#poor crick

[auncyen]

so a couple months back I was messing around with the idea of ffx au and I PROBABLY won't actually do it because god how involved that would be but I do still like the headcanons for it.

here's tidus!agnea barging her way into the trial to find summoner hikari lol

“A day?” the younger man said, his voice rising in surprise. With his armor, Agnea thought he must be a fighter of some kind—probably a soldier? It looked like some kind of uniform, which begged the question of what a soldier was doing in a temple, but the priests didn’t seem bothered by his presence. Or if they were, they had a bigger problem on their minds, because the soldier continued: “Is Lord Hikari alright? Is it customary for the summoner to take so long?”

“It’s not unheard of, but…”

“More oft than not, it’s an ill sign,” a second, older priest said.

“I could go check on him,” Agnea offered. A day was a long time to stay in one place, especially with people waiting for him. What could this ‘Lord Hikari’ be doing back there?

Both priests turned to her, the older one with his eyebrows raised high. “It’s forbidden,” he told her, his words slow and clear as if he thought she’d turned stupid with the supposed memory loss. Agnea puffed right up.

“Didn’t you just say you think he might be having trouble? He’s been all on his own for a day and you don’t know how he is because you won’t check on him? What if he had an accident? What if he’s hurt?” She could picture it clear as day, some poor elder sprawled out on the floor, unable to get back up.

“Some summoners have lost their lives to the trial,” the soldier said uneasily.

Agnea stared at him, then at the priests. “And you’re standing out here? What is WRONG with y’all?” She didn’t wait for an answer, storming into the strangely lit hallway and ignoring the soldier calling after her.

The place for trials had a different sort of layout from the rest of the temple. Agnea wondered at that, but it didn’t really matter—well, not until she came to a dead end and a holo-screen popped up on one of the walls. Then she stopped and read the directions on the screen, puzzled. The phrasing of the instructions was all formal and fancy-like and made it sound mysterious. But the little tricks of moving walls and destroying them and what-not with spheres weren’t that mysterious. They’d had holo-screens in Bountivale too, and spheres to conduct energy that could be carried to where it was needed. Some of the best concerts owed their stage setup to those handy little things! If anything, the mystery was that she hadn’t seen them being used anywhere else in this village.

“Miss!”

Agnea started at the call, turning around. The soldier was jogging up to her, his face red, and she planted her feet and put her hands on her waist to make it real clear that if he was thinking of dragging her out, he had another thing coming. Granted, he definitely had the size advantage, but she figured she could still make him regret it. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s ‘forbidden’, right?”

“Only the summoner’s guardians may join him in here. This is a holy place.”

Really? This place with flashy tech? “And are you his guardian?”

“Yes. I was assigned to be Lord Hikari’s guardian for his pilgrimage,” the soldier said, his tone earnest. “But I’m also supposed to protect any civilians, and—the priests told me you’ve forgotten things. I’m sure Vide will understand you didn’t mean to transgress, but you really must go back now.”

Past his muscular build, the fair-haired soldier looked nothing like Partitio. The tone, though, was recognizable. He didn’t mean her any ill will, but he thought she’d lost a few marbles. Agnea sighed. If this guy meant to check on the summoner, then maybe she should go back? “Okay,” she said, putting the glyph sphere she had in his hand. “Here you go. I’ll apologize to the priests.”

“Thank you,” the soldier said with a solemn nod. “But…what is this for? Or is this one of the trial’s mysteries to solve?”

“There’s nothing mysterious about it,” Agnea said, her brows knitting together. “Just put the glyph sphere in.”

The soldier looked at her with an incredible confusion, and Agnea slid right back into exasperation. “Oh, give it here,” she said, yanking the sphere back out of his hands. It only took a couple seconds to insert it into the hole in the wall, and she turned to stare at the man as the wall slid down. His eyes were wide, staring at where the wall had been. “Have you really never seen a glyph sphere before?”

“This is the most sacred part of the temple!” he protested. “Few ever see the inside!”

“Okay, but there’s nothing sacred about a glyph sphere!” Agnea said, but the horrified look he gave her told her that’d been the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t know why you call it by that name, but it is very clearly part of the temple’s trial! You must stop with this blasphemy. It would upset the priests greatly,” the soldier insisted.

Agnea took a deep breath. “All right, let’s start over. I’m Agnea. What’s your name?”

“I…I’m Crick,” the man answered. He looked a little unsure at the change of direction, his indignation fizzling.

Agnea smiled. “Things have been very confusing for me lately, so I’m frustrated, but it is nice to meet you, Crick. So, you’re Hikari’s—“

“Lord Hikari.”

“—Lord Hikari’s guardian. I might not be a guardian, but I’m worried about him too, and I know how to use these spheres. So let me help you make sure Lord Hikari is okay, and then I’ll worry about the priests. If Lord Hikari’s hurt, isn’t that the more important issue?”

“You have a point…” The soldier, Crick, looked into the newly visible corridor past the opened wall. “Stay close, at least. Please do not touch anything except what is necessary for the trial.”

“Because it’s holy. I understand.” She didn’t understand why it was holy, but she understood everyone was going to lose their minds if she didn’t mind herself. The important thing was getting Crick to stop trying to shoo her and focus on finding this poor elder.

The rest of the trial wasn’t exactly hard. At some points there were multiple obstacles and multiple spheres, but that just took a little bit of thinking about which went where. Agnea was a little confused why this was set up as a trial, let alone a life-threatening one from how it sounded. True, there could be accidents with spheres if they were mishandled, but all you needed was a little common sense. But it seemed that truly wasn’t common here. If spheres really were that rare here, why use them to set up puzzles? Surely they’d be handier elsewhere.

But it didn’t seem like Crick would know the answer to that question, or like it being asked to start with, so Agnea kept it to herself. Instead she focused on solving the sphere puzzles and getting through the trial while keeping her ears open for any moans or groans. They didn’t know how far Lord Hikari had gotten, after all.

They eventually made it to a lavishly decorated room, the stones of the floor colored in rich patterns leading up stairs. There was yet another door, but this time Agnea didn’t see any places for a sphere to fit in.

“I believe we’ve reached the end,” Crick said in a hushed voice. “Beyond here, the acolyte prays to the fayth, only emerging once they’ve become a summoner.”

“Oh, that’s neat,” Agnea said, and then cupped her hands over her mouth. “Lord Hikari?”

Crick’s eyes bulged as he moved to clap his hand over her mouth, just barely stopping shy of touching her. “Sh! Shhh! You mustn’t disturb him—“

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice called from beyond the door. It sounded weary, but he was at least conscious. That was a little relief.

