Sveta! People on tumblr namedrop her a lot, to the point where I wondered if she’d been introduced before and I forgot. She’s a darling.

- Lily’s meltdown about Skitter… you can’t even look straight at her without feeling your skin crawl ❤️ but she sounds idealistic and naive even with cockroaches and bees crawling over her face ❤️ she starts making sense ❤️

- [Trickster voice] my beautiful gamer princess with a disorder… talk to me…

- This quote here:

“I mentioned it in passing to Miss Militia,” I said, “Better that you tell the truth and say we pushed hard for it. Blame me.”

“No,” Regent said, “Blame me.”

I shot him a look, and he shrugged. “Just wanted to get in on the fun,” he said.

says so much about Alec, lmao. It flagged in my brain because it’s the second time I’ve consciously noted it: his jokes about wanting to be included speak volumes. The truth he does not dare to know, etc etc

- Taylor “we cannot rule out human sacrifice” Hebert

- Marissa: She’s my friend. / Taylor: Was. It’s a big difference. Fast forward: Emma interlude, crossing paths at Arcadia. I love storytelling.

- Speaking of the Emma interlude: reading about Taylor’s bullying always makes me feel queasy; this was bone nausea on a deep level. What happened to Taylor is like if your worst fears about other people came true. You know, the nagging worry that you’re a burden, that a late text means I don’t want to be your friend. The worry that any reasonable person will tell you to ignore. How the fuck do you come back from living that nightmare?

Reminds me of Amy, how what happened to her is like if your worst fears about yourself came true.

- Everyone always talks about Taylor’s repressed rage but holy shit her repressed rage. What a character. What a character. I love her fantasies of violence. I love how much she basks in that meager catharsis.

- There’s something beautiful about how effortless the supervillain persona is for Taylor. (Every you is the real you, you are the mask and the wearer, etc.) Her standoff against Dragon and Defiant might be one of my favorite scenes yet. The perfectly affected nonchalance, the hanging threats toward hostages (becoming a theme), the mile-a-minute plotting, the grandiose gestures, the leveraging of fear… she’s a wonder and a terror.

- When she smiles and Clockbocker says “Fuck me, it just sunk in. It’s really her.” :-)))

- “and so that Defiant could make something resembling an apology as part of his twelve step assholes anonymous process” I fucking love you Taylor I love you forever

[carry-on-my-wayward-gays]

Imagine, if you will, fWhip getting inside Tango's head about Jimmy. "He's a corrupt Sheriff. Don't waste your time with him, he'll just cast you aside when he's done with you." And it all makes Tango's skin crawl. Just the way fWhip says it, it makes Jimmy sound like a heartless monster.

And Tango knows he isn't. He knows Jimmy is warmer than the sun and just as bright. His heart is pure solid gold and he deeply cares for everyone he knows, whether he admits it or not. Jimmy doesn't have a single bone of hate in his body.

But it still keeps Tango up at night. As he listens to the sculk whisper and the dripstone drip and the rails creak he can't help but think of the possibility that maybe Jimmy changed after Double Life. Maybe he is as fWhip describes.

So Tango sneaks away. He goes to Tumble Town late at night and is surprised to find his rancher still awake, though nearly falling asleep in the pews of his church.

"Hey," Tango says softly and fondly. The giant grin that takes over his face is purely involuntary. Jimmy is here, in front of him again. He could touch him, look at him, talk to him. He was elated to have Jimmy again.

Jimmy startles awake. He blinks sleepily at Tango and rubs his eyes, returning the same huge grin. "Hey you. What're you doing here?" Jimmy asks, standing up out of respect.

Tango's face falls. fWhip's voice rattles in his mind, echoing lies from the hurt heart of a bitter ex. And Tango feels gross and far too possessive admitting to himself that fWhip and Jimmy definitely had a fling of sorts.

"I uh, wanted to talk to you. Ask you something, really." Tango fidgets with the sleeves of his cloak. He likes the feeling of the embroidery running under the pad of his thumb.

"Oh? Ask away, I'm all ears." Jimmy gestures toward Tango. His brown eyes are still sparkling even with such a tense topic, even in such dim lighting.

"Um, it- So... fWhip has been.. saying some not so nice stuff on your behalf." Tango looks around, anywhere but Jimmy.

"Oh Gods," Jimmy groans, hiding his face in his hands and slumping back into the pew. "Listen, Tango-"

"It's not like I believe him! I don't I honestly do not!" Tango cuts to defend himself. He doesn't. He only works for fWhip and sleeps in his cave it's not like he's all buddy-buddy with the goblin. "I just want your side of the story."

"He violated my trust." Jimmy growls defensively. "He disrespected me and the Law. Believe me I hated firing him and he can deny anything he wants but the truth is he betrayed me. End of story." Jimmy's face turned sour quickly. Tango takes a step back, feeling sorry(?), guilty(?) for even thinking to bring it up. Obviously this matter was still a tender one.

"I'm sorry," Tango mutters.

Jimmy sighs, taking the hat off his head and placing it in the pew next to him. "No, you're alright. Sorry if I sounded like a dick, it's still a sensitive issue. I'm trying to move on but that's kinda hard when the issue is raking your name through the mud." Jimmy laughs.

Tango walks over and sits in the pew adjacent to Jimmy. "I get it. I just think he got inside my head a little too well." Something snakes up Tango's spine as he watches the way Jimmy reclines back and kicks his dusty boots up on the pew ahead of him.

"Yeah, he seems to have that effect on people." Jimmy mumbles. He turns to look at Tango. "You need to get out of that cave." He jokes.

Tango snorts. "What, already? It's been... a day.." A sudden horrific realization dawns on Tango. It's only been a day and fWhip has wormed his way into Tango's mind. No wonder everyone else is so hellbent on borderline torturing the Sheriff.

"Yeah. Being in the caves warps your sense of time." Jimmy grunts as he stands up, picking up his hat. "Why don't you come over tomorrow. We can build something, have an adventure. Ya know, ranch it up."

"Sounds lovely." It sounds like a dream come true. It sounds like everything Tango has ever wanted. It sounds like coming home.

"Great. I'll be here all day. Drop by whenever." Jimmy pats his hat onto his head and starts going for the door.

Tango watches him leave, takes in his figure and the way he walks. He watches the tassels that swag from Jimmy's outfit, watching the spurs on his boots spin and jingle. It's Jimmy. The same Jimmy he's known and loved. The only thing that's changed is costume. But Tango has also changed in that department, so he can't speak.

"I'll see you in the morning, Tango." Jimmy winks and walks out the door, leaving it open behind him. Tango was going to leave right after, so it was fine.

And Tango holds onto that wink, that smile, and the tip of that hat before Jimmy disappears into the night. He holds onto it all the trip back to Gobland, where he leaves it at the front door to pick back up in the morning on his way out.

[littlemourningstarr]

Assurance

Cazador is dead, but the nightmares haven't stopped. Astarion has to wonder if they ever will.

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: Transmasc tav, referenced past noncon, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort

Astarion could hear it, the voice of nightmares, clawing in his skull, raking sharpened claws against smooth bone. Everything was dark, he could feel his body, his bones, his skin- but why wouldn't his eyes open? Why couldn’t he see ?

The voice continued, familiar in the most horrid of ways, strings of words that tore into Astarion's skull, wormed into his very mind. Making him feel small, pathetic, worthless .

Nothing but a sad little whore . And oh, what a whore he was .

Cazador's voice made Astarion grind his teeth, before he felt a fire in his back- hot, burning knives digging into his icy skin. Parting and carving the contract and branding him as Cazador’s own, more than the bite ever had. Cazador’s toy to toss about as he pleased, to break and break and break , then throw away for the horrors of his palace to break even more. Only to scoop him up, act as if he saved him , and do it again .

The black receded as the pain intensified, Astarion crying out in agony as he had the night Cazador had first carved into him. Beneath his hands he could feel the expensive fur rug Cazador kept in one of his chambers. He felt it beneath his bare knees, as blood riveted down his sides, dripping onto the furs that were worth more than his own life.

In his right mind, Astarion would know this was wrong. This wasn't where Cazador carved the pact into him. He wouldn't have risked sullying any of his finery for Astarion. But somehow the dichotomy of Cazador’s whispered words- whore whore whore - and the soft, angelic like fur, made this a hell that wanted to burst from Astarion's gut.

The knife pulled from Astarion's back, and he was roughly shoved down, landing with his face pressed into the fur. Clawed hands gripped his naked hips and forced him onto his back. The fur that was soft a moment ago felt like tiny endless thorns pushing into his ruined skin, needles that bit at exposed nerves.

Finally the blackness fell away, and from it Astarion could see Cazador’s face- those glowing eyes, fangs too long if his mind could grasp at proper memory-

"My boy ," Cazador nearly cooed, the undertones of his voice mocking, making Astarion’s belly seize up painfully. “My sordid little harlot .”

Hands on his thighs, smearing blood onto pearly skin, pushing them open and open and open until Astarion thought bone would crack-

His eyes snapped open the moment he felt the barely-there heat of Cazador’s own naked skin. He gasped for an unneeded breath, staring up at the ceiling of the dark bedroom. There was a faint, pulsing purple glow coming from the far corner- the latest plant Sekh had brought up from his workshop.

Astarion flexed his fingers against the sheets, his dead heart hammering painfully against his ribs. There was sweat on his spine- but for a single, horrifying moment, he was so sure it was blood.

Paralyzed, Astarion felt as if he hadn't left the nightmare. Even with his eyes open his mind could continue the sordid fantasy, what Cazador would do to him, over and over again. How it hurt. How Astarion's body would betray him anyway. How Cazador would laugh and mock him for finding release under him.

He felt the bed shift next to him, and in his delirium he wondered if the monster was there, waiting, ready to crawl over Astarion, suck the remnants of his soul from his mouth. But the sleep-addled voice that spoke was anything but monstrous.

“Astarion?”

Astarion shifted his eyes, could just make out Sekh as he propped himself up, hair in disarray around his face, over his shoulders, studying him. Astarion wanted to turn to him, wanted to curl into his comforting warmth, but he was still so paralyzed .

Sekh sat up properly then, wakefulness rushing into his eyes, as he reached out, splayed a hand on Astarion’s bare chest. Fire sparked from his fingertips, into Astarion’s skin, made the parts of him the drow touched feel alive . Sekh slid closer, leaned over Astarion, his ginger hair acting as a veil, cutting them off from the room around them, the world outside their home.

“Sweetheart, you’re alright.” Astarion wanted to believe him- a sliver of his consciousness did , knew this was nothing but a night terror, nothing but jumbled memories and well crafted fiction-

But it had been so long , since he’d had one. For a single moment he had thought perhaps Cazador was behind him. Dead in the ground and forgotten.

He thought he had finally been free .

