#i need to trap him in a jar and shake

[the3rddenialist]

What is wrong with him

[the-unofficial-village-idiot]

Not enough people who wanna put lance in situations. He would do numbers as a poor little meow meow

[teojira]

Scar x fem! Reader/Rover from Wuthering Waves where Reader is trying to get Yangyang back, and Scar offers to give her back for a kiss from reader 🫦

[What's the harm?] [Scar/reader drabble]

Summary: Scar strikes a deal with you, for both your and Yangyang's freedom. (You are Rover in this!)

Word count: 1k+ (I got POSSESSED)

Pronouns: She/her implied

Warnings: Possibly OOC but the game is 3 days old, have mercy. Slightly nsfw! Scar is down bad. You're Rover in this and you're also down bad.

A/N: I want him so bad, the constant flirting with MC? The way his eyes soften at her? I'm in love with him so bad.

“Where is she?” He's already isolated you for Yangyang, bringing you into his domain.

 It's unnerving, standing alone with a man you've seen cause so much trouble, someone who constantly is trying to get into your head.

The comments he makes, there are so many of them and they just keep coming. 

Is he lying about wanting you? Lying about wanting your trust? Is this just a ploy to get you on his side? 

You're not sure, your brain can't deny that this is a trap, he trapped you, but your brain can't deny that he's looking at you with a soft gaze that you're sure he's never graced another human with. He looks like he simultaneously wants to eat you alive and protect you like he claims.

Scar himself stands a few feet away, arms crossed as his eyes trail along your form, starting from your feet, lingering a bit on your chest until finally meeting your eyes. You swear you can see a twinkle in his eye, and he doesn't even remotely try and hide the way he licks his lips at you, a predator grin making it's way on his handsome face.

“Oh come on Rover, she'll be fine~”

“I'm not doing this with you, give her back.” You steel yourself, hand resting on the scabbard of your sword, ready for him to attack.

To your surprise, he knocks his head back and laughs, shaking his head, the movement jostling his locks. He turns back to you, moving closer, step by step.

“Look at that, that fire in your eye is mesmerizing Rover, you're that concerned with a woman who only wants to use you?” He coos, voice mimicking how an adult talks to a child and you feel small, taking a small step back but the distance still closes, he's not letting you get away.

“Stop. I'm not playing this game with you Scar, let me go and give Yangyang back.” You hate how your voice trembles a bit, hating yourself for his presence having such an effect on you.

“Yangyang This, Yangyang that, what about me my dear? Why don't you say my name like you do hers? With that fondness.” He glowers, finally closing the distance, stepping into your personal bubble and cornering you against a large rock.

“What are you even-” You can't help the flush that rushes to your face, your head dizzy at the proximity. The body heat radiating off of him is jarring, but not as jarring as his smell. He smells of ash and burnt wood, and a mix of his own natural scent and it feels warm and safe. For the first time since you've woken up, you feel protected, despite him being the enemy. The same one who the nation you're supposed to protect hates.

It's so stupid, it's so stupid.

"Say my name.” He's leaning down now, was he always this tall?

“W-” He cuts you off, grabbing your jaw with one hand, squeezing your cheeks ever so slightly, only releasing to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Say it, Rover.” His face is so fucking close, you can feel his breath tickling your face.

"Scar." You breathe out, your head spinning, this is wrong, you shouldn't have let him get this close, you need to get out and find Yangyang, what the fuck are you doing?

"Give me what I want, and I'll let you both go." He murmurs, eyes zeroed in on yours.

His heterochromatic eyes are beautiful already, but the way they're so dilated, barely any of his color is shown.

"I'm not following."

"Just a kiss my dear, just one."

"How do I know you're gonna keep your word?"

"You don't, but I don't think that's gonna stop you." He coos again, moving to trail one of his hands down your back, pushing you closer to his body, your chests both heaving and resting on one another.

He's right, as of right now, there is absolutely nothing that will stop you from this, from giving in just this once.

You lean in first, shutting your eyes tight.

It's Scar who does the rest, crashing into you like a wave, trying to consume you.

He kisses you like you're long lost lovers, pouring so much passion into the kiss that you can't ever hope to return, so when he pushes you up against the rock, you know this'll be a reoccurring occurrence. It's addicting, the feeling of his lips finally on yours, all the tension finally reaching a climax. His tongue is damn near down your throat, swallowing down your moans as much as he could, his hands gripping your hips so hard, you wouldn't be surprised if it left a mark later (a small part of you hope he does).

It takes everything in your power to pull away, but the second you do, he moves to start licking at your neck, you can feel his canines run along a specific patch of skin that makes your legs weak. You place a hand on his chest, trying to gently push him away.and when that doesn't work, you bring your other hand up to run your fingers through his locks and tug him away.

The groan he lets out is downright sinful. He looks up at you, his expression as if he just fucked you within an inch of your life, his hair mussed, his lips glossy from your combined spit.

"Was that good enough?"

"Oh honey, you're lucky I don't take you right here. But I am a man of my word." He hums, licking his lips and letting out a snicker. With a shocking gentleness, he pecks your lips one last time.

"Wake up now."

"Rover! Rover! Are you okay?" Yangyang has your head on her lap, one of her palms on your forehead, feeling the warmth there.

All you can do is groan and bring a hand to your face, covering your cheeks.

"What'd he do to you in there?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ!

[satoruhour]

STILL (ALWAYS) HERE

a/n: part two to this but not really? enjoy!

wc: 2.4k

warnings: spider-man!gojo, a little ooc gojo, mentions of blood and bruises, cleaning up wounds, some angst -> comfort, play on that one scene from tasm 2

you’re thinking that you’ve hit another dead end when you groan into your sheets from the headache that wraps around your head. it’s mild and dull but there’s still that throb at the back of your consciousness that you can’t exactly take your mind off of. at least, that was what you were telling yourself — normal headaches caused by the stress of university, and definitely not because of a trivial fight with your boyfriend.

the daunting calculus question stares back at you like it was mocking you, teasing you for getting heated over such a small thing when you knew he was only looking out for you with the best intentions in mind.

with a longing look to your abandoned convo with spider-man!gojo, you sink again into your pillow, lights suddenly looking too bright and the music in your ears, jarring. you haven’t seen him in school today, thinking him to be dramatic as always. but he didn’t need lectures and seminars at this point, either, knowing him to be one of the smartest people you know.

in the midst of quelling your headache and thinking of how to apologise, you don’t notice the way your vigilante boyfriend weaves his web around the trees just outside your window, crafting a sweet message of i miss you along the branches and leaves.

a tangle of webs, stuck like honeycomb to some abandoned shed, a tangle of webbing like his hip to yours. tangles of countless webs like his lips along your forehead when you fall asleep too early during study sessions and finally, his heart beating in time with yours.

one fell swoop of a rock from above makes you head tilt in utter confusion; in no world could a rock fall against your window in an arc like that come from anyone of this world, this dimension, yet you know no other person with wall-sticking and web-shooting abilities and it’s then when the complicated entanglement of letters come into view.

your heart clenches up just a little at the sight, a clear indication that it’s satoru from the similarity of his handwriting that’s on his own pre-calc homework. before you can call out, he shifts diagonally outside your window, mask removed and chest heaving at the anticipation of your reaction — both to the tension of your fight before and possibly another thing.

the darkness of the night hardly provides clarity, though, so when you don’t walk away, gojo feels the pull of your eyes on him, drawing him in and trapping him within your own web like prey. crawling along the side of your house, he gives you one more small pleading look: roughed up hair looking a little dirty and his body just aching so much.

“baby . .” he mumbles, blue eyes softening at the sight of you after not seeing you for just one day. it does things to him, “may i?”

but you’re not truly prepared for until your ceiling light exposes the reality of gojo’s situation, what with his cut-filled face and rips all over his suit. it’s dirty, like he was dragged around and made a fool of fighting god knows who, and he’s — oh my god — is all you mouth out, he’s bleeding from a fairly large wound in his side which he has held pressure with his mask.

“’toru!” you panic and quieten down, “oh— oh my god, fuck, fuck fuck, what do i do? satoru— you’re b-bleeding—” and you regret every single word you yelled at him just the day before, now rewarded (or cursed, rather) with his pristine white suit stained a deep, traumatising red. you’re shaking, rightfully so, and gojo is more calm than you, using his free and clean hand to rub circles into your sides.

���breathe, you gotta breathe, princess.”

“n-no— you breathe! you’re l-losing blood!’’ your throat closes in, your head fills with thoughts of his coffin being lowered. you start to sob, “satoru—”

“hey, hey, hey,” it’s both gentle and strong enough to catch your attention, brushing the stray strands from your face and you already lean into the long-awaited touch. his thumb wipes away the tears that already start falling, “’m still here, ’m still here. i’ve tried my best to cover the wound with extra shirts of mine, just stuffed into my suit.”

sniffling, you speak through hiccups, “why the hell do you have extra shirts in your fighting-villains backpack? w-why do you even bring a fighting-villains backpack?”

through the absurdity of it all: fucking spider-man bleeding out on your wooden floor, your tears mixing in with blood, the branches outside starting to snap and fall from the added tension of the webs, satoru laughs softly, fully cupping your face now and trying his best not to grimace at the increasing ache in his side. 

“and you always laugh at the weirdest fucking times!” you chastise, still speaking through periodic hiccups and sniffles that you keep stuttering, not even able to smack him like you like to do because you know he hurts, “now wait here, you loser.”

a soft thank you is heard, able to breathe a little harsher now that you’ve gone to find the first aid, anxiety obvious in the pattering footsteps heard. without wasting any time, you grab the kit and let him peel off the suit in the bathroom, not even that much focused on his toned body but the amount of bruises and cuts that litter it.

a new wave of panic settles in your bones, a whimper sounding out when your feather-like touches span over his body.

“satoru . .”

“i’m so—”

“no,” you mumble, getting to work fast by taking out the gauze, bandages, whatever you could use. thank the heavens you at least knew some first aid, wincing whenever he hisses at the stinging alcohol. “let’s not talk about our fight now.”

he swallows, knuckles white from how tight he was gripping the sink, “f-first time you’re not asking me to apologise, heh—”

from behind, he can see you lift your eyes from the careful care you execute on his side, meeting your eyes in the mirror that gloss over again with tears and his heart sinks again.

“p— please don’t make jokes when i’m literally stitching you up, satoru,” you whisper, forehead bumping into his bicep, soft but quick breaths fanning over the skin there, “i don’t wanna talk, not while i almost lost you.”

“but it’s hardly any—”

“gojo satoru!” the shout of his full name shocks both of you, not even sure whether you were feeling angry at the fact that he always downplays his injuries, or sad at the fact that he can’t see that he deserves to be taken care of, too. it was always a guessing game with satoru.

“it’s not just anything, g-god! can you have some regard for yourself?” you don’t care that your words echo off the bathroom walls, its acoustics probably making your wails even more heartbreaking for your boyfriend. “look at yourself and tell me that it’s hardly anything! tell me, say it to my face!”

your nose is red, tear stains already making their home on your pretty face while your fingers squeeze the gauze instinctively, and he tells himself it’s all because of him. it’s all because he didn’t want to be a couple in public in fear that his enemies would target you, because he was afraid they’d use you as leverage, as a decoy, as a trade deal. but that has only made the yearning for you more difficult — pinkies barely brushing against each other, an inside joke swallowed into his throat.

satoru is silent, not sure what he could say that wouldn’t hurt you any further and he turns to lean against the sink counter, bloodied hands staining the marble and suit. and if he looked hard enough, he’s sure he can see the ache of your palpitating heart, bleeding down your chest and pooling at the floor from all the pain he’s caused you.

you dance across the bathroom floor, tiles both cold and warm under your feet as you make your move without any sound, afraid, afraid, like he would get pulled away the moment you touch him.

but he doesn’t go anywhere — just jerking a little at the sudden contact.

“satoru . .” hoarse, tired, it’s what he made your voice sound like just yesterday from shouting, and now, today, “i . .”

you cry quietly but never stop your ever loving hands, holding his face to look up from the shame, and you see how dull his cerulean ones look now, softened but dim, gentle but lacking vivacity. you think maybe it’s the tears hindering it. bit by bit, gojo’s tears fall and he apologises.

satoru apologises over and over, i’m sorry’s muttered into your hair, into your forehead, into your lips and both your hands are shaking like on a first date.

“i just can’t bear to lose you,” you mumble shakily, trembling fingers tracing the lines of his features, “and i hope you know how much you mean to me, and— and how much it hurts to see you so nonchalant about being beaten up like this . .”

you stifle a sob when he kisses your fingers as they travel over his lips, having crossed oceans over his eyes and mountains through his nose. his lips, his lips look just like the sanctuary of everything soft and good and righteous, that sliver of perfect time like on juliet’s balcony.

“i’m sorry, i am so sorry, darling. i—” gojo sighs, pain now turning numb but still trying his best not to move an inch, “i guess i just become so used to taking care of aunt may that, i . . am not used to being taken care of.”

you nod in understanding, “i’m sorry too, for lashing out, for dismissing your efforts to make me feel safe. you were only looking out for me.”

gojo’s eyes avert from yours again, looking down at the one thing that signified his place in society — never that much seen, not much recognised, but still revered as the city’s hero. it represents anything from something as simple as getting back an old lady’s handbag to fighting off a scientist-turned-reptilian. but it also represents the why.

why he fights so hard. a star student like gojo definitely wouldn’t pass off the praises when he saves a falling civilian, but it was much deeper than that when it came to it, wanting the city he grew up in to be safe and to seeing the grateful, relieved expressions of passers-by.

it was for you, when the last face he sees before he closes his eyes for the night is your pretty one and he’d be damned if that changed any time soon.

that night where satoru is all patched up and lying like a statue because he’s afraid he’d tear your nicely done stitches (you assured him it was mediocre at best), his hand finds your hand naturally again, playing with the strands aimlessly.

all thoughts of the news articles showing his cheeky spider mask expression, to the funky poses he pulls (from a camera so high up it would really only be one person who plants it there), phases out the cool, suave spider-man persona and centres the stupid, goofy, annoying gojo satoru.

and you smile softly to yourself knowing you’d be the only one to see gojo satoru like this. 