“Are you Lord Hikari?” Agnea called again. “We came to check on you. I’m here because your guardian needed a little help with the trial.”

“You’re here because you insisted!” Crick shot back. “Don’t make it sound like my doing!” He raised his voice as well. “Lord Hikari, my apologies. I can explain—“

The door opened, sliding up into the wall to show first a pair of sturdy boots, then black trousers, a red surcoat falling over them…and the sheath of a sword, which made Agnea’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She thought the summoner would be like a priest, but was he more like Crick, a soldier?

Then her eyes finally moved on from the surprise of the sword to a new discovery: while this whole time she’d been picturing an old man like the priests, “Lord Hikari” looked like he was her age. Maybe he had a couple years on her, but not many. In spite of his youth, though, he looked like the trial really had exhausted him somehow, his face shining with sweat as he stared at Crick and Agnea. He held one hand on the wall to steady himself.

He seemed confused by both of them being there, but his eyes narrowed at Crick first. “Go back to my brother. I did not ask for a guardian.”

“Lord Hikari, with all due respect, a summoner needs a guardian for the pilgrimage—“

“I will not have one,” Hikari insisted. The hand on the wall tightened its grip. “Be on your way.”

“Don’t be like that,” Agnea spoke up. “Crick’s been worried about you. I was worried too. And for good reason, it seems!”

Hikari’s dark eyes slid to her. He still looked irritated, but he sounded more bewildered when he asked, “Who are you? You should not be here.”

“My name’s Agnea,” she said. “And, um, no, I guess I’m not supposed to be here, but everyone thinks I got some of the Shadow’s toxin and I was worried you were hurt so…don’t be mad? And don’t be mad at Crick. He did tell me to leave. But people were saying the trial might kill you, and…and I just…” Agnea was surprised to find tears prickling at her eyes. He was fine. He was fine. And so was everyone back home, even if the stadium had gotten wrecked and she’d been flung to some weird remote corner of the world, they had to be fine, but she still sniffled, rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t hurt.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and she wondered if Hikari was still angry. But his voice was gentle when he spoke again. “I am not hurt. Thank you for your concern, Agnea. Crick…we will discuss the matter of my pilgrimage later. For now, give me a moment to rest. Becoming a summoner was more trying than I had anticipated.”

“But you have become a summoner?” Crick asked, his voice rising with excitement.

“Hm.” Hikari’s voice was heavy as he let himself sink back down, sitting at the top of the stairs. “Yes. I have become a summoner.”

-

one idea I really liked was hikari being like "I DON'T WANT GUARDIANS BECAUSE I'M DYING ANYWAY WHAT'S THE POINT (ends up leading the biggest summoning pilgrimage ever)"

[toytle]

superblorbos in their teen years

[ceaseless-rambler]

Raphaella is so Right actually. If I had immortality and a near-inability to find human life meaningful I would also perform so many fucked up experiments. There are several experiments I've already thought of that I'd perform if it weren't for time, ethics, and laws of the universe.

Plus she's arguably more ethical than many real-life scientists.

Real-life ethical violations:

"We're experimenting on this specific group of people because we see them as lesser"

"We're lying for profit"

"We know we're harming these people but they deserve to be harmed and we're using the information to help our preferred group of people"

Not to mention shitty controls, poor sample selection, general falsification of results by p-hacking or cherry picking data

Raphaella:

Will experiment on anyone

Does it for curiosity, a respectable purpose

Would actually have decent fucking controls and truly randomize her selection of subjects and would do proper statistical analysis and use a solid sample size before coming to conclusions

Wouldn't steal someone's work, win a Nobel prize off of it, and then call the person who won him a Nobel prize a moron in his memoir

[viridiave]

Smthn kind of funny I noticed when it comes to Crick and Ort in fanworks is like looking at them side by side, you'd think that Ort's the stick in the mud and Crick's the sunshine boy

And to be fair Crick IS a sunshine boy but he's also a fucking DND Paladin Lawful Good boy

And Ort's there to ask the real questions like 'yo Crick why does the Inquisitor call you babygirl'

[fictionadventurer]

August: Day 25

Adventures

Spent way too long at the library

Checked out a book that was so old and hadn't been checked out for so long that it was no longer in the library's computer system

Enjoyed an hour of silence at home resting in the peace of the wind outside and the sunlight and shadows of trees flickering on the floor

Read poetry under a tree in the sunset

Writing

Read part of Ruta Sepetys' book on writing

Wrestled with the desire to write a personal, meaningful novel while having no idea what project could fill that need

[melodiesofmidnight]

having an elderly dog is taking your dog to the vet every few weeks because they hurt and having the vet diagnose them every few weeks with Being Old

[red-hemlock]

🥱 @ghosts-of-gotham for River and Nora

LOVE LANGUAGE: PHYSICAL TOUCH STARTERS @ghosts-of-gotham

Send 🥱 to lay your head on my muse’s shoulder

"My goodness...! When you ask so very nicely for a target's description, you'd think the first thought would be to hand-over a photo or-... You know... Give an actual description, and not the bare minimum." Scoffing, the miffed murderess leans-back from a hunched position; and legs crossed, her chin now rests in the same palm who's shared elbow balances precariously atop her knee. But not as precarious as her level of patience with the open email, currently displayed in all its irreverent glory upon her laptop.

"I mean honestly, just look at this gem! 'He has dark brown hair and brown eyes'... Well okay, so does half of HALF of Gotham, probably. No pressure!" Kneading her tongue between pearly-whites, River frowns as an expected response fails to deliver, "Nora? Are you listening, dar-?"

A soft collision against her corks that verbal stream, and treating her surprised gaze was one Nora Clavicle, dead-asleep against her shoulder. It was almost ethereal, the sight of such a peaceful expression on a face that was usually blank as cold stone... Looks like someone else had their own issues with 'work' being a drain.

There's a wish of sorts, to attempt a slight lean-over to hook the blanket next to her slumbering friend up and over her; But River opts to make no move at all. Clearly Nora needs her rest, and if she were to accidentally awaken her now? River wouldn't want her to feel embarrassed.

Thus quietly, she returns to her work, fingers flying across keys that type-out one of those skillful, professionally-annoyed responses. But bathed within the light of that laptop's screen, a small smile can be seen.

[dazzlerazz]

Hands you a box of tissues 🥲

Thanks man, thanks

[lovecolibri]

I want you to know I saw these tags and LOVE his soft brown eyes BUT ALSO I read this at first as *ryan from the back* and pictured him bent over which I also love lmaooo

🤣🤣🤣 well now that's what I'm thinking about!

T made a very good point about the jokes that Ryan "knows something" wrt Eddie's heart eyes which is mostly all in good fun, but also we have SEEN Ryan looking at Oliver with those same eyes and it's giving off very "this is just what my face does" vibes.

