#unhinged sap

[demonslayerunhinged]

Unhinged analysis

Why is Sanemi so aggro? (Part 2)

This section is mostly from a class/economic standpoint and doesn't really focus on the demon attack on his family. It is also not only based on my little understanding based on the research I did about poverty and class in Edo/Late Meiji Japan but also based on my experiences as someone who grew up poverty-er-adjacent.

This blog here has an article that does a deep dive into Sanemi based on Japanese culture and history. Their work was what inspired me to do a deeper dive into Sanemi's poor backgoround. It's in Japanese but the translations are so worth it, and they have writeups on other characters!

Now lets get to it, this is post is going to be very long and very sappy, be warned.

His Background

We all know that Sanemi grew up poor, but it's poor in a way that's different from the other characters. We can attribute Gyomei's poverty to his religious faith in a way, Tanjiro and Muichiro are more modest than actually poor - at least they own their houses. The Shinazugawas had a shitty landlord whose son made fun of them for being 'the poor people with too many kids', they lived in these rundown, face-to-face, the-neighbors-know-all-your-business row houses.

Sanemi grew up in the slums with a population of citizens who were essentially 'left behind' during the rise of urbanization and industrialization. These citizens not only had to deal with characterizations that portray them as being ignorant, uneducated, boorish, dirty, aggressive, mannerless and ignorant, but also with being preyed upon by greedy landlords, merchants and businessmen. The government weren't of much help either because they would rather put in efforts into removing them as far as possible from the modern cities, away from the eyes of foreigners.

In my experience, slum dwellers rarely if ever rise above their station in life. Their lack of education and exposure prevents them from making a better life for themselves and even if they do move to the city, they are stuck doing menial or manual labor jobs with shitty pay. They spend their entire lives in perpetual poverty no matter how hard they work and how many jobs they take because they're ultimately fighting a system that has not only abandoned them but also creates policies that prevent them from moving higher in life.

Due to these frustrations, a lot of them take up gambling and drinking alcohol to cope with their sorrows. Frustrations with the system and with their situations lead to a lot of them taking up gambling and developing alcoholism to cope. There is also high rate of violence among them, especially domestic violence as heads of households who were usually the ones to go out into the world and deal with the discrimination and struggles while trying to pursue low class jobs would take out their anger on their wives and ultimately children. The children who grow up in this environment, where violence is all they know would eventually go on to become abusers themselves when they start families of their own, that is, if they don't die of illness or are killed before that.

You can read more about it here, here, here, here and here.

We can see that with Sanemi's dad, the piece of shit who took out all his anger and frustrations on his wife and children before ultimately becoming a victim of violence himself.

After his death, we see Sanemi having to take up the responsibility of taking care of the family as was culturally expected of the firstborn and the oldest boy - similar to Tanjiro. When Sanemi's dad died, he had to take up a job to take care of the family. In the scene where he talks with Genya about their dad's death and their promise to take care of their mother and siblings, we can see that Sanemi is pulling a rickshaw.

Rickshaw pullers were among the lowest classes of manual labor, they were referred to sometimes as 'Human horses' and while they were mostly known for transporting people, they were also hired by merchants and regular people to transport goods as well. We're not told of the work his mother did before she turned into a demon, but she might have been a domestic worker or a waitress of some sort. It's not hard to imagine that there were times when the kids had to go hungry.

So what's the point of all this story? Well because children who come from these backgrounds are not only often violent and aggressive in their language, conduct and personality but even if they do manage to make it to adulthood and by some miracle manage to break through the class barrier they often come out of the other side with a MASSIVE inferiority complex.

And our dear boy Sanemi has one, big time.

Now that we've talked about his background, let's talk about how all this contributes to his....

Relationships

In the fandom, the main complaints about Sanemi is his behavior towards Giyuu, Tanjiro, the demon slayer trainees and Genya, so I'm going to focus on just these.

Giyuu

Like I've mentioned before @roseameilatempest already posted a great write-up about Sanemi and his complicated relationship with Giyuu, so I'm just adding to it.

The two main things that create friction in their relationship, aside from Giyuu's inability to communicate are Sanemi's low self-esteem and his aggressive personality. The low self-esteem really showed itself when he questioned Giyuu at the Hashira meeting about his 'I'm not like you guys attitude'.

In this scene he asks

Which is a really interesting question because of all the Hashiras he's the only one who voices this sentiment. Obanai just talks about Giyuu wanting to get ahead, Shinobu just asks him to explain himself, Muichiro doesn't really care, but there's the thing about being the baby of the group so he may not want to butt-in to the 'adult' matters. Gyomei is praying.