Sekh’s hand slid up his bare chest, cupped his cheek affectionately, thumb stroking along his skin. “You’re safe starshine, I promise.”

Astarion exhaled then, felt his muscles letting go of their rigid terror, relaxing in an almost painful way. He tipped his head slightly, watched as Sekh smiled at him. His lover pulled back, sat next to Astarion, as the vampire managed to convince his body to move- swore his joints were creaking as he rolled to his side, facing Sekh.

“Do you want me to hold you?” Sekh was positioned so perfectly just an inch from Astarion’s touch- far enough that he could close the space in not even a breath, could gather Astarion up and cradle him to his chest.

Yet he wasn’t touching. Now that he’d brought Astarion back into his body, he was strategically within reach , but without contact.

There were moments when Astarion wanted to sob, that he could understand . That he wanted the touch so badly, the comfort, the feeling of being alive - but in these terror stricken moments, he had to choose it . He needed to know his voice, even if silent, would always be heard .

Astarion sat up slowly, giving a nod. Sekh offered up his hand, and only when Astarion took it did the drow pull him to his chest, wrap his arms around him and engulf him in the sort of safety the vampire never thought he would know. He melted against Sekh’s chest, listened to the steady thump of his living and beautiful heart against his ribs. It was the only sound in the room, to Astarion. Perhaps the only sound in the world.

Astarion felt Sekh kiss the top of his head, gently- just a brush of lips to bed tangled curls, nothing more. Relief washed through Astarion as he relaxed further, let his eyes fall shut again. This time the darkness that engulfed him was calming, welcoming .

He swore that the blackness of oblivion had a different glow, a different shade, with Sekh. That with him, and endless nothing was just fine .

He sank into it, let his muscles melt under skin, around bone. Sekh rubbed a hand along his bare spine, not caring about the fear sweat that clung to Astarion’s pale skin- never caring about the ridges of scars under his fingertips and palm.

They sat for long minutes in silence, the drow’s hand slowly chasing the terror-addled aches from Astarion’s muscles. Softly, when Astarion could finally breathe, Sekh asked “Do you want to lay back down?”

Astarion shook his head gently, tucked under the drow’s chin. “I don’t believe I’ll be sleeping again today.” Despite calming, despite knowing it was a nightmare and Cazador was dead and gone, chopped to bits and burned in holy moonlight- well, Astarion still feared if he allowed sleep to invade his thoughts again, his old master would still be there. Waiting. Always waiting for him .

Sekh nodded, gently guiding Astarion away from his chest. The vampire settled back, as Sekh pushed the blanket off them. He climbed from the bed, finger combing his hair as his skin was hued in gem-like violet from the pulsing plants. To Astarion, Sekh looked as if he was carved from jewel-encrusted obsidian, in that moment.

“Get dressed,” Sekh said, offering him a little smile. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

Once they were both dressed and stepping from their home, Astarion had to wonder how long he had even slept. It was still dark, but the skyline was beginning to ease from abyssal black to a gray that matched his drow’s skin, hinting that sunrise was beginning to make her way to Baldur’s Gate.

The air was cool, scented by the bay even if it was still a walk to see the water properly. Astarion tipped his head back, closed his eyes, let the slumbering city fill his senses. Let himself remember that he was more alive now than he had ever been, before his first death.

And that was something Cazador could never take from him.

He felt Sekh’s hand press to his own, fingers tangling together so perfectly, squeezing gently. Slowly, they walked away from their home, along the most empty streets of the city. That moment, somewhere between an hour and two before true dawn, was the one time the city might have truly slept. There was something surreal about seeing his city, his home , actually at peace.

They didn’t speak, as they meandered the road, passing shops still closed, homes with families sleeping away the last of the night- until the water was in view. Sekh led Astarion to the edge of the road, to the fencing that cut off the drop down to the docks. The drow leaned his forearms against it, closing his eyes, the breeze from the bay wisping back his ginger curls, the pink faded so thoroughly in the front it was almost gone .

Astarion didn’t think Sekh had dyed it, in the past weeks. 

He took up the space next to his lover, arm gently brushing against Sekh’s as the vampire looked out over the ocean bay as well. The water had that deep green-blue hue to it, looking far less gray as of late, despite its name. Not only was the city and its inhabitants healing from the Netherbrain, but it seemed the world around them was as well.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sekh asked, not taking his eyes off the water. Astarion sucked at his tongue, his instinct to say no , because before Sekh, there had never been a reason to discuss the horrors. Even with Dalyria, it seemed pointless to explain every terror Cazador inflicted upon him. She had seen it- that was enough.

Astarion, for once, went completely against his instincts. “I don’t believe there is much to talk about,” he admitted, “but… it was him . Him and all of those disgusting little words he loved to use for me.” Astarion wrung his hands together, and then in a fit of honesty, admitted, “I thought perhaps I was finally free of him.”

Sekh was quiet for a moment, so long in fact Astarion wondered if he’d speak at all. But just before the anxiety of opening up in any way could creep in, his drow broke his silence. “I still dream about my parents,” he admitted, eyes locked on some faraway point in the sea. “I still see them as I found them- dead, still bleeding, skewered and desecrated . I can go months, years , without my mind conjuring up those images, and then one night I close my eyes and I’m back in my childhood home. And I’m helpless, and they’re dead , and for a moment I’m sure I’m alone, about to join them.”

Sekh tore his eyes away from the water, trained them on Astarion, so intently yet gently that Astarion felt as if the world had melted away, around them. As if Sekh could see him, and only him .

“You’re never free of your memories, or of the way your mind can twist them,” he admitted. “I won’t lie to you about that. If there’s something you deserve in this world, Astarion, it’s the truth .” He paused, took a slow breath. “But Cazador has no hold over you now. Your life is yours , to do with it what you will. Even if you have nightmares of him, every day, for the next two hundred years- he’s dead and you’re here, you’re alive . He can’t take that from you.”

Astarion bit at his lip, fangs poking into the plush flesh. He had hoped he would have been beyond Cazador by now- months of the man being nothing but a memory. But he couldn’t deny that Sekh’s words felt like the truth- and the whole of him wanted to believe his drow. Sekh didn’t lie to him- he respected Astarion too much for that.

He respected Astarion .

That was something Astarion hadn’t had, in two hundred years. Hells, he couldn’t be sure he truly had it before his first death.

Astarion leaned his head over, resting it on Sekh’s shoulder. In that moment, his night terror felt leagues away- his mind was already having trouble recalling how the fur had felt digging into his freshly carved pact- after all, that hadn’t happened , his mind had nothing but conjuncture to use for those sensations.

“It always gets better,” Sekh said, eyes moving back to the water. “That I can promise you, starshine.”

Astarion took a single breath- smelled seawater, salt, the faintest hint of Sekh’s warm skin. “You know,” he whispered, moving his body even closer, choosing to weave himself around Sekh so he was curling the man’s bicep to his chest, keeping his head on his shoulder, “I think I believe you.”

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

May I request a scenario where shamuras s/o (who is a tiger) who showed up to check up on leshy because of lamberts crusades, sees that he’s about to be killed and basically starts fighting Lambert to save leshy. They Managed to escape with leshy but both are badly wounded and rush to the other bishops before s/o shortly Faints and the bishops who in their own ways panic and rage and try to heal them as shamura slowly goes into a rage at seeing his little brother and his partner almost get killed by lambert?

"Five becomes four...becomes three..becomes-"

"Shamura? You're doing that thing again."

Feeling a gentle paw on their hand, Shamura saw you looking at them with concern, and they slowly ceased their mutterings.

They have gotten noticeably worse since the Lamb's unexpected resurrection...in which they also now possessed the Red Crown and were on a crusade through Darkwood.

Leshy sought to murder the Lamb himself before they could get too far in their conquest. His most treasured servants were reduced to mere mortal coils, serving the enemy.

It was the greatest of insults. The worm wouldn't stand to be insulted this way.

“Brother Leshy...the youngest of us..” Shamura uttered quietly, sitting down. “He is swift, but sloppy..and that will be his undoing.”

You blinked at their words, confused and concerned. “What do you mean by that, my love? Is he going to...?” There was a pause, but from the forlorn look in their eyes, the answer was obvious.

“I cannot say for certain. My visions aren’t as clear as they used to be..some things I know, others I don’t.”

Hearing their weary sigh made your heart ache. You hate seeing them like this; they were still smart, but they were no longer the wise leader they used to be.

The other bishops were understandably worried for their wellbeing, too. They insisted that Shamura rests while Leshy dealt with the resurrected lamb.

Yet they spent many days and nights worried as the little sheep's cult grew in numbers. Their dreams plagued by disturbing visions they didn't wish to fully disclose, not even to you.

It was only a matter of time before the bishops got hurt. Nothing would stop Lamb from storming the temples once the seals were broken.

You agreed that Leshy wasn’t ready for this fight..knowing him, he'd severely underestimate their power. And Shamura’s troubling musings didn’t make things any better.

“What if I check on Leshy? Would that bring you some ease?” You offered, seeing your beloved perk up in alarm.

“I..can’t have you do that.” They shook their head.

“I’d do anything for you, Sha.” With a frown, you held both of their hands. “I’m just gonna take a quick peek into his temple, and if I need to summon backup I will. Trust me, I’ll be careful.”

Although greatly hesitant to let you go at such a dangerous time--as you were a mere mortal who'd be easily slain--they saw how determined you looked..how much you cared for them and their fellow bishops..

And ultimately, they relented.

“....alright. If you need me, come back straight away.”

"I promise." Nodding, you smiled and let go of their hands, giving them a gentle kiss on the cheek to assure them you’ll be okay on your own. Then you headed towards the pentagram that would warp you directly into Leshy’s temple.

You were basked in a red light as you disappeared before Shamura’s eyes, with them looking on in worry.

‘I fear this won’t end well for anyone..’

................

Upon your arrival into Darkwood, you were immediately greeted by the earth quaking beneath your feet, along with a loud bellowing noise coming from further inside the temple grounds.

'Oh no..what’s going on?!’ You panicked slightly, hurrying down the path as bones of monsters and cultists crunched underneath your feet. All you could wonder was what horrors you’ll see at the end.

When you entered the temple grounds, you skidded to a stop, shocked to see Leshy in his giant eldritch earthworm form, and the Lamb--as fragile as they looked--held a crusader’s blade in their hands as they swung at him. With the crown, they used a curse that fired flaming projectiles at his face.

Leshy roared and slammed his head into the ground, trying to crush the nimble sheep. Yet they dodged every attack and struck when the opportunity presented itself, brutal and merciless.

There was a split-second where the green worm--having regained his eyesight--spotted you across the arena, and seemed shocked you were watching the fight.

But that split-second cost him dearly as he was slashed across two red eyes, which oozed blood as he howled in pain.

You could only look on helplessly when he collapsed onto the cracked stone pavement, shrinking down back to his original-self. Only this time he had no blindfold and his robe was completely tattered.