[ellibean-icecream]

Like Tears in the Rain Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Scars

The deed was done. Castti wished that the confrontation could have gone another way, but the foul creatures were too far gone. Whatever infection they carried had warped them irrevocably, making them little more than a disease themselves. It was her duty as an apothecary to eliminate their sickness, and she did not hesitate in her duties.

Their foul stench lingered in the air of the cavern, the sickly sweet stench of rot and decay. She pulled the cloth of her undershirt up and over her face, helping to filter out the worst of the stench. She would have to burn the bodies with purebalm leaves – if she left them here to rot that would only further soil the waters here – and she would spread purebalm across the rest of the chamber as well. The townsfolk would have to continue boiling water for the time being, but this would help in the recovery.

Castti set to work.

—

It was nearly morning by the time Castti made it back to town. Her stomach growled in protest; she’d been so busy treating patients she’d forgotten to eat. Something familiar in the pangs of hunger told her that this was not the first time.

“Look! That apothecary is back!”

The cry rang out from the group of townspeople, who quickly approached and gathered around her. Castti sighed internally, but forced a cheerful smile onto her face. These people needed her as a rock, as a port in the storm. They needed her help, and she always helped those in need.

The townsfolk gathered close, before backing away at the horrific stench that clung to her clothing. She’d need to wash them before leaving town, perhaps take a long bath. Just the thought of warm water made her sore muscles ache further.

“I cleared the source of the infection polluting your waters. The spring will run clean again in time. Nevertheless, I recommend boiling all your water for a good while yet.”

The townsfolk cheered out in relief and thanks, and despite herself Castti smiled again, far more genuinely. The town had been slow to accept her help, but seeing the relief in their eyes here more than made up for all the hardships. She arranged to check in on each of the patients, and Senah’s brother even offered her use of his bath, which she accepted immediately.

[dimicul]

jealous smug ex bf ghost 🫡

this is not edited and i wrote this at 4am 😭

thinking about the silent smouldering confidence radiating off of ghost when he knows he’s better in every way compared to your new boyfriend.

he doesn’t understand you the same way. sure, maybe your relationship with him wasn’t the most perfect, but it’s gotta be better than this arsewipe you picked up from the streets. he just doesn’t get you; your little tics, what makes you smile, laugh, cry, snort — cum.

you see it in every subtle jerk of Ghost’s body, every glance he passes you. pure smugness when your new boy toy drops the weighted gun several times, snaps at you when you try to help him; you can’t even point it out or go berserk if Ghost breathes in your direction, because nobody else sees it - just you. he reckons that’s why you’re perfect for him. nah, he knows it.

you suppose it’s a curse of some sort - it’s not like your boyfriend is a complete dickhead, but he messes up once and you find yourself wondering if Ghost would have done the same. if he’d allow it all.

“You’re pointin’ south.”

Ghost rolls his shoulders back, head cocked to the side as he watches your boyfriend turn in LT’s direction, lips pressed in a thin line. You keep reminding him it’s the other fucking way, that he had to practice the day before, because he knew how important this was to you—

“Yeah, got it L.T.” He says through clenched teeth. Ghost says nothing, but the mask shifts a little and you want nothing more than to wipe the smirk off of his face.

It doesn’t help when he releases the trigger and misses.

“Just keep trying.” You urge your boyfriend through clenched teeth, offering a smile. Ghost watches it all, how quickly your mood plummeted, how you’re sparing him worried glances. he’s not gonna pity your sod of a boyfriend, but since you’re so worried, he’d consider it. well, he tries to, when that boyfriend of yours moves harshly out of your way and readjusts his pose. It’s humiliating and it doesn’t go by unnoticed.

“There you go,” Your boyfriend simmers to himself when the bullet pierces straight into the makeshift dummy opposite him.

“Good job.” You sigh out, weights rolling off of your shoulders.

“Didn’t need a compass either.” Ghost remarks, void of any emotion as he turns to saunter off.

Despite your mental efforts, you can’t deny the sex is… awful.

You feel terrible as you roll onto your side, a layer of sweat on your skin, looking all tossed up. You should feel… good, right? Yet it doesn’t. It wasn’t the same; no familiar ache between your legs, the immediate sleep after, the same large hands that knew every inch of your body.

“Fuck sake,” You shove your face into the small cushion next to you, voice muffled. Here you were, laying beside your boyfriend, thinking about how much you’d rather be sleeping on the cheap issue of Ghost’s mattress.

You were royally fucked up.

Everyone notices your bad mood the day after; you’re slamming doors, sighing irritably, cricking your neck to the side, knees jittery. Ghost drinks it in, God he fucking revels it. Poor girl.

“Needed this, didn’t ya?” He’s rasping in your ear later that night, your head buried into the pillow deep somewhere in the barracks, ass up in the air for him. Ghost hisses, hips snapping against you. He can tell you needed this — course that pretty boy’s not been takin’ care of you, he doesn’t know you. Doesn’t care to.

“Fussy thing,” Ghost grunts, large hand moving to fist your hair, earning a whimper in response. You’re clawing at the sheets beneath you, breathless, unable to conjure up some lame jab because he’s so deep in you you swear you’re seeing stars.

“Greedy too. Yeah, you fuckin’ like that,” Thrust after thrust, you clench around him, taking him so well, because after all; you’re his. His girl. You moan into the pillow, earning a chuckle from the man as he stills, gloved hands on your hips. God, you know he’s making you late to training but you can’t seem to care.

“Doesn’t fuck you right, does he, love?”

“Si —” You’re panting, lolling against the pillow, jaw slack when large hands spread your legs wider, tattooed skin against soft flesh.

“You got a fussy little pussy,” He groans, base of his cock stilling again, right at that spot you love. “Need’a be fucked proper.”

[vixstarria]

Admit that you love me

Connected with my other headcanon fics, but works as a standalone as well.

Astarion x Reader, Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Bard Tav, Astarion is bad at feelings, Gale is bad at everything

Bit of angst, bit of comfort, bit of fluff, love, banter, humour and all the other good things. Non-explicit. Early Act 2.

Approximately 2,000 words. 

AO3

You traversed the shadow-cursed lands. Earlier this week, Elminster had showed up, eaten all your cheese, essentially told Gale to kill himself and promptly went back to wherever he had come from. And you thought 200 year-old vampires were erratic... You hoped you would never come across a vampire wizard.  

It was an average evening in camp. You and your companions were passing time by the fire before calling it a day. 

