#scathing sharper

[lobster-lover]

ffreaks

[sovataz]

like to smack his bald head

reblog to smack his bald head

[deconreconstruction]

PANEL REDRAW UNLOCKED! Page 1327 by @NezumiVA

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. degradation, power play, light choking, semi-public fingering, light coercion (entirely consensual), dirty talk, wet panties, messy fingers, brat taming, felix is a fucking menace in a silk shirt

⍣ ೋ notes: changed the color!! idk if im burning out already but i decided to switch it up a bit just to see if it would make it better. kinda missing the pink already.

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT

Filed by: ERROR Subject: ERROR Staff Member Under Review: ERROR Guest Involved: ERROR

INT. SKZOTEL – CONFESSIONAL ROOM (A.K.A. MAINTENANCE CLOSET WITH A RING LIGHT)

[Camera clicks on.] Felix is already in frame, lounging sideways on a folding chair like he owns the place. His uniform is pristine, hat tilted a little too stylishly. In his hand, a crumpled guest complaint—folded once, then again, then probably kissed before he slipped it in his back pocket.

FELIX (grinning): "Okay, so technically... this was supposed to go to Aeryn."

He holds up the complaint letter between two fingers, like it's something precious. His grin widens.

FELIX: "But I may or may not check the internal submission box every morning before she gets in. You know—just to be helpful."

He leans in, eyes sparkling with mischief.

FELIX: "This one? Yeah, this one's about me. And look—before anyone starts pointing fingers, I was doing my job. I did help the guest with their luggage. I was polite, charming, responsible… bordering on adorable, honestly."

A beat. His smile turns wicked.

FELIX: "And maybe... just maybe I lingered. Just a little. But can you blame me?"

______________________________________________________________

You didn’t think he’d actually read it. The note was meant to be private. Filed. Forgotten. Handled discreetly.

But now?

That unmistakable voice cuts through the spa corridor, slow and molten, thick with a smugness that curls heat right between your legs.

“Room 630,” Felix drawls behind you, syrup-sweet and scathing. “Is that what they’re calling you?”

You stop like you’ve been caught—and you have. You know that voice. That accent, dipped in honey and sin.

You turn slowly, spine straight, face schooled, but your heart’s already thundering.

And there he is.

The bellboy.

Leaning against the hallway wall like it belongs to him. Button-down loose, too many buttons undone, collarbone sharp, pretty smirk even sharper.

Your complaint’s in his hand.

Your complaint.

The one you slipped into the concierge box with trembling fingers.

His eyes are on you like he’s reading your mind.

“Didn’t even sign it,” he tsks, folding the paper once, twice—stuffing it casually into his back pocket. “Didn’t use my name. That’s rude, babe. I gave you so much to work with.”

He takes a step forward, slow and deliberate. You take a step back, eyes flickering to his name tag.

“Felix—”

“Oh no,” he cuts you off smoothly, “you don’t get to say my name now. Not after this.”

Another step.

Your back hits the wall.

And suddenly he’s right there. Crowding your space. Shadowing you. Hand against the wall beside your head.

His breath ghosts along your jaw as he leans in, tilting his head just enough to speak right into your ear.

“You think tattling makes you innocent?” he whispers. “You wrote me up, baby. Like a brat who didn’t get what she wanted. Like a needy little bitch too scared to ask for it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“But you did.”

His hand skims down your waist, hot and possessive, just the barest tease of touch.

“Don’t lie to me. You knew exactly what you were doing. All those soft little looks, letting me carry your bags, ringing that bell like you wanted me on my knees.”

You gasp as his fingers dip under your dress, the brush of his knuckles ghosting your thigh.

“What was it?” he murmurs, voice low and wicked. “Was I too slow? Not flirty enough? Or were you just pissed I didn’t bend you over the cart right then and there?”

Your breath hitches. He feels it. Smiles.

“God, you did want it,” he laughs, cruel and soft. “Didn’t even bother hiding it. Could’ve just said, ‘please fuck me, Felix.’ Would’ve made this so much easier.”

His fingers slip beneath your panties, and you choke on a moan.

“Shit,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours. “Already soaked. You liked writing me up, huh? Got yourself wet filing a formal complaint like a desperate little whore.”

Your cheeks burn. He eats it up.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say you got off on it.”

You look away. He grabs your chin and forces you back to him.

“I said—say it.”

“I—got off on it,” you breathe. “Wanted your attention.”

He laughs—a wicked, delighted sound.

“There she is. My needy little mess.”

He pushes two fingers in deep, no warning—so fast and smooth you swear your knees might give. The stretch is sudden, perfect, and he knows it, groaning right against your ear as you choke on a moan.

You gasp, back arching, thighs trembling.

“Ohhh, yeah,” he groans. “Tight little cunt. All this for me?”

“Felix—someone could—”

“Let them. Shit—listen to that,” he pants, pulling his fingers back just slightly. The obscene slick, wet squelch echoes in the quiet hallway, and he laughs, low and filthy. “That’s you, baby. That’s how bad you want me.”

He curls them, finding your spot with practiced ease—pressing, teasing, dragging along that sweet bundle of nerves over and over until you’re clawing at his shirt, thighs trembling around his wrist.

“You write me up,” he hisses, fucking you with slow, deliberate pumps. “You tattle on me. But your cunt’s telling me the truth.”

His thumb drags up, just brushing your clit. Barely a touch—but it’s enough to make your hips jerk, to make your breath stutter out in a pathetic little gasp.

“There she is,” he growls. “There’s my needy little girl.”

His fingers start moving faster—deep and rough, the perfect rhythm that makes your mind go white. He’s relentless. Curling, thrusting, grinding his palm against your clit until you’re whining into his neck, hips grinding down like a slut in heat.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “Feel how tight you’re squeezing me? Like this hole’s been waiting for me.”

You whimper, trying to hold on, but he’s everywhere—his breath hot on your cheek, his fingers wrecking you, his voice in your ear like a brand you can’t shake.

“Gonna cum just from my hand, aren’t you?” he sneers, licking a stripe up your throat. “From getting finger-fucked in a hallway like the desperate little whore you are.”

Your whole body shudders.

He laughs again—meaner now.

“I can feel it,” he whispers, breathless. “You’re close. So fucking close. Gonna make a mess all over my hand, huh? You gonna ruin your cute little panties for me?”

You nod, too far gone for words, and he snarls—

“No.”

He rips his hand away like he’s punishing you—like you did something wrong—and your whole body screams from the loss, thighs clenching uselessly as the orgasm dies, denied and dragging like a blade.

You sob—a soft, broken sound—and he moans at the sound of it, gripping your jaw with his clean hand.

“Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his soaked fingers up between your legs and spreading them in front of your face. They glisten in the dim lighting—shiny, sticky, dripping.

“You see this mess? This fucking disaster of a cunt? All because I said your room number.”

And then he taps your cheek.

“Open.”

You do—so automatic, so eager it makes his pupils blow wide with satisfaction.

He pushes the fingers into your mouth, slow and deep. You moan around them, tongue greedy, sucking like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulls them out—slower now, watching the spit trail cling to your lips before snapping messily to his knuckles.

“You taste how much you wanted me?” he whispers, filthy and smug. “Next time you need attention, you don’t go crying to the concierge.”

He leans in, mouth a breath from yours.

You moan, shameless now, licking him clean like it’s what you were born for.

He leans in closer, mouth brushing your ear.

“You wanna cum?” he asks.

“Yes—please—”

He smirks. Leans down, lips hovering over yours.

“Beg.”

You hesitate. He wraps a hand around your throat—light, a tease of pressure, just enough to make you still.

“I said—beg.”

“Please, please,” you whisper. “Please make me cum.”

“Louder.”

“Please—fuck—please, I need it, need you—”

He grins. A slow, devastating thing.

“There we go,” he purrs. 

And then?

Then he tugs you into the nearest guest suite—unoccupied, unlocked, perfect. He bends you over the bed before the door even clicks shut.