The Lamb wasn’t going to give him any moment to recuperate as they jumped on top of him. He huffed in defeat, having lost all the will to fight back. This was his end and he knew that very well.

At least he died trying to stop them.

“Y-You’re..stronger than I thought, little lamb.” He rasped. “But you’ll never defeat the others...my family..will..!!”

Lamb raised their blade high to drive it into his chest, intending to silence him and his heresy permanently.

“NO!!”

Suddenly they were tackled off of the defeated god, knocked to the ground as they grunted in pain. When they saw who stood over them, they were in disbelief--

You were but a mere tiger follower, imbued with the spirit of war, with your claws out and your eyes full of determination.

Leshy was equally shocked, realizing Shamura’s partner had saved him from being slain. And he watched as Lamb retaliated by bringing their crown back to them, turning it into a sword once more. 

“Don’t get in my way!!” They warned. “Let me finish the job and maybe I will grant you absolution.”

“I give my life and love to the Bishops of the Old Faith.” You snapped in defiance, summoning your own weapon. “To hurt one is to hurt all of us! I can’t let you tear this family apart.”

“..then you’ll die with them.”

As you charged at each other, Leshy figured out what you trying to do: You were giving him an opportunity to escape while he had some strength left in him.

It wasn’t much, but it enabled him to warp out of the temple and into Silk Cradle. Its door remained locked to outsiders, so he knew he’d be safe there for the time being. At least until he could heal properly.

The second he appeared, Shamura was already rushing to his side. “Brother! You’re alive..that Lamb had wounded you greatly..” Their gaze went to his bleeding scars, all of them oozing with red and black.

“Th-They were strong..I’m..I’m sorry, Shamura.” He whispered, his legs shaky as he was barely able to stand on his own. “Please..don’t think any less of me..”

“Of course not..” They looked to the pentagram in worry. “Where’s [y/n]?”

Leshy opened his mouth to answer, but they both saw a light emerge from the portal--and you sprung up.

Shamura was horrified at the condition you were in. You looked just as bloody and bruised as their brother; part of your ear was ripped and your fur was matted all over the place. And you had a bruise around your eye. Yet you kept smiling as you dragged yourself towards them, weapon scraping the ground behind you.

Moments later, Heket and Kallamar arrived. But the spider could only see you and ran over to help you. “My beloved..what happened?” Rage and guilt filled every inch of them.

Why did they agree to let you go alone?

“They..w-were gonna take his heart, but I chased them out.” You whispered, taking some pride in your victory. “I did it, I..I saved the Old Faith from....”

However, your smile fell just as your body did, passing out right there and then. Shamura saved you from hitting the hard ground, as they cradled you closely. They could see you were just barely breathing.

Thank the Great Ones you were breathing at all.

“The Lamb nearly killed one of our own!!” Kallamar cried out in shock. “How?! We must have messed up in the ritual somewhere-!”

“We did everything right!” Heket argued with him. “That wretched heretic just took advantage of the situation...” Then she turned to the green worm, scowling. “Leshy, how could you lose to a measly little lamb?!”

“S-Sister..I..I-”

“Enough.”

A quiet rasp came from Shamura, but it made the bishops finally pay attention to them as they still held you in their arms. “The time for us..the time to strike the Lamb will come. But we cannot argue like this. Not when our brother and my love are bleeding seas of red. Kallamar, take them to Anchordeep.”

“Yes! Of course!” The squid nodded as he warped Leshy and you into his realm, knowing you will be in good hands there as you heal.

“Heket, have your followers....look for those red flowers in Brother Leshy’s realm.”

“As you wish.” Heket obliged, sinking into her portal to let her worshippers know they had a missionary ahead of them.

Shamura knew what was to come of the bishops, but they wanted to see the Lamb suffer. Suffer as they have after seeing you return to them--weak and wounded. 

They have truly crossed the line by hurting you.

This will be as far as they go.

[aufucker]

beers and needles cw: needles, that whole nail thing strade done did older thing, was my first shot getting bj's vibe/thought process down!

You were sleeping, right?

Probably not. Not with nails in your muscle and bone. Not with everything being so cold.

You can swear the filth is more obvious at night.

The ropes were looser. You don't know how or when - though probably when you were writhing under him.

It didn't take much to worm your way out, but the air felt so much colder on your wrists, damp with sweat and hot with rope burn. It was practically biting. His warmth was almost preferred.

Maybe that was the point of the chill.

It didn't matter. You were free.

Until you tried to move your legs.

The nails he drove into your body made their presence known, sending hot shocks through your nerves that made your vision blank for just a instant. You had to take them out. You had to.

Teeth clenched, almost too tight. It wasn't ideal.

Rope in mouth, synthetic threads between teeth, jaw locked. Grab, breathe, pull. Again.

Keep quiet.

Grab. Breathe. Pull. Holes. Two and an impromptu half weren't enough for him, apparently.

Grab. Breathe. Cry. Shut the fuck up. Pull, God damn you. Pull.

It was so few, it was almost embarrassing how long it took you to take them out. How quickly he put them in.

With tears in one eye and… don't think of it. Think of the deep gash in your thigh, its openness to you. To him. You had to do something about it.

Like a newborn deer promptly hit by a truck, you struggled to get to your legs, bloodied and sticky, aching and pleading to just stay put. You shambled to the cabinets, carefully and quickly checking for aid of some sort. Surely he does real work down here with all of these tools, right? Surely he's hurt himself like the rest of us at least once.

Maybe slammed that hammer into his own knee once or twice by mistake. You could laugh, but you didn't.

Relief tugged your heart from your stomach as you found a first aid kit nestled in the shelves and didn't hesitate to grab it and pop it open: gauze, sanitation, bandages, and ultimately, to your surprise, a suture needle and thread.

Deft hands prepped the needle, clean and loaded. You sat yourself onto the counter, gripping your thigh and pushing the split flesh together, ready to push the point in and… you couldn't.

Shockingly, the thought of stitching yourself up was a little unsettling. You let out an audible huff. Okay. Fine. It's no different than injections, you lied to yourself.

You were a very bad liar, too.

Your gaze roamed, far more interested in seeing anything other than your skin, marred with cuts, holes, and bites. Humming caught your attention, droning and monotonous and familiar. The mini-fridge. He gave you water earlier. Right.

With a hushed grunt, you slipped down from the counter top and lowered yourself slightly to reach the handle. With the light of the fridge practically blinding in comparison, you almost opted to slam it shut, but squinted as you peered inside. No water left, but you could see plastic tubs of nondescript fillings, and two tallboy cans of beer.

Well, maybe you can drink some bravery. You'll deal with whatever happens later.

===

Taking your seat back on the counter, you cracked the beer open and took a long, long drink. You set it down beside you with a deep inhale and seized your thigh again. One, two -- you pushed the curved needle in, hissing as you did.

One down… you're reckoning maybe thirty to go.

The beer helped, not much, but it was better than nothing to help your nerves, to have something cool against your sweating forehead as you continued. You were so focused, your eye locked on each stitch, that the sudden light that flooded the basement froze you in an instant.

Your head felt like it was weighed down, trying so hard to keep you from looking up. The needle, the needle, look at the fucking needle. Hurry, hurry, hurry, for the love of God--

"Working on something, buddy?"

He was hovering over you, you didn't even hear him. Inches away, looking at you with a curiosity that seemed so genuine. He didn't behave how you expected, no rage or anger. You expected to be punished, if not just outright killed then and there. That's what people like this do, right?

Instead, he reached for the half finished beer you were so dependent on to make this task bearable and practically chugged it unceremoniously. He sounded so fucking satisfied, there was no way it was on purpose.

"You're doing pretty good! Much better than I could have!" He laughed, he almost sounded embarrassed. "Don't let me stop you! Keep going."

[yokohamabeans]

Chapter 5: cowherd and weaver

We know how the story ends: in all versions of it, the crane leaves her lover in tears.

(In which: Kakuchō meets you at his worst. Eight years later, you meet him at yours.)

Pairings: Kakuchō x F!OC/Reader (ft. Haitani Ran x F!OC/Reader)

Series Tags / TW & CW / Notes: Dark/Mature Themes, Bonten!Timeline (or rather, pre-Bonten / Rise of Bonten Era), TR Manga Spoilers, Angst & Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Organized Crime, Blood & Violence, Mentions of Domestic Abuse, Japanese Culture, OC will have a name but this will largely be written in 2nd POV, Character Study, Hostessing & Forced Prostitution, etc.

(WC: ~7.5k)

Series Index | Read on AO3 here!

The summer heat peaks with each passing day. There’s a sheen of sweat on your skin and you worry that even with the air-conditioning turned all the way up, this junky old van will not get any cooler. Discomfort you can bear with, but not the risk of Pierre suffering a heat stroke. His panting is becoming rather noisy and short-nosed dogs like him run hot easily—though perhaps his loud heaving ought to be pinned on the excitement of riding shotgun, watching other cars and buildings and people whiz by. You give his soft, floppy ears a fond rub and ask him to relax.

You never wanted Pierre. But like a seed he’d been blown in by the wind, and you just couldn’t bring the axe down on this sprout that had taken root in your life. He was a gift from a customer: Yamamoto-san had asked to meet at a café and, to your surprise and horror, pulled a puppy by its scruff out from a bag. It was the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen—it had a face that caved into its massive head at the nose and bulbous eyes that were set so far apart it couldn’t even look straight. Girls love cute pets, right? How Yamamoto–san thought he could win your affections by dumping such a burden on you is still a mystery till this day. Clearly, he didn’t think much of an animal’s life. But because he was spending just enough at Murasaki, your only choice was to take the hideous pest off his hands. You excused yourself and headed for the pet shop immediately.

I’d like to make a return, you told the staff at XJ Land, setting the little runt down. I can’t care for it. 

Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you got him. The man at the counter barely hid his disdain. Sorry, but this isn’t a place for fickle returns. 

Someone gave it to me—I didn’t ask for this. You didn’t appreciate his tone but you understood the sentiments behind it. You matched his face to some pictures on the shelves behind and concluded that he owned the shop. C’mon, Matsuno-san, you read from his name-tag, cocking your head in the way that guaranteed you another round of drinks from your clients. I’m just thinking about what’s best for this dog. He’ll be better off back in those arms of yours… Won’t you take him in? Can’t you consider it a favour?

The young man sighed, muttering something extreme under his breath about how humans deserve nothing good, but picked the puppy up with blushing cheeks nonetheless. Do you have the certificate of ownership? Or the receipt?

Well, no, you replied rather sheepishly, I was simply told this is the shop he’s from.

He shook his head and inspected the tiny dog in an attempt to identify it. You couldn't help but notice that even though he was being perfectly gentle and careful, the animal was frightened to its bones from being handled by yet another stranger. It bore its sad, pathetic eyes into yours, as if trying to worm its way into your heart. Too bad, you almost sneered, but that old trick won't work on me. 