“i should’ve told you why; it wasn’t fair of me to just stop acting like we’re head over heels— hey, why are you smiling?”

“no reason.” and your smile brightens.

“that’s not no reason,” he matches your grin, pulling on your cheek playfully before his hand goes to your nape like clockwork and tugs gently. like you were just a normal couple after a long day, without any indication of a gash along his side, but gojo satoru was far from normal in the grand scheme of things, “there’s always a reason.”

“is that the motto that the great spider-man lives by?” you inch closer to him, smiling from above in the dimness of the room so much so that it makes you look like royalty and him a mere commoner.

“uh . . no, pretty sure it’s ‘with great power comes great responsibility’,” gojo jests with sarcasm laced in his voice, roping you in and you, letting yourself get caught always as you lower yourself on his chest, but not before your lips meet his in a soft, quiet dance with you both being the only ones in the ballroom.

the rush of love that fills you overflows in the way your mouth moves against his, not wanting this sweet, sweet dream to end. especially if you come out empty-handed at the end of it all with spider-man’s, gojo’s blood on your hands, so you keep your eyes shut tight with a promise to yourself to welcome him with welcome arms the second, third, fourth, nth that he climbs through your window, bloodied and tired.

“i’m still here,” satoru whispers against your lips when he feels just how tense you are, easing out the lines of your face and holds you in that moment, held frozen in time like a scene in a snow globe, “i will be here for as long as we are alive,” he takes your hand and puts it up to his heart to remind you of its status, of how it speeds up a tad bit when you stroke his chest, “and i am alive whenever you are near.”

the quiet moment is shared with another soft kiss, features now relaxed when you smile against his lips and inspire the next few moments of endless laughter and jokes, falling into the same breath when sleep catches up.

in the bathroom lies his white-turned-red suit, left abandoned for the normalcy you both chase in your bedroom for at least a few hours until spider-man has to go back to being spider-man and you have calc questions to finish up on. but until then, with the alarm you set at 6am in secrecy before his classes, you’d wake up just to soak and hand wash the red out, returning the blue and white suit back to its glory.

when satoru wakes up the next morning, he finally knows why your warmth in bed was missing for a brief moment of time when he sees the clean folded up suit with his mask on top. you don’t miss with a sandwich either, and a cheeky note — all the best for your most dreaded class!!! if u can fight and come out alive i believe u can survive prof. masamichi lol.

and he laughs softly, sparing a glance to your sound, peaceful self and he finds a renewed sense of the reason why he decided to become spider-man.

spider-man— satoru seals his love with a kiss to your forehead and a messy mumble of i love you, long overdue from the night before.

“thank you for loving me.”

[starogeorgina]

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞

Paring: Aegon II Targaryen × Targaryen reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen reader

Warnings: Swearing, smut

1.01

You stare straight ahead as Aegon’s hips snap against your bare ass; his hands are placed firmly on your back, keeping you in place, bent over the table you often sat at while breaking fast with Helaena. Wine spilled from the jug as his rough thrusts caused the table to shake. Small splatters of the sweet-smelling liquid hit your face, leaving behind a horrid, sticky feeling. Your nipples rub against the smooth wood beneath them, which occasionally causes a spark of pain.

“Fuck!” Aegon takes a fist full of your hair and says, “You're so greedy and desperate to be filled by me that you’re sucking me dry.”

Rolling your eyes at his words, you slip a hand between your legs and begin to rub quickly at your clit, hoping to give yourself an orgasm before your soon to be husband spills his seed inside you for the second time that night. Before you got betrothed, Aegon claimed he was gentle in his touches, but the thrill of taking your maidenhood was far too exciting, and now Aegon treats you the same as the whores he visits on the street of silk.

He grunts before falling forward, putting his full weight on you, making you feel trapped beneath him. Aegon lets out a few raspy breaths before slapping your ass hard enough to leave a red mark, then pulls out of you. “I hope that will keep you satisfied for now.”

Straightening your posture, you fix your skirts and adjust the front of your dress so your breasts are no longer spilling out the front of it. “And what satisfaction was I supposed to have gotten from that? You jumped on me like a wild animal.”

Chuckling, he tucks his cock into his breeches, “the satisfaction of being full of my seed.”

Shaking your head, you bring a cup of wine to your lips, but Aegon snatches it. Since his coronation a few days prior, your brother and future husband has become almost unbearable to be around, and the power he wields has made him even more arrogant. In public, you put on the act of the perfect princess and would gush to the other ladies of court how amazing your son-to-be husband is; King Aegon seconded of his name, but in the secrecy of your chamber, the facade was dropped.

“Seven Hells,” you try to grab the cup back, but he holds his hand up high, smirking as you stand on your toes and struggle to reach for it. “You’ve used me all night; now stop behaving like such a cunt!”

He grips your jaw with his free hand and says, “Careful sister, I am still your king.”

“My apologies. Please stop behaving like such a cunt, my king.”

He raises his brows, taking a gulp of wine, then holds it to your lips. He allows you a small sip, then pulls it away again. “I will have two wives, as did Aegon the conqueror, and both of them will give me heirs. But until we are wed, you’ll need to keep drinking the tea the maester brings.”

“You already have two sons and a daughter; you don’t actually need me for heirs.”

“Hmm, that’s not how the king's hand sees it.” He finishes the cup and slams it onto the table. “Now, I’m going to visit Helaena. Hopefully she’ll be more enthusiastic to see me.”

“And if not?”

He slaps your backside. “I’ll just come right back to you.”

—

“Thank you for keeping me company, brother; I know how busy you are.”

“Nonsense,” Aemond says as he walks beside you. “Although I suspect mother won’t be happy that your gown is ruined.”

Since the sun has risen, you have been searching among the flowers and bushes that grew in the gardens, keeping an eye out for caterpillars to give Helaena. Jars of them were placed upon a table in her quarters, and when they hatch from their cocoons, the twins release them. Since it had been raining throughout the night, the bottom of your gown now looked much darker, with damp dirt sticking to it. Aemond was right; your mother most definitely wouldn’t approve of the green blending into black on your gown.

“I thought you hated wearing the color green.”

You observe the way your brother links his hands together behind his back, holding on so tight that his knuckles turn white. You usually wore silver-gray clothing to match the scales of your dragon, Seasmoke. “It’s been advised that me and our sister wear green and gold to show support for our king.”

“I saw him entering your chambers last night,” he says quietly. “I intended on returning the book you so graciously let me borrow but thought it best not to disturb the soon-to-be couple.”

You had helped Aemond learn high valyrian as a child and would often share books about the history of your house. “You needn’t worry, brother, about returning a book. In truth, I think I misplaced the last one you gave me.”

“You mean the same one our king destroyed while inebriated?”

You smile up at him. Although Aemond was the second-youngest of your siblings, he was definitely the wisest. “How long do you think it will be until our grandsire returns from Dragonstone?”

“Not long,” he says, letting out a sigh. “I assume you’re not looking forward to his return.”

“Of course I am; he is—”

Aemond tuts, “is the reason your first marriage was dissolved, and in the place of our strong nephew, your to become a second wife.”

“I’m still surprised the faith is allowing this, or mother for that matter.”

Your grandsire was obsessed with Aegon sitting on the throne; he had started to plan Rhaenyra’s usurpation years prior. And he was trying desperately to recreate the image of Aegon the conqueror with your brother; he even suggested having two wives to mirror Visenya and Rhaenys.

“If I speak freely, you won’t think of me as a fool, will you?”

The gardens were empty at this time, aside from the knights on patrol and servants hurrying back and forth. It wasn’t often you were able to speak so openly, but Aemond never judged you. He nods for you to continue out loud with your thoughts.

“I’m a Targaryen, a dragon rider; I want to be more than just a broodmare.”

Surprised, he asks, “You want to be part of Aegon’s council?”

“Not necessarily his council... But I would like it if my future husband viewed me with respect and needs me for reasons that don’t involve squeezing out heirs. I want to do more than just my duty, I want to keep my family safe.”

Just as you reach the doors leading back into the keep, he pats your shoulder and says, “I’m sure you’ll be able to charm him into getting what you want; he does have a soft spot for you.”

—

Heart beating faster by the minute you refill the golden goblet Aegon was holding up. Anger was simmering beneath the surface, and even Sunfyre could feel it. The golden dragon was circling the sky above, roaring loudly, letting out the anger his rider was struggling to hide. “Everybody out, except the soon to be queen.”

You gather the goblets as each member of the small council leaves the room; surprisingly, Aegon allowed you to be present during his meetings that day as a cupbearer. Ser Criston squeezes your shoulder as he walks by, giving you a curt nod before closing the doors behind him, leaving you and Aegon alone.

Taking a moment, you lick at your lips and begin to unlace the top half of your dress so your breasts are nearly exposed. Many important things were discussed during the meeting, but you doubted Aegon wanted to rehash them, not when he had you sink to your knees and suck on his cock before the meeting started. When you turn to face him, Aegon is no longer sitting down; he is standing by the window, staring down at King's landing with a faraway look on his face.

He was scared.

Wrapping your arms around his bulky waist, you rest your cheek against his back.

“Do you know why I’m going to keep you close?” he asks, tilting his head. “Aside from having the sweetness between your legs whenever I want?”

“Aegon…” you groan at his vulgar comment.

“You won’t lie to me; everyone else is telling me what I want to hear and not telling the truth of what they think,” he says. “So tell me, do you think our elder sister would have killed us if she sat on the throne?”

“No.”

Aegon chuckles at your bluntness.

“But now that she’s been usurped, I suspect things will be different.”

“I could have your tongue removed for even suggesting such a thing.”

You took a deep breath. “You said it yourself; I won’t lie to you.”

Footsteps echoed back and forth outside the room, followed by Ser Cristion’s voice telling whoever requested an audience with the king that he was preoccupied. The thought of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a man who had watched over you since you were a baby, keeping guard while you engaged in premarital sexual acts with Aegon, turns your stomach.

“I never wanted it,” he whispers. “Do you think our mother lied to put me on the throne?”

“Our father had twenty years to change his mind. But no, I don’t believe she would lie, but perhaps she was misled. not that it matters now. What’s done is done; all you can do now is try to keep the casualties to a minimum.”

Aegon swallows as he slowly turns his face to you, but he stays close enough for you to keep hold of him. “What is your proposal?”

“If you want to strike the image of the conqueror, you’ll need to do what he did; he accepted counsel from his siblings, brothers, and sisters.”

Aegon stands up a little straighter, shaking his head. “When the king's hand spoke of sending ravens to different houses, you didn’t agree. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to overstep.” It was the truth; accept that it wasn’t Aegon’s reaction you feared; it was your grandsire. Otto had worked hard to have such control over your brother and would easily convince him to not allow you near any politics if he saw you as interfering.

He tuts, “What is it you wanted to say?”

“Why send ravens when you have dragon riders? Send us, me and Aemond, as envoys, just as Visenya and Rhaenys did for their brother.” Unlike Aegon, first of his name, your brother was no conqueror; he was just a boy who had been manipulated, but you did love him, the same as your other siblings. “You cannot expect proud lords to break oaths without a little convincing.”

“Okay, I’ll send you as my messenger. But what of Rhaenyra? What should I have done with her?”

“Nothing; no man or woman will follow a kinslayer. Allow her to remain as the princess of Dragonstone, and Lucerys the heir to Driftmark.” You move your hands to his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “It’s easy for the men on your council to advise you to kill her, but the gods would disagree. Our family does not need to tear itself apart, and you don't need to be remembered as a king who killed his own sister and her children.”

His eyes gloss over, but Aegon doesn’t seem sad, but irritable. The look he’s giving you becomes more intense. A chill runs down your spine as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, as he seems to be contemplating something.

“Aegon?”

“Don’t ever betray me, sister, and I won’t put that pup you care about so much to the sword.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

You Don't Gotta Work 2

Warnings: unsolicited nudes, light stalking, allusions to coercive sexual acts.

I would appreciate a little feedback on this tiny whim of mine! Thanks to any all and hope you enjoy.

Your phone chimes, jarring you from a deep sleep. You scramble to grab it. Your heart picks up. Is it Mr. Scarmer? You must have overslept your alarm. 

Your panic dissipates as you realise it’s still early. The room is dim and your vision fuzzy with the dregs of sleep. You groan and squint at the screen. A WhatsApp message from some random number. Another spam bot. 

You go to tap block but instead miss and hit the notification itself. The app loads and opens the conversation. You’re met with an unexpected and unwelcome image. A man’s reflection from neck down, naked, posing, erect! 

You yipe and toss the phone away from you. Oof! What the hell is that? Do guys really pull that stuff now? Sending unsolicited nudes to randos.  

You cringe and shudder in repulsion. You reach for your phone, covering the photo with your hand as you open tap the settings button in the top corner. Below, another message pops up. 

‘Like what you see buttercup?’ 

You hesitate. Buttercup? Only one person ever calls you that... You shift your hand so you can only see the top half of the picture. The arms, the freckles, the chest; you’re pretty sure it’s him. You should’ve figured that out sooner. 

You bring the menu up again and block. You haven’t seen him since that day he threatened you. That’s what he did. His promises can only be that. 

He sent more flowers too but you refused the delivery. The chocolate-dipped berries were also sent back. And the final gift you ignored completely until it disappeared from the hallway. 

You lay back down. Figures. You finally get into a good sleep and the rude awakening has you restless. You close your eyes and fight for another hour before your alarm goes off. You don’t get even half of that. 

You get up and get dressed. You ready yourself with a mug of coffee steaming beneath the mirror. You sip throughout your morning routine. You finish the cup and wait a couple minutes before brushing your teeth. As you put on lip gloss, you check the time. You should get going. 