You were sitting on the ground before the campfire, as Astarion sat on a fallen log behind you, trying to massage a crick out of your neck and shoulders. You weren’t even being obnoxious about it, your neck had genuinely been killing you and he was trying to alleviate the pain and discomfort.  

You’d closed your eyes and leaned forward a bit, trying to give him better access, when a remark from Gale caught your ear, and the hands stilled. 

“It’s truly heartwarming to see how well Astarion takes care of his livestock.” 

In the sudden silence that ensued, before you had even registered your own emotions for the insult, your immediate instinct was to seize the hand that was still on your shoulder, and say: 

“If you kill him, he’ll take us all with him.” 

It turned out to be the right call, as Astarion re-sheathed a dagger you hadn’t even noticed he had drawn (or had on him), and gave your hand a small squeeze.  

“I... I’m sorry, that was a poor joke.” Gale looked at the ground shaking his head. “If you can call it that. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” He started to get up. “I better-” 

“Disrespect my lover or me again, and I will personally burn everything that you cherish, and rip out the throat of every person you hold dear.” Astarion’s voice was an icicle. “I won’t kill you… But I will fulfill my need to hear you scream.” 

Astarion gave your hand another squeeze and got up. He met your eyes as you turned back to look at him, and gave you a barely perceptible shake of the head before stalking off.  

Gale, who had stood silently through Astarion’s cold outburst, wordlessly turned and left in the opposite direction. 

You still sat on the ground, elbows on your knees, eyes shut, now rubbing your temples. Great. Perfectly normal (in accordance with your definition of ‘normal’, anyway) evening ruined. No Astarion, Gale at a new lowest low, awkward silence, you still with a crick in your neck, and now an unfolding headache. All while feeling like you’ve been spat on.  

“Is that what you all think?” you asked quietly, still rubbing your temples. “That I’m a stupid lamb offering myself to a wolf for slaughter?” 

To your surprise, it was Lae’zel who answered.  

“It is true that the vampire is a predator, and there is hunger and lust in his eyes when he looks at you. But there is also love and yearning. You both carry it. My people are proficient in recognising it, for we are taught from a young age to quash such notions at their conception. Love and attachment make you weak. But you two, you have turned it into a source of resilience and strength. The wizard is as delusional as he is out of line.”  

You were completely taken aback by what you just heard. 

Firstly, by the fact it came from Lae’zel. But also... You hadn’t actually exchanged words of love with each other. Oh, there were the ‘my love’s, but that was more of a silly casual pet name that had started long ago. You both regularly addressed Karlach as ‘love’ as well. It didn’t mean much. 

But to have a githyanki set it out for you so candidly...  

“...I couldn’t have said it better myself, Lae’zel,” spoke Shadowheart.  

“Aw, none of us doubt you or fangs,” added Karlach. “Hells, sometimes I worry my heart will have a meltdown not from exertion, but from seeing you two.” 

You hoped no one could tell your face had coloured scarlet by the light of the fire. 

“Gale just hasn’t been himself lately. I’m sorry you and Astarion took the brunt of it. I’m sure he feels awful about this.” Wyll apologised as though he had anything to do with it. “I better go speak to him, make sure he knows we understand.”  

You excused yourself and went to your tent soon after as well.  

Astarion didn’t return that night. On checking his tent, you noted he did take his weapons with him, though. That’s all you really needed to know. He could take care of himself. After all, he was one of the horrors other people were scared to encounter in the shadows. Still, when you finally fell asleep, it was only due to sheer exhaustion. 

~ 

It was morning when he finally showed up at the entrance to your tent. Probably. You could barely tell night from day in this blasted place. You were sitting cross-legged on your bedroll, getting ready for the day ahead. You didn’t get up to greet him as you continued to fasten the belts and buckles of your equipment. 

“I was worried.” 

“I know,” he said simply. When you didn’t say anything, he sighed and added: “And I was angry. Furious, actually. Murderous. I didn’t want you to see it.” 

You bit back a swear. 

“I can-” 

“Before you say you can handle my anger, that’s not the point. I don’t want you, of all people, to be exposed to it to begin with.” You frowned and he continued: 

“When everyone keeps telling you you’re a monster, eventually you no longer want to prove them wrong – you want to show them just how much of a monster you can be. And you’re the only person who doesn’t think that about me. Why on earth would I do anything that might make you look at me the same as they do..?” 

It broke your heart a little to realise that that’s what he thought. 

“They don’t think you’re a monster, Star,” you said imploringly. “Gale said something stupid which he immediately regretted, yes, but the rest of them were on our side.” You made sure he was taking in what you were saying. “On your side.” 

“...They were?” Astarion’s eyes softened. 

“Yes. Lae’zel gave a whole speech, just about.” 

“Ugh,” Astarion curled his lip. “And I thought you were serious for a moment there.” 

“I am serious! She was quite poetic about it, actually.” 

Astarion suddenly took a step back out of your tent, looking up at the sky in alarm. 

“What is it?!” you reached for your bow. 

“Oh just checking for flying pigs...” he stepped back into the tent. “...So what did she say? I’m intrigued.” He still looked skeptical, but much less guarded than before.  

You paused your preparations, set down your weapons and met his gaze. 

“She said she sees the love in your eyes.” 

You weren’t about to tell him that she actually said she saw love in your eyes as well.  

“Oh...” Astarion seemed momentarily taken aback. “That is quite poetic for a githyanki.” 

You continued to study him without saying a word. 

“...Oh no. No no no.” He waved a finger at you. “I see EXACTLY what you’re doing, and I am NOT falling for it.” 

“What am I doing? I’m not doing anything.” 

“Exactly! You’re not saying anything, forcing me to fill the silence until I start stammering like a fool and admit that I love you!” He paused, turned away and huffed, before turning back to look at you, hand on his hip. “And that is NOT on the agenda!” 

“You’re not going to admit it?” 

Astarion looked away again, wrung his hands, opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, and looked back at you, cocking his head to one side before finally saying:  

“...Not today..?” 

You burst into a laugh. How long had your heart been pounding? 

“Gaaaaaale! Old buddy, old pal!” you heard from Astarion. 

You lifted your head to see Gale approaching.  

Fucking Gale, you thought.  

You got up to face Gale at the entrance to your tent. 

“Morning! I would say ‘good morning’, only that would be a lie for all of us, in light of-” 

“Oh for the love of all that is unholy!” Astarion cut him off. “Spare me your words and drawn-out explanations, and I will spare you my daggers. We don’t need that. We can sort this out like two mature, adult men.” 

The next thing you knew, Gale was on the ground, looking in disbelief at the blood dripping onto his hand from a possibly broken nose.  