And yet, you couldn't look away.

Sorry, lady, but he isn’t from my shop, Matsuno finally said. You’ll need to check with whoever bought him again. Or better yet, why don’t you give him a chance?

I can’t take care of a pet in my life now. But neither could you risk offending Yamamoto-san, though your respect for him had all but vanished. Are you sure he isn’t from here?

I know every single one of my pets, and I only have pedigrees so far. He tried to calm the puppy down with a hug. This little guy looks like a Jatzu. 

It was still shivering. What’s a Jatzu? 

A cross between a Japanese Chin and Shih Tzu, he answered, then sized you up and ventured: It’s a ‘designer’ dog, if you care about that sorta thing. You couldn’t blame him for his assumption because you knew how you appeared with your dress and make-up. 

This dog doesn’t look anything like a Shih Tzu, you retorted. Your mother used to talk about keeping one in her village a long, long time ago, so you were aware of the breed. Looks like pure Chin to me. How can you tell?

Your question lifted the frown off Matsuno, who fortunately took it as a sign of interest rather than an accusation. He proceeded to demonstrate by pointing out the length of its body and shortness of its legs. Something about the texture of its coat too. The more he spoke, the brighter his blue eyes shone, and soon it became too late for you to stop him from sharing everything he knew about the dog. By the time he remembered to breathe, he’d delivered a full pitch about why you should bring it home. Even you had to admire how hard he was trying to sell a product that wasn’t even his in the first place. 

Did you know? Both the Chin and Shih Tzu were once treated as royal pets in East Asia, he added excitedly. The Shih Tzu were especially precious to the Chinese for bringing good luck and fortune. See this white patch between his eyes? That’s where the Buddha kissed him. That makes him a blessed dog who’ll protect you from evil!

What a load of bull. If that were true, your mother never would’ve met your father. Your aunt, who presumably shared the same dog in their village, would've won more than she lost at every casino she went to. Your life could've turned out entirely different—maybe you wouldn't even exist! This misfortune is intergenerational. You’ve got a pretty useless cousin somewhere, huh? you thought wryly at the mutt, catching its pitiful gaze again. Trust me, pal, you don’t want in on my life. There’s nothing good for you here.

It gave a small whine, which you'd liked to think was mere coincidence, and Matsuno ran a soothing palm over its massively deformed head. It really was an ugly dog. You simply couldn’t find anything adorable about it. In fact, it was a painful sight, looking like it was bred to suffer. Its marbly eyes were always watery, likely from the discomfort of sticking so far out its skull, and it was hard to fathom how it could eat or drink from its flat face without choking. Even breathing must've been a chore with how squashed its nose was! And this was a designer dog, wasn’t it? So, this anatomical tragedy was by design, by fancy!

You could empathise now: this poor creature was born to live out a nightmare. All because a couple of humans wanted something to love. An existence so wantonly bestowed!

Sucks, doesn’t it? you felt like saying. Before you knew it, your heart had gone out to it completely. 

Tell you what, onē-san. A man sidled up to Matsuno and slung an arm over his shoulder. A tattoo peeked out from his turtleneck. We’ll let you leave him here if you also leave us your LINE. How about that?

Dude! Matsuno hissed. You’re at work!

What? Don’t we need someone to call if anything goes wrong? The other young man smirked deviously, the mole below his right eye bending. Man, you have no sense for business. Here you are, getting a fancy new dog to sell at zero cost, and you're turning it away.

Seriously, if you don't shut the hell up—

Matsuno never got to finish his threat. Without thinking, you had taken the puppy off his hands. Strange. It didn’t feel so warm and soft when you were holding it before. It stilled upon your touch, wagged its skinny tail and seemed to grin victoriously while it panted. I’ve got you now! it’d probably like to say. Don’t you think we can make each others’ lives better? And just like that, you caved in like rotting wood. 

A blessing, huh? you said, giving a small tap on its wet, sputtering nose. I guess I’ll take your word for it, Matsuno-san—

The red flash of a traffic light hits your eyes and your van groans to a halt. 

“Say, Pierre-kun, you're running out of food. Why don't we make a stop by XJ Land after this?" you offer, to which the dog barks happily in agreement. It's amusing how much of a personality he's grown since you both left the pet shop that day. "If you and I really go at it, we can make Matsuno-san give us a discount." 

While pedestrians are still gliding across your windscreen, you turn to the back of your van to check the boxes left in it: only a couple more to drop off at—you quickly consult your phone—Chiyoda Ward. You succumb to a groan. 

Chiyoda is a little out of your way, so there will be less time you can spend at the store before you must head for Murasaki. The bigger problem at hand, though, is that the packages are due at Marunouchi district in Chiyoda, where most of your clients from the club work at. Things will get sticky if any one of them is to spot you unloading boxes from your van. It won't take them long to figure out the kind of day job you hold. You’re supposed to deliver fantasies and dreams, Mama will seethe, not online purchases or some hikikomori’s second lunch! She may even throw in a slap for good measure. Murasaki does not forbid its girls to moonlight—god knows that some of you need to—but Mama has driven her contempt for it into everybody’s heads. Men climb mountains to see the tennyō who live in heaven, you once heard her telling a girl who no longer works at the club. Do you think they’ll still do so if they can just find one at a fucking Seven-Eleven, cashing in their change? Do you think they’ll even want to anymore? 

Well, that much you must agree with Mama. Utsu and Yū and the women of Murasaki aren’t supposed to exist in the real world. But with the lion’s share of your salary going to her and the Mara-kai, you needed a second job, and a girl clutching only a high-school diploma didn’t have many options. Service jobs like store-keeping or waitressing were out of the question—you will never have the strength to deal with human beings all day and all night. 

You were drawing crosses on job listings when a delivery man rang your door to hand you some toys you’d bought Pierre, and you noticed he wasn't wearing a uniform. Yes, m’am, anyone can do freelance delivery, the young man answered with a blush, demonstrating on his phone how you can start. Shortly after, you bought a minivan for cheap at a second-hand dealer and ever since, you’ve been driving around the city and ringing doorbells on your afternoons. The payout is just enough to cover your meals and utilities, but there isn’t much to complain about: you get to work on your own hours (or not), and with the company of your dog. Really, the only fly in the ointment is the worry of someone asking if you also work at Murasaki—but you figure you can slip under the radar with drab clothes and a bare face. 

As you turn into the grove of steel towers and skyscrapers, your glove box buzzes with a ring. Your stomach drops when you remember that it's where you kept your work phone—the one you use for Murasaki. Shit. Were you somehow already seen? Did some passer-by catch a glance while crossing before your van? Fuck! You'll never hear the end of it from Mama. The old shrew may even take a bigger cut off your earnings as punishment! Suddenly, you are stricken with regret. You should have cancelled those bloody requests when you had the chance!

"What a coincidence, Yamamoto-san," you answered, disguising your nervous voice as a coy one. Yamamoto-san is a director at a financial firm, so you know his office is in the area. “I was just thinking about you.” 

“Oh, hey, Utsu.” He sounds a little curt, like he's still figuring out the best way to confront you. “Really? What are you doing now?”

The red light turns green, and you find an alley to pull over at. “I’m just at the pet store with Pierre-chan, which was why you crossed my mind.”

“Right. Anyway, listen. What’s going on at Murasaki?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mama-san just told me she’s cancelling our appointment on Tanabata. My friend—Sawada, you’ve met him—got the same call too for his date with Aoi. What’s this about?”

Your delivery job is still in the bag! But what Yamamoto-san has said is too puzzling for you to enjoy the relief. It's come out of the blue entirely. "I wasn't informed. Is there a mistake? As far as I know, you're still my eight o'clock on the seventh."

"No, we even got a message about it in black and white. Don’t you women communicate?”

"You must be really important to Murasaki if Mama's told you this before me." That utter cow! Leaving a mess like this to clear! You're curious about the reason behind these sudden cancellations. Concerned. But still you decide not to ask to avoid stoking Yamamoto-san's fire. "I apologise for this. I'll check with her. I trust that she's also offered you some sort of compensation?"

"Yeah… Store credit for a half-hour session."

"I'll throw in some Yamazaki too, how about that?"

"Fine. Make it an 18-year bottle at least."

You roll your eyes at Pierre. This old fogey must be out of his depth if he thinks he's worth that much. Still, you agree just so you can hang up quickly. The bartenders at Murasaki will know how to swap it with something cheap. 

"Utsu, the free whiskey is nice and all, but what I really wanted was to spend Tanabata with you, you know?" he added in a cottony tone. "It's a night for lovers, after all." 

"That makes the both of us, Yamamoto-san," you say, instead of suggesting that he spends it with his goddamn wife. "I'm so sorry, but Pierre-chan's getting frisky with another dog. I'll contact you again to reschedule, alright? Goodbye!"

Pierre lets out an indignant huff, and you pet his head in apology for using his name so unjustly.

You remember to breathe again. It’s not too much of a mystery when you think about it: Aoi pulls in the most sales for Murasaki and you come up second—some fat cat must’ve insisted on booking out the club’s top girls. It’s happened before, and Mama was also brusque in informing everyone then. Which zaibatsu scion is it this time? Or could it be a celebrity? Well, whoever walks through the door that night better bring some new faces and wallets with them. It’s proving to be hard for you to fish three-million yen from your current roster of clients.  

As if to thwart the ease that’s settled, your phone rings once more. But instead of a call, it is now exploding with messages. A cold, unpleasant hunch tells you that the Tanabata thing is bigger than you thought, and you raise the screen up to your eyes to prove it true: customers are complaining left and right about the abrupt cancellation of their appointments. They’re not the only ones either. Your colleagues are also voicing their bewilderment in the group chat, assuming some kind of grievous error on the club’s website. Even second-tier hostesses like Atsuko have all their meetings struck off, and they worry about their fickle clients turning to another club for the night.

This is unprecedented. Murasaki has never once been booked out in its entirety. Mama will never give her customers a reason to visit other establishments, and there is simply more to earn from multiple parties than just one. Her heels are dug firmly in the ground when it comes to business. You feel sick, guts wringing bile up your throat. Like an eclipse upon light, it dawns slowly: the name for which Mama has bent her own iron rules for.

Bonten.

Is there something to be made of this glowering sky? Kakuchō is not a superstitious man and yet he cannot perceive these dark clouds as anything but ominous. It'd been sunny all day with no sign of precipitation, but as soon as he entered the car, thunder began to roll. Normally, this jarring turn of weather wouldn't throw him off, but as it's happened right before Bonten's meeting with the Mara-kai, Kakuchō cannot help but wonder if it might be an indication of sorts. In the end, he supposes with a bit of humility that even he is not immune to the dread of meeting the most dangerous man in Japan—especially when they are soon to take one of his most important assets: the hostess club Murasaki.