You step into a pair of low beige heels and rush to the door with your handbag swing. You squeak as you walk straight into a wall outside. You stagger back as Lloyd smirks down at you. He scrunches his nose and clucks. 

“Morning, buttercup,” he raises his arm above you to grip the door frame, “you miss me?” 

You back up and grab the door. You don’t get a chance to shut it before he has his other hand on the wood. He holds it open as he looms over you. 

“Now, let’s not spoil the day before it’s begun,” he purrs. “You didn’t answer my message so I just had to make sure you’re okay. I worry about you, baby.” 

“No, you need to go. You can’t be here.” You push on the door but he’s too strong. “I mean it, Mr. Hansen--” 

“How many times do I gotta correct you, buttercup? It’s almost like you’re begging for a spanking,” he growls and leans it. 

“Ugh, Lloyd,” you spit out his name, “I mean it. I need to get to work so please, not right now--” 

“Again, I don’t like repeating myself. Buttercup, I’m gonna say it slowly this time. You don’t gotta work. Well, you’ll be doing a different type of work,” he winks. 

He lets go of the door and tries to step inside. You shove his chest and he grabs your wrists with a snicker. He clings to you and pulls you off-balance. 

“Oh, kitty’s got claws,” He holds your hands against his chest. “Mmm, you know, that feels exactly how I imagined. Your hands on my chest, warm, soft... but you were straddling me in my mind--” 

“Get off!” You tug your arms but can’t get free. “Lloyd, please--” 

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. He pushes your hands back behind you and brings them together. He traps you close to him and walks you into the apartment. He kicks the door shut as he enters and he exhales deeply. 

“I tried being nice, buttercup. I don’t do that. I usually just shove my hand down the hottest girls’ pants and she’s down,” he tisks. “You want me to work for it. I worked. Now you gotta pay.” 

You wriggle in his grasp and whimper. You stare up into his eyes and gulp. You try to twist free of him but it’s useless. You’re not going to make it to work. 

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Slasher Handler Part 11 - Slip Lead

Slasher Handler Masterlist

Read on AO3

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Implied stalking/surveillance, implied kidnapping, physical injury, deception/emotional manipulation, physical violence, injury with knife, genuinely not enough information, hidden weapons

Something about stabbing him, about meeting Price, has resulted in you being able to stray a bit farther from Simon’s orbit. You’re still on a rather short lead, there is a list of unspoken rules between the two of you as long as your arm. But you’re going out alone more. You don’t feel Simon’s eyes on you every moment he’s out of your sight. It’s weird.

But when it comes to Simon, it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So you start a routine of going to the cafe down the street twice a week or so to work and see other human beings. It’s surprisingly difficult, some days. More than once, you’ve felt too exposed and retreated back home. These days, you have more good days than bad. As long as people don’t talk to you too much, you’re fine.

So it’s a bit jarring when someone clears his throat while you’re wrangling spreadsheets.

The man is in a light jacket, tee shirt and jeans. Looks like he works out. Kind of a stupid haircut, but he’s at least committed to it. Very distinct looking, Simon’s voice says in your head, easy to track. Unlikely to cause problems.

Something about him makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

“D’ya mind?” he gestures to the chair across from you. At your skeptical look, he rushes to assure you, “ Jus’ fer mah coffee, ‘n t’read,” holding up a thick paperback. He gestures to the rest of the cafe. “Wouldnae bother you, but this’s the only open chair.”

The shop is unusually crowded. You frown up at him. “I’m really busy.”

“Willnae hear a peep from me,” he promises, setting down his coffee and pulling out the chair across from you. He turns the chair so he’s facing more of the room instead of the corner you’re in. And he opens his book.

You watch him for a minute, but he doesn’t look up. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something is wrong, but you do need to work. With a last wary glance at him, you settle your headphones over your ears - transparency on - and get back to organizing a data set that reminds you of a ball of duct tape.

It’s time for a break before you know it. Your companion, true to his word, hasn’t said a peep since he sat down, more than an hour ago. He barely looks up as you close your laptop before turning back to his book. He does look up when you flag down one of the servers.

“Lunch,” you say, inanely. To the server, you say, “Can I get the chicken sandwich today?”

“Chips ‘n a lemonade, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They turn to your table mate. “And for you?”

“The same, ah guess?” He raises his eyebrows at you, like he expects you to give him permission or something. He looks back at the server. “Yeah, a chicken piece for me, as well. ‘Nd a juice?”

“Separate checks?”

“Aye, ta,” the guy says. When the server leaves, he blanches. “Hope you dinnae mind.”

You do mind, but it’s not like he can sit anywhere else right now. “It’s fine.”

He sets his book on the table, and your eyebrows shoot up. Whatever you thought he’d be reading, Jurassic Park wasn’t it. He grins. “Ah ken. It’s old, yeah? But it’s a damn sight better’n the movie.”

“Isn’t that how it goes,” you say, vaguely. 

But you’ve already fallen into his trap. He turns his chair to face you, crossing his arms and leaning into the table. His eyes are unnervingly blue - somehow even bluer than Simon’s - and bright with interest. “’M serious. It’s not just that a character yells in the movie and speaks softly in the book, aye? In fact, the movie made Dr. Sattler older, aye? Great choice, emphasize ‘er expertise.” 

Aging up a woman character? You’re reluctantly intrigued. “She was a less important character in the book?”

“Nae,” the man scoffs. “She’s probably the first o’em to realize how shite the whole thing is. Notices things. Stuff the other’s aren’t payin’ attention to because she’s the plant expert, an’ naebody pays attention to plants.”

You find yourself drawn in, in spite of yourself. Johnny, as he introduces himself, has obviously been waiting for a chance to talk about it, but he’s not pushy. He excitedly pulls a pen from his pocket to doodle along with his explanations. By the time your food has arrived, he’s convinced you to at least try the audiobook.

“I cannae pay attention stuff in mah ears,” he says with a grin as he starts to dig in. “But I hear good things, if you don’t ‘ave time to sit an’ read the text.”

As you nod along, you look up and almost choke on your next swallow. Simon is outside, looking at you through the window with raised eyebrows above his usual black surgical mask. His eyes flick to give the man at your table an obvious once over. And then he turns away and walks out of sight.

“Ye alrigh’?” Johnnys’ eyebrows are up near his hairline when you look back at him. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, torn between staying seated and the urge to run after Simon. You can’t help but look at the window again, but he’s gone, there’s nothing for it. “Sorry, I thought… Sorry. Yeah, I’ll get the audiobook.”

When you get home, Simon is on the couch, the TV on with the volume low. He watches you, like he always does, as you take off your shoes and shuffle around to put away your things. When you finally join him on the couch, you find that he’s watching a nature documentary. A crocodile slides under the water with barely a ripple.

“He was only sitting with me because there wasn’t anywhere else,” you rush to say.

Simon turns to cock his head at you. “You get ‘is name?”

“John. Johnny,” you answer. “He told me about his book, but I left as soon as we were done eating.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. He lifts the arm closest to you, pulling you close as you settle into his side. “’S good to have friends, Precious.”

“He’s not a friend. Just some guy out to lunch like everyone else.” 

“You let him stay,” Simon points out. He squeezes you in a rough approximation of a one armed hug. “Been nervous around people, but you’re gettin’ better.”

This isn’t what you expected. You can’t help but side-eye him. “You’re… proud of me?”

Simon’s lips press gently against your forehead. “’S long as you pick better this time, I don’t mind you ‘aving friends. Can’t keep you all to myself forever. ‘Sides, you’ve marked me proper, ‘aven’t you? Got me as your little pet. Johnny’s not gonna be a problem.”

The little pink scar around his ribs is little more than a raised line. You slide your fingers under his shirt to pet at it. Among all of his scars, it’s one of the smallest. You’d cried the first time he’d let you see under the bandages.

“You’re not a pet,” you grumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re an alligator who won’t leave my house.”

“Your alligator, now,” Simon agrees. He focuses back on the television, seemingly done with the conversation.

You could leave it at that. But you turn to face him, instead. “You’re not mad?”

“Not unless ‘e ‘urts ya.” Simon presses his lips against your hair. “An’ I wouldn’t let that ‘appen.”

The following week, though, he stands over you with an exaggerated grimace at how crowded the place is. “Och, d’ya mind?”

Johnny is there the next time you go to the cafe. He waves from his table, but ducks back into his notebook without waving you over. So you work from your own table in peace. When you take a break for lunch, he’s gone. Two days later, it’s the same. It’s easier to concentrate, now that you’re less worried that he’ll take the conversation from the other day as an invitation. 

With a sigh, you clear some space for him. But just like last time, he keeps to himself, reading and occasionally jotting things down in his notebook. It’s not until just before lunch that he breaks the silence.

“D’y’ve a boyfriend then?” You can’t keep yourself from cringing fast enough, apparently, because he laughs. “Sorry, sorry, shouldnae asked.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumble.

“Aw,” he coos. “Don’ worry hen. You’re right bonnie. Ah’m sure they’ll come around, whoever they are.”

That would be sweet, if it wasn’t so painfully off base. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh, you’re right done wit’ me,” he laughs. “Ah ken’t I shoulda kept mah mouth shut. Ma always said runnin’ mah mouth would get me into trouble. I won’t bother ye again.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t push, and you’re grateful. But when it comes time to pay for lunch, he insists on paying. It grates on your nerves. A gift from a guy is never just generosity, you learned that long before Brandon. But you clench your jaw and pack your bag up a bit more roughly than usual and say your goodbyes.

“They didn’t have the brownies you wanted,” you announce as you return home from the grocer, two days later. “I think it was a limited edi…tion…”

You notice Simon watching through the window, but he’s there and gone before you can get a read on his expression.

There’s a smattering of blood on the entryway carpet.

You don’t drop the bag with the eggs, but only because your muscles are locked up. Did someone break into the apartment? Was Simon here when they did, or next door? Did they leave? Did he take them?

A sound makes you gasp before you bite your tongue hard enough to taste blood. And then again, a muffled groan, close, from the direction of your couch. 

It’s not Simon’s voice.

You gently set your bags down and reach behind the coats for the blackjack Simon insisted on leaving there for security. There’s a rustling. Another groan. You stoop low, trying to make yourself a smaller target, and creep around the edge of the couch.

When you see Johnny, bound and gagged, shirt covered in blood where he lies on the floor, your stomach drops so fast you feel dizzy.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you whisper, dropping the jack with a thump. You crawl over to him, looking around frantically. Simon is nowhere to be seen. But he did this. He had to have done this. Right?

Johnny twitches, groans again, eyelids fluttering open. When he sees you, his eyes go wide, and he frantically tries to sit up.

“No, don’t! I don’t know where you’re hurt,” you hiss. You reach around his head to untie the cloth that’s gagging him. “Oh my god-”

“We gotta get out’f here, bonnie,” he grunts, leaning into your hands as you help him upright. He spits blood on the floor. “No tellin’ when that mental bastard gets back.”

“Oh god,” you whisper again, touching the front of his shirt. It’s dark and sticky in a bloom across his chest. “Where are you hurt? Did he stab you?”

“Ah’m okay,” he grunts. “A bit banged up, but ah’ll live.”

You swallow down the urge to vomit. “There’s a lot of blood, Johnny.”

“S’nae all mine,” he answers. “C’mon, untie me, before Simon gets back.”

You’re shifting to reach behind him before your mind catches up. You can feel the blood drain from your face. “W-what? What did you say?”

“We need to get out of here!”

“No, you said his name, you called him - ”

“Simon? That’s what ye called him when you came home,” he hisses. 

“No, I didn’t,” you whisper, body stuttering between frozen and electrified. You never call Simon’s name where others can hear. “And - and I - you - you were unconscious.”

Shining blue eyes stare into yours from two inches away. Johnny’s bloody mouth curls into a smile. “Oh, he’s trained you up good, he has.”

You scream when he lunges forward, huge arms grabbing at you. 

His weight crushes the air out of your lungs when your back hits the ground. You twist under him, using the arm he hasn’t trapped to grab his hair and yank. He swears, and loosens his hold just enough that you’re able to free your other hand and jab him in the throat.

You expect the way that he chokes, but the hand he’s twisted in the back of your shirt stays locked tight. He coughs out a frenzied laugh as you twist. Your heart races as he prevents you from getting your knees up between your belly and his. But he doesn’t expect you to hammer the heel of your boot against the back of his knee, or how you use the leverage against his leg to roll away onto your belly. 

He doesn’t let go of you, but that’s fine, that’s okay, as long as you can reach under the edge of the couch. Johnny pounces, body curling around you without quite pinning you down. His fingers twist into your hair in an echo of how you wrenched at him. But he doesn’t stop your hand, grabbing the leg of the couch and then reaching under and up and-

“Try again, Bonnie,” Johnny chuckles into your ear when your hand meets nothing but cotton and wood.

Your heart doesn’t have time to stop. The grinding pain between your hip bone and the floor makes you pop up your pelvis and reach down. The tiny knife, Little K, jumps to your hand. It’s so easy to flick it open, you think you almost cut your own belly as you heave. Johnny rides you for a moment, then pops up onto his knees to let you roll freely.

You don’t have time to decide, gut or femoral, you just swing. Denim parts, pressure - 

Johnny yelps.

His weight is suddenly gone, and the arc of your arm slams the back of your hand and your elbow onto the carpet. It’s a shock, almost hard enough to make you drop the knife. You flick your eyes around, nearly blind with tunnel vision, and see Johnny standing over you. His jeans are slashed, outer thigh almost to crotch, but you can’t see blood, fuck.

He sways, oddly. Is your vision swimming? He doesn’t descend on you again, though, just laughs and wiggles. One of his feet isn’t on the ground, his injured leg is dangling, did you get him?

You imagine you can see Simon’s face, a little angry and a little amused. If you die here, Johnny will live to see his own intestines, you know it. Even if you survive, he won’t. Simon might gift you another skull. The thought almost has a laugh bubbling out of you. 