“There. Now, for all intents and purposes, this matter can be resolved, if you wish. As previously advised, in the event of any further disparagement of me, Tav, or the nature of our relationship, I WILL be committing arson and turning everyone you love and care for inside out, Tav being exempt, of course. Now that this has been explained to you, if you accept, the damage you just took to your face can serve as compensation, to the full and final satisfaction and discharge of the idiotic shit you said yesterday. Are we in agreement?” 

Astarion held out a hand 

You stood back observing Astarion, your arms crossed. Theatrics to cattiness to violence to legalese within the span of a minute. How flustered and giddy was this man? 

Gale was still on the ground, also looking at Astarion incredulously.  

“I sometimes forget that you used to be something far worse than a vampire.” 

Gale accepted the offered hand and got up. 

“And you, Tav? Would you like to break the spare lute over my head, perchance?”  

Astarion perked up at that, but you were quick to protest: 

“No, no, let bygones be bygones and all that...” 

“Then it is settled,” Astarion interjected. “Well then, off you go, friend.” 

“Actually,” you cut in. “I think Shadowheart needs to rest a while. Gale could come with us today instead, seeing as you’ve sorted everything out. Gale, are you up for it?” you asked as Astarion stared at you in disbelief. 

After the borderline sleepless night you’d had because of these two idiots, the least they could do was entertain you by suffering each other’s company.  

“...Sure, let me just ah... do something about the blood. I’ll only be a minute.” 

And just like that, you and Astarion were back on your usual bullshit, causing a loud ruckus as you headed out of camp, him on your heels.

“I object! It’s ME or HIM! And if it’s him, you can give me my ring back!” 

Wyll snapped his head in surprise to look at you two, as Karlach gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.  

Astarion paused as if to say something to them, then waved a dismissive hand and continued walking after you. 

“...Because I am NOT dying in camp like a sitting duck just because HE couldn’t keep you safe!” 

“It’s my ring now, and you’re both coming! And so is Lae’zel. Lae, are you ready?” 

“Always,” came an unperturbed answer from the githyanki, as she got up to follow you. 

“There. She can lecture you on poetry, between the fighting.” 

Astarion had finally caught up to you.  

“You cheeky pup,” he said only loud enough for you to hear, his red eyes narrowed and a wry grin on his face. “We’ll need to have a long talk about your behaviour.” 

“Is that on the agenda? For today?” 

Astarion swore under his breath, smiled to himself and fell back again. 

Yep, definitely flustered, you thought, fighting a stupid grin that was threatening to take over your face.  

Oh you were going to enjoy this day. 

~~~~~ 

Author’s note: 

Sorry bloodweave gang, my headcanon is Gale and Astarion are constantly beefing.  

I wanted to work in the “disrespect me again” line from Early Access – although I ended up altering it. A lot. 

~~~~~

Next in series - Confession

OR, chronologically appropriate smut - Seeing stars

Series master list

AO3

[notthefirstfallenangel]

Memories II

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, mention of injury, amnesia, alcohol mixed with meds

Summary: You had your memory wiped after a messed-up mission. All that you remember is your childhood and fragmented glimpses of your teenage and adult years. Poor Simon, your would-be hubby, is left to pick up the pieces when you can't even recall his existence.

Words: 1.8k

A/N: I had so much fun writing this! Hope you like it🤍

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

It was close to 8 o’clock when Simon lit a cigarette, the red end glowing in the darkness. The smoke curled up above him into the starless night, forming swirling patterns as it dissipated. He sat on the cold roof of the barracks, his legs stretched out before him and his back resting against the wall. His mask was rolled up to just below his nose, exposing his full lips set in a stoic expression.

The back of his head hurt, his muscles ached, and his stomach rumbled. He had a crick in his neck, and his butt was numb. He had been up there for almost an hour now, and the pack of cigarettes laid empty next to him. It had become a habit for him to go up there after visiting you in the hospital, a temporary escape from reality and a way to manage his worries.

His hands were rough and callused, strong, sturdy, and dependable. His hands cradled the cigarette. The tip of the cigarette glowed red hot in the night air; the paper began to burn his fingers. The heat felt good, the only sensation on his body that told him he was alive. The smoke rose slowly and smelled good, almost relaxing.

His expression was grim as he gazed into the distance. There, in the darkening sky, he saw a streak of lightning in the distance, and he thought of you, lying alone in that sterile hospital room, unable to remember him. 

The only rule he had up there on that roof was not to think about anything about your condition — it was like a game of Taboo, and he had lost again.

He mumbled a curse under his breath.

When the doctors told him that you had suffered a traumatic injury to the hippocampus, he felt like the worst kind of monster was released from his cage. His heart sank and did not stop falling. He blamed himself for not being there when it happened.

Your childhood memories were still intact, but everything else seemed blurry and disjointed. Even some of your teenage years and early adulthood felt like a fog, leaving only fragmentary recollections in their wake.

The only tangible proof that the love you two shared for each other existed was the band of gold around your finger. He had stored it away carefully like a hidden treasure after you handed it back to him with tears in your eyes, telling him that you didn’t know who he was.

 “Mind if I join you?”

 He turned to see Price standing behind him, a cigar between his fingers, igniting the end with a few flicks of a match.

 “Be my guest.”

 Price sat beside him; their two forms a perfect contrast in the dark. While Simon appeared troubled, Price was relaxed, his expression peaceful despite the gloomy surroundings.

“The storm’s almost here,” Price blew a plume of smoke. “But it won’t last for long.”

 “But until it does, it’ll be a bloody mess.”

 “How’s she holdin’ up?”

 “It ain’t good.”They sat silently for a while, the only sounds being the gentle rustle of the leaves in the wind and the quiet but steady pattern of raindrops hitting the pavement.

Price took another drag from his cigar, sending a cloud of smoke into the air. “You want my opinion?”

 “Sure”

 “You’re pushing too hard.”

 Simon stared at him in silence. He couldn’t deny that Price was right — but he was struggling to accept it.

“She doesn’t remember a bloody thing,” he said. “At times, she acts as if she’s trying like there’s something in the back of her mind. But then nothing.” He tossed the cigarette over the edge of the roof and continued. “I try so bloody damned hard, but no matter what I do, it doesn’t work. And then she gets pissed off at me.”

 “I know... but giving up isn’t an option, is it? I know you’re not like that.”

Simon rested his hands in his pockets and stared at the distance, contemplating. The rain kept dropping lazily around them while the storm threw its wrath over the city.

Then, finally, he spoke. “No... no, I don’t want to give up. But it’s so hard, Price. Got nothin’ to cling on to,” He muttered under his breath. “I... I jus’ wish I could do much more.”

 Price’s voice was low and soothing, as if he were carefully measuring each word before speaking. “You can’t make her mind rush to remember. It’s gotta sort itself out in its own time.”