"Lighten up, will you?" drawls Ran from the seat beside. His lazy smile is bright in contrast to the brewing storm. "It's sacrilege to walk into a club with a glum face."

"We're walking into business," Kakuchō retorts, narrowing his eyes at the glass of whiskey in Ran's hand. "You can be a little less relaxed about this." 

Ran responds pointedly with a sip of alcohol. When they were all younger, it grated on Kakuchō how unfazed Ran could bring himself to be about the world. No matter what kind of pinch he was in, Ran’s air of nonchalance was unwavering. He’d always figure out a way to make light of his situation and smile. Did he truly not care? Was he just that confident about himself? Or could it really be what Izana said, that he was an idiot and had once again let his head drift off to the clouds? In any case, it annoyed Kakuchō, who often took things seriously. These days however, as it becomes harder and harder to sleep without a gun by his bed, Kakuchō finds this quality of Ran somewhat enviable. 

"Rindō and Mocchi just got to the club,” Ran breaks the silence again, reading off his phone. He taps on the headrest of their chauffeur, who immediately apologises for his slow driving. “Rindō already has playlists for Murasaki. Have you heard them?”

“Yes. And you should stop him from playing them if you want the club to profit.”

“Well, I happen to like some of his tracks…” Ran appears to mull. “But I must say it’s not the vibe for Murasaki. It’ll be your first time there tonight, won’t it?”

Kakuchō refuses to answer, which satisfies Ran all the same.

“You’ll have your pick of girls, or you can leave it to the mama," he explains, finishing his last swig of whiskey as their car turns into the Azabu-Jūban district. “She’s got an eye for choosing the right one.”

“I know how a hostess club works.”

“I never said that you didn’t. Oh, I’ll let you meet my girl too.”

“Didn’t ask to.”

“You know, I can’t wait to tell her who her new bosses are." A sinister sort of smile spreads across Ran’s lips. “She’s going to lose it.” 

Kakuchō rolls his eyes, hoping that his colleague will remember where their priorities are at the moment. “Will the mama be working for us as well?”

“Presumably, because she works for Murasaki. Just like a CEO working for a new board. But her loyalties seem to lie with Tanida…" Ran trails off, gazing out of the window now. The Mori Tower passes his view—they're getting close to their destination. “Murasaki will be ours, for sure, but it won’t be worth as much if Mama-san doesn't have our interests at heart. We'll talk to the Mara-kai about this later."

Kakuchō feels urged to mention that something like that should've already been discussed. It is common sense that a club is only as valuable as the mama who runs it, and from what he’s heard, there lives no mama who’s made as much money as the one in Murasaki. But he also sees no point in starting the conversation when they're about to alight, so he decides against his comment. It's not like he's in the right position to speak, anyway; it'll be like telling a fish how it should swim. The Haitani Brothers were practically put on earth to run Tokyo’s nightlife—there was never any question about who was to lead Bonten’s foray into the trade. Even though he outranks Ran, Kakuchō knows to hold his tongue when it comes to that business. 

After a series of turns, their driver finally pulls into a quiet street. It appears that night has since crept up, unnoticed amidst the dark rain clouds.

Takeomi’s mentioned that Murasaki was once a dingy snack bar in the basement of an old wooden shophouse. It’s not something anyone will guess of the sleek, steel-reinforced building that stands before Kakuchō now. In fact, it hardly resembles any establishment of that sort. Blinding neon signs, fast-talking touts and even garish menus of the ladies on shift—hostess and cabaret clubs are rarely shy about what they are. Even modest ones will sneak in the word 'girls' somewhere on their storefronts to let the men of the world know just what they are really selling. 

But Murasaki is none of those. Its glass and concrete façade blends well with the other buildings in Roppongi-itchōme, where major offices and foreign embassies are close, almost as if to present itself as one of them. Any indication of its true order of business is contained in a small sign at its porch, which only spells the romaji of its name in backlit brass letters. Still, it can easily pass off as a restaurant’s plaque to passers-by who don’t know any better. 

So—this is Murasaki. It is as unassuming as a club can be, but Kakuchō supposes the inconspicuousness is appreciated by most clients.

“Sanzu-sama’s car will be arriving in fifteen minutes, and the boss will take another ten,” notifies a subordinate as he shelters Kakuchō with an umbrella. Hardly a necessary gesture when they can reach the club’s entrance in just a few steps, but Kakuchō’s been told to accustom himself to the executive treatment. Noone’s gonna look up to you if you don’t put yourself higher than them, said Takeomi when he caught Kakuchō telling a lackey he can open his own doors. The advice still doesn’t sit well—partly because it came from a man once ruined by hubris—but Kakuchō understands the need to be commanding. He enters the foyer, where Ran is already waiting.

“Party’s on the fourth floor for us,” he informs. Ran is, of course, referring to themselves and the other Bonten executives. “All our other guys will be having fun in the atrium. Mama-san’s cleared the whole place out for us. Isn’t she nice?”

“Or she could be laying a trap,” frowns Kakuchō, prompting the other man to sigh. “Pretty convenient to have us all in the same place at once, don’t you think?”

“We’ve been through this… Have a little faith,” Ran pats him on the shoulder, the mild exasperation in his tone warning him not to continue. He turns to the concierge, who greets them with obsequious familiarity. “Good evening, Koremitsu-san. Big night, huh?”

“We humbly look forward to your guidance, Haitani-sama. I’d toast to you, but I am on the job.” Koremitsu, if that is his real name at all, bows deeply. In bronze letters, the wall behind him boldly reads: there are as many sorts of women as there are women. “Mama-san is at the VIP lounges with your brother and Mochizuki-sama.”

“And Utsu?"

"Still getting ready, the last I heard…" He dials a telephone on his desk and whispers into it, vaguely annoyed. "I apologise. You know how she likes to take her time for you."

"And you know how I'd gladly wait for her." 

Ran has always held the passing of seasons and women in the same regard—Kakuchō knows this of his friend, but in seeing the grin he's flashed, wonders if the man is now capable of real attachment. 

“Well, instead of waiting, why don’t you sample our new shipment of Dom Peris?” Koremitsu offers, rubbing his hands together. “Mama-san would also like you to pick the champagne for tonight.”

“Now that is a job for me,” Ran gleefully agrees, wasting no time in following the concierge to a door on their right. Clearly, he has no qualms about leaving Kakuchō at all. “Elevator’s down that hallway,” he points out, waving over his shoulder as he disappears just like that. “See you at the fourth floor in a bit, brawler!”

It is now Kakuchō’s turn to sigh, which is the most he can do about that rascal, anyway. The Aigner on his wrist tells him that Mikey and Takeomi are due to arrive, Sanzu and Kokonoi even sooner, so he settles to make his way up as Ran instructed. Once inside, Murasaki reveals itself as a different world entirely. Kakuchō is not a man of culture and neither does he pretend to be one, but even he can recognise a couple of the western paintings hung around the walls. It becomes apparent from every piece of furniture and artwork that the club was designed to flaunt Tanida’s wealth. A little too extravagant for his own tastes, but definitely something right up the Haitanis' alley. 

The passage Kakuchō's been sent to is washed in black, which makes the walk seem longer than it should. By the time he reaches the metal doors at the end of it, he feels as though he’s walked into a different plane altogether. Kakuchō, unrelentingly cautious, beckons for three of his subordinates to follow him into the elevator. He quickly regrets it when the space turns out to be too tight of a squeeze for four built men—a sly trick, apparently: according to Rindō, it gives the hostesses an excuse to cosy up. How Mikey will take to being packed in this tin can later is a problem he cannot help but worry about. The boss has always needed his space from others.

The ride is soon interrupted at the second floor. Someone else is on their way up too, though Kakuchō doubts they’ll have much luck getting in with how his guards have walled themselves around him. The doors slide open and they see a young woman waiting on the other side: while her dress and make-up are more subtle than the other girls he's been brought to, she is unmistakably a hostess.

"Oh, please excuse me…" she mumbles in surprise, the crowd catching her off guard. Her expression suggests that she wouldn’t have entered even if the space allowed her to anyway. "I'll take the next one."

One of the guards grunts an apology while the other two release the guns by their waists. They are disciplined enough to keep their faces steely, but Kakuchō can sense their disappointment about her leaving—even he has noticed how lovely the woman is. Kakuchō has always been somewhat proud of being level-headed, so this compulsion to stare at her is becoming quite the bother. Under the soft glow of the elevator light: her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her lips—Ah, shit… By the time the doors have closed, he is cursing himself for learning the full map of her face. At some point his heart has also quickened, beating as though it is on the verge of an answer to some great question, and he is left to dwell on its betrayal as the elevator ascends.

The fourth floor introduces itself with a blast of amber light and a pungent mix of cigarette smoke and perfume. Though he still has a corridor to pass, Kakuchō can well imagine from the raucous laughter that Rindō, Mocchi and their trusted men have already succumbed to the club’s hospitalities. Those idiots… Just save Tanida the trouble and roll over, why don't they? Has it ever occurred to anyone else that the Mara-kai can still be a threat? Apparently, age does not represent wisdom, and therein lies the reason why Bonten is led by its three youngest members. He presses on with his journey into the private lounge.

“So, this is Bonten’s Number Three… Where've you been hiding all this while?" It doesn't take long for the shark to circle in. An older woman—the mama, he presumes—purrs, teeth gleaming at the scent of fresh blood. She turns to Rindō, who’s joined them to make the introduction. "Why haven't you brought this stud to my club before?"

"Hey, aniki and I tried our best, but Kakuchō here is not that sorta guy," he explains with air quotes, smirking. It's obvious from his loose speech that he's already drunk more than he should. "Seriously, it's like he's sworn a vow at a monastery or something."

Are the Haitani Brothers genetically predisposed to get on his nerves? Kakuchō wishes that Rindō would at least have the sense to keep his mind clear before an important meeting, but he supposes that even sense in general is too much to ask from a fool. Seeing that his best course of action is to simply ignore Rindō, he gives the mama a curt nod. "Our business is in your care." 

"Ah, I know the stoic type well," she remarks, eyeing him up and down as she sips on her long pipe. "I have just the girl you need, but I'd rather give my customers a choice. So, anyone you like? What's your eye for beauty?" 

If it was truly up to him, Kakuchō would very much like to be in the company of his guards only. But as the saying about Rome goes… He seeks the expanse of the lounge for someone to pick, only to realise that he is already bound to a choice. At once, the young woman from the elevator comes to mind. The dim lights then have left an unreliable rendering of her hair and he wasn't very observant about what she wore, but everything else about her is burning starkly behind his eyes. It seems that her face has filled his head entirely and spared no space for anything else. But how does one begin to describe a face? It is perhaps as hard, if not harder, to put into words as a feeling. 