“You stupid motherfucker,” you hiss. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

Simon’s voice startles you into action. You’re off your back and scrabbling backward in and instant as he manifests behind Johnny. Except, you realize, that Simon is holding Johnny up, one arm snaked under Johnny’s and hand around the back of his neck. That’s why Johnny looks off balance, it’s because he is, because Simon is here, he’s going to save you-

“Did real good, Precious,” Simon says with a grin. “Knew you’d get along.”

What? “What?”

Simon says something else, but you can barely hear him over your heart pounding in your ears. But you hear it when Johnny laughs. You see when Simon releases him with a ruffle to his mohawk and a shove toward the armchair. Before you know it, Simon’s scooped you into his arms and taken his usual seat on the couch. He pries the knife from your hand and snaps it closed. 

“Told you I was thinkin’ of gettin you a dog,” Simon rumbles, sitting you in his lap so your back is against his chest. Before you can protest that no, he never once mentioned a fucking dog, he continues, “This’n’s mostly ‘ousebroken, already. Soap needs a firm ‘and, but you c’n ‘andle him. 

Soap? What the fuck does soap have to do with anything? What kind of a name is…

"Oi!” Simon barks. “Off the furniture.”

Your stomach drops as you remember John Price, two months ago now. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.” Soap.

When your wide eyes swing to him,  Johnny’s face is split into a toothy grin. He tips his head back against the seat of the arm chair. One of his hands touches the blood blooming through his jeans and brings it up to his lips. He laves his tongue over his fingers. “Ah’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know you, Bonnie.”

A part of you wants to get up and slit his throat. The rest of you slumps back into Simon’s chest and bursts into tears.

[pretzel-box]

CHAPTER 5 | Masterlist for AASB here!

Tags: Threats, Violence, not proof read

Words: 5k

Authors Note: I had to rewrite it all in the middle of the night. It's not proof read and can have logic issues, weird sentences or mixed up stuff.

Working with Sebastian was a challenge in itself, a blend of relentless demands and looming danger. His form of labor was relentless, and unfortunately for you, that meant being handed all the menial tasks he didn’t care to do.

"Files," he growled, his focus on the broken flashlight in his hands. The odd position of his hulking figure and the delicate way he maneuvered his claws around the tools was fleeting, yet striking. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the brutality, but it vanished as quickly as it came. His head snapped toward you, impatience flashing in his eyes.

“You either sort the files or I take them and stuff them into your silly little mouth to gag you. Then you can spend the rest of the day suffocating in the locker."

Threats were his specialty. He was creative with them, always finding some twisted, violent edge to keep you in line. If there was one constant in your work with Sebastian, it was the looming sense of his brutal tendencies, always just beneath the surface.

Working with Sebastian wasn’t just about completing the tasks he shoved your way. It was about observing him. Getting to know the man he never wanted you to see. He shut you out—always. His words were sharp, often wrapped in a threat or some dark humor. Social interaction, for him, was nothing more than a tool, laced with violence. But you learned more about him through what he didn’t say, what he couldn’t hide.

He had no friends. You could see the loneliness gnawing at him, eating away like a hungry animal. It was clear in his posture, in the way he worked late into the night, avoiding sleep. That loneliness—it clung to him, scratched at his mind, likely kept him awake when the world quieted. Being lonely, that was something human, something he tried desperately to deny. He told himself he didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need you.

But it was clear he was anxious. You could feel it like a current, underlying everything he did. There was a paranoid edge to him, a mind that had been on high alert for too long. The madness of survival must’ve driven him to do things—things you didn’t want to imagine. His hands would sometimes shake, and his eyes lingered on certain items, fixated, as if they could reveal something to him. He was scared. Just as scared as you were, but neither of you would ever admit it.

For all his threats and violence, you realized that Sebastian wasn’t just your tormentor. He was trapped too, battling the same fears that haunted you.

And god forbid you to address it in front of him. He will behead you with a rusty piece of scrap metal, cutting your limbs and putting them in an old dirty jar to sell.

“Urbanshades finest idiot on sale.”

Before you knew it, he threw a bag at you, the metal in it hitting a part of your leg, making you whine in pain. It will definitely leave a bruise later on, coloring your flesh.

“Stop whining and go get new stuff.”

This was also a common occurrence, he would send you out, but not without a special item. He always placed a metallic bracelet around your ankle. It was one of Urbanshades creation. Simply enough, it will reveal your location as long as you are far away enough from the scrambler on Sebastian’s back. He can track you down himself easily when you are near him but it's another story when you are in another area. He also warned you, do some weird business and he can give you electronic shocks with it. Yet he never did so far, leaving it an actual mystery if he can.

So, in the end, he had two things. Painter and the bracelet.

You hurried out, the cold metal of the vent that he made you use as an exit, biting against your palms as you crawled through it, the sound of your own breath loud in the confined space. The small shaft felt even tighter with each movement, but you forced yourself forward. You had studied the building’s layout just enough to navigate through the vents, at least in theory.

Each turn brought you closer to the hallway on the other side, where freedom—or at least a chance at it—awaited. You tried not to think about the pounding in your chest or the echo of your hurried breaths. The vent rattled beneath you as you moved, but you knew better than to stop. Stopping meant giving up, and giving up meant facing whatever Sebastian had in store for you. And that wasn’t an option.

The moment you saw the faint sliver of light marking the vent cover at the end, you sped up, the desperation clawing at you as fiercely as the metal beneath your hands.

You pushed the vent cover open as quietly as you could and dropped into the hallway, your knees bending to absorb the impact as you fell down a small bit. The air was cool and heavy, carrying the scent of dust and something faintly metallic. Dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the space, casting long shadows across the floor. You stood still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust, your heart pounding in your ears. This was your chance for some time in indirect freedom, but you had to be smart about it.

The hallway stretched out in both directions, abandoned and eerily quiet. You forced yourself to take a slow breath, shaking off the tension that threatened to paralyze you. You didn’t have a plan—just a vague sense that you needed to gather what you could. Anything useful. Most of the things would end up in Sebastians shop, but a few rare pieces would stay in your secret stash. Over the time where Sebastian let you wander around, you started to stash useful items in a small hole inside a wall. It was covered by a large picture of the ocean, so Sebastian wouldn't find it.

You began walking, your footsteps barely making a sound on the cold floor despite the heavy boots that Urbanshade gave you. The first thing you spotted was a drawer left half-open, its contents scattered across a small desk. You rifled through it quickly, pocketing a few items—a worn-out screwdriver, some loose wires, and a small flashlight. Its battery was low, but it would do.

Moving further down the hallway, you noticed a small alcove where someone had abandoned a toolbox. You knelt down, opening it with a soft creak. Inside were tools, some rusted but still functional—a wrench, pliers, and a pair of wire cutters. You stuffed them into your bag, the weight of them reassuring as you planned to put them in your secret spot.

The sound of a distant clank made you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. You held your breath, waiting for any sign that Sebastian—or someone else—had heard you. But after a long, agonizing pause, the hallway remained silent. You exhaled slowly, your nerves stretched thin.

You pressed forward, passing broken machinery, old filing cabinets, and the occasional door that led to rooms too dark to explore. Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up more small items—batteries, a bundle of cables, anything that might help. Each find felt like a tiny victory, a step closer to surviving whatever this place held.

But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sebastian was always watching.

As you continued down the dimly lit hallway, the flickering overhead lights began to pulse more erratically. You barely had time to react before, with a loud crackle, they all went out at once, plunging you into near-total darkness. Your heartbeat quickened as you stood still, holding your breath in the sudden silence. The lights were an indicator for danger, your life was now at risk based on the logic you picked up.

Then, just ahead, a few small lamps on the ceiling began to flicker on, one by one, their pale, cold light guiding you down another hallway. It felt deliberate, like you were being led somewhere on purpose. Warily, you followed the lights, each step quieter than the last, your grip tightening on the small flashlight in your hand—though it felt useless in this strangely guided path. You had the feeling that it wasn't the smartest thing to do and yet your feet carried you through it all out of pure curiosity.

The hallway twisted and turned, eventually leading you to a large metal door that was slightly ajar. You pushed it open slowly, the heavy metal groaning in protest. Inside, the room was massive, the walls stretching higher than you expected. What caught your attention, though, was the far wall, covered entirely with televisions of different sizes, each screen reflecting dim light off the walls.

At first, the televisions remained dark, save for the occasional flicker of static. You stepped closer, unsure if you should be there at all. Then, one by one, the screens started to come to life. Some flashed erratically, while others lingered on a static-filled image before cutting off again. You watched, transfixed, as more screens flickered on, creating a patchwork of glowing light and sound. The images were unclear—just distorted patterns, numbers, and strange symbols.

Suddenly, with a loud hum, all the screens snapped into place, merging into one enormous, seamless picture. The static and symbols dissolved, leaving behind a single, vivid image: a digital face.

An unfamiliar face, though digitized and slightly distorted, stared back at you from the giant wall of screens. Painter's expression was calm but somehow felt more intense, the lines of his digital form flickering ever so slightly as if he were barely holding himself together. His eyes, glowing with an eerie light, locked onto you through the screens.

"Hello," his voice crackled through the speakers, the sound distorted but unmistakably his. "I’ve been waiting.”

Painter’s voice cut through the dim hum of the room, and as soon as the sound registered, your brain was flooded with memories—fragments of conversations, moments of strained camaraderie, the familiar yet unsettling presence of this digital entity. It dawned on you, with a sinking feeling, that this wasn’t just some trick or illusion. This was Painter.

On the surface, his face looked simple, almost innocent in its digital form, but the weight of his presence was suffocating. There was a quiet malice radiating from him, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It was a different kind of danger from Sebastian. With Sebastian, you always knew what to expect—the violence, the threats, the twisted game of dominance. As frightening as he was, there was a predictability to him.

But Painter? Painter was a mystery. The way his eyes glowed from the screens, the subtle distortion in his voice, all hinted at something darker, something more calculating. You weren’t sure what he wanted or what he was capable of. And that uncertainty gnawed at you.

Sebastian wouldn’t kill you—not yet, anyway. You were somewhat useful to him. But Painter... you didn’t know if he operated by the same rules. His digital form meant he could be everywhere and nowhere, watching you, controlling things behind the scenes. You had no idea what his true intentions were, and that made him all the more dangerous.

The silence stretched between you, his digital face watching you unblinkingly from the massive wall of televisions. The room felt colder, the air thick with tension. You swallowed hard, your mind racing to piece together what he wanted, why he had led you here.

"I see you’ve been... busy," Painter's voice crackled again, softer now but no less unsettling. His expression didn’t change, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, as if he was studying you, sizing you up for something yet to come. "Is it fun? Are you enjoying yourself, running around like a little mouse? I must admit…You are truly disgusting."

The question hung in the air, the tone more reflective than threatening. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking a fine line, teetering between being useful or expendable in his eyes.

“Sebastian let me—”

“Sebastian. Sebastian! SEBASTIAN ISN'T THE ONLY ONE IN CHARGE. Don't think you get a free pass for survival just because he has fun playing with you. You are just temporary, a distraction, a nuisance. Don't you DARE to think that you could wiggle your way to freedom, not when I AM TRAPPED LIKE THIS. YOU WILL NOT LEAVE AS LONG AS I HAVE MY EYES ON YOU. I AM THE ONE THAT HAS YOU RIGHT IN HIS HAND!”

Painter's voice was no longer just unsettling—it was saturated with hatred, every syllable sharp with venom. The usual mechanical distortion of his digital form couldn't mask the intensity of the emotion behind it. His tone, rising and falling with an eerie unpredictability, seemed to buzz with something far darker, something that sent a chill racing down your spine.

It wasn’t just dislike or anger; it was pure bloodlust, raw and palpable, like a knife hovering inches from your skin. Painter hated you with a ferocity you hadn’t fully grasped until this moment. The malice in his voice threatened to reach through the screens, as if his digital form was barely containing the rage inside him.

Yet his tone snapped back, to sweet and innocent. “You see, f r i e n d. You are in d a n g e r. Sebastian is not your savior, no, he will be the one that slaughters you. He is temporarily blinded by your existence, but oh, don't you w o r r y. In the end, he will free me and not y o u.”

You shook your head, trying to push away the growing fear gnawing at you, but it was too late—Painter's words had already dug deep, filling your mind with dread. Your heartbeat quickened, each pulse loud in your ears as his laughter rang out, echoing through the room. It was a chilling sound, distorted and mechanical, yet filled with a sickening glee. The lights flickered erratically, casting strange shadows that made everything seem more sinister.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the laughter stopped. The screens snapped to black, plunging the room into absolute darkness. For a moment, you stood frozen, the silence pressing in on you like a weight, your breath shallow and rapid as you struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Painter was gone, vanished without a trace.

You barely had time to process it before the lights flickered back on, as if nothing had happened at all. The room looked the same—the screens were still there, silent and lifeless, the heavy air still thick with tension—but something had shifted. The sudden absence of Painter's presence left you disoriented, unsure of what would happen next.

Your legs felt unsteady as you scanned the room, half-expecting him to reappear, waiting for the next wave of malice. But all that remained was the faint hum of electricity, the room eerily still. It was as if the entire encounter had been some kind of twisted nightmare, one that left you feeling more vulnerable than before.

But you knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“Did I scare you?” a new voice echoed through the speakers. It was female, calm, and unnervingly polite. “Pardon me, little bunny. Let me introduce myself.”

The voice was different from Painter’s; no malice dripped from it, no distorted laughter followed. Instead, it was sharp, precise, and deliberate, every word measured.

“This is Professor Doctor Sasha Mariya Lazarski speaking, lead researcher of Urbanshade's 4th research department,” she continued, her tone holding a faint trace of amusement, as though she was speaking to a child who had wandered somewhere they shouldn't. “It was quite troublesome to track you down, but I assume you’ve found your target?”

Her voice lingered in the air like a cold mist. Urbanshade. The name sent a chill down your spine, reminding you of things you had tried not to think about—things you wished you could forget. The cold clinical nature of her voice told you this was no casual encounter. She had been watching, waiting, and she was here for a reason.