His voice is the last thing you hear before your moans drown everything else out:

“You want to file another complaint?” he hisses in your ear. “Better make sure it’s legible with my cock down your throat.”

INT. SKZOTEL – CONFESSIONAL ROOM (A.K.A. MAINTENANCE CLOSET WITH A RING LIGHT) [Camera clicks back on.] Felix is back in the folding chair, this time looking a little less pristine. His hat’s missing, hair mussed. One button too many undone. His fingers glint faintly with something that’s definitely not ring light residue.

He licks the edge of his thumb, slow and casual, then flashes the camera a crooked grin.

FELIX (shrugging): “Guest's satisfied. That’s all that matters, right?”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out the now much more crumpled complaint, and fans himself with it.

FELIX (mock-innocent): “I’d file a report about it, but... turns out my hands were kinda full.”

He lifts his fingers to his lips again—tastes the air like he’s savoring a secret. 

FELIX (deadpan): “And if Aeryn asks why the formal complaint never made it to her desk...”

He leans in, voice low and conspiratorial.

FELIX: “Tell her I handled it.” [END OF RECORDING]

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay @lov3rachan @lze325 @scribblesnsketches05 @jesuisstay @slut4junho @wickedbutlovely @woozarts @pixie-felix

[anna-the-undertaker]

The fic about switching stomachs inspired this idea:

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

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

Shifting Sins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucifer (Sloth)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mammon (Wrath)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leviathan (Gluttony)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satan (Pride)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asmodeus (Greed)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beelzebub (Envy)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belphegor (Lust)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Steven John Ward, pretending to be Mihawk at a Chrismas dinner, and I can barely fucking type because I'm trying not to SCREEM 😭🤣😭🤣

"No, I've sailed the Grand Line but this fruitcake will be the real adventure."

"Darling, the only thing sharper than my wit is my sword. Now pass me the wine so I can sharpen both."

"I'll be over here working on my scathing remarks."

WHY DOES HE HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS I LOVE HIM 😭😭😭

[xx-dinah-writing-xx]

Hands grabbing my throat

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Targaryen reader angst

————

The argument had begun with nothing more than an insult—a scathing comment from Daemon that cut her sharper than any blade. She wasn’t even sure how it had started anymore, the words between them blurring into shouts and accusations, the fire behind his eyes burning hotter with every breath.

“You think you’re so clever, so untouchable,” Daemon hissed, pacing in front of her like a predator circling prey. His voice was sharp, a thread of violence woven through every syllable. “But you’re nothing more than a little girl playing at power she doesn’t understand.”

Her chest rose and fell, her pulse pounding in her ears as she glared at him. “And you’re nothing but a man too fragile to accept that the world doesn’t revolve around him!”

Daemon stopped in his tracks, his violet eyes snapping to her with a cold, dangerous intensity. The room felt smaller all of a sudden, the air too thin.

“Say that again,” he growled.

She could have stopped. She could have backed down. But her temper flared hot in her veins, and her pride wouldn’t allow it. “You heard me,” she spat, her voice trembling despite her bravado. “You cannot stand that I don’t bow to your every word like the rest of the court. Is your masculine ego really so fragile, uncle?”

Something in him snapped. Daemon was on her in seconds, the space between them obliterated as he grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer until there was nothing but fire and fury between them. She gasped, her pulse spiking as she tried to pull back, but his grip was unrelenting.

“You little bitch,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin. “If I had known you would grow into such a venomous creature, I would’ve fucked Rhaenyra instead.”

The words hit her like a slap. Her chest tightened, the air fleeing her lungs as his insult dug into her like a dagger.

Her lips parted before she could stop herself, her voice trembling but full of venom. “And yet here you are, uncle. Still a niece-fucker.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Daemon’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing into something dark and unreadable. For a long, excruciating moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at her, his silence heavier than his anger.

“You—” His voice came soft, almost a whisper, but she knew better than to mistake it for gentleness. “You truly have no idea what you’re doing.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, the earlier heat of her rage now replaced with something cold and terrible. She opened her mouth to respond, but Daemon cut her off, his hand releasing her wrist only to slam into the wall beside her head with a resounding crack. She flinched, her breath hitching as she stared up at him, her body rigid with fear.

“I have killed men for less than the insults you fling so carelessly,” he said, his tone eerily calm now. “Do you know that? Do you understand what it is you’ve provoked?”

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered, though her voice shook as her body betrayed her.

Daemon’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl, his gaze unrelenting. “Don’t be so sure.”

Her back pressed harder against the stone wall, as if the cold might save her from the fire raging in him. He was too close, too unhinged, his fury and obsession swirling into something she couldn’t quite define. She had wanted this—wanted him.But now, standing in the eye of his storm, she realized how dangerous her game had been.

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “You think you can control everything—me, Rhaenyra, this family—but you can’t.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed at the name, his jaw tightening. “Careful,” he warned, his voice like ice.

“No,” she pushed, though her voice was small. “You hate not being in control. You’re pathetic.”

His hand came to her chin suddenly, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look at him. The touch wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. “You play at strength,” Daemon murmured, his eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her feel stripped bare. “But look at you now. Trembling like a leaf.”

She was trembling. Fear clawed its way up her spine, making her breath shaky, her skin cold. And yet beneath it all—beneath the terror and anger—there was still something else. Some pull she couldn’t name.

Her voice broke when she finally spoke. “You frighten me.”

Daemon’s hand fell away, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something darker still. He took a step back, though the space between them still felt suffocating.

“Good,” he said finally, his voice soft but sharp. “Perhaps now you’ll remember not to tempt fate.”

She sagged against the wall when he turned his back to her, her body still trembling, her breath ragged. She watched him move toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate, as though he were willing himself to leave.

“You’re still pathetic,” she whispered, though the words were quiet, more for herself than him.

Daemon paused at the door, his hand on the frame. “And you are still mine, whether you’ll admit it or not.”

She watched him leave, her heart thudding painfully in her chest as she slumped to the floor, pressing her palms against the cold stone.

For all the fire and rage, for all the fear he inspired in her, she could not deny the truth she’d known all along: she still wanted him.

But now she realized she might not survive him.

[yoomiwrites]

Missing ghost

Summary: Mihawk is thinking of old times and a woman, who is nothing more but a ghost of his past.

Note: Warning, death is mentioned. Other than that, this piece here was supposed to be a long story about Mihawk and female Reader. However, I never made more than this chapter here. So maybe, if you'd like it, I'd write some more.

The waves were gentle, reflecting the moonlight like scattered stars on the ocean’s surface. Dracule Mihawk closed his eyes, feeling the cool sea breeze against his face as he sat on the deck of his ship. A ghostly memory stirred in him, as vivid as if it had just happened.

The first time Mihawk noticed her was on a mission, a young Marine assigned to keep tabs on him after he gained the title of Warlord. She’d followed him, trying to be inconspicuous, though her clumsy missteps were anything but. She was short and reckless, and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, she had an unsteady hand and an unwavering stare.

Her first mistake had been near the docks of a small port town, when a group of bandits cornered her. Mihawk had watched with detached interest, waiting to see how she’d get out of it. Her wild threats were nothing more than empty bluster, and her swordsmanship—well, calling it swordsmanship was a bit generous. He stepped in at the last second, cutting down the thugs with ease. She looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes.

“You’re supposed to be watching me, not getting yourself killed,” he’d told her coldly, though something in the back of his mind couldn’t help but find her blunders almost… entertaining.

Then there was another time, on an island filled with mercenaries. She had followed him there, disguised poorly in civilian clothing, and ended up stumbling into a skirmish far out of her depth. He saw her trip, her sword skidding uselessly out of reach as enemies closed in around her. Mihawk sighed, stepping forward once more to dispatch them before they even had the chance to draw their weapons. She scrambled to her feet, face red with embarrassment, mumbling an apology that he ignored as he turned his back on her.

Still, he noticed how she followed him a bit more closely after that, how her footsteps became quieter and her gaze sharper, if only slightly.