 Simon fell silent. He wanted to believe Price’s soothing words—he really did—but his own anxiety and frustration made it difficult, if not impossible.

 Price crushed his cigar under his foot.” C’mon. Let’s go back inside. Come on, mate.”

 As he stood, an unspoken understanding passed between them. He extended his arm in a silent offer of assistance; Simon hesitated, then leaned forward and clasped Price’s hand, letting the other man haul him to his feet. 

 They headed back inside; the barrack’s warm lights and dry air were a welcome contrast to the cold outside.

“You okay?” he asked again as Simon shook off the rain.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Go home, get an early night.”

Simon knew he should argue and tell Price he didn’t need special treatment. But he couldn’t. He was too tired.

“You’re right. I’ll head home.”

—

Coming home was particularly hard for him. The silence was deafening; it felt like it was drowning him, just as the memory loss was drowning you. 

As he opened the door to his house, a wave of cold emptiness washed over him. The home that was once filled with laughter and love seemed empty without you there. He missed the familiar sound of your voice as it echoed through the halls, mocking him in its absence while coming back from yet another hospital visit. All of your memories were tainted by your illness; your happiness had been swallowed up by the silence of your lack of speech and his inability to bring you back to yourself. His heart ached as he remembered the woman you'd been before the terrible accident and wished that he could bring back the person you used to be.

To make the atmosphere more bearable, he adopted some strategies that helped to create a better atmosphere in his house. One of them was to keep the TV always on with an old show like Buffy or some other show playing. You’d never go to bed until you had watched at least one episode.

He tossed his clothes onto a chair, the mask on the floor and climbed into bed wearing just his boxer shorts. His body ached from the long day, but it was the throbbing in his head that gave him the most problems. He sighed heavily as he lay down, trying to will away the pain.

The bed creaks and groans as he moves in it.

The sound of the TV fell on deaf ears. He couldn't hear anything but the echo of your voice in his head. It haunted him.

Lying there, he remembered the feeling of being close to you. He could feel your body against his, the curves of your shoulder and hip pressing into him, and the softness of your skin as he traced his fingers down your arm or ran them lightly through your hair. He longed to feel that closeness again, to be enveloped in the scent of you. He missed the sweet smell of your hair filled his nose as he buried his face in your neck.

Your perfume lingers in the sheets, like a ghost clinging to the pillows. 

He reached out and ran his hand along the empty space beside him, imagining that you were there. His heart ached for you, and he felt a lump form in his throat. He couldn't bear the thought of losing you forever. The realisation that he might never have you back brought tears to his eyes, and he struggled to hold them back.

He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He couldn't force you to remember, no matter how hard he tried. As he drifted off to sleep, he knew that the only thing he could do was to love you, always and forever, no matter what.

It took some time for him to drift off, and even then, he would wake up. Because there was no escape, he was forced to relive the mission that left him broken every night.

The sound of your crying and screaming, begging for your life.

He heard them every night. He heard them over the gunshots and the sound of grenades. He heard the sounds of your yelling at him to let go of your hand and save himself. Then, the screams went silent. He woke up like every night, drenched in sweat, the sheets wrapped around his legs.

The TV was loud, and Sarah Gellar was battling some vampires. Simon shook his head, wiping the sweat away from his forehead before shutting off the TV.

“Bloody hell...” he muttered.

He ran his hand harshly across his face, desperately trying to erase the image of you being thrown backwards from a powerful explosion and your body lying motionless on the cold ground. He could smell the scent of burnt skin and matted hair. He shivered in horror, reached for the small bottle of whiskey kept on the bedside table, and took a swig directly from the bottle.

It doesn’t help, he told himself; it never does.

The bottle was nearly depleted, having been his faithful companion during the weeks of solitude.

His head was spinning painfully, and his body was cold.

You’re a mess.

He grunted as he stood and stumbled towards the bathroom; the hardwood flooring felt cool against his bare feet.

He opened the cabinet, deliberately not looking into the mirror. His fingers found a bottle of Nembutal, and he grabbed it, his palm slick from the whiskey bottle. He tossed two pills down his throat, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

 —

He jolted awake some hours later to the buzz of his phone and immediately regretted it. A throbbing ache exploded behind his eyes and spread throughout his head and neck. He groggily fumbled for the device, holding it up to his ear without shielding his eyes from the harsh light of morning streaming through the window. 

“Who’s this?” he croaked.

“Mr Riley, it’s Doctor Badel...” The tone in his voice was tired, exasperated. “She’s not cooperating with their prescribed treatment plan.”

The words felt heavy in the air, and the silence that followed was thick with tension. It was as if the entire room was holding its breath.

Simon cursed under his breath, muscles clenching and his jaw tightening. 

“ I’m on my way.”

Tags: @8sy-errah8 @yyiikes @spencerreidisbae123 @oranoyaora @sae1kie

[machveil]

Monster!Konig but it’s so fluffy and I love it! What about a scenario where reader has periods of being extremely lethargic (I was energetic last week, and suddenly I feel like sleep, all the time) and just falls asleep whenever and wherever and this poor guy is just finding them everywhere? Does he just join or does he tuck them to bed and leave?

anon, I’m literally going through that right now😔 lethargic period solidarity🫱🏼‍🫲🏻 I’ve fallen asleep twice today

Monster!König saw the symptoms coming before you did. he noticed the decline in your energy, how you nodded off a little while lounging with him. he was used to you having a fair amount of energy so the change caught his eye

Monster!König buys a new quilt for your shared couch - a warm, heavy blanket in case you slip into sleep while watching a show. he decided to wash the covers on the couch pillows too (they were due for a cleaning anyways), if you fell asleep in the living room you deserved nice, clean cushions

the first time Monster!König walked into the apartment and you were asleep on the couch he got giddy. admittedly, he was always nervous to ask for affection, but seeing you out like a light had him melting. sitting down next to you, he carefully moves you to rest against him, tentacles slowly moving the heavy quilt over you - his Maus shouldn’t be cold

freezes when you shift against, eyebrows knit in your sleep as you curl up on yourself slightly. frown tugging at his lips, he rests a warm hand over your stomach. Monster!König hoping the heat from his hand will quell the pain twisting your gut. when you slowly start to relax again he sighs, palm adding a slight pressure against your tummy

if you let him, Monster!König will be all over you for the week. he’s made it his personal job to keep you comfortable and healthy. multitasking in the kitchen, hands prepping a small assortment of snacks while his tentacles grab a few water bottles from the fridge. if you have to go out at any point he’s accompanying you, hand on the small of your back rubbing soothing circles

Monster!König worms his way into your bed at night, his weight making your mattress dip. he’s your personal pillow and furnace - hoping to keep your cramps to a minimum by hugging you close to him. feels bad if you complain about him being too hot, but he can’t help but cuddle you closer :(

Monster!König will always settle down next to you wherever you sleep for the week. if your posture is weird, your neck at an odd angle, he’ll carefully correct it. you’re already lethargic and cramping, Maus, you don’t need a crick in your neck or an achy back

[inoreuct]

*drums my fingers on the table* so… weretiger zoro angst, anyone? (happy ending tho bcs. always happy endings) [cw: slight gore]

Zoro is on the hunt. There is something in the back of his brain snarling protect them, protect them, chase it down—

“—arimo!”