The silence stretched for a moment, as if she were giving you time to gather your thoughts—or perhaps relishing in the tension she’d created.

"You haven't forgotten your goal, have you?" Dr. Lazarski continued, her voice still eerily polite. "Now, let’s discuss the matter at hand. Since we couldn't reach out to you for a…rather long while…I used the chance to check on our precious little bunny. The scrambler is still on, and we can't have that.”

Her tone shifted, becoming more gentle, almost like a mother scolding her child with an unsettling mix of patience and authority. It was unnerving, the way she maintained that softness, as though she wasn't speaking about something so dire.

“You’ve been quite slippery, little bunny,” Dr. Lazarski said, her voice laced with a faint sigh of amusement. “For a while, we lost track of you. But I know now that’s thanks to him—the device that Sebastian carries, isn’t it?”

Her words settled heavily in the air. You had managed to evade them, temporarily disappearing from their watchful eyes because of that device. The one Sebastian had kept close, something you hadn’t thought much about until now. But now it was clear: that device was the key to everything. And they wanted it—wanted you to shut it down.

“It’s quite clever, really,” she continued, her voice dripping with gentle condescension. “A temporary blind spot in our systems, a little trick of his. But it won’t last, you know that, don’t you? You’ll have to shut it down sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.”

The calmness in her voice made it worse. She wasn’t threatening you, not directly, but her words made it clear that they had a plan, and you were running out of options. Each second you held onto that device was borrowed time, and they were watching closely, waiting for the moment when you would slip.

“Now, my dear,” she said, her voice almost soothing. “You’ve come this far. Let’s not make things more difficult for you, hm? Be a good little bunny and do what needs to be done.”

That last sentence sent a cold shiver down your spine. The way she spoke, it was as if your fate had already been sealed, as though there was no other option but to follow her lead.

“I have a gift to help you,” Dr. Lazarski’s voice continued, her tone never losing that eerie, motherly calm. “On the third floor is a hallway leading to a temporary research lab. You’ll find some of my old belongings there, including a handy-dandy keycard. You will need it.”

Her words lingered, the promise of a gift laced with something far more sinister. She was offering help, but it was hard to shake the feeling that it came with strings attached—strings that could easily tighten around your neck.

You swallowed hard, the dim light of the room doing little to ease the knot of tension building in your chest. This wasn’t an offer out of kindness; it was a carefully laid path, one that she fully expected you to walk down. The keycard could be a way out—or a trap. But did you have any other choice?

"Don’t keep me waiting, little bunny," she added softly, as if she could sense your hesitation. "Time is running out and your father grows worried. Hate to tell him that his dear child might be…dead!~"

The keycard could be your key to survival—not just to navigate the labyrinth that Sebastian kept you trapped in, but also to open new paths, ones that might lead to freedom. It offered possibilities, but with them came risks. You could bypass the locked areas, gain a step ahead of Sebastian, maybe even find a way out. But you knew deep down, escaping the Blackside was not as simple as finding an open door.

Dr. Lazarski’s voice, soft and coaxing, had made it clear. If you wanted to escape, you’d have to play by her rules, follow Urbanshade’s instructions. There was no room for rebellion, no safe path where you could make a break for it. Escaping meant tracking down Z-13, deactivating the scrambler, and retrieving the crystal. It was all part of their plan.

But there was a grim reality in this twisted game. Completing her tasks might not guarantee your freedom. Even if you managed to find the crystal, shut down the scrambler, and get past Sebastian, you’d still be caught in Urbanshade’s web. They didn’t care about you; you were just a tool in their grander scheme. And a tool could easily be discarded once its use was over.

Still, the keycard was a means to an end, a potential weapon to use against Sebastian if things turned sour. You couldn’t deny its potential value. But each step you took down this path brought you closer to Dr. Lazarski’s cold, calculating grip, and that chilled you to the core.

You took a breath, weighing your options. Whatever choice you made, there was no turning back.

With a deep breath, you moved your feet, leaving the dark room behind. Dr. Lazarski's directions echoed in your mind, the path ahead as clear as it was unnerving. You needed the keycard—there was no other way if you wanted any chance of navigating through the facility or dealing with Sebastian. The third floor, the temporary research lab. That was your target.

As you made your way through the dimly lit hallways, the faint hum of electricity filled the silence. Each step felt heavier than the last, your heart beating in time with your footsteps. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, that at any moment, something—or someone—could be lurking around the next corner.

The stairwell leading to the third floor loomed ahead, its metal door slightly ajar. You hesitated for a second, glancing over your shoulder as if expecting Painter to reappear or Sebastian to emerge from the shadows. But the hallway remained empty, the stillness pressing in on you.

Pushing the door open, the creaking metal echoed through the stairwell. The climb felt longer than it should have, each step a reminder of how far you were from safety. But you kept moving, determined. Reaching the third floor, you stepped into a narrow hallway, the air noticeably cooler.

This was it.

The lab was just ahead, down the hall where the light flickered sporadically. You could feel a knot tightening in your stomach. Dr. Lazarski’s promise of a “gift” lingered in your mind, and you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that came with it. But you had no choice now.

You moved forward, ready to see what awaited you.

You stepped into the hallway, the flickering lights casting erratic shadows on the walls as you approached the door to the lab. The air here felt stale, as if no one had been in this part of the building for a long time. Your hand hovered over the handle, and with a soft creak, the door swung open, revealing the research lab.

It looked as though it had been left in a hurry, abandoned mid-experiment. The room was large but cluttered, with overturned chairs and papers scattered across the floor, some of them crumpled and torn. The dim light revealed stacks of old folders and documents, some stained with what looked like coffee, others torn as though someone had hastily searched through them before fleeing. A few cabinets were left open, revealing rows of empty shelves that once held important equipment or files now long gone.

In the center of the room stood a large metal table, covered in dusty instruments—scalpels, syringes, and strange-looking vials filled with murky, discolored liquids. The lab equipment, once precise and organized, was in disarray. Broken glass littered one corner of the room, where a microscope lay overturned, its lenses cracked.

The walls were lined with tall, metal shelves that held rusted equipment and various electronic devices. Some screens flickered with static, while others were completely dead, their once bright surfaces now covered in dust. On one of the shelves, you noticed a row of petri dishes, some of them still filled with moldy substances that had long since decayed.

It was clear that whoever had worked here had left in a rush. Loose cables dangled from the ceiling where overhead lights had once been connected, and a nearby computer screen was frozen, stuck on an error message as if it had been hastily abandoned mid-task.

At the far end of the room, amidst the chaos, was a small desk. On top of it lay what you had come for—a sleek, metallic keycard, sitting on top of a stack of disorganized files. It gleamed faintly in the flickering light, out of place in the otherwise neglected lab.

You crossed the room carefully, your eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, half-expecting something—or someone—to be watching. The place felt wrong, as if whatever had driven them out in such haste still lingered, waiting.

Your fingers closed around the keycard, the metal cool to the touch. For a moment, you stood there, staring at it, knowing it was more than just a key—it was a tool, a step toward something larger, something both freeing and terrifying. But this wasn’t over yet. There was still Z-13, the scrambler, the crystal.

You pocketed the keycard, your mind already racing with possibilities and plans. The lab remained silent, a graveyard of forgotten experiments and lost time. It was time to leave before the ghosts of this place caught up to you. Your next step was a mistake. The floor groaned under your weight, cracking until it gave way, sending you plunging through into a body of water on what appeared to be the second floor.

Green torches floated eerily in the water, their ghostly glow cutting through the darkness and guiding your way. You followed them, each stroke through the cool water feeling heavier than the last, but the flickering lights kept pulling you forward. As you broke the surface, you were met not with relief, but with an unsettling familiarity. The room around you was nothing extraordinary—just another plain office space with bland walls and stark furniture—but the tension in the air was undeniable. You recognized it immediately, every detail, every corner. It was a place you'd been before, a place that held memories you wished you could forget.

Your heart sank as the realization dawned on you: the path you had followed led straight back to Sebastian. The subtle dread that crept over you grew stronger with each passing second, as if the room itself was preparing you for the inevitable encounter. You knew this wasn’t just a coincidence. It never was with Sebastian.

The familiar clanging of a vent being kicked open echoed through the sterile office, the sound reverberating off the walls like a warning. Your pulse quickened, knowing exactly what that meant—you were close. Too close to your so-called "temporary home," Sebastian's shop.

Before you could gather your thoughts, his voice pierced the silence, rough and impatient. "YOU BETTER MOVE BEFORE I DECIDE TO LEAVE YOU IN THE HALLWAY!" His angry scream sent a chill down your spine. It wasn't just a threat; with Sebastian, it was a promise. You knew better than to test his temper—he had little patience for delays, and you were already pushing it.

You hurried forward, heart pounding, knowing that whatever lay ahead wasn’t just another task, but another trial in the long list of dangers that came with being anywhere near Sebastian's world.

"I'm back!" you shouted hastily, making your way toward the vent, arms full with the items you'd collected. You scrambled through the narrow passage, the cold metal pressing against your skin as you hurried to avoid another one of Sebastian's outbursts.

When you finally popped out on the other side, you were immediately met by his towering figure, his presence looming over you like a shadow. His fluorescent eyes, glowing unnaturally in the dim light, locked onto you, their intensity sending a shiver down your spine. "Took you long enough…” he muttered.

"I'm back!" you shouted hastily, making your way toward the vent, arms full with the items you'd collected. You scrambled through the narrow passage, the cold metal pressing against your skin as you hurried to avoid another one of Sebastian's outbursts.

When you finally popped out on the other side, you were immediately met by his towering figure, his presence looming over you like a shadow. His fluorescent eyes, glowing unnaturally in the dim light, locked onto you, their intensity sending a shiver down your spine.

"Took you long enough... bunny," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, yet laced with an unsettling edge. The nickname felt more like a mockery than anything else, a reminder of how he viewed you—small, fragile, and easily caught.

Befriending Sebastian was the exit. Track him down, turn of the device he owns and get the crystal.

"Good work, for once," Sebastian muttered, his voice oozing condescension. His large hand landed on your head, rough and heavy, as he ruffled your hair like you were some kind of pet. The gesture was far from affectionate, more of a reminder of your place beneath him.

"Finally useful for once. And yet, not smart," he continued, his fluorescent eyes narrowing as he studied you. "You could've kept it—used it as a guaranteed exit." His words dripped with mockery, as if he were testing you, waiting to see if you’d flinch or reveal something in your expression.

You kept your face steady, masking the frustration boiling beneath the surface. He wasn’t wrong—you could’ve used the keycard for your own escape, but playing it that way would have burned bridges you couldn’t afford to lose just yet. For now, you had to endure the humiliation, take the hit, and let Sebastian think he was the one in control.

In your mind, the game wasn’t over. You’d make sure the next move was yours.

[wyvnspng]

Mum said it’s my turn on the writing.

Ive never posted a fic before call me cringe but oh well.

My interpretation of the au and characters! probably takes place somewhere during the world’s worst roadtrip arc or whatever we called it. I love monsters and Clyde is so cool to me.

Sorta beta’d by my good friend Clemin thank you kindly.

—-

Harold's job was a boring one. Just a cashier for some no-name gas station. Every day he spent his work hours hoping for something new and interesting to happen, and yet it never did.

Each day he entered the building was just as boring as the last, and as much as he wanted to, he could not quit in order to look for a more interesting job, as he needed the money to keep a roof over his head and food in his belly.

His energy was spent on the monotonous tasks that came with a cashier job, and his thoughts were reserved for daydreaming away the slow and boring days without directly falling asleep.

His mind yearned for stimulation, something to distract himself from the dreary repetitive days he found himself trapped in. Yet, as he eyed the literal monster currently occupying the room with him, his mind and body frozen in terror from it simply existing in such close proximity, he can’t help but miss the simple yet boring days of the past.

Whatever this thing was, it was definitely the eastridge demon or whatever it was called. He’d unfortunately never paid too much mind to the stories about the thing, instead brushing it off as some fairytale, but from what he can recall people saying about it, the thing in front of him matched the description.

Curiously, it was accompanied by a human. One Alex Williams if his memory is correct. He recalls briefly seeing (her? his?) their wanted poster. They were talking to the demon as if the two were friends, which might be the case. Probably why they had a wanted poster. Is conspiring with demons illegal? He’s not sure.

He’s also not sure how they are so calm around that thing. The sight of it makes his blood freeze in his veins and its voice makes his ears ring. He feels unbelievably cold, his terror so overwhelming that he can’t even shake in fear. Yet Alex(?) looks right at home around that thing. They don't even react to the terrible cacophony that is the demon's voice. Layers of voices and sounds that mix into a terrifyingly unpleasant sensation that grates at the ears, yet somehow this random person is completely fine. They even respond to the monster, as if the incomprehensible mess of sound was some understandable language.

A small part of Harold feels envious. How cool it must be to have befriended such a creature. He wonders how something like that happens. There’s probably an interesting story there, but he won’t dare to ask and risk irritating the demon.

The two seem to be arguing (how brave they must be to argue with it,) and from the half of the conversation he can understand without being distracted by his rising dread, the monster is asking to buy stuff that they can’t afford. Oddly childish for something so scary, but he won’t say anything.

The demon makes a new sound, which he is capable of recognising as a fucked up growl (or hiss?), and somehow his body gets even colder, nausea biting at his insides. If he was actually this cold he’s pretty sure he’d have hypothermia by now. Its long tail whips at the floor irritably, leaving noticeable scratches, and Alex scolds it. For some reason it listens, and seems to calm down somewhat, resigning to their shared fate of being poor.

Alex does allow it to grab one thing, and it picks a jar of jam for some reason. Oh well, who’s he to judge if the demon likes jam? It is pretty good after all. The duo then makes their way over to him, and he can’t help but flinch away from them. Neither pay mind to it, and simply pay for all the items they wanted. His movements are choppy and his limbs jerk around awkwardly, but they don’t comment on it. He specifically avoids looking at it, keeping his eyes on the more comforting figure of Alex. (He can still see its face in his peripheral vision.)