And then there was another time, out on the open sea. She was supposed to be tailing him from a distance, but a storm had rolled in, thrashing the waters until even her small vessel seemed ready to shatter against the waves. She’d been stranded on a rocky cliff, clinging desperately to the edge, when he’d appeared, reaching down to pull her aboard his own ship without a word.

As they stood together, the storm raging around them, she’d laughed, bright and breathless. “Why do you keep rescuing me?” she’d asked, her voice barely audible over the thunder.

He hadn’t answered. He hadn’t even looked at her. But that question, that laugh—it lingered in his mind.

Again, and again, and again, she would appear, somewhere she shouldn’t be, watching him with those wide, curious eyes, somehow always finding herself in trouble. And every time, he’d find himself rescuing her—cutting down threats that were below him, sparing her with a scathing remark that barely hid his amusement, feeling an odd emptiness when she was gone.

Over time, he began to search for her. He’d scan crowds for her familiar face, listen for that awkward, clumsy shuffle that seemed out of place in the world of battle-hardened Marines. Sometimes he would hear rumors, whispers of her presence in a nearby port or sighting on an enemy ship, and he’d follow them without even thinking. It was irrational, and yet he did it anyway.

And then one day, she was gone.

At first, he hadn’t noticed, merely assuming she’d been transferred or reassigned. He asked a Marine here and there, a casual question that rarely received more than a vague answer.

But as the weeks stretched into months, her absence gnawed at him. He asked more directly, seeking her among Marines stationed in distant lands, always receiving the same indifferent reply: she’d gone missing at sea.

A part of him felt hollow, as if he’d been cut adrift himself. He hadn’t even realized how often he’d begun to look forward to those run-ins, to the relief of seeing her just a few steps behind him, an unwelcome shadow that had somehow slipped into his life.

But now, even the shadow was gone.

Years passed, and in quiet moments, he would remember her. He searched still, following the trail of rumors, listening for any word, any sighting of the clumsy Marine who’d haunted his steps. The legendary Warlord, Hawk Eyes Mihawk, trailed in the footsteps of a ghost he could not seem to release.

And now, with his eyes closed, the memory of her laugh—light and daring—lingered in his mind as real as any blade. He had chased legends, sought powerful rivals, and fought battles that defied reason, but he had never been able to answer the question she had left him with.

The stars shimmered on the dark waters around him, and as he opened his eyes, he found himself alone once more.

[truedove]

belladonna

word count - 2,076

content - smut (minors dni), porn with some plot, f!reader insert, oral (f recieving)

two hours. it’s been two fucking hours since you left and he’s this close to losing his mind. he’s sure he’s worn a path into the carpet with his restless pacing, his stomach a tight knot of anxiety. he’s never felt this level of panic before, like his heart is trying to claw its way out of his chest. the ache in his being is unbearable, like someone has taken a dull knife and carved out his insides. he can't even think straight; his thoughts are a jumbled mess of what-ifs and whys.

fuck, this is so stupid. he doesn’t even remember what you two fought about. all he remembers is that your pretty face had been etched into a frown, lips pressed into a thin line, and the barely concealed hurt in your eyes that made him want to die. he should have just apologized, should have just said something. anything to make you stay. but no, he had to be stubborn, had to dig his heels in deeper. and now look at him, a pathetic mess in his empty apartment, unable to function without you.

space. you said you needed space. from him. like hell he was going to give you that. how could he, when all he wanted was to crawl out of his skin and into yours?

well, it's been two hours, he thinks you've had plenty of space by now. with that thought in mind, he grabs his shoes, pockets his keys, and heads out the front door.

the entire walk, he forces himself to keep his head empty, clear. less he starts to fucking panic. again.

not ten minutes later, he's standing outside your apartment door, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. now that he’s actually here, he feels a bone deep sense of dread wash over him. what if you don't want to see him? what if you've decided you finally had enough of him and his shit? his palms begin to sweat and his clenched fist trembles as he lifts it to knock on the door, frantically, desperately willing you to open it.

the door swings open on his tenth (twentieth?) knock, and relief washes over him as your face appears in the crack. despite the frown marring your features, his heart soars at the sight of you.

“hey.” he rasps, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, taking in every detail of your face as if he’s forgotten since you left him, as if you could ever fade from his memory.

you utter his name, then take a deep, fortifying breath, as if you were begging yourself to be calm.

“what part of space do you not understand?” your voice is quiet, laced with a hint of frustration.

his brows furrow, confused marring his face, that neither party are sure is real or not.

“i did give you space, honey.” he says, like it’s obvious, like you should have known he wouldn't be able to stay away.

your pretty eyes narrow as you stare at him in disbelief.

“it’s been an hour.” you grit out his name between clenched teeth incredulously.

fuck, if he doesn’t love it when you says his name, even when you're so clearly pissed at him.

“it’s been two hours, actually.” he corrects, sounding much too like the man you left behind just an hour—sorry—two hours ago. he just can’t help it, he’s a dick right down to his core.

“honey,” he cuts off what would surely be another scathing retort from you, judging by the way your frown deepened, adorable really. “you asked for space, i gave it to you. now, can i come in or not?”

he flashes his charming signature smirk, the one that always seems to melt your insides. but you don't even so much as crack a smile.

“not.” your voice is sharper than he's ever heard it. he nearly flinches, his cocky smile faltering, even feels a pang of guilt for making you so upset. “you can’t just be a total jerk and then expect me to just take you back with open arms!” you harshly whisper, even in your anger not wanting to disturb the neighbors.

he lets out a heavy sigh, knowing what he needs to do. he doesn’t understand why it’s so hard for him to just fucking apologize, to admit he was wrong. it feels like admitting defeat, and he doesn't do that. never in his goddamn life, has he ever admitted defeat. but this isn't about him, it's about you. he fucked up and if he doesn’t want to lose you, he needs to fix it.

so, he sucks it up and forces the words past his lips.

“i’m sorry.” the words taste like ash in his mouth, but he forces them out, unable to meet your eyes as he speaks. he can feel your stare burning a hole through his face, but he refuses to look. he can't look. not right now.

he hears a sigh, followed by the longest damn silence in the history of ever. it's deafening. his heart begins to pound in his chest, dread gripping him tighter by the second. he forces himself to keep his gaze trained on the carpet beneath his feet.

“i don’t know..” it’s barely a whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “i just..” your voice trails off and it’s then that he looks up, see’s the conflicted look on your face and his heart clenches in his chest. he hates that he put that look there, hates that he can't do anything to take it away. he hates, hates, hates that he fucked up so bad.

he apologizes a second time, followed by a low utterance of your name. it’s rare that he actually calls you by your given name and not some cheesy pet name, but in this moment, he needs you to know he means it.

“fuck, i…i didn't mean to hurt you. you’ve gotta know that, right?” his usually rough voice is softer now, pleading almost as he steps further into your space, desperation clawing at his chest. you can’t leave him. you can’t.

you attempt to protest as he forces his way into the threshold of your apartment but you’re cut off from the shock of his lips on yours. he kisses you hard, possessively, your teeth clicking together in his eagerness. he groans against your mouth, his tongue sweeping in to to taste you, claim you, to remind you of how good you two are together.

“'need you. fuck, i need you, honey.” a large hand tangles in your hair, not-so-gently pulling your head back so he can look into your eyes, his own pleading with you to understand. “i don't know what i'd do without you, baby. you know that, right? you know i'd be lost without you?” his words come out in a rush, desperate and rough, as if he can't get the words out fast enough.

you let out a breathy sigh of his name, unwilling to relent just yet. even as your body responds to his touch, your heart is still unsure. sensing your indecision, he wastes no time in trying to sway you further. his other hand finds its way under your shirt, tracing lazy circles over your back, teasing the skin at the small of your back with his touch. he presses his mouth to yours again, the cold metal on his tongue sliding against yours, tickling and teasing. you gasp into his mouth, feeling a shiver run down your spine at the sensation, much to your annoyance.

a smirk tugs unwittingly at his lips as he feels you begin to respond to his touch, your body softening against his. he grabs a handful of your bum, pressing his stiff cock against your front and groaning into your mouth.