He’s so hungry. Hell, he doesn’t even need to chase— His prey is right there in front of him, fresh blood racing through its veins as its tiny heart works overtime. He can taste its fear at the back of his throat, and he bares his fangs in a grin; the poor thing screams, a sharp, high keen of terror as it scrambles backwards, and Zoro pounces. 

“—arimo!”

He is kind enough to give it a quick death. Its throat rips out easily, trachea crushing between his jaws as he slits its torso open with his blades. Blood sprays across his body. Why hadn’t he shifted? He spits out a mouthful of bone and cartilage, pierces his fangs through a forearm and yanks, feels something pop and hears a wet tear. This would be so much easier with his claws—

“Zoro!”

Oh. His human is calling for him. 

Sanji looks scared. Why, though? He drops the arm in his mouth, lets it hit the deck with a wet splat as he croons a soothing apology at not replying sooner. Gore is sticky beneath his boots as he stalks forward and he holds in a growl of irritation, nimbly avoiding the guts strewn across the wooden planks. 

Rumbling his reassurance does nothing. Sanji still looks vaguely afraid, and so Zoro tries again; safe, he purrs, and the tip of his tail does not swish through the blood puddled on the ground like it’s supposed to. He cannot feel it at all. 

The cook doesn’t budge. Zoro can smell his apprehension, his nerves, the slight sour tang of fear that makes him want to go hunt down whatever’s causing it and make it hurt. He smells it on the rest of his crew, too, and he doesn’t get it. The threat is gone, no? He senses no danger. Scanning their surroundings on the enemy boat yields no answers; all the men around them are still very, very dead. Zoro had made sure of that, so what was the problem? They should be back on the Sunny right now, sitting in the galley debriefing and having dinner—

Something clicks into place in the recesses of his mind, and dread starts to prickle through his body. 

He had been so… He’d almost eaten—

Oh, no. 

Zoro tries to shift the shape of his soul and fails. He does not feel his body changing. His shadow is, has been, in the shape of a man’s, and the blood on his skin suddenly feels disgusting. 

In the span of a moment he becomes hyper-aware of it all, pouring down his front, dripping off his chin, salty-sweet-metallic on his tongue. He turns to the side and spits multiple times, tries to get the cloying taste out of his throat as he raises a hand before realising that it, too, is coated in red. Zoro almost retches as he swallows instinctively, nausea slamming into him in a wave so strong that his stomach churns. He tastes bile. He’s thankful for it— It’s better than blood. 

Anything is better than blood. 

“Zoro?”

His head snaps around so fast that something cricks in his neck. His eyes are saucer-wide. Sanji takes a step forward and he is rooted to the spot, frozen statue-still; he is sure his heart stops beating for a second. Fitting. He knows he should step back— Knows now that he had been the threat, and yet he cannot move. 

“Let’s just… go back to the ship, how about that?” Sanji says tentatively, wincing as he kicks aside something that looks like a liver to put his foot down again, and he’s so close. Too close. “Let me—”

“No,” Zoro rasps, and God, fuck, he sounds like a fucking death rattle and he wants to claw his own voice box out of his fool mouth. The cook’s expression is a twist between desperation and something else, something that makes Zoro want to gag and cry and scream. Sanji should never look like that and it’s because of him. “No,” he tries again, quieter. He looks away. He doesn’t think he can stand looking into those blue, blue eyes. “It’s my mess, I’ll clean up.” Sanji makes a noise like he’s about to protest, and Zoro pierces through his own heart as he turns his back. “Alone.”

A beat of silence, and then Sanji is walking away. His crew is walking away. Zoro stands, surrounded by bodies he’d ripped apart, and thinks that perhaps this is how everybody that has ever been under his claws had felt. 

And that’s that. 

*

The following days are hell. He breathes in and everything he smells is wrong; anxiety, worry, an undercurrent of tentativeness that makes him throw himself into his training with renewed fervour. He is torn between the urge to bare his throat, show his belly and prove to his crew that they will never come to any harm from him, and the pride that insists he will not go against his nature to make himself more palatable for anybody else. 

He is all fang and claw and wickedly sharp teeth. He is a predator by nature, given humanity and a mortal form. This is the shape of his soul.

But they are his family. His nakama. And sitting here on the floor of the crow’s nest after running every kata he knows countless times, Zoro feels painfully, inexplicably sad. It is unfamiliar; he doesn't really do regrets, but it reminds him that at least some part of him is still human.

He lost control. He doesn’t do that, either. He never does that. But he did, and now none of his nakama can look him in the eye. 

Somebody climbs up the ladder, and his nostrils flare.

“Zoro?” Chopper asks, peeking his head up, and the swordsman immediately tries to look like he’d been busy, which… is ridiculous. He is sitting on the floor and moping. The sigh that whooshes from his lungs is defeated.

“Hm?” he prompts, when the tiny reindeer doesn’t say anything else.

Chopper climbs up fully, rubbing his hooves together. “I’ve checked everybody over except you.” 

Zoro can see the way he takes a fortifying breath and walks closer with a purpose. He stretches out his legs and allows Chopper to do as he wishes. 

“…We’re all worried about you,” the reindeer says after a while, staring intently into Zoro’s eye and testing his pupillary reflex. 

The swordsman gives a non-committal hum. “Scared of me, you mean.”

“No!”

Zoro jumps when a hoof whacks him across the forehead. “Wh—?!”

“We’re scared for you!” Chopper scolds, sounding dangerously close to tears. His distress turns Zoro’s stomach. “Do you know how scary it was to see you like that?! And then! You haven’t eaten in three days, and you probably haven’t slept, either, have you? Sanji’s been trying not to push because he knows you’re upset, but he’s been pacing a hole into the galley floor and chain-smoking like—”

“Wait,” Zoro interrupts. Replays that chunk of speech in his head. “You just said it was scary to see me like that.”