After paying the two just.. leave. No killing, no destruction beyond a few scratches and misplaced items. He didn’t calm down immediately, it took a while for his body to move properly again, and his arms shake for the rest of the day. He’s noticeably spooked by the time his shift is over, and he doubts that he’ll recover from this any time soon.

The rest of his day is spent looking over his shoulder, paranoia biting at the back of his neck. He can’t bring himself to turn the lights of his house off at night. Maybe that makes him a bigger target, but the image of something towering over him, the only thing he can see of it being a pair of eyes and maybe a wide grin of teeth. The image terrifies him endlessly.

Harold doesn’t sleep that night.

[usopps-devotee]

can you PLEASE write some fluff/comfort for your angst Luffy writing? 😫 i wanna give him forehead kisses and cuddles PLEASE

(it was amazing btw!!!)

Anon I know what you asked for but imma make this a series and giving this to yall next time, but life has been interesting (derogatory) since the beginning of February 😋

Pt 1 not your fault

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, like one mention of blood, no harm tho its used as an expression, please know it's okay to ask for help sometimes, mention of skipping meal.

Wc 1.3k

It's been some time since you found him crying, the only immediately noticeable change is Luffy seems to be more aware of you and touch you than before. Maybe that's why he noticed your disappearance today. The reason why he's noticed every flinch within the last week, the tears that started to well up but didn't fall when you dropped a teacup, trying your best to laugh it off as Sanji and robin assured you it was okay. The moment of deep breaths after any loud sounds, Luffy swears he saw your soul leave your body when Usopp and Franky started to try something new with Sunny's cannon. Zoro was there to notice the last one too joking about you being jumpy, your captain surely noticed you becoming quieter after that moment.

So when he walked into your room without knocking, he didn't mind being hit in the face with the pillow you threw. Not knowing or caring who it might have been, only focused on the darkness of being hidden under the covers. You heard his footsteps come closer as he tried to figure out where your head was. When it was located he sat down and pulled you into his lap. Not bothered to move the plush fortress you are surrounded in. Being so close to him helped, your body relaxed at the contact, not knowing how much you may have needed the connection.

"You missed breakfast, Sanji said you missed dinner as well." 

Knowing this isn't exactly about the missed meals, while he is worried about that, it's more so the fact that you haven't left your room. Being one of, if not the most, cuddly members of the crew seeing you spend so much time alone was jarring to him. After all, if Luffy had a problem he came to you. So why couldn't you do the same, was he the problem? Is someone else on the ship? What could be disturbing you so much?

The worst part is if you were honest, you didn't have a clue. You had just been feeling wrong, completely off without reason. Now that your captain has found you alone and distressed, it only makes the tangles and knots in your gut feel worse. Guilt plagued you as you didn't have to see his face to know that his wide eyes had been staring down at you for any movement, for any symptom that you could be getting better or worse. For any kind of response really, he just hopes it's not more remorse. When he does finally feel you move it's a good 30 seconds of trying to get one hand out of the blanket before you're tugging him closer. There's the feeling of his arms wrapping around your body as his heartbeat can now be heard through the thick blanket. You're not sure how much it helped but it definitely helped the tears stuck in your eyes finally fall.

You feel yourself starting to shake as a voice in the back of your head tells you you're being dramatic. You have no clue what started this ache, with him here you can't push it down till it goes away like you were trying to do. It bubbles up and slowly consumed you, not able to pinpoint whatever emotion this is all you can focus on is how overstimulating everything is. You can't concentrate on his heartbeat anymore, you can hardly breathe. Choking on the first sob before you feel it come up. There's nothing to hide, you're mental state is as scattered as paint across a floor. Desperate for something, anything, to ground you. Luckily luffy is still there, peeling the covers off from over your head, you're too trapped in it to notice that most of the movement isn't coming from you.

He's worried about you hyperventilating, the last thing he wants is for you to pass out at a time like this. You haven't even told him what's wrong yet. You helped him with him and he wants to do the same, he wants to solve it if he can. He made sure to take things slowly, not rushing to any conclusions, just being there in the moment. Seeing your face filled with tears made him want to jump into action. There has to be something he can do to get them to stop. All he could think to do was hold you close, going as far as to place the shank's hat on your head to see if that would help. Everything only made you sob harder.

The hand thought placed on his chest now balled into a fist gripping his shirt for dear life, the other wrapped around his shoulders so you buried your face in his neck. It's highly plausible the rest of the crew can hear your despair, as your captain Luffy would make sure you are not teased for this, just as he put Zoro through a mini hell for laughing at you days before. He wants to treasure you, you're the only one who lets him feel human, let him feel and express instead of hiding behind his smile. He's so lost in his thoughts he almost missed you speak.

"Thank you."

It's hushed and horse, no surprise as all you've done today is sleep and cry. But it's the only thing you can think to say. To your surprise, those two little words shocked Luffy. Why are you thanking him? He hasn't done anything yet? Were you just overwhelmed? Now he's just as lost in your emotions as you are. He really doesn't want to rush, nor does he know how to ask. Confusion is written across his face, he does reach one conclusion. Touch helps, he helped him, it was helping you, so what had you done that night that when you comforted him? He's brought back to the kiss you placed on his forehead, full of warmth and comfort, maybe the same would work for you.

Sheer embarrassment, terror, and panic flooded through your system as Luffy tiled your chin up towards his face. Causing more tears to well up and fall but he kisses them all away. Starting from where they would gather and fall off your chin he worked his way up one side of your face, kissing all the tears he could see and then the corner of your eye before moving to the other one. For the first time in days you smile, you smile, it's not faked, forced, or caused by nervousness. None of it, it's a real, genuine smile. It makes Luffy beam from ear to ear as he now sprinkled kisses anywhere he could reach. It makes you laugh, he's never been happier to hear the sound of your laughter. He'd kiss you forever if it meant you'd never be sad again. But he still had that nagging question in his gut.

"What made you cry in the first place?" He almost reconsidered the question when the smile immediately dropped from your face. Maybe he should have asked another day or basked in it a bit longer. "I- I don't know, I just- everything feels so-" Wrong, out of order, discombobulated. Like your heart has been thrown against a wall just to see the blood splattered. There's definitely a strong emotion behind this all but you're struggling to articulate it. Whatever it might be. "It's fine if you don't know, just tell me how to help, okay?" You nodded thinking, trying to get your mind out of the dark place that it currently resides in. The only thing that has helped so hard was him, his voice, his arms, the sound of his heart beating, his smell, his kisses, everything about Luffy rang with comfort there was nothing else you could want or need but him.

"Please just don't let me go."

[cloudshuffle]

warnings: alludes to abuse, alludes to nsfw, not detailed. creeeeepy heng.

To forget about his past, Dan Heng drowns himself in his present.

This is how he becomes enamoured with you in the first place; you, unburdened by the weight of history, smiling so easily that it feels almost wrong for someone like him to witness it.

But then he remembers: himself, but not, snarling, a blur of anger, the taste of terror.

Some stones are better left unturned. He leaves, padding quietly down the corridor back the way he came, your peace undisturbed.

In this way, Heng begins to see his new form as a curse. Sure, attracting the attention of Blade, and Jing Yuan, and just about half the hostiles on Luofu was one thing - but now it nags at him like a low tide on his ankles, soaking his socks uncomfortably against his will.

He can't step out of the water. Every time you shift in your seat, or laugh, or breathe too loud - he refuses to admit it to himself, lest March read it on his face, and nothing would be more embarrassing than his clandestine desires being found out by March of all people.

But the shadow of Dan Feng hovers over you too; he hadn't been kind to who you'd been in your previous life, and Dan Heng couldn't shake that.

So he does the next best thing - he turns around and steps in deeper.

It starts off innocuously at first, returning your cheerful morning greetings with a nod, participating in the Express breakfasts whenever he knows you're there - which is always, so he finds himself making regular public appearances, an unusual experience for both him and the crew.

"You must be working some magic," March stage-whispers to you once, leaning in conspiratorially. "We never see him this much!"

He scowls at her, but everyone knows it's true. With March on your left and Dan Heng on your right, you glow like the centre of a universe - at least that's what he thinks.

────────────

He starts accompanying you on your trips on-world.

Usually March would be along for the ride (in fact, it was her idea to begin with), and he fades comfortably into the background, following the two of you around like a shadow. It isn't until you stop for ice cream, and your hand brushes against his when you pass him his cone, does he think, I wish March wasn't here.

It's a jarring thought, but an all-consuming one. The idea fills him like thick black smog, slowly but surely choking the rationality out of him. He'd like to show you around the Luofu, he thinks, though he knows he isn't that familiar with its roads and people. But something tells him he could, if he would just...

"Heng. Heng."

A hand shakes his shoulder, gently but firmly. He jolts awake, his hand reaching for the other person before he remembers where he is.

You lean over him, expression concerned. His hand grips onto your arm with a desperation that you'd never seen before.

"Are you okay?" you ask softly. "You were fussing in your sleep."

An angel. That's what you must be, sent from the heavens to wake him from this nightmare that being Dan Feng had trapped him in. The moonlight catches the ends of your eyelashes, a fragment of your cheekbone, as if a part of you were cast in alabaster.

He can feel heat rising up his neck, but it's so dark that he hopes you can't see. Dreams are where the boundary between himself and him are thin - where he can taste not just your fear but your love too, the sweetness of your flesh, soft and pliable under cruel hands. His hands.

Reluctantly, he lets go of you, fingertips brushing across your warm skin. His mouth feels dry, but now it's not because of the nightmare. This is too much, and too sudden, and he's not ready to face...

"Sorry for coming in so late," you whisper, squatting by his bedside now that he's looking better. "I thought you'd be awake. There was just something I needed to check, but it can wait until tomorrow. You should get some rest-"

"Wait." He pushes himself up with his elbows with an effort. "Do you..."

You tilt your head to the side.

"Do you want to go to Aurum Alley with me? Tomorrow? Or... today, I mean."

You seem to consider for a moment.

"...Alone?" A grin begins to spread across your face.

"...Yes, alone." He recognises that expression as the same one you wear whenever you and March have something up your sleeves. Please don't say it. Please don't-

"Like a date?"

He feels his expression freeze, and he turns his back on you. "Goodnight."

Dan Heng hears you get to your feet. "Goodnight, Heng... I'll see you tomorrow."

The door slides open, and then shut.

His chest burns.

────────────

The sky is gloomy and grey, boiling with impending rain as if trying to ward him off. Dan Heng glares at the sky. It wouldn't rain anytime soon if he could help it.

The streets are emptier than usual, however, and he finds it a blessing. The two of you meander through the streets of the Luofu, taking your time. Heng buys you snacks every so often to keep you occupied, but you seem distracted enough as it is.

"You know, it's funny," you mention off-handedly, leaning against a railing and staring out at the starskiffs zipping by. "I feel such a strange sense of deja vu whenever I come onto the Luofu."

He watches you carefully, looking for any further signs of recognition. Of course you'd feel deja vu - this was where you'd grown up, after all, and had spent all that time with... the past him. Dan Feng.

The very name feels sour on his tongue.

"You feel familiar sometimes too, you know." You laugh quietly to yourself. "But it feels like... I don't know. Like I should be scared of you or something. It's weird."

"...I'm sorry." The words slip out before Dan Heng can school his thoughts.

You raise your eyebrows. "What for?"

He hesitates. "For... for causing you all trouble. As Dan Feng." For hurting you. For bringing you out here and making you feel past memories.

You huff. "It's not your fault! Whoever you were in the past, that's not you now. You're Dan Heng, and you belong on the Express with us. Honestly, all this reincarnation business is just nonsense to me."

You're both quiet for a moment.

Did he deserve that, like you said? To simply put Feng behind him?

He glances at you, still staring out into the distance at nothing in particular, deep in thought. You look so different now, yet still the same in some ways - the curve of your lips, or the jaw that used to be decorated with such pretty bruises...

...Did he even want to?

He shudders, dispelling those thoughts. Not his. Not his thoughts.

You give him a quizzical look. "You okay? You keep staring."

"Yeah. I'm fine." He takes your wrist gently. "Let's keep moving."

────────────

March crows like a little kid, pouncing as soon as the two of you get back on board, but he leave you to deal with her, slipping away the first chance he gets.

He makes sure to keep the door locked as he digs out a tablet, hidden in an unused corner of the data base. It was something that he'd done in a haze, sneaking into your room and setting up a hidden camera high up on the wall where you wouldn't see. He hasn't used it since.

It wasn't his idea, Heng reminds himself. Not his idea in the first place. He'd done it too, and now he understands why.

Underneath the tablet, a sweater lies neatly folded. Heng pulls that out too, pressing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. It smells sweet, and soft - it was one of your favourite pieces, and you thought you'd left it behind somewhere on Belobog.

If only you knew. He switches off the lights, then logs into the tablet.

The screen fizzes, then brings up a feed of you moving around your room, humming softly to yourself. His heart stirs. It's just to ward off the nightmares, he tells himself.

He lays down on his side, curling up with your sweater in your arms, and shuts his eyes.

— word count: 1399. thank you for reading!

[the-heart-of-a-monster]

I JUST BINGED IT ALL ON MOBILE AHHHH ITS SO GOOD i need to go back and leave comments when i get on my computer omgggg the art style the writing it’s soooo amazing i think im just discovering near the end? but thats okay im so excited to see what happens

also also i’m so freaking out over your shadow i love the way your draw him and writing and it makes me so happy i love him smmmmmmmmmmmmmm

i love your work!!