“see what you fucking do to me, honey? see how much I want you? you're it for me, you know?” he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, to convey the depth of his need for you. his pupils are dilated, eclipsing the hue of his irises.

you bite your bottom lip and he can see the indecision in your eyes, the internal struggle playing out before his very own. your fingers clutch loosely at his shirt, not pushing him away but not embracing him either.

he could work with that, though. he continues to push his luck, his hand giving your bum a firm squeeze before moving up to cup your breast through your shirt, his thumb flicking lazily over the stiff peak of your nipple through the fabric. a soft, plaintive sound escapes you, and his smirk widens.

"i'm sorry," he murmurs into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. he's earnest, can't you feel it? the desperation in his touch, the way his fingers dig into you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go? "i'm so fucking sorry."

when he can see you still aren't fully budging, he decides he'll just have to show you just how sorry he is.

his hands drop down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he lifts you off the ground. your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your body melding into his, and he takes that as a sign to keep going. he navigates your apartment, heading straight for your bedroom, his mouth growing more demanding as he goes.

no matter how much you try to hold onto your anger, the way he kisses you, the way he touches you, it makes your resentment melt away piece by piece and is instead replaced by a fiery need that you hadn’t realized you had missed so much until now. his mouth is liquid poison and you are willingly letting him in, letting him devour you. he knows it too, can tell by the way your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes glaze over when he touches you like he owns you. and he does, doesn’t he? no one else has ever had the power to make you feel like this, like you’re simultaneously coming apart at the seams and fitting perfectly into place.

his hands are everywhere, touching you in ways that make you squirm, make you ache, make you want more. you can feel the bulge of his erection pressing against your stomach and it's all you can do not to grind against him. your legs tighten around his waist and you let out a soft whine when he finally breaks the kiss to lay you down onto your bed.

"look at you, baby." he drops to his knees and kisses along the juncture of your thighs, eyeing the apex of your legs with hunger. "this all for me?"

you're too hazy to grant him a response but your body seems to have a mind of its own as it arches into his touch, your back bowing off the bed. he takes it as the invitation it is, his hands moving to unbutton your jeans and tug them down your legs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. your underwear quickly follows, leaving you bare from the waist down before him. he runs his thumb along the seam of your cunt, collecting your wetness and smearing it over your clit. the touch sends a jolt of electricity through your body, making your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your head.

he grins wolfishly at your reaction, the smugness in his expression telling you just how much he loves watching you come undone for him. he wastes no time in burying his face between your thighs, his tongue flicking against your clit, the sensation making you plead and whine for him. he sucks and nibbles at the sensitive bud, his tongue delving into your folds, lapping up the sweetness of your arousal like a starved man. fuck, if he didn't miss this, the way your thighs quiver and your hands tangle in his hair as he works his magic on you. it might have only been some number of hours since you were last together but it felt like an eternity to him.

minutes, hours, days. you can't recall how long he's down there for, but when you feel the vibration of another apology against your clit, you don’t care.

his fingers slide into you, filling you as he licks and sucks, and you're sure that this has to be the best apology you've ever received.

[hrizantemy]

Day 18 of ACOTAR Games: This or That

Which do you prefer?

Nesta as a scholastic traveller in Prythian

Nesta as a ballet dancer in Midgard

Your contenders: @achaotichuman @litnerdwrites @umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken

I love the idea of Nesta Archeron as a scholarly traveler in Prythian. It’s not just the absurdity of imagining her, with her sharp tongue and even sharper glares, navigating the politics of the courts armed with nothing but ink-stained fingers and an overstuffed satchel. It’s the hilarity of the situations she would definitely find herself in—half because of her curiosity and half because she refuses to take anyone’s nonsense.

Just imagine it: Nesta dragging herself across Prythian, collecting rare tomes, scrolls, and stories, looking perfectly composed until you notice the smudge of dirt on her nose or the way her boots squelch because she refused to ask anyone for help crossing a swamp. She’d be that traveler who arrives at court looking like she spent a month wrestling kelpies, only to haughtily inform everyone that she is there on scholarly business.

The potential for comedy is endless.

The beauty of Nesta as a traveler is that she would be good at it—methodical, curious, and brilliant—but she’d still clash with every personality and situation imaginable. Feyre would try to micromanage her travels. Rhysand would insist on slipping into her itinerary like a nosy chaperone. Cassian would show up uninvited, insisting that she couldn’t possibly go anywhere dangerous alone, and Nesta would snap, “You are the danger, Cassian!”

In the end, Nesta’s travels would be less about her academic pursuits and more about her outsmarting everyone who doubts her. And if she ends up publishing a scathing treatise titled On the Utter Uselessness of Fae Males in Times of Crisis, well… that’s just a bonus.

[halfmoonshines]

hii can I request a dark! stefan salvatore x reader when he’s trying to court her and she keeps rejecting him? n

ya'll have got me in my toxic era but i love it.

resolute

stefan salvatore x f!reader

summary: you had an intrigue for the Salvatore, sure. But you had enough self preservation to know that look in his eye was anything but safe.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

You didn't know when everyone had suddenly vacated the room to finish their respective tasks for the upcoming night, but before you noticed it was just you and Stefan.

That had been a problem lately.

You didn't know when his looks had turned from scathing to indifferent to something entirely else. All you knew was that it elicited a heat in you that you weren't sure was good or bad.

"Come here often?" His voice, to your chagrin, always had an effect on you. It was smooth and low, confident without trying. The flirty smirk on his face didn't help at all.

You feigned a mask of indifference, eyes rolling upward. "Yes, unfortunately. Your living room seems to be where we host team meetings." You grabbed one of the muffins off of the coffee table and sat in the armchair across from his stance by the fireplace.

He stalked closer to you and you tried to ignore the flutter of your heart, definite fear this time. Stefan Salvatore had made it very clear that he was no longer a predictable man, and that was more than enough to worry you. "I could do without the constant children running around, but if it brings you over then I'm more than happy."

You rose from your seat when he sat down in the one next to it, nervously chucking the muffin wrapper in the trash and making toward the exit. "Why I would love to stay and chat, I think it might be my nap time."

He was in front of you before you could take another step. One hand up to play with the strand of hair that swayed with the wind of his imperceptible movement, eyes holding you in place. "You can always use my bed if you want."

Your smile was sharper than you thought you could muster, your own hand reaching up to grasp his wrist and pull it down. "In your dreams tonight, Stefan."

You tried to ignore the muttered I hope while you strolled out of the house.

---

"Look, man. I'm really not in the mood for this. I said no." Your arms were crossed tightly across your chest like some kind of shield from the argument you were in with the random drunk man in front of you.

You blamed the midnight craving you had for mozzarella sticks, knowing full well the closer at The Grill wouldn't charge you for them, and nowhere else was open in that small town that late. Usually you could ignore the chronically drunks at the bar, but this guy would not get out of your face and Aaron was still missing in the kitchen, preparing your food.

"Listen, little lady, why don't you drop the tough girl act and let me show you a good time?" He was almost unbearably close to you now, the stench of cheap tequila assaulting your nose.

You opened your mouth to reply but a squeak came out instead when Stefan appeared behind the man, a grip hard enough on his arm to make him bellow and a murderous shadow over his eyes.

"I think she told you to fuck off."

"Okay man, shit! Jeeze. I'll back off." The large man was struggling to wiggle from Stefan's grasp and you pinned the vampire with a pleading look, knowing he was one word from tearing the guys heart out.

Stefan seemed to understand your desperation, and begrudgingly dropped his hold. "Leave. Now." The drunkard had probably never moved faster in his life.

You sighed, taking your seat at the bar stool and trying to ignore the sideways glances of the other patrons. How long did it take to fry mozzarella sticks?

Stefan slid on the stool next to you, his body facing yours. "What're you doing out so late?"

You shrugged, chin coming down to wrest on your hand. "I took a nap earlier, and I woke up with a craving for mozzarella sticks."

His smile was small, but you enjoyed it all the same. It was rare to get a genuine smile out of him, and while he might not be your favorite, you had to be proud about that. "You don't have any at home?"