“Because we didn’t know what happened to you!” Chopper cries, huffing shakily. “And the look on your face when you realised—”

Zoro’s back bumps into the bench as Chopper grabs him in a hug, arms around his neck. His breath catches in his chest.

“Don’t do that again,” Chopper says firmly, shoving Zoro’s shoulder for good measure as he pulls back. “You seem okay, at least physically. Any pain?”

“No.”

“Any trouble shifting?”

“Haven’t tried.”

The doctor makes a noise, a cross between displeasure and something softer. “Well, try soon. Can Sanji come and see you?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay.” Chopper stands, giving Zoro one last look. “For the sake of our cook’s lung capacity, come down to dinner.” 

Zoro sucks down a breath and holds it until it burns. He smells worry-care-care-anxiety-care and pats a hand over Chopper’s hat. “Alright.”

He sits back against the bench as their tiny doctor leaves, and within a minute someone is climbing up again. Sanji stands, silhouetted by the late-afternoon light. Zoro’s chest aches.

“Marimo,” the cook says evenly, and Zoro resists the urge to scent the air.

“Swirly-brow,” he returns, neutral. Testing the waters. “Heard you missed me.”

Sanji is silent, and Zoro’s heart gives a sickening squeeze. Has he overstepped already? He opens his mouth to say something, anything, and nearly jumps when he ends up with a lapful of gangly limbs, his spine pressed hard into sanded wood.

There are hands on his face, in his hair, lightly callused and holding him in place as Sanji kisses him like he’s got a point to prove. Zoro freezes up at first, because even in his human form his teeth are sharp and he doesn’t know what he will do if he draws Sanji’s blood. Maybe run away to live out the rest of his life in well-deserved exile. 

But then he smells salt, and something wet smears against his cheek, and Sanji’s lashes are clumped with tears as he pulls back and there is a slender finger jabbing hard into his sternum. 

“Don’t you ever,” Sanji hisses, poking him again for emphasis, “do that shit to me again, you fucking bastard.” 

He smells like bitter fatigue, acrid worry sharpened with anger and underneath all of it— love, lemon-bright and so goddamn sweet that it coats Zoro’s tongue like honey, wipes every memory of red iron and rust from his mind. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, eyes roving over Sanji’s face; the curled ends of his brows, the long lashes, the high cheekbones and strong nose and a sharp cupid’s bow, so familiar he could trace it in his sleep. “I thought you— wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Sanji spits, his face crumpling, and he goes easily when Zoro coaxes him to his chest. “Do you know how long I spent worrying about whether or not you were okay?” 

“I know,” Zoro soothes, and his heart is beating so fast that his ribs hurt. “I’m alright.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Sanji announces, digging his knee up into Zoro’s side with a vengeance until he gets a wheeze. “You owe me three packs of cigs. You owe the whole crew an apology. Luffy’s damn near lost his appetite; even Nami won’t so much as insult me when I try and get a rise out of her.”

Sanji’s glaring at him with the force of the sun, fierce and beautiful and golden-bright, but the dark circles beneath his eyes make guilt drag razor-thin talons across Zoro’s stomach. “You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says softly, brows furrowing as he cards Sanji’s bangs out of his face and cups his cheek. 

“You shouldn’t go berserk and then isolate yourself without considering the fact that your crew would be worried sick about you,” the cook fires back without missing a beat. He leans into Zoro’s touch anyway, and Zoro smooths a thumb into the hollow between his bridge and brow.

“Weren’t you scared?”

“More— unsettled, maybe. Marimo,” Sanji’s throat bobs, eyes flickering over Zoro’s face. “Your eyes were slits. Like you were expecting to get attacked. We didn’t know how to talk to you without you panicking and running away.”

“I do not run—” he begins, scowling, and then shuts his mouth. What has he been doing these past three days, if not running away? “I think…” He digs deep into the memory, lays everything out in his head and ah. 

That man had crept up in Sanji’s blind spot, a wickedly long knife in his hand, and Zoro hadn’t thought. Hadn’t planned, just jumped. “He was gonna get to you,” he mutters, forcing himself to hold Sanji’s gaze even as the cook frowns. “I’m sorry, cook. I lost control. It won’t happen again.” 

The words are clunky and unfamiliar in his mouth. He’d almost eaten a man in his human form. That had to have looked all kinds of fucked up; he really didn’t blame his crew if they—

“Oi,” Sanji scoffs, flicking him in the forehead. “Are you always so distracted even with pretty people in your lap?” 

Zoro huffs through his nose. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess. Just contemplating how I nearly ate someone.”

The cook’s mouth twitches. “There are a great many jokes I can make about that, but I’ll save them for later. You’re a tiger, marimo. You were just protecting us. We really can’t hold it against you.”

“…You’re not scared of me,” he murmurs one last time, because he has to be sure.

“I’m not,” Sanji confirms easily, rubbing his thumb over the shell of Zoro’s ear, dragging through his earrings and making them tinkle like wind chimes. “Come down and the rest of them won’t be, either.”

Something in him gives. Shifts, releases, crumbles in his chest like a little collapsible galaxy as he pulls the cook down for another kiss. He feels Sanji’s tongue trace over the points of his teeth, utterly fearless— It steals the breath right from his lungs, this blatant, unwavering trust that he’s been allowed to hold cupped in his battle-rough palms. He gathers flaxen hair into his hand so that he can look the cook in both eyes, blue as the sky at high noon and crystal clear. Sanji leans into his chest with a ragged exhale and Zoro slides one palm up to the nape of his neck, one over his ribs, if only to feel him breathe, and the words slip out. “I love you.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s never said them before. They must have crossed his tongue hundreds of times by now, his mind a hundredfold more. He loves Sanji, he knows; it aches under his ribs, next to his heart, woven into his soul. He loves his crew, he knows; he gives them leeway he would allow nobody else, and refuses to accept that he needs their affection as much as they want his. 

But it feels new. Every single time, it feels brand-new. Like a freshly-minted coin that never tarnishes, pure, solid gold— So he lets himself be greedy and leaves his fingerprints all over it, goes to sleep with it tucked in his fist like a child holding on to a dream. “I love you,” he whispers into Sanji’s hair, and he feels the cook shift in his arms, feels the same words shaped against his throat, teeth to bone, fingers around his heart.

He purrs the words subsonic, over and over even when his crew cannot hear. He will put them out into the world until his nakama know and he will think them a thousand times more. 

But for now, they have an hour left till dinner. Sanji is breathing slowly, his arms tucked against Zoro’s chest. The lines of worry between his brows are smoothed out.

Zoro thinks he’ll take a nap. 

[elmindredaniq]

Poor Pen is doomed to a life with a crick in her neck 😅

Here's to the privilege of being loved by TALL, dark and handsome🥂