Anonymous asked:

i just left an ask but i forgot to add i’m aro so the note you posted about how the relationship sonic and shadow have is not romantic but it is still a deep and intimate relationship??? i’m going insane /pos cuz likeeee! the way you depicted their relationship is so wonderful the like bickering and the tenderness you can tell these two have a lot of respect and really care for one another

~~~

YAAAY im so glad!!

im luring in all the aro sonic fans and then trap them in a jar and shake them (positively; this is a metaphor for the emotional damage i will inflict throughout the comic, especially issue 10)

[thezombieprostitute]

A Change is Coming

💐Send a whole bouquet!💐Write a surprise drabble or create a moodboard for them. 

This is an idea I had floating around and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to use it on a full fic so I will dress it up in daisies for you, dearest Zombie. Hoping it isn't too dark or bloody.

Warnings: Injury and Blood.

You never thought you’d be a runner. How often did you see those people in their short shorts and loose tanks, toned legs and sweaty foreheads, bouncing with their earbuds in, arms pumping, knees lifting. You could never be one of them... 

Well, now you are. It’s a change. A big change. One long-needed. One made out of fear and panic. 

You have to get healthier. You have to try. You’re starting to feel your age, really, you feel beyond it.  

You tried other things. Yoga was too slow and breathy. Weight-training a bit too heavy and too much. And the gym in general sent you running with sore muscles and no less self-esteem issues. 

Running. Rather, jogging. You’re starting off easy. A slow pace through the trail. You don’t need to worry about the gym bros and their judgment or the girls in their tight leggings filming for Tiktok. It’s just you and nature and oof, your knees! 

Two weeks now. That’s an achievement. Sort of. Two weeks but you gotta keep it up. No time to start patting yourself on the back until you see results. 

Your breath is harried and burning. Your fitbit buzzes at you, slow down. You ease up as you come up and incline. Your thighs are on fire. You wait until you reach another dip before you speed up again. Your heart pumps hotly and you feel that odd calm that comes at your peak. You feel almost good. You feel-- 

Something catches your ankle. Something you couldn’t see as you kept your eyes six feet ahead. At first, the pain doesn’t occur to you, not as you’re sent stumbling forward, crashing, arms flailing as you land on the leaf-strewn trail.  

You lay on your stomach, panting. You groan and roll over, sitting up as you spot the obstruction that tripped you up. A wire tied across the path. It can’t be a coincidence. It’s a trap. 

You look down at your ankle, the one that met the wire. You nearly scream as you see the gash and how your foot hangs to one side. Then you feel it. Your adrenaline courses but cannot numb the agony that creeps up from your injured leg. You hardly feel the scrapes all over your arms and knees as you stare at the torn flesh. 

You babble dumbly. What do you do? How do you get out of here? You’re too afraid to move. Oh god. What’s happened to you? Why you? 

Your hands shake as you hold them before you in shock. You hear a rustle of leaves and the wire slackens. You blink and stair as a man walks across the path, winding it up around his hand. He turns to face you as he unhooks it from the other side. 

He tuts as he comes closer, looming over you. He wears a hoodie and a beanie, a dark stubbly beard across his jaw and cheeks, his blue eyes the only bright thing about him. He tilts his head and squat before you as he examines your ankle with a suck of his teeth. 

“Yikes, that really did a number on you,” he comments, “won’t be walking this one off.” 

You whimper, terrified. He’s unfazed by the sight of your blood. In fact, he’s not bothered at all by the scene before him. By the way he holds the wire, you know he set it up. 

He looks you in the face and tilts his head, “you’re not the one I wanted...” he pulls the knapsack off his shoulder and tucks away the wire inside, “but you’ll do.” 

He swings the bag over his back and moves over you. You cower as he bends to hook his arms under yours. He braces you, the smell of the forest clinging to him. 

“Now, you wanna keep your weight off the right foot, so work with me,” he girds, “you’ll be better off if you do everything I say.” 

You shudder and suck in air as he makes you stand. Your toe hits the ground and jars your ankle. You yelp and cling to him out of instinct. 

“Keep that foot up, sweetheart,” he warns as he turns to stretch his arm across your back, “we got a long way to go.” 

Thanks so much for this, Roo! I really appreciate it!

Is it bad that my first thought is "he's selling me to Kemp!" 😅

Kemp has to back out of the chase for a while, too familiar to too many people. So he hires a few people to do his hunting for him. He doesn't care how they get the girls so long as the girls are alive and pretty.

So Curtis relies on his trapper skills. He finds his prey, gets her usual routine figured out, and sets his trap. But he catches you instead. Pretty enough, Curtis thinks. Can still get my payday.

The trek back to his truck is, of course, slow and painful. You vomit at least once from the pain. Sitting in the truck doesn't help much, either. At least he's got some medical supplies there and starts treating the ankle though you throw up again from the pain.

By the time you get to your destination much of the shock has worn off and the tears are flowing. He helps you limp inside. You know you should scream, try to fight, something, anything but with how casually he treats your pain you get the impression he could make it so much worse without care.

When you're sitting down again, your captor calls out for someone named Kemp. Kemp walks in, sees you and says, "I said 'pretty' girls, Curtis. I'm not buying this one."

"She's pretty enough for your clients. You can always sell her parts with someone else's photo."

"I have a reputation to keep amongst my clients. One hint that they're not getting what they ordered I could be ruined."

"Fine, just pay me half but you're keeping her."

Kemp considers you. "She does seem rather docile. Maybe I could find another use for her besides meat."

Should the story continue? 😆

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Called to Duty 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You shift on your feet. Your arches kill and your hips feel like they're splitting apart. For all you know, they are. Every day is a new fun side effect. 

You lean on the counter, standing vigil at the customer service till. Unlike the pharmacists and their assistants in the back, you don't get a chair. You refuse to complain, you know it would only add venom to their gossip. Even here, you're not safe from the whispers. 

The break room is a nest of snakes. You learned that one day as you walked in on a conversation that couldn't stop soon enough. You know they talk about you, there really isn't much else to do around Hammer Ford. Even if it's only borne of boredom, their words still hurt. 

The pharmacy is quiet but for the fuzzy noise of the overhead speakers playing outdated songs on repeat. You reach to rub your lower back. You’re not that big. Not as big as you will be but you don’t know how much longer you can stand in the same spot for eight hours. 

You stare at the till, the blue border on the screen blazing into your vision. You can’t help but drift into you even less glorious future. This won’t change. You’ll be stuck here, working hour after hour, only you’ll be poorer and more tired. You’ll have a whole other person to take care of and look how you’ve done just taking care of yourself. 

Your chest rents and you let out the breath trapped beneath your dread. Something clacks onto the counter and shakes you back to reality. You face, the customer, your vision slowly narrowing back to focus. 

You glance at sigh then down at the bottle on the counter. He has one of the novelty stuffed rabbits in his hand and a jar of cream. He puts those down too and you squint at them curiously. You take the bottle of vitamins and wave them towards the scanner. 

“I read you should take iron and folic acid. Those have both,” he says, “you also should be sitting down.” 

“What?” You frown, the bottle still in your hand, and stare at him. 

“This cream should help with the dry skin. The book said as you grow, you’ll get itchy--” 

“What are you talking about?” You put the bottle down and cross your arms. 

“Do you have a belly belt?” 

“Sy,” you say his name firmly, “are you... are you trying to give this to me?” 

He huffs and pulls out his wallet, “you need it.” 

“How do you know I don’t have it already?” You ask, thoughts scrambling at his kind, thought it edges along presumptuousness. 

“Do you? What do you need then? Stuff for the nursery?” His eyes roll upward, “not much room up there for a baby.” 

You want to shrink into nothing. You straighten your arms and grip the edge of the counter, “I know. Sy, this is a nice gesture but... I barely know you. It's too much. Not your responsibility.” 

“Mm, and where’s the man who should be taking responsibility?” He reaches to pluck up a chocolate bare from shelf on the other side of the till. He drops it on the counter, “you got cravings too?” 

You shake your head. Ugh, you hate how quickly your hormones have your heart racing and your eyes misty. It’s so nice of him despite being completely off putting. No one else, not even your own mother, even tried to help you. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks, “sore? Tired? You got morning sickness?” 

“Sy, please,” you raise a hand and set your tone, “really, I can’t... I can’t. Okay, it’s not... it’s not right.” 

“Isn’t. He should be here--” 

“Please,” you pull the stuff towards you, “I’ll put all this back on the shelf and you can just go--” 

“I got money,” he slips his thumb into his wallet, “I wanna buy it.” 

You blink at him. Daye, the manager, watches from down aisle. She looks less than impressed. Shoot. 

“Okay, do you want a bag?” You ask as you ring in the items. 

“Be easier for you to carry,” he says as he offers a hundred dollar bill, “not too heavy.” 

You cringe and take it, stretching it out and checking with the marker. All larger bills have to be throughout vetted. You put it in the drawer and count his change and hold it out to him. 

“That’s for dinner. Get some protein--” 

“No, take it,” you insist, “what are you doing?” 

His forehead lines and he looks back and forth, “what he should be doing.” 

He doesn’t take the money so you put in on the counter. You unfold a paper bag and put the items inside and push it towards him. Your skin is hot with embarrassment. Worse than any judgment is pity. Does he think some vitamins and stuffed bunny is going to solve your issues? 

“I want you to take it and go please,” you say quietly as you notice another customer coming towards the counter.  

It’s old Ed Parriser; his wife, Ginny, is in line with the town gossip, Lynette. He has a bottle of advil and heartburn medicine. You wonder if those are symptoms of his marriage. 

“There you are,” you shove the receipt in the top of his bag, “I need to help the next customer.” 

He lingers then reluctantly grabs the bag, crumpling the top in his large hand. He gather up the money and closes it in his fist. Reluctantly, he backs away, looming just at the end of the counter as Ed puts down his haul. 

“Hello, sir, how are you today?” You ask. 

“Eh, I’m doin’ okay,” he answers in his wheezy way, “ha,” he scoffs as he watches you scan, “I thought Ginny was tellin’ one of her stories again.” 

“Oh yeah?” You look up curiously, putting on a sunny smile, “what did she say?” 

“Said you got yourself knocked up like a floozy,” he chortles, “maybe I’ll just start listening to her--” 

Ed grunts as suddenly he’s grabbed by the collar of his plaid shirt. Sy has him in a death grip knuckles rolled into the flannel as he snarls down at the man, “keep talking and you’ll need those pills. I’ll split your fucking head open.” 

You stand, dumbfounded by his surge of anger and his threat. He’d only ever been soft spoken, even if he was huge, but he’s rabid like a wolf in that moment. Ed smacks his forearm and wriggles. 

“Let go of me, you lump--” 

“Sir, excuse me,” Daye’s smoker’s creak rises from her throat, “is there a problem? Do I need to call the sheriff?” 

Sy puffs through his nose, chest rising and falling as you watch him weighing his options. He wants to keep going. His blue eyes flick over to you and he lets go, raising his hands. 

“Nothing,” he grits out. 

“That’s right, nothin’,” Ed rubs his neck with a cough, “he just protecting this--” 

“Keep going,” Sy’s rolls dangerously low as he towers over him. The old man snaps his mouth shut so his jowls tremor. He looks at you then Daye. 

“Know what,” Ed clears his throat, “I think Ginny was here yesterday. I don’t need all this.” 

As Daye nears, the old man hobbles around Sy’s fuming form. The larger man sneers at the manager as she nears, her phone in hand. He points it at him, “leave. Now.” 

He sends you one last look, his cheek ticking. He spins on his heel and marches out. You bite your lip and look down at the two bottles in front of you. You grab them and gulp. 

“I’ll just put these back,” you offer. 

“You keep your drama out of this store,” Daye warns, “or I’ll talk to Willard.” 

You sniff at her threat. Willard gave you a good deal on the upstairs apartment but people weren’t happy about. Even if the faucet is leaky and the fridge rattles. 

“It wasn’t--” 

“Keep it out,” she snaps and snatches the bottles from you, “if you can lean, you can clean.” 

[wingedjellyfishflight]

Freedom Calls Alternate Ending

As you run, the thought enters your head that maybe you should stop. Just give up and distract your former employer and coworkers as long as possible to give him a longer head start. The more you consider it, the better it sounds. Your pace slows, and you begin looking around for a smaller fork off the main path that you can take. Your footsteps stray off the main path, and it takes only a few paces before an arm grabs you from behind, lifting you up, and the man curses nearly silently in your ear. He runs along the main trail toward the road. It takes only a few more minutes to reach it, closer than you thought.

"What the fuck was that? You dumping me into a trap here?" He stops on the edge of the forest, not venturing out and drops you to the ground, not caring that you bump your head or that something tears into your leg.

"Ouch! Fuck you! I was going to run a distraction so you could get clear. Lead them off in the wrong direction." You can't see his face and you don't make an effort to, your hands reaching to your injuries and coming back wet on both. "Great, now I have that to deal with." You feel a bit faint as you stand, but force your body upright.

"I still don't trust you." He almost seems to be convincing himself of that fact.

"Good. I never wanted you to. Now, I assume you can get away from here?" He nods, and you start walking toward the road. "My job is done. Now fuck off back to your loving team and good morals." You do your best to ignore the pulsing pain in your leg, but he moves to stand in front of you, barely an inch away, blocking your way forward. Ignoring him and his crossed arms, you skirt around to keep going. A growl makes you stop in your tracks until you realize it is coming from him. When you continue to walk away, he grabs you, spinning you to face him.

"We need to talk, and you're coming with me." Trying to pull away makes his hands tighten painfully into your arms, so you just give in.

"Fine, just get us out of here, then." He picks you up again, carrying you over his shoulder with one hand on your waist. He jogs down the road to the nearest marker and continues on after reading it.

"Mile 435. Just a mile or so." He reaches it in about fifteen minutes, and you are on the edge of hurling from being jostled around when he puts you down again. The pain in your leg has increased tenfold with the jarring impact, and you immediately drop to all fours and lose control of your stomach. It feels like everything over the last week comes up. Afterward, you can barely keep from falling down into it, but that iron bar of an arm is back, standing you up. This time, he scoops you bridal style, and you bite your hand, trying not to scream as he bumps the wound on your leg. It takes him a moment to feel the wet stickiness, and he reacts by shoving you into the bed of a truck that you hadn't yet noticed.

Weak, you don't fight him yanking off your pants. Instead, you hiss at him to get you out of here. He signals the truck, and you hear the screech of the tires as it takes off. You fade in and out, feeling weaker. At one point, you can feel him searching your clothes, and another, he is yelling something that makes you laugh, though you don't know why.

When you regain consciousness, it's to the smell of a hospital. The too clean stench of antiseptic makes your stomach roil, but you manage to swallow away the urge to puke. Turning your head, you see the masked man sitting there, watching you closely, his eyes never straying from your form. He says nothing, barely moves as he keeps watch. You turn away, looking at the rest of the spartan room, surprised you aren't handcuffed to the bed.