"We both know that nothing beats a greasy fryer." You didn't miss his eyes tracing your lips.

"Will you go to dinner with me tomorrow? Somewhere out of this small ass town?" He looked genuine, an eyebrow cocked and fingers playing with the daylight ring on his hand with something you perceived as nervousness.

"Hey, here's those greasy cheese sticks. Sorry it took so long." Aaron was quick with his megawatt smile, sliding the food across the bar before he went to help someone at the other end.

You glanced after him before you looked back to Stefan, teasing your lip between your teeth. Grabbing the food and standing from your seat, you gave him a small smile before leaving.

"I don't think so, Stefan."

---

Your heart was about to beat out of your chest but you knew that your life depended on running. You turned down a dark alley, subconsciously wondering when the hell Mystic Falls got so many alleys, and realized that you'd hit a dead end.

Typical horror girl. You would laugh at your stupidity if the footsteps of the angry vampire behind you didn't make you panic close to tears. Your breathing almost stopped when you came to the realization that this most certainly was it. You knew since the day that your friend outed herself as a vampire that this day would come. You couldn't play with these sorts of things, because they would play back. And you had come to learn that humans are very fragile.

"Don't panic, little one. It's nothing personal. I'll make it quick." His voice grated down your back as you whirled to face him, staggered steps back into the alley. The vampire reminded you of a cat, head down but eyes tilted up, demure smile and slow walk to pin her deeper in the alley. They were predators, through and through.

Your gulp was audible. "Make it quick, then."

His smile turned feral, and you closed your eyes like the scared human you were and waited for the end.

But it never came.

There was a gurgling sound and your eyes reluctantly opened, taking in the scene before you with a certain sense of familiarity.

The vampire had a steady stream of blood dripping from the corners of his mouth but he dropped to the ground quickly, leaving the younger Salvatore brother standing there, heart in hand.

His eyes found yours, a wildfire brewing there as his chest heaved a bit, like he had just run a marathon. You tried to smile at him but became suddenly aware of the cuts littering your face and just how much they hurt. You winced instead, adrenaline fading slowly and a meltdown trying to take its place.

Sensing the impending doom, Stefan tossed the stolen body part aside and hastily wiped his hands on his jeans while he approached you, jaw tense. "Do you need to sit down? Do you need any blood?"

You were standing a breadth from each other now, and you were trying to blink back the tears building in your eyes. "No. No blood please." Your head shook with your reply, but so did your voice. The possibility of dying and coming back was terrifying.

Stefan's cleaner hand came up to rest gently against your cheek, pulling attention to the fact that your tears had begun falling. "I'm kind of tired."

His eyes flashed quickly and his other hand reached out to catch you as the black tunnel building at the corners of your vision finally closed.

-----

You woke in a bed that was not your own, but you recognized the sandalwood scent on the pillow beneath your head. This was Stefan's room - and then what had happened came barreling back in your memory.

You shot up with a slight wince at the pounding in your head and went to throw your legs over the bed but froze when you noticed a disheveled Stefan perched on the lounge chair across the room.

"Excited to be somewhere?" His question was laced with humor but his eyes were tinged dark, the sign of a restless man.

Your breath was shaky and you came to a full sit, hands wringing together in the echo of anxiety. "Stefan. Is everyone okay?"

He stood gracefully and took a seat next to you on the bed, close enough for your thighs to touch and you noticed that you weren't wearing leggings for the first time, but rather a pair of sleeping shorts. Noticing your slightly panicked look, he shook his head. "Elena changed you when we brought you home. Everyone is fine. I also informed them not to give you blood, because you didn't want it. So I've been sitting here, waiting for you to finally wake up and resisting the urge to gut all of those assholes relatives that I can find for doing this to you."

Your eyelids fluttered a bit, trying to make sense of what he was saying. When had Stefan become so earnest, so protective? When had we shifted from camaraderie to something deeper. "Thank you, for taking care of me."

"I always will, if you'll let me." His hand rubbed small circles in your palm, sensing the still simmering anxiety beneath the surface. "But don't tell anyone that, I don't need them thinking they can start asking me for things."

You snorted, rolling your eyes in that familiar pattern. Leave it to him to compliment and barb in the same sentence.

"So," He continued, finger trailing up to your elbow. "About dinner?"

You smiled, something real. "I guess we can see how it goes."

-----

if you have any requests, send them here!

[anarchy-and-piglins]

(continuation from this)

Nothing the Unseelie offered ever came without strings attached. 

Every sentence was a trap spun of words, waiting to be sprung on them. So Techno decided to leave the rest of the envoy behind. He told the other guards to make camp while Techno himself would meet with Wilbur's family. One wrong move could see them in big trouble. Techno couldn't leave this task up to anybody else, much as he'd love to skip any sort of social interaction.

But man, did he hate it.

Wilbur's father was a lot like him, all sharp angles and sharper smiles. His eyes had a piercing blue color though their coldness was somewhat undercut by the long, blond hair that framed his face. Techno knew that keeping his distance would be key. That was a little hard when he was sitting on a chair drinking tea with the guy, however.

"More tea?" Phil asked sweetly.

"I would like to discuss what I came here for now," Techno answered. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, of course."

Seelie laws of politeness would limit his freedom, even when negotiating with Unseelie. It was a pain.

"Are you in a hurry?" Phil inquired.

Techno tried not to scowl. He couldn't lie. It was not something Seelie fae were capable of.

"My delivery is time-sensitive," Techno said.

"How so?"

And while they couldn't lie, they could refuse to answer. Techno took another sip of his tea.

"My son said you require directions to get through our territory. Did whoever tasked your envoy not think of that before you set out? I thought Seelie were supposed to be better strategists than this."

"Like I said, the delivery is time-sensitive," Techno answered with a shrug.

Phil nodded. Techno didn't like the way he glanced down at Techno's cup over and over again. The taste didn't seem off to him. Did he have anything to worry about?

"Well, I don't see why we wouldn't be able to guide you through our lands. It's too treacherous for a stranger to go alone, but I'm sure we could provide." Phil smiled, leaning his arm on the table. "For a price."

"Wow, I'm so incredibly surprised," Techno said.

Much to his horror, Phil's grin stretched wider. "Wilbur was right, you are fascinating."

"What-"

"It's nothing," Phil said quickly. "Or nothing you need to worry about." Techno felt that telltale ache in his head, betraying the deceit of those words. "The price of our guidance is simple. Will you agree?"

"Not before I know what the price is." Techno wasn't a complete idiot.

"You." Phil leaned closer, fingers toying with the strap of Techno's pauldron and deliberately avoiding the gold that would burn him. "Your presence, that is. We guide your men, we'll let you see them off. But you stay with us for a little while."

Techno couldn't help but notice Phil avoided mentioning a specific time frame. With how important his convoy was though, he might not be in a position to refuse.

"Why me?" 

"Have you ever met a Seelie that could lie before?" Phil asked. Techno's brow furrowed in confusion. "Earlier, you said you were surprised when you weren't."

"I was being sarcastic," Techno said.

"Well, have you ever met a Seelie that knew the craft of sarcasm before," Phil joked.

Techno hadn't. It was one of the reasons he was an outcast in his own village. His blunt honesty, the way he couldn't /get along/ with people, his scathing humor.

"The handle of that teacup," Phil said softly, amusement lacing every syllable. "It is made of iron. Shouldn't it burn you?"

Dread was a detached feeling building in Techno's gut. "I'm not Unseelie," he said.

"You're not," Phil agreed. "But you're not Seelie either. How delightfully interesting, hm?"

And Wilbur's statement during their meeting echoed through Techno's brain again. 'We only take what’s interesting to us.'

"So," Phil asked, "do we have a deal?"

[lamemaster]

Maedhros and Modern Secret Agent Reader

Plot: A world where Feanorians can dream of their human s/o who is now reborn into the modern world- in this case, Maedhros. Catch, they come as a deal. So they all dream of it together. Sort of like Feanorians watching a live stream of your life. *Spoiler* Reader dies in the modern world and awakens in theirs but in middle earth instead of Valinor. maybe idk this lives in my brain and I am tired of 20k drafts.