“So?” Rindō slings a probing arm over his shoulders, teeming with anticipation not unlike a paparazzi in wait for a scoop. He must’ve guessed from Kakuchō’s hesitation that there is a genuine answer at stake. So smug is his shit-eating grin that, despite himself, Kakuchō is resolved to deny him any further satisfaction instead. “Anyone will do,” he grunts to the mama, the decision leaving a rather bitter taste on his tongue.

"Hmm, thought as much… There's no need to be shy, you know?" Smoke swells from her nose, and she motions for a hostess waiting by the bar to come over. "This is Rokujō, and she'll lead you out of your shell by the hand."

"Call me Jō," the hostess insists, bowing slowly so that both men will not miss how full her breasts are. He immediately detects a difference in age between them, and it strikes Kakuchō that Jō is one of the more mature women of the lot. Is that what the mama thought of him? He cannot find it in himself to protest, so he greets his companion politely and lets her fill the space by his arm. What does it matter, anyway, when he isn’t here to enjoy himself in the first place? Still, he cannot suppress his growing dismay for how the night is turning out. 

Rindō grumbles in disappointment at how boring Kakuchō is determined to be and leaves with the mama for a livelier corner of the room, where Mocchi has made himself at home with an armful of girls. Kakuchō is instead steered away to a quieter corner by Jō, who must've either sensed his preference for it or is planning to keep him all to herself. Both reasons may also be at play together. Her courtship proceeds formulaically: she praises how hard his biceps are, twice, refills his drink, and attempts to learn all there is to know about him. He entertains her sparingly.

Jō is undeniably beautiful but not beautiful in a way that frustrates him, and that is why she cannot stop him from glancing at the lounge’s doors every so often. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but duty has to come first: Mikey is to appear any time now. Tanida too, if everyone is keeping to the plan. However, as the minutes tick by, it becomes harder and harder to pretend that the unease spreading between his lungs is caused by anything but the possibility of never meeting the woman from the elevator again. Could it be that she was heading for the third floor instead of the fourth? Was she assigned somewhere else at the last minute? Will he see her again? With all these pointless questions clouding his mind, Kakuchō can feel himself slipping into a pathetic state. The last time he felt so reduced was when he'd been seventeen and still a boy. Because the girl in question was something special, he can accept the torment he was put through then, but, now, for a woman he's barely met...? Beauty alone has never been enough to sway Kakuchō of Bonten—why should that change?

"Utsu, you little tart. You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago!"

"Sorry, Mama. I was getting ready."

The mama's distinct tenor voice breaks his reverie but it is the softer one after it that holds his attention. Helpless to the familiar call of the sound, he looks up and his eyes land on her immediately despite the flock of bodies in the room: the woman, by the door! She is bent in a slight bow—presumably one of apology to the mama—and so her face is still partially concealed, but Kakuchō has no doubt about who she is. He's even developed a strange confidence that he’d be able to recognise her anywhere, like he's known her for a long time. 

The woman straightens herself, bringing her features into the light, and something between his lungs moves. Stirring, fluttering, thrashing, writhing—Kakuchō cannot tell how it is moving exactly, only that it cannot be stopped. It takes him to a realisation he should've arrived at a long time before, and by the time he's caught a clear view of her face, Kakuchō knows deep in his bones what he must do. 

He must not let her slip away again, not the way he did eight years ago. 

Embarrassing: you still wring your fingers into knots when you are nervous. Didn’t you leave this bad habit behind in your girlhood with the rest of it? Or have you simply not been nervous enough for it to surface? Whatever the case is, this shameful display is unbecoming of you, so you summon Mama’s advice to mind and cross your arms to keep your hands from moving.

“How about this?” 

You look up and the only thing you see in the mirror is the searing glare of your hairdresser. Chū Reika has been giving blowouts to the girls of Murasaki for nine years and is only ever thanked for it. Therefore, you can see where her temper is coming from when you request that she changes your hairstyle, again, for the fifth time. 

“You know you look fine!” she seethes, obviously harbouring a desire to scalp you then and there. “Are you messing with me?!” 

“I think I want an up-do after all…” you pretend to mull, fingering the loose waves falling on your shoulder. Chū throws her hands up in defeat and moves to pack her brushes, so you dig around your wallet for something to win her back with. “C’mon, Chū-jie. It’s a special night. I just want to look my best.”

The other hostesses refer to her by Chū-nē out of affection, but you prefer to use the Mandarin equivalent that is ‘jie’. Chū Reika landed on the shores of Japan a decade ago to escape the poverty of her village in China—a rather common story you’ve heard. Her Japanese has since grown to be impeccable but she has yet to find a way to mask her unusual intonation. Most other girls cannot tell where it’s coming from, but because your mother had given you an ear for the Chinese accent, you could ask where her provincial hometown is right off the bat of your first meeting—in the language she is most natural with. To tell the truth, you didn’t really care for the information, but you reckoned it'd be helpful to endear yourself to the hairdresser. 

“Stop lying, I know you’re just dragging time.” Chū sighs, considerately switching to Mandarin when calling your intentions out even though there is no one else around. She pinches the five-thousand-yen note from your hand and gets to work again. “Your hair will fry, you know.”

Chū has hit the nail on the head but you don't praise her for it. A week ago, some time after your call with Yamamoto-san, Mama made the executive order for every hostess to punch in on the night of Tanabata. "We're reserving the club for some very important guests” was all she indulged, but word had somehow gotten out that Murasaki is changing hands and the event is meant to welcome the new owners. You are capable of simple arithmetic so it didn’t take long for you to conclude that the Mara-kai had sold to Bonten, and from the moment you summed that up, you’ve been afflicted with a sinking feeling in the pits of your stomach. What will happen to you? What will Tanida do with you? Now that it is Tanabata, the gutting ache is at its height. You'd woken up at mid-day wishing you could hide the night out under your quilt, but because Mama has ruled that out as an option, you were left with the next best thing to do: delay it. 

The phone in the dressing room rings just as Chū is about to pin your last clump of loose hair, and she leaves to answer it only when the noise has grown too annoying to bear. You don't need to hear the angry hissing of the receiver to know what the call is about. It's half an hour past the time you were ordered to be on the fourth floor—Koremitsu must've been tasked with summoning you there, probably by Mama or Ran. That utter tool. You've never liked his snivelling, grovelling ways.

“Well, this is the best I can do,” Chū tells you as she finishes her job. The previous hairstyle suits you better, but in your best interests you keep that to yourself and give your thanks instead. Besides, there is something strangely gratifying about not looking your best for the night. To hell with Mama. To hell with Ran! With any luck, the last-minute styling may even dampen your appeal to that greasebag. When he was a customer, you could at the very least count on the good old excuse of club etiquette to keep him at arm's length. But now that Ran's the fucking boss, he is free to step over all the rules and become as much of a pain as he wants. Can’t you be allowed even a single respite in life? Can’t the gods show you mercy for once?

So indignant you are at the perversity of it all that you don’t even realise you’ve called for an elevator. The sudden beeping startles you into awareness, and you’re glad that it did before you can walk into the wall of meat that is practically spilling out the doors. Ah, right. Mama did warn that Murasaki will be welcoming more testosterone and muscle tonight, but even then it did nothing to prepare you for the shock of having three large men scowl down at you.

“Oh, please excuse me…” you take a step back to appease them, who you’ve identified as bodyguards from their plain dressing and defensive stance. “I’ll take the next one." 

These men must be from Bonten, but unlike Ran’s guards who always seemed to care more about your tits than their boss’s safety, these three golems appear to be actually competent at their job. You attribute their discipline to the man brooding quietly behind them. He is a little smaller in stature, but the authority exuding from his stern gaze is definitely one of a leader. The closing doors have stolen your chance to catch a proper look, but the hasty glimpse you’ve snuck of him shows dark hair and what resembles a large scar across his left eye. The sight comes accompanied by a sense of familiarity, but you dismiss it easily because there’s no way you’d forget a Bonten member like that. 

The next elevator comes soon enough—too soon, in fact—and you brace yourself for the night of torture. It shortly begins with fierce shrieking from Mama. 

"Utsu, you little tart,” she rounds in as you enter the lounge, spitting smoke all over your face. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago!"

“Sorry, Mama,” you bow, not minding that there isn't a shred of the sentiment carried in your tone. “I was getting ready.”

“Oh, were you?” You can tell from her constipated expression that she’s torn between yelling at you more or letting you go. Mama hates to flog at dead horses so she settles on the latter with a sigh, making sure to clip you in the shoulder as she leaves. “Ran is coming up soon. Prepare yourself.”

You don’t suppose she's left a sympathetic sort of meaning to her instruction, but the idea amuses you nonetheless. That, and Ran’s absence itself, lift your spirits enough for you to power through with your job. You walk over to the bartender to place an order for Ran’s favourite drink, going by a roundabout way to avoid Rindō, who is presently egging on a blonde, goateed man in his endeavour to chug a full bottle of whiskey straight. Another Bonten executive, you presume from his flashy, moss-green suit and the throng of your colleagues he's gathered. How many of them are there, again? Four, seven executives? Well, you don't care enough to recall. You'll find out soon, anyway. 

The bartender nods and smiles in greeting as you approach the counter, but his eyes are distant—the courtesy is meant for someone behind. You turn around to face the tall, imposing figure looming over your back.

Dark hair and a scarred eye: it's that man from the elevator. 

Though the intensity of his gaze suggests that he's been staring at you for a while, he looks to be even more surprised than you are about the meeting, like it never occurred to him that he'd see you again. Normally, you'd instantly peg him as some kind of creep for displaying such an odd demeanour and set the bouncers on him, but for some strange, inexplicable reason, you empathise with his shock instead. It doesn't take you long to connect it to that sense of familiarity you felt when you first saw his face, which has now returned in an overwhelming wave. 

“Nikaidō.” Breath escapes him and he looks relieved, as though your name is something he’s lost and found. The confidence he declared it with, however, falters by the time of his next question. He points to the streak across his eye. “Do you remember me?”

Upon his bid, the world gives way to this man before you. The haze of eight years starts to thin, and slowly he takes on the shape of that boy outside your door, the one who so earnestly asked if he’d see you again. He’s been made unfamiliar by a taut face, longer hair and a sleek, dark suit—but because this is someone you once learned by touch, you have no doubt about who he is. A name gathers at the tip of your tongue, like a song once beloved.  

“Kakuchō.” You’re smiling before you know it. “I’d remember you even without that scar.”

Never have you spoken truer words in your time at Club Murasaki.

Glossary of Terms / References Used | Next Chapter TBC

A/N: It's been a hot minute and I apologise for that! Several things going on here in this primarily MC-centric chapter, I hope you enjoyed the little reveals about her life! I promise, her background is plot-relevant. Oh, and I guess her reunion with Kakucho is in this too, huh! :P As always comments and reblogs and tag-coments will be loved till the end of time!