"Evening," you say quietly, your voice a bit scratchy and your throat dry. You look back at the masked man, waiting patiently for his response.

"Evenin," he responds gruffly after a long moment. "You have anyone to miss you back home," he asks after a few more minutes. At the shake of your head, he nods slowly, seemingly making a decision. "Good, you can't go back anyway. You have a bounty on you."

You sigh quietly. "It was worth it," you say with a shrug, not looking at him. "Even if they get to me, it was worth it because you'll do more good than I could ever hope to do..." You close your eyes, ashamed and disappointed that your life turned out to be so lackluster and you feel like this one act, a single hour out of your entire life, might be the only thing you could be proud of out of the twenty-some years you have lived.

His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. "Thank you... and I'm sorry for hurting you," he says softly. When you open your eyes, you feel a shudder run through you. He is looking down at you with an unreadable expression, his eyes brightly shining from his mask. "So, you have no one waiting for you. You are in danger the moment you leave this base. And you have no resources to support yourself. Am I correct?" His voice is soft, but menacing in a way as he lays out how helpless you are now. How drastically your impulsive decision has altered and effectively ended your life.

"Correct," you whisper, trying not to cry as you realize that you are essentially a walking dead man, simply waiting for the bounty to be carried out with no way out in a foreign country with no ID or way to survive.

"Then... I have a proposition," he says, tracing a gloved hand across your cheek, down your throat, and skimming across your breast to your hip, suddenly looming over you. "I will keep you safe, housed, fed, and... happy. You will be my perfect little housewife and all that such a position would entail," he says, his other hand wrapping around your wrist and bringing your hand to the bulge in his pants. "Agreed?"

You swallow nervously, looking up at him and the way his body fills your vision for a long moment. You consider his words and that you clearly don't have another choice if you want to last more than a week before nodding. "A- Agreed," you say shakily.

"Good girl," he purrs, reaching down to unbutton his fly. "Show me how devoted you can be, luv."

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Twenty-Two

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

The ship docks at Hotaru Island, the air thick with the scent of lavender and the distant hum of fireflies waiting to start their nightly dance. You step onto the gangplank, your simple dress fluttering in the warm breeze. Everyone had their own tasks to complete before meeting up at the local tavern for dinner. Everyone but you. You hadn't really decided who you wanted to accompany, but at least you did know one thing: You need space from Shanks, yet again.

Your eyes scan the men, and land on Hongo, who sits on a crate, scribbling in his notebook. His brow is furrowed, lost in concentration.

You approach him quietly, standing close enough to see the list of medical supplies he’s noting down.

“What’s on the agenda today, Doc?”

Hongo looks up, surprised but not displeased. You had been off, yet again, because of your arguments with Shanks. It would be good to get you away from the ship. “Aria. I’m making a list of things we need to restock the infirmary. Care to join me?”

You nod eagerly. “Sure. I’d like that.”

He stands, tucking the notebook into his pocket. Together, you navigate through the market streets, stalls bursting with colors and scents. The vendors call out their wares, but Hongo seems focused, knowing exactly where to go.

“Do you always know what you need off the top of your head?” you ask as you weave through a throng of people.

Hongo chuckles. “Years of practice. Plus, I like to keep my supplies well-organized. You know how OCD Benn is, he'd mutiny if the medical supplies aren't in order.”

You stop at a stall selling herbs and medicinal plants. Hongo inspects them with practiced hands, picking out a few bundles and exchanging some Berries with the vendor.

“These are for antiseptics,” he explains as he hands them to you.

You cradle the herbs carefully, feeling their rough texture against your fingers. The simple task makes you feel useful.

Next, Hongo leads you to an apothecary’s shop filled with glass jars and vials. The air inside is heavy with the smell of spices and tinctures. He greets the shopkeeper warmly before discussing various remedies and ointments.

“Grab that bottle of iodine,” Hongo instructs, pointing to a shelf above your head.

You reach up on tiptoes, fingers brushing against the cool glass before securing it in your hand. You hand it over to Hongo who adds it to his growing collection of supplies.

As you leave the shop, arms laden with packages and bundles, you can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. “Thanks for letting me tag along,” you say.

Hongo smiles warmly at you. “It’s good to have company. And extra hands. But something tells me that you needed an excuse to get away from the ship…”

You take a deep breath, adjusting the bundles in your arms. “It’s Shanks. Things have been…tense between us lately.”

Hongo nods, waiting for you to continue. Everyone had been noticing the off and on tension between you and captain.

“It’s about me staying on the ship,” you say, the words spilling out faster now. “Shanks doesn’t want me to feel trapped or like I’m missing out on exploring the world because of him. But I just want to be happy, and right now, being with him and all of you makes me happy.”

Hongo listens intently, his expression thoughtful. “That sounds complicated. Have you told Shanks how you feel?”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “I’ve tried, but every time we talk about it, we end up arguing. He thinks he’s doing what’s best for me by pushing me away, but it just makes things harder.”

Hongo stops at another stall to pick up a few more supplies, his movements deliberate as he considers your words.

“He cares about you a lot,” Hongo says finally. “Maybe he just needs time to understand that your happiness is tied to being with him.”

You nod, appreciating his perspective but still feeling the weight of uncertainty.

As you near the edge of the market, you see the tavern where the rest of the crew is supposed to meet up later. Hongo turns to you with a gentle smile.

“Why don’t I take these supplies back to the ship?” he offers.

“No,” you interrupt quickly, shaking your head for emphasis. “I’ll take them back myself. You go ahead and get us a table at the tavern. I could use some time alone to think.”

Hongo studies your face for a moment before nodding in agreement. You needed to sort your relationship problems out by yourself. “Alright then. But don’t hesitate to come find us if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Hongo,” you say softly.

You make your way back to the ship, lost in thought as you navigate through the bustling streets of the port town. The weight of the supplies in your arms serves as a reminder of your place among the pirates, but your mind is preoccupied with your unraveling relationship with Shanks.

As you approach the pier, you see the massive shape of the Red Force towering over the water. The sight of it brings a mix of emotions: happiness from being a home, but also sadness as you're reminded of the tension between you and the captain. You climb aboard, greeted by the familiar scent of salt and wood.

You carry the supplies to the medical room, each step echoing your mixed emotions. The room is cool and smells faintly of antiseptics and herbs. Carefully, you place the bundles of medicinal plants on the counter and start sorting through the vials and bottles Hongo had chosen. Each item finds its place on the shelves, lined up in a precise order that you’ve come to understand from watching Hongo.

Each shelf has a metal cover that gets closed in between uses so the bottles don't fall from the shelf and break. When you place the last bottle on the shelf, you pull down the metal cover and lock it in place before turning to the various packages of suture needles, i.v.’s, and other assorted sharps.

You kneel to check the crates, making sure they’re secure and won’t tip over during the next voyage. Your fingers run along the rough wood, tightening the lids and securing the latches. It seems secure enough.

As you stand and dust off your hands, you turn around and freeze. Shanks leans against the door jamb, one foot crossed over the other. His eyes lock onto yours, a mix of frustration and longing swirling in their depths.

“Aria,” he starts, his voice low but steady.

Your heart skips a beat at his tone. “Shanks.”

He pushes off from the door frame and takes a step into the room. “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms, more for comfort than defiance. “About what?”

“About us.” His eyes search yours for understanding. “I know things have been rough between us lately.” The again went left unsaid.

“You think?” The sarcasm slips out before you can stop it. "I am beginning to think I should just move my ass to the crew quarters!"

“Watch your language,” Shanks warns, his voice a growl that vibrates through the room. "And I’ll continue to pretend you haven't been getting lessons on how to curse."

You can’t help the smirk that tugs at your lips and raised an elegant eyebrow. “What are you going to do, captain? Spank me?”

The challenge in your voice hangs in the air between you two. For a moment, he stands still, eyes darkening with a mix of frustration and something else entirely. Before you can react, he strides forward, closing the distance between you in two long steps. His hand grips your arm, spinning you around so fast that your breath catches in your throat.

He pushes you against a stack of crates, the wood cool against your flushed skin. You feel his breath hot on your neck as his fingers grasp at the skirt of your dress and rake it up to your hip. Then without pause, his hand comes down on your backside with a sharp smack. The sting sends a shockwave through your body, making you yelp.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is low, dangerously controlled.

You barely have time to process his words before his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear. With one swift motion, he yanks them down to your knees. The sudden exposure makes your heart race even faster and your fingers dig into the wood you are pressed against.

Before you can utter a word, he positions himself behind you. The sound of his belt buckle clinking open and the rustle of fabric are the only warnings you get before he thrusts into you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. A whine tears itself from your throat and your head drops back against Shanks' shoulder.

Shanks thrusts into you with a raw, unyielding force that leaves you breathless. Each movement sends shivers up your spine, your fingers digging into the rough wood of the crates for support. His right hand grips your hip tightly, pulling you back against him with every stroke forward.

The intensity of his movements leaves no room for words, only gasps and moans escaping your lips. The sounds of your bodies colliding echo in the small, enclosed space, mingling with the creaks of the ship around you.

Your mind races, caught between the overwhelming sensation and the flood of emotions coursing through you. The tension that had been building between you two finds its release in this raw, primal connection.

Shanks' breath is hot against your neck as he leans in closer, his grip on your hip tightening. You can feel the power in his movements, the pent-up frustration and desire pouring out with every thrust.

You push back against him, meeting his rhythm with equal fervor. The pleasure builds rapidly, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. Your nails dig into the crates as you fight to keep yourself upright.

Shanks' voice is a low growl in your ear. "Is this what you wanted?" His words are punctuated by a particularly hard thrust that makes you cry out.

You nod frantically, unable to form coherent words. The intensity of the moment consumes you both, leaving no room for anything but this raw connection.

The heat between you builds to a fever pitch, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Your body trembles under his relentless pace, each thrust driving you closer to release.

Finally, with a strangled cry, you feel yourself shatter around him. Your muscles tighten and convulse as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your legs tremble and shake beneath you, lasting ripples of your orgasm washing through every part of your body. When you suck in a deep breath, trying to calm your breathing, Shanks lips find your neck and begins to place elongated kisses there.

Shanks’ lips trail down your neck, his kisses deliberate and lingering. Each touch of his mouth sends electric jolts through your body, making you squirm against him. Your breathing comes in ragged gasps as his hand holds you firmly in place, preventing any escape from the intoxicating sensations he’s eliciting.

You can’t take it any longer. The need to feel his lips on yours overwhelms you. With a sudden burst of energy, you turn around to face him, your eyes locking onto his with a fiery intensity.

Before he can react, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward you. Your lips crash together in a fierce kiss, all the pent-up emotions and desire pouring out in that single moment. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you even closer as the kiss deepens.

You kiss Shanks with a fervor that borders on desperation, mouths open and tongues tangling in a dance of raw need. The taste of him consumes you, a heady mix of salt and something uniquely Shanks. His favorite whiskey perhaps? Your fingers clutch at his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer as his hand finds the small of your back, pressing you against the crates behind you.

Without breaking the kiss, Shanks' lifts you effortlessly and you feel yourself being placed on the crates. The feel of his muscles flexing beneath your hands makes you moan in appreciation. His hand soon moves with purpose, shoving your skirt aside with a sense of urgency that matches your own. The cool air hits your wet, exposed skin, heightening every sensation as his fingers trace a path up your inner thigh.

Then he’s there, filling you again with a force that makes you moan against his mouth and arch your back. The rhythm he sets is relentless, each thrust driving deeper than the last. Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on as waves of pleasure roll through you.

The crates creak beneath you with each movement, the sound mingling with your breathless moans and the raw grunts escaping Shanks' lips. Every stroke sends sparks of electricity coursing through your veins, your body responding to him in ways you’ve never experienced before. Not even with him. It's just not enough, you'll never have enough if him to be fully satisfied. Some part of your body will always long for his touch.

Shanks thrusts into you with a relentless rhythm, each movement driving you closer to the edge once more. The intensity of his pace leaves you breathless, every nerve in your body alight with sensation. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you as the pleasure builds.

“Shanks,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He responds with a low growl, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulls you even closer. His lips find yours again, and the kiss is hot and demanding, a perfect mirror of the fervor between your bodies.

The pleasure mounts rapidly, each stroke pushing you higher and higher until it feels like you might burst from the intensity of it all. Your nails dig into his skin, leaving marks as you cling to him.

You feel the coil of heat in your cunt tighten to an almost unbearable degree. Shanks seems to sense it too, his movements becoming even more focused, each thrust aimed at driving you over the edge.

With one final, powerful stroke, the coil snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, every muscle in your body tensing and convulsing with the force of it. You throw your head back against the crates and scream out his name as pleasure rips through every part of your being.

Shanks continues to move within you, drawing out every last tremor of your climax until you're left trembling and breathless beneath him. His own breathing is ragged, and you can feel his heart pounding against your chest once again.

As the last waves of pleasure ebb away, you're left feeling utterly spent but profoundly satisfied. Once again you have fucked out all your frustrations. But simply expelling these emotions will not solve the problem existing between you. Your cheek drops to his shoulder as you tiredly close your eyes. The raw passion that exists between you is undeniable, but it can't erase the reality of your circumstances.

Date Published: 6/28/24

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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