Need to clear my drafts. Not adding tags yet because I need to know if this is worth continuing.

"Is this the patient, timid, fragile daughter-in-law we've been told about?" Nerdanel commented from where she leaned against the bloodied pillar.

The rest of the Feanorians were too dumbfounded to respond to their mildly amused mother.

You, on the other hand, were quite preoccupied with beating the living daylights out of a man who had lost consciousness minutes ago. Panting, you straddled the man, maniacally pounding his already battered face.

Atop the prone figure of their attacker, your normally soft features were contorted into a mask of primal rage. Sweat beaded on your brow, plastering strands of hair that had escaped your usually intricate braid.

Your once elegant hands, now slick with blood and grime, pounded a relentless rhythm against the man's already disfigured face. Each blow was fueled by a cocktail of fear, violation, and a desperate need for escape. (lol why does this sound so wrong)

How did things end up like this? Maedhros wondered. Everything was so different from the past he knew.

Beneath you, the man whimpered pathetically, a stark contrast to the predatory leer he'd worn moments ago. His bravado, the same bravado that had fueled this altercation in the first place had evaporated completely under the relentless onslaught.

You weren't a warrior, not in the traditional sense. You were sharper a venomous needle rather than a scathing sword but that did not lessen the impact of your blows. Not when the entire Feanorian cohort had witnessed you breaking another man's ribs with your bare hands.

A strangled gasp escaped your lips as you felt a hand clamp down on your shoulder. With a snarl that would have sent shivers down the spine of even the most seasoned warrior, you spun, ready to unleash your fury on the next threat.

But the hand belonged to Alden, your partner or at least what they had gathered from the entire day of following you.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and firm. "He's finished. We need to leave before the rest find out," he whispered, snapping you out of your wrathful haze.

Maedhros sucked a cautious breath at the familiarity with which you looked at the other man and the ease with which you leaned into his touch.

[beyralxoxo]

{Crimson War: Valhalla-Ivar The Boneless}

{Chapter 2}

SUMMARY: Yggdrasil meets with Bjorn, Ubbe and Hvtiserk to discuss the gods forsaken proposal, after a time...she agrees to it. Ivar's time and mind is focused on trying to forget everything about the situation but Ragnar does not make it easy as he sends all of his sons...but not Ivar to meet Yggdrasil.

WORD COUNT: 3,3 K

WARNINGS: swearing-Lagertha and Ragnar are still married-Aethelstan lives still-Gyda lives-Ivar is a silly goose-mention of unaliving someone

The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the chamber yet again, punctuated by the occasional growl of frustration. Ivar leaned over his workbench, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to crack bone. Each drag of the blade across the stone was sharper, angrier than the last, as though he were imagining Ragnar’s face beneath it.

The door swung open without warning. Ragnar strode in, unbothered by the scathing glare that immediately burned into him. Ivar didn’t even bother to look up fully.

“If this is about the proposal,” Ivar snarled, his voice cutting through the air like a whip, “I swear to the gods, Father, I will bury this knife. In the table. Or in you. Depends on how much you piss me off.”

Ragnar smirked, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. “Is that how you greet your father? I raised you better than this, boy.”

“You raised me to survive, not to suffer idiots,” Ivar shot back, slamming the knife down with a force that made the table creak. He finally turned, his cold blue eyes blazing. “So unless you want me to start sharpening this knife on something else, get to the point. And don’t waste my time.”

Ragnar shrugged, his calm demeanor only fueling Ivar’s irritation. “Oh, no point, really. Just watching. Making sure my favorite son isn’t sulking himself into oblivion.”

“I’m not sulking!” Ivar’s voice ricocheted off the stone walls. “I don’t care about the proposal, or about her, or about whatever stupid plan you think this will accomplish!”

“Oh, you don’t care?” Ragnar asked, raising a brow. “That’s funny. Because this,” he gestured at the knife, “this looks an awful lot like sulking. And sharpening your blade into nothing won’t fix it.”

Ivar clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “What part of ‘I don’t care’ do you not understand? Let her rot in Geiranger. Let her choke on her own pride. I don’t give a damn.”

Ragnar chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so? Because you’ve mentioned her at least three times since I came here. For someone who doesn’t care, you’re awfully passionate about it.”

Ivar’s hand twitched toward the knife. Ragnar, unfazed, straightened up and made his way to the door. “Well, no need to worry. Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk are already on their way. You can sit here, brood, and miss all the fun.”

“What?” Ivar’s voice dropped dangerously low, a storm brewing in his tone. “You sent them to her?”

Ragnar paused at the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Why not? They’re more charming than you are. Probably less likely to stab her.”

Ivar grabbed the knife and hurled it with a roar. It buried itself in the wood inches from Ragnar’s head. Ragnar didn’t even flinch, his laughter trailing behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

Ragnar stepped out of Ivar’s chambers, the faint echo of his son’s rage still resonating in his ears. The knife embedded in the wall had been a particularly fine touch, he thought with a smirk. It was Ivar’s way of saying he cared, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

In the dimly lit corridor, Ragnar was greeted by his daughter, Gyda, standing with her arms crossed and a skeptical expression on her face. Her blonde hair was neatly braided, and her eyes carried the sharp, observant glint she had inherited from him.

“How did it go?” she asked, her tone equal parts curious and concerned.

Ragnar tilted his head, his infamous half-smile spreading across his face. “Very well.”

Gyda raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Very well? I heard shouting from halfway across the hall, Father. You call that ‘very well’?”

Ragnar chuckled, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Ah, but shouting is Ivar’s way of showing affection. If he hadn’t thrown a knife, I’d be worried.”

Gyda rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “You’re playing with fire. He’s furious about the proposal, and sending Bjorn and the others to Geiranger hasn’t exactly helped.”

“That’s the point,” Ragnar said simply, his tone maddeningly calm.

Gyda folded her arms tighter, her frown deepening. “The point is to make him angrier?”

Ragnar shrugged. “The point is to make him feel something. Anger, jealousy, frustration—call it what you will. He cares more than he wants to admit, and that’s what matters.”

Gyda studied him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too serious,” Ragnar replied, his grin widening. “But that’s why you and Ivar get along so well.”

Gyda shook her head, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “And what if this all blows up in your face? What if he refuses?”

“He won’t,” Ragnar said confidently.

“And what makes you so sure?” she pressed, her voice tinged with exasperation.

“Because he’s my son,” Ragnar said, his tone turning serious for a moment. “And because, whether he admits it or not, he doesn’t want to be alone. None of us do, not really.”

Gyda looked away, her expression softening. Ragnar placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze warm but firm.

“Trust me, Gyda. This will work.”

She sighed again but nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Ragnar said, smirking as he began walking away.

“Except when you’re wrong,” Gyda called after him, a hint of mischief in her tone.

Ragnar laughed, his voice echoing down the corridor. “That’s the spirit!”

Geiranger

Yggdrasil stormed through her chambers, her boots pounding against the stone floor. The letter from Ragnar sat on the table, taunting her. Her mismatched eyes burned with barely-contained rage.

Andora, leaning against the doorframe with her usual infuriating smirk, watched her sister’s tirade with amusement. “If pacing was a skill, you’d be the best warrior in Geiranger by now.”

“Don’t start, Andora,” Yggdrasil snapped, jabbing a finger in her sister’s direction. “Ragnar Lothbrok is a manipulative, self-righteous bastard, and I’m this close—this close—to sending his precious letter back with a flaming arrow.”

Andora shrugged, unfazed. “Go ahead. I’m sure he’d admire your boldness. He’d probably frame the ashes.”

Varun, seated quietly in the corner with her arms crossed, finally spoke, her voice low but firm. “What does he want, Yggdrasil? You’ve been cursing his name for an hour, but you haven’t told us what he actually said.”