[voraciousvore]

Big Corp Inc. (9/43)

Chapter 9: Punishment

Mr. Hardon tossed the helpless human on his desk and loomed over her, planting his palms on either side of her. She gasped for breath on her hands and knees. As he looked down, he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do with her. He had so many options. He was prickling all over with excitement, so much so that he was getting an erection. Even without her skimpy work uniform, she still had most of her bare skin exposed, with succulent, shapely thighs and her full breasts spilling out above her shirt. He was aroused even if she was smaller than a single finger on his hand. He wanted to pop her in his mouth and eat her up like a pastry. 

“What should I do with you?” he said to her, settling into his cushy office chair. “Normally I like to spank my ladies who have been naughty, but for you… hmmm…” He played with her, ruffling her skirt and tracing the curves of her body with his finger. 

Candy started to cry. She was trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Please… don’t…” she squeaked. She recognized that if he tried to hit her, he’d probably break her bones. She tried to pull away but he stopped her with his other hand, dragging her closer to his enormous body. “Please, Mr. Hardon, my work clothes were ruined by that coffee yesterday, so I couldn’t wear them. And the shoes were hurting my feet, and giving me blisters. Have mercy!” she begged. 

“Excuses, excuses,” her Giant boss mumbled, shaking his head. He tapped his fingers on the desk in thought. His eyes drifted over to the mug on his desk, steaming with fresh coffee from his recent trip to the break room. 

“You did taste amazing in that coffee yesterday,” he remarked nonchalantly, taking a sip out of his mug. “I wouldn’t mind drinking you up. Or dipping you in and eating you up like a cookie.” He chuckled at the thought. 

Candy turned deathly pale. “No!” she shrieked, and sprinted for the edge of the desk. Mr. Hardon observed her calmly, knowing she had nowhere to go, no way to get down. His calm vanished, however, when she didn’t stop at the edge and full-on careened over the side to certain death. He surged forward to catch her, dropping his mug and splattering coffee all over his nice suit. He barely managed to catch her in his palm before she smacked the floor. 

“Dammit woman!” he shouted with fury. “What were you thinking?!” To his shock, Candy let out a bloodcurdling scream and leapt out of his hand. He struggled to reclaim her and get her under control. She thrashed uselessly in his closed fist and squealed like a wild animal. Mr. Hardon was baffled. He had not expected this strong of a reaction from her. None of the other office girls had reacted this way when he punished them.

“Just… stop, alright?! Calm down!” he shouted at her, a sharp edge still in his voice. She was inconsolable in her panic, however. The more he tried to control her, the wilder and more frantic her reaction. 

“No!” she wailed at the top of her lungs, barely coherent with how alarmed she was. “No! Don’t eat me! I don’t want to die! Please don’t kill me! No!!” As he listened to her rant of terror, Mr. Hardon finally realized why she was so upset. She legitimately believed he was going to kill her in cold blood. He had fantasized about eating her, of course, but he hadn’t planned on actually going through with it. He just wanted to toy with her and enjoy the delights her body could offer, not murder her. 

Mr. Hardon was hardly known for his empathy. However, he hadn’t intended to scare the living daylights out of her to the grave extent that he did. She was fighting for her life. He felt a small trickle of guilt worm its way into his stony heart. Of course she would act differently than the other girls, being so tiny and helpless. She looked like a miniscule little doll in his hand. He could crush her effortlessly with his fingers and there would be nothing she could do to stop him. She knew it too, better than anyone. He sighed with exasperation and massaged his brow. 

“Look, Candy… I’m not going to eat you, okay? I was just kidding!” His words didn’t seem to reach her as she continued to thrash and scream. He cursed under his breath. 

He held up the panicking human inches from his face. “Candy! Listen to me!” he yelled, baring his teeth in a snarl. He had hoped to shock her into silence, but instead she screamed, an earsplitting, visceral screech that came from deep inside her, tied to her most primitive survival instincts. Mr. Hardon covered his ear with his free hand and winced. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to get her to shut up. He was beginning to get irritated. 

“Alright! Alright! I won’t punish you, Candy! Just quit your bellyaching already!” She didn’t even hear him. He didn’t know what to do. Here he was, sitting in his office, a big coffee stain on his slacks and splattering his shirt and tie and jacket, with a tiny woman screaming bloody murder in his fist. He gritted his teeth. “Shut up, Candy!” 

A knock on his door made him start, but he recovered quickly. “Come in!” he boomed.  

One of his employees poked his head in. “I have those expense reports you asked… for…” His mouth gaped open. “What the hell’s going on in here?!” He pushed his bulky frame through the door and scowled, his stormy gray eyes summoning thunderbolts. “What are you doing to her?!” 

“I haven’t done shit to her! She’s freaking out over nothing!” Mr. Hardon swore explosively. “Here, you take her! I’m going home to change!” He shoved Candy into the other Giant’s hands and stormed out. As he left his office, Ronny gave him a confused look regarding the uproar he overheard, and Mr. Hardon glared back at him murderously before stomping off towards the elevator.  

His pant leg, wet with coffee, slapped against his skin as he walked. He thought about how Candy had been completely soaked with coffee yesterday, but instead of feeling sympathy for her he was boiling with ire. Something so humiliating could happen to one of his employees, fine, but it wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was the boss. He always needed to look his best. He jammed in the button for the elevator harder than necessary. 

He wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for anyone. He would make her pay for her transgression; he would get revenge. He didn’t like how she was making him feel; it wasn’t natural, wasn’t right. He’d ease off for a while, so she wouldn’t outright quit, but he couldn’t let her get away with not following the rules. She couldn’t avoid punishment by throwing a tantrum. That would set a bad example for the other employees, and he might have a revolt on his hands. He ruled his empire with an iron fist. Like a snake, he’d strike when the time was right, crush the life out of her, and swallow her whole. His heart, nothing more than a cold stone in his chest, overflowed with bitterness. He left the third floor in disgrace and went home to get himself a clean suit. 

Meanwhile, the other Giant employee stood awkwardly at the threshold to Mr. Hardon’s office, holding the tiny, sobbing human in his hands. He remembered her from his first encounter with her a couple of days ago, when he had come close to inadvertently stepping on her. She had stopped screaming like a crazed lunatic, but she was still shaking violently with tears streaming down her face. She sensed she was no longer in Mr. Hardon’s hands, with how much gentler these new hands held her, but she was too distraught to pay attention to much else beyond that.  

The Giant did the only thing he could think to do in the situation and tried his best to comfort her. He didn’t believe words would be effective in her hysterical state, so he used touch and his physical body instead. He held her up against his chest and cradled her with his hands in a sort of hug, the best he could manage. Candy seemed to calm down as she listened to the soothing throb of his steady heartbeat. His immense chest rose and fell with his breathing, lulling her into a sense of security. She felt safe with him, like he could protect her with his great size and strength from any other Giant who wanted to harm her. Eventually, she stopped crying and shaking. She was reduced to shuddering breaths. 

Now that she was calmer, he felt he could speak to her. “Are you hurt at all?” he asked gently, his voice a low hum in his chest. She appeared to be physically unharmed, but he couldn’t be sure with how tiny her body was. It would be easy for him to overlook an injury. 

“I’m not hurt,” her miniature voice squeaked from his hand. She sniffled and continued, “I was just terribly spooked. He dragged me into his office to punish me. Worse, he threatened to eat me, and I panicked. Yesterday… he licked me. So I was scared he’d escalate his advances, and make good on his threat.” 

“He… LICKED you?” the Giant balked in horrified disbelief. He was deeply disturbed. He couldn’t imagine how nasty that must have been for her, to be licked without her consent by a slimy tongue larger than her whole being, and by the perverse boss no less. “I’m so sorry. That sounds truly awful.” He looked down at her, dwarfed by his own gigantic hand that she was curled up in. No wonder she was so afraid. If the boss had really wanted to, he could eat her without even having to chew. The thought churned his stomach. She didn’t deserve these horrific working conditions. He had a strong urge to hold her close and keep her safe. 

“Do you want me take you downstairs so you can go home?” the Giant asked. He was sure she had been through more than enough for the day. 

Candy sniffled and rubbed the moisture from her face. “No, take me to my desk. I have to get back to work if I want to keep my job.” 

“Are… are you serious?” the Giant questioned incredulously. “After all that, you still want to work here?!” 

“I don’t have a choice,” Candy said softly, almost in a whisper. The Giant sensed the matter was a sore spot for her so he didn’t pry further into her reasoning. 

“Well… if you’re that insistent on staying. Where’s your desk?” he inquired as he left the boss's office. 

“Unfortunately, it’s the one right in front of you,” Candy admitted. 

“Here?!” He glanced back at the office, then at the cubicle right across from it. “Sheesh, this is even worse than I thought!” Even so, he obeyed her wishes and released her onto the desk. 

“Take care of yourself, okay? And don’t be afraid to come find me if you need help. You know where my cubicle is,” he said with a tender smile. Candy nodded. “Good luck to you.” He lumbered away, a pensive look on his face. Candy watched him go until he was too far away for her to see. She realized, in her distressed emotional state, she had forgotten to ask him for his name again. She sighed and returned to work. 

Chapter 10

First Chapter

[il0veyoujk]

Just imagine 6 S2

You are currently laying underneath Namjoon laughing your heart out. The evil lad had decided to sit on your arms and attack your poor ribs with devious tickles, even though you had apologized multiple times! I guess you should have never annoy him while he was reading his book. So now you are paying the price of your cheekiness.

“AHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAP AHAHAHAHA!” you shriek at the top of your lungs, trying to pull your arms down to protect your way too ticklish for your own good ribs.

The smirky lad is only looking down at you with a mischievous grin while his fingers were working their magic on you. You knew so well that Namjoon can wreck you to pieces with a single finger and yet you kept annoying him. Now this is your payment.

Hey! Don’t complain at all! Both you and I know you love this!

“One... Two... Three... Two... One... Four... Six... Ten... Seven... Ah, those ribs are so fun to count! They make so many sounds!” Namjoon keeps poking all over our ribs, getting random bones. His pokes are sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Sometimes light, sometimes a little more intense. Never hurt, but always tickle you out of your mind.

“You ahahahahare counting wrohohohong!” you scream through your loud, almost deafening giggles, while you are trying to squirm out of his grip as much as you can and want.

Chuckling, Namjoon only keeps poking up and down all over your ribs. You are so asking for it, aren’t you? “Okay then... Lemme try again! One... Two... Three... Am I doing it right now?” he giggles at your cackling state, only speeding up his fingers to tease you more.

“Agh nahahaha ahahahaoh my gahahad ahahaha!” you are giggling your heart out, kicking out and wiggling like a worm in Namjoon’s grip.

The smirk on the young boy’s face grows wider and shakes his head laughing “No? I am doing this wrong again?! Oh man... I guess I should keep going until I do it right, huh?” and then he proceeds to poke all over your vulnerable ribs unstoppably.