Yggdrasil snatched the letter off the table and waved it in front of them like it was venomous. “What does he want? Oh, nothing much. Just to send his sons here to ‘discuss the proposal.’ Because apparently, my life isn’t chaotic enough.”

“His sons?” Andora raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. “Well, isn’t that generous of him? The full parade of idiots.”

Varun tilted her head. “You’ve always said they’re like brothers to you.”

“Brothers don’t arrive under the pretense of shoving you into a marriage you don’t want,” Yggdrasil shot back. “This isn’t a family reunion; it’s a raid!”

Andora plucked the letter from her sister’s hand, skimming it with exaggerated flair. “‘Your boldness is admired.’” She snorted. “Oh, Ragnar, you sweet-talking old wolf. Flattery and manipulation in the same breath.”

Yggdrasil threw her hands up. “Admired! He admires me so much he’s decided to ruin my life. That’s his idea of affection.”

Varun, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward. “Are you going to let them in when they arrive? Or are you planning to set the gates on fire?”

“Let them in?” Yggdrasil scoffed. “I should make them sleep with the livestock. But knowing Hvitserk, he’d probably enjoy it.”

Andora burst out laughing. “Gods, I missed this. You ranting about Ragnar and his sons is better than any feast.”

Yggdrasil glared at her, though a small smile tugged at her lips despite her rage. “Laugh all you want, Andora. But mark my words: if they so much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll send them back to Kattegat in pieces.”

Varun stood, placing a steady hand on Yggdrasil’s shoulder. “You’ll deal with it, Yggdrasil. You always do.”

Yggdrasil sighed, her fury softening just a fraction. “I’ll deal with it, all right. But if Ragnar thinks this is over, he’s got another thing coming.”

Andora smirked, tossing the letter back onto the table. “Careful, sister. If you’re too bold, Ragnar might send Ivar next.”

The room fell silent, Yggdrasil’s glare darkening. Andora raised her hands in mock surrender.

“Joking. Gods, you’re touchy.”

“Out,” Yggdrasil muttered, waving them both toward the door. “Before I decide to take my anger out on you instead.”

As her sisters left, laughter still lingering in the air, Yggdrasil sat down heavily, staring at the cursed letter once more. Ragnar’s sons were coming, and with them, a storm she wasn’t sure she could weather.

Three days have passed…

The halls of Geiranger were eerily quiet, save for the faint echoes of hurried footsteps and whispered exchanges. A letter had arrived—sealed with the wolf insignia of Kattegat. It bore the unmistakable weight of Ragnar Lothbrok’s words. The contents were no mystery to Yggdrasil; she had expected as much. Yet, expectation had done little to dull her anger.

Yggdrasil paced in the grand hall, her movements restless, her dark braid whipping with every turn. Her mismatched eyes—one as icy blue as a winter sky, the other as green and fierce as the untamed forest—burned with frustration. She gritted her teeth, muttering curses under her breath. Hosting Ragnar’s sons? She would rather deal with a pack of hungry wolves.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of horses. A scout rushed into the hall, bowing his head.

“My Lady, the sons of Ragnar approach.”

Yggdrasil let out a sharp breath, rolling her eyes to the heavens as if asking the gods for strength. “Wonderful,” she muttered dryly. “The parade of fools has arrived.”

Moments later, the doors to the hall creaked open, and in strode Bjorn Ironside, Ubbe, and Hvitserk. Their presence commanded attention—towering men, each bearing the unmistakable charisma of their father. Bjorn, the eldest, had a quiet, steady confidence about him. Ubbe wore his usual half-smirk, a glint of mischief in his eyes. And Hvitserk? He looked like he was already planning his next inappropriate comment.

“Well, if it isn’t my dearest brothers,” Yggdrasil greeted them, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Come to bless my halls with your wisdom and charm, have you?”

“Careful, little sister,” Bjorn said, his deep voice calm yet firm. “Insults won’t make this easier for either of us.”

“Easier?” Yggdrasil shot back, crossing her arms. “Having you three under my roof is about as easy as swimming in full armor.”

Hvitserk chuckled, leaning casually against a pillar. “Oh, don’t be so sour, Yggdrasil. We’re here to discuss your... future.” His grin widened. “Besides, I missed your lovely personality. So warm. So inviting.”

“I’ll invite my sword to meet your neck if you don’t shut up, Hvitserk,” Yggdrasil snapped, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips despite herself. She turned to Bjorn. “Let’s not waste time. What does your father want now?”

Bjorn sighed, exchanging a glance with Ubbe. “You know why we’re here, Yggdrasil. Ragnar’s proposal still stands. He sent us to ensure you give it proper thought.”

“Proper thought?” Yggdrasil laughed bitterly. “I’ve given it all the thought it deserves. None.”

Ubbe stepped forward, his expression softer. “Yggdrasil, we’re not here to fight you. You know what this proposal means. It’s not just about you and Ivar. It’s about protection. About unity.”

“Unity?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You mean Ragnar wants to use me as a pawn to keep Geiranger loyal to Kattegat. Don’t dress it up as something noble, Ubbe.”

“That’s not true,” Bjorn interjected. “Our father cares for you, Yggdrasil. This isn’t just strategy. He knows what your presence in Kattegat would mean for you. Safety. A future.”

“Safety?” Yggdrasil scoffed, stepping closer to Bjorn. “Do you think I’m afraid? Do you think I need Ivar to protect me? I’ve survived worse than him.”

Hvitserk, ever the instigator, chimed in with a sly grin. “Survived, sure. But have you ever tried living, Yggdrasil? Might be nice to stop glaring at the world.”

“Careful, Hvitserk,” she warned, her tone like a blade. “Your charm doesn’t work on me.”

Ubbe raised his hands, trying to diffuse the tension. “Yggdrasil, no one’s forcing you. But you owe it to yourself to at least to speak to him.”

She fell silent, her gaze hard as steel as she studied her brothers. Deep down, she knew they weren’t her enemies. They were her family, in their infuriating, maddening way. But the thought of Ivar—angry, cruel, unpredictable Ivar—made her stomach churn.

Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll speak to him. But if this goes as badly as I expect, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Bjorn nodded, relief evident in his eyes. “That’s all we ask.”

As the brothers turned to leave, Hvitserk paused by the door, throwing her a mischievous grin. “Don’t worry, little sister. If you decide to kill Ivar, we’ll help you hide the body.”

Yggdrasil couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her lips. “Get out, Hvitserk, before I make good on that promise.”

When they were gone, Yggdrasil sank into a chair, her mind racing. She hated the situation, hated being cornered like this. But a small, nagging voice in the back of her mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t only about politics. Ragnar’s letter had spoken of protection, of family. Perhaps, against her better judgment, she would find something worth considering.

For now, she would prepare to face Ivar. If he thought he could intimidate her, he had another thing coming.

Kattegat

The great hall of Kattegat thrummed with its usual lively chaos. Warriors sharpened axes at the long tables, their laughter and boasts filling the air, while servants darted around carrying tankards of mead and trays of roasted meats. The hearthfire at the center of the room danced with a warmth that didn’t quite reach everyone present.

Ragnar lounged on his high seat, one leg hooked over the armrest, idly twirling his tankard of mead. He looked every bit the lazy jarl—until you caught the glint in his eye, a glint that promised mischief. Lagertha sat beside him, her elegance and composure starkly contrasting Ragnar’s rakish sprawl.

At a table nearby, Gyda sat with Athelstan, who was softly murmuring a prayer under his breath, as if he could feel a storm brewing. Gyda leaned over, her voice low. “Athelstan, you know praying won’t stop it, right?”

“It’s not for them,” he replied, shaking his head solemnly. “It’s for me. So I don’t run when the knives come out.”

The doors to the hall groaned open, and in strode Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk. They looked more like men who had just pulled off an elaborate prank than emissaries returning from an important mission. Hvitserk, true to form, made his presence known with a dramatic flourish.

“We’re back!” he boomed, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it at a passing servant.

Ragnar perked up instantly, leaning forward with a predatory grin. “And? What news do you bring from Geiranger?”

Bjorn stepped forward, exuding his usual quiet confidence. “She’s coming.”

The hall froze. Conversations halted, mugs paused mid-air, and even the crackling hearth seemed to quiet in the sudden tension.

From the far end of the room came a sharp metallic clang.

Ivar had dropped the knife he’d been sharpening.

“She’s what?” he snapped, his voice dripping venom.

“Coming here,” Ubbe said, his tone maddeningly casual as he leaned against a pillar. “To Kattegat. To talk.”

“Who the fuck decided that was a good idea?” Ivar growled, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

Hvitserk, ever the instigator, grinned as he sidled up to Ivar. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Ragnar, considering he sent us to invite her.”

Ivar’s face twisted into a snarl. “Don’t push me, Hvitserk. I swear to the gods, I’ll—”

“What? Stab me?” Hvitserk teased, raising his eyebrows mockingly. “Might as well, since I’m already dead inside.”

Ragnar’s booming laughter erupted from the high seat, cutting through the tension like a blade. He slapped his thigh, leaning back with abandon. “Oh, this is better than I thought! Look at you, Ivar! You’re about to explode like a barrel of fish left in the sun!”

Ivar rounded on Ragnar, his voice rising. “This isn’t funny!”

Ragnar only laughed harder, wiping at his eyes. “Not funny? You look like a child who’s just been told to share his favorite toy!”

Athelstan groaned softly from the table, burying his face in his hands. “Ragnar, you’re not helping.”

“Oh, come on, Aethelstan,” Ragnar said, grinning wickedly. “You can’t deny it’s entertaining. Look at him!” He pointed at Ivar, who was now gripping the arms of his chair so tightly it seemed the wood might splinter.

Gyda stood, placing a calming hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “Little brother, this doesn’t have to be a battle. Yggdrasil isn’t coming to fight you.”

“She might,” Hvitserk muttered under his breath, earning a quick elbow from Ubbe.

Gyda shot Hvitserk a glare but softened her tone as she turned back to Ivar. “She just wants to talk. That’s all.”

“Talk?” Ivar spat, his voice thick with disbelief. “What in the nine realms is there to talk about? She’s probably scheming—”

“She’s bold,” Lagertha interjected, her voice thoughtful and firm. “Coming here to face this head-on. It takes courage.”

“And a lot of guts,” Ubbe added, smirking. “She didn’t even flinch when we mentioned you, Ivar.”

Ivar’s head snapped toward Ubbe, his expression lethal. “What the fuck did you tell her about me?”

“Nothing too bad,” Ubbe said innocently, though his smirk widened. “Just that you’ve been sharpening knives and sulking since you heard about the proposal.”

“Fucking traitors,” Ivar snarled, glaring at his brothers with enough fury to set them alight.

“Calm down,” Bjorn said dryly, though his lips twitched in amusement. “or you’ll visit Valhalla before she even gets here.”

Athelstan, sensing the mounting chaos, cleared his throat nervously. “Perhaps we should focus on ensuring this... meeting doesn’t turn into a bloodbath.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hvitserk quipped, earning another booming laugh from Ragnar.

“I don’t care why she’s coming,” Ivar shouted, rising a bit from his chair. His voice cracked with unfiltered rage, though there was a flicker of something else—something closer to fear—in his eyes. “If she thinks she can walk into Kattegat and—”

“And what?” Ragnar cut him off, his tone suddenly sharp. The laughter was gone, replaced with a quiet intensity that silenced the entire hall. “What will you do, Ivar? Throw one of your tantrums and hope she runs? Scream and wave your knives like a child who’s had his toy taken away?”

Ivar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Exactly,” Ragnar said, leaning forward, his voice low and cutting. “You’ll do nothing. Because you don’t hate her, Ivar. You’re just afraid.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Lagertha, ever the voice of reason, placed a firm hand on Ragnar’s shoulder. “Enough,” she said quietly. “Let him think on it. We’ll see how he feels when she arrives.”

Ragnar leaned back with a sigh, though the amusement flickered back into his eyes. “Fair enough.”

Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk exchanged conspiratorial grins as they moved to the table.

“Five silver coins says Ivar loses it the second she steps into the hall,” Hvitserk whispered.

“Make it ten,” Ubbe replied, smirking.

“Both of you, stop,” Gyda scolded, though a smile tugged at her lips.

Ragnar, watching the scene unfold, grinned as he raised his tankard. “This is going to be the best show Kattegat has seen in years.”

Lagertha rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her smile. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” Ragnar said, taking a swig of mead. “But you love me for it.”

@ellijg @istorkyou @nukyster-blog

[firefa]

day 12: drew like a dark, fucked up version of scathing sharper. just a glimpse into my dark reality.

[starshinewriter]

"Smarter than the Smarties, Tougher than the Toughies, Sharper than the Sharpies."

Title: Who They Are

Link

Alternative to ao3:

Huey was smart. He could read faster than anyone he knew and solve the most complex equations in seconds. He understood every formula Scrooge's R&D team could throw at him and could tell you what country was where without even looking at a map. His whole life, he had prided himself on being smart. So much so that at times it felt like it was his defining characteristic, the only thing he brought to the table. He wasn't strong or clever, but he was smart. And he knew how much everyone depended on him for that- how they looked to him when they didn't know something, how they expected him to be the one to provide exposition when they were going somewhere new. He couldn't let them down. 

More than that, he liked being the smart one. If he was the smart one he never needed to worry about the unknown, because he could always figure it out. Things like uncertainty and anxiety could never weigh him down, because he could rationalize anything. He was dependable, he was respected.  

No matter what life threw at him, he could bounce back and do it with a list of reasons why that situation would be good for him in the long run. Huey Duck relied on his brain, and that was what made him who he was. 

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Dewey was tough. He bounced back faster than anyone after an adventure and took down elementary school bullies before he was even 5. He threw himself into danger without a second thought and kept fighting even when the whole world was against him. His whole life, he had prided himself on being tough. So much so that at times it felt like it was his defining trait, the only thing he brought to the table. He wasn't intelligent or clever, but he was tough. And he knew how much everyone depended on him for that- how they looked to him when there was a dangerous situation, how they expected him to defend them against the bad guys. He couldn't let them down.

More than that, he liked being the tough one. If he was the tough one he never needed to think of how chaotic his life had gotten, because he thrived in chaos. Things like insecurity and carelessness never held him back, because he could force his way through anything. He was resilient, he was admired. 

No matter what came his way, he would come out on top and do it with a smile on his face. Dewey Duck relied on his fists, and that was what made him who he was. 

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Louie was sharp. He figured out intentions in the blink of an eye and picked up on things even Scrooge missed. He could see how someone was feeling better than they could and read a room like nobody's business. His whole life, he had prided himself on being sharp. So much so that at times it felt like it was his defining trait, the only thing he brought to the table. He wasn't intelligent or strong, but he was sharp. And he knew how much everyone depended on him for that- how they looked to him when someone new was poking around, how they expected him to figure out all the traps. He couldn't let them down. 

More than that, he liked being the sharp one. If he was the sharp one he never needed to stress out on adventures, because he knew how they ended. Things like fear and vulnerability were ultimately brushed off, because he could talk his way out of anything. He was perceptive, he was accepted. 

No matter what troubles he faced, he would beat them back and do it with a scathing retort. Louie Duck relied on his words, and that was what made him who he was. 

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But see, you needed all three in order to be a good team. Each of them had their strengths, and each of them had their weaknesses. They covered each other. Supplemented each other. Made the triplets the cohesive unit they were. 

Without Huey's resourcefulness Dewey and Louie would get in over their heads. Without Dewey's boldness Huey and Louie would overthink everything. Without Louie's shrewdness Huey and Dewey would fall for every sob story they heard. Dewey and Louie made sure Huey didn't neglect his feelings in favor of logic. Huey and Louie made sure Dewey didn't push past things without actually dealing with them. Huey and Dewey made sure Louie didn't spend so much time in his head that he couldn't get out.  

They saw each other, better than anyone else did, and that was why they always chose each other to pair up with.