This afternoon will be a really ticklish one for you...

[myriad-miscellaneous]

vignette dump

i’ve got all these brain worms that i want to share but will probably never be finished own full-fledged stories. the first one of these is already at 3.2k words and it doesnt feel remotely finished omg

i'm never going to get past my mental hurdle to actually write smut, am i?

"If a demon can achieve godhood like you, then tell me," he growls. "Is there a chance that, demon and monster that I am, could I be like you? Can I find purification in the wake of your vaunted flames, Professor? Will I find salvation if I were to follow your lead — as I so blindly did a lifetime before?"

  A sliver of his heart still capable of hope prays that her cold, soft-spoken voice tells him that he can, that he is deserving, that all his sins could be forgiven and swept away as easily as the clouds before the breeze. But, as always, his prayer is a useless gesture — a testament to his ineptitude that he dares to hope at all. She does not tell him any of those things. She does not tell him anything at all at first, meeting his plea with only silence.

  "...Dimitri," she says finally, as if that is her answer, and he bites his tongue to stop himself from shouting that the fool who once went by that name is dead.

  Her sea green hair rustles with a sad shake of her head, and she crouches down to meet him, searching for a gaze that turns fearfully away from hers. "I am neither, Dimitri," she whispers, and the sound is too loud, nearly deafening against the vast emptiness of the cathedral. Hearing her voice rattles him like thunder, shakes him like a Thoron cast through his racing heart.

  "I am and I have only ever been human," Byleth tells the walls behind him, averting her eyes to avoid spooking him any further. "I was your professor for a time, but now not even that. Now, I suppose, I am no one at all…"

  "Ha!" he barks. "Do you claim to be a ghost, then? Do not be so delusional, Professor." He spits the title like a swear, the title that he used to exclaim with such joy, such excitement, such — don't-say-it-don't-fucking-say-it-you-wretch — love — fuck — once upon a time. His voice grows harder, harsher, from his self-directed fury. "As long as that heart of yours beats, pumps blood within your whole, hale skin and bone, you cannot contend to be one of the many spectres that haunt me. You have said the same yourself."

  "Then take it."

  He lifts his aching head to behold the piercing glow of green in her eyes, searing with hurt and something that does not look like wrath, which would be what he rightfully deserves. Behind her beautiful, haunting visage is a blend of resignation and determination, and it bores into his soul more powerfully than even the memory of her bewitching smile.

  He is mesmerized all over again when she pledges herself, heart, body, and soul to him, as if he is the god and she, the believer.

  "If you need a heart, Dimitri, then I will give you my heart," she says. "If you need a sword, then I will be your sword. And when you need someone to show you the way, then I will become that person to guide you back. Ghosts and gods should not dictate the paths of the living."

  And he laughs, oh, how he laughs, cackling like the madman that he is — not from the sheer blasphemy of her words, though she would likely be put to the stake had she told anyone actually devout, but from the idiotic notion that she believes he deserves her help or anything at all. He is a man steeped in sin.

  …He is a man steeped in sin, he realizes, and the flash of greed that flickers to life in his mind seems like a mere speck against his mountains of misdeeds.

  "If—" And he stumbles over the words; he's indignant, outraged, in disbelief at what he's about to say, but that is Dimitri feeling all of those human foibles, and he is a savage beast.

  "I-if your words ring true, then kneel. Offer your body to your king."

  She leaves him.

  That is — she should be leaving him; that's what she's supposed to do, but, oh goddess, she's not; she's staying; she's kneeling, and what in the eternal flames was he expecting when he explicitly ordered her to do that?

  He curses himself, but the thought is drowned in the cacophony of screeches from his dearly departed. His step-mother hangs her head in despair, even as it hangs by a flap of skin to her neck. His father is all outrage, assaulting him with a flurry of questions: What do you think you're doing? Will doing this bring you any closer to our murderer's head? How could I raise this as my son? 

  Glenn clicks his tongue in disgust and doesn't even face him. I can't believe that I died just for you to get your dick wet.

  Glenn's comment stings most of all, and Dimitri prepares himself to send her away — tell her that it was just a tasteless joke, just like his joking not-joke at the Goddess tower.

  But then Byleth, obeying the spirit of his law but not the letter of it, begins to strip, and the words disappear with all his ability to think.

Bits of metal clang against the stone floor, and he swears that he can hear the goddess laughing cruelly at him through the echoes. Illuminated in the moonlight pouring down from the broken rooftop, her vessel looks every inch divine, soft curves and sinuous muscle, and he is helpless, pathetic, weak. He is a mortal, a man, and (he tells himself that) instinct possesses him the moment that she casts off her shirt. With only inches in between them, the hem of her clothing grazes against his gauntlet.

The new archbishop had brushed away the dust coating the headstone, plopped her bum onto the grass, and spoken aloud to the frigid air. In hindsight, a living confidant might have been better, but sharing the news with her parents first just seemed right.

  So she told them, or what she had left of them, about the proposal. About how her betrothed made her really, truly, happy, despite having every possible reason to languish in abject misery for eternity. About how he was the same, charming man who originally taught her what happiness was supposed to look and was supposed to feel like, a short lifetime ago. And about how he was to be crowned king of the United Kingdom of Fodlan in just a few hours' time.

  And only after she finished her impromptu briefing — for just a fleeting moment — Byleth had heard her father's gravelly chuckle, stretching all the way down from his space in the heavens.

  It is a preposterous thought, to be fair. Jeralt would've laughed and laughed and then drank himself into a stupor to cope once he realized that she was serious.

  After all, the lifelong mercenary Byleth Eisner AKA the life-shortening Ashen Demon doesn't know a damn thing about nobles and noble etiquette, much less royal etiquette. The daughter of the Blade Breaker grew up using knives as forks and her hands as spoons and only bothered learning otherwise after a scandalized Lorenz blockaded the door to her quarters with etiquette textbooks.

  Reading his disciplinary book report had been more punishment for her than it had been for him, come to think of it.

"Well, what are you waiting for, my king?" his beloved asked, cupping her breasts in a way that just barely — inadequately — protected her modesty. "Come and conquer me."

  Dimitri awoke with a start, falling off his bed in his panic. "Professor!"

  Sylvain awoke to the sound of a violent thump.

"It's not just revenge that I'm fighting for, Dimitri. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I choose to fight for what I believe in."

  He scoffs. "And what might that be?"

  Her lips quirk in what resembles a rueful smile, but it can't be counted as a smile — not with the crushing, despondent pain that wells up behind her eyes. "It's for a wish that I made long ago. Our wish."

  He hasn't the patience for these games of vague words and masked intentions, but perhaps once upon a time he did, when he was still playing prince atop a stage of pretty words and ugly ambition. 

  "It's clear that you don't remember," she says, too quickly. "Maybe another time, then."

"I fight to create a world where no one will be unjustly taken from us again. That is my wish — to see yours brought to life."

"Even if you didn't remember it anymore; even if you didn't believe in it anymore — this has been the path that I've chosen for myself, Dimitri."

[faereun]

'i've been around long enough to know that good things never last." / @illithide , astarion && genesis

now, genesis has never claimed herself to be an optimist  —  that being said, she's always at least   tried   to look on the bright side of things. alas, one can only peer  through  the  dark   begging for light for so long until they become disillusioned. one can only have so much faith before they are betrayed by their beliefs, ideals razed by   THE  CRUEL  REALITY   of the universe and its many villains. astarion's words hit the druid like a particularly nasty   [ ice  knife , ] heart dropping to her stomach. the vampire spawn certainly isn't wrong  —  he knows suffering better than the majority of them. knows suffering best , even. she fiddles with the side of her belt anxiously, fingers darting in and out through the loops of her alchemy pouch. 

the druid thinks back to the very beginning of her tale, to her father leaving her in that   creaking  old  house   , never to return. she thinks of the grove that had eventually taken her in, only to   [ cast  her  out ]   when she had proven too much a liability. she remembers her arrival in baldur's gate, finally finding work under the alchemist at danthelon's dancing axe, just to be whisked away a few tendays later   —  dropped into a mindflayer ship, with   a  parasite  squirming   behind her eye. finally, she lands on her   MOST  RECENT  RECOLLECTION   of disappointment: praying to her mother for salvation, the demigoddess's most desperate pleas ultimately going unanswered.

she looks up to meet the rogue's searching gaze, her eyes apologetic and the set of her mouth sorrowful.   'i only wish that i could prove you wrong, here and now. that i were more the positive type  —  like karlach, maybe. but i think i may near be just as cynical as you,'   the wood elf laughs drily. for a moment, she just watches astarion, noting how their eyes seem duller than usual, their skin somehow even more pallid. it makes the marrow of her bones hurt. she aches to reach out and hold him close, tightly to the thud thud thud of her heart against her ribcage.

mustering up what little courage she has, [ her bravery sapped ] from the toiling of the day, genesis brings her hand to rest atop astarion's. she gives them a   SHAKY  ,  WEARY  SMILE   , and squeezes their palm against hers.   'but, for what it's worth? to me, at least, this is a good thing. and i'm here. and i don't plan on going anywhere any time soon, worm or no,'   she murmurs, glancing away once more.

 'i … have not often been privy to good things. but i am nothing if not fiercely dedicated to my wellbeing, and my happiness. and it would seem that you have become a part of that, in some ways. so. all that is to say … i will try and make this last, until i take my last breath . ' and she means it, truly. so long as astarion will have her, genesis will remain steadfast at his side — whether that's as a trusted confidante and friend, or more.

[brutal-nemesis]

Castys's Goretober Party

Separate masterlist for my @coyotehusk goretober pieces so they don't clog up the main one too much. It's all set in a canon-adjacent AU so I did what I want no consequences, baby

I: Return to the Castys Buffet (impaling, slicing, cannibalism)- Castys and his new torturer friend get acquainted

II: Hook, Line, and Sarcasm (suspension, hooks)- a little hanging out never hurt anyone

III: Hematemesis (Written by Nemesis) (poison)- some internal bleeding, as a treat

IV: Bones to Pick (or Chisel) (bones, intimate, tools)- back on my bone carving bullshit

V: Intes-tangled (body horror)- Castys has the guts for this that’s for sure

VI: Other Ways to Silence Your Castys (stitches, needles)- seriously he’s very bad at shutting up on his own he needs help

VII: Pas-tell Me About It (pastel gore)- organ art project ✨ (don’t try this at home)

VIII: Worming Their Way Into Your Heart (parasites)- mmm yes parasitic worms and infection my beloveds

IX: Amputation with a Side of Amputation (dismemberment)- sometimes amputation is necessary, and sometimes it really isn't

X: Don't Be Vein (delicate, surreal)- taking the blood vessels and putting them somewhere else

XI: No Castyses Were Harmed in the Making of This Program (Probably) (restful freedom)- the boy gets a happy ending for once hooray