Sanemi's the only one who stands up and confronts Giyuu about the matter but given his background as previously discussed it's almost as if he's asking "Are you looking down on me?".

From the little we know of Giyuu's backstory, he didn't grow up in poverty. After his family died, he went to go live with relatives before making the decision to leave and join the corps. He has fair skin and soft looking features in contrast to Sanemi's rough, scarred ones. He has slim, delicate-looking hands with piano-playing fingers compared to Sanemi large, knobby, rough-looking hands with early-onset-arthritis-ass fingers.

Even his conduct has a certain air of class to it. So when Giyuu says stuff like 'I'm not like other girls-I mean Hashira', the inferiority complex part of Sanemi is triggered, and he takes it as an attack on him thinking that Giyuu is looking down on him because of his poor background and his class.

But Sanemi deep down cares, even if he doesn't realize it. Instead of dismissing Giyuu as just being a dick, he tries to get an answer, an explanation, but because of his rough way of speaking and his aggressive personality it comes out confrontational. He doesn't know how to express himself in a non-aggressive way because nobody ever taught him how.

Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤)

Ah yes, Sanemi's BFF. I'm honestly surprised that some people don't understand why Sanemi does not vibe with Tanjiro. Tanjiro embarrassed him in their first meeting, only to escape the consequences for his actions because of the Master's benevolence. He questioned his worth as a Hashira which, as mentioned in the previous post, is the core of Sanemi's identity.

In their second encounter, Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤) talked back to him. Now, despite all the wacky and interesting characters, the fancy mods to their uniform with the haoris and stuff, the Demon Slayers Corps are still a military organization. They have a hierarchy, they have rules and punishments for those who break them and within the context of the military and cultural values: You don't talk back to your superiors, you don't disrespect them and you most certainly don't embarrass them no matter how in the right you feel you are. It's not fair, it just is. Some superiors may tolerate it like Tengen, Giyuu, Mitsuri and Shinobu but others, like Sanemi, Gyomei, Obanai and even Muichiro will not.

I mean, even Mitsuri complained about Genya's behavior when she first met him, even though his actions were because of him being shy.

The first time Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤) disrespected Sanemi, he was on neutral ground, the Master's mansion. Kagaya is a saint, so he understood Tanjiro's actions, but remember he also chided Tanjiro a bit, even if it was in a soft manner. Now in this second encounter, He's in Sanemi's house, in his domain, and you can't come about here disrespecting your senior in their own house. And If you do, be prepared to face the consequences.

Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤) then embarrassed Sanemi again by (rightfully) calling him out on his shitty behavior towards Genya, in public, in front of his other subordinates. He then proceeds to not only block Sanemi's punch but to counter it with an embarrassing kick to the neck, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE SCRUBS! Like what? In some organizations, you could be penalized and immediately kicked out, but like I said, Kagaya is a saint.

That's why Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤) was given the reprimand and Sanemi wasn't. Because he was in the wrong.

The concept may seem foreign to people who grew up in the west, but for those of us from home countries that have rigid power and class structures, we know this pain all too well.

That's why you talk and complain about your superiors BEHIND their backs, like Zenitsu does.

I swear, Zenitsu is probably the realest character in the series, I love him so much 😂.

Then in the last encounter they had, Tanjiro embarrassed Sanemi again, but this time it's worse because he did it RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIS CRUSH!

Your senior's business is not your business, if you see them fighting, it's best just to leave them alone and pray it's the one you hate that gets his ass kicked.

So here's Sanemi trying to communicate with his crush, and he's about to get to the part where they get to put their hands on each other ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). Then Tanjiro comes up and gets between them, ignoring the restraining order and then asking if they were fighting over ohagi.

He then reveals Sanemi's biggest secret: That he's gay-I-mean-er likes ohagi. Neither Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤) nor Giyuu see any problem with this because soft boys but for a tough, scary man like Sanemi this is a problem. He's a man, he shouldn't be taking sweets! (which is like a real thing in Japan, so i learned. You can read about it here, here, here and here), also Sanemi loves ohagi becuase his mom used to make it; men shouldn't be thinking about their mommies! Men should be tough and only eat manly things like raw bull testicles and cement!

Then Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤) drives the knife even further by asking him about his ohagi preferences, while Giyuu (who unknown to Sanemi is glad to have found an opportunity to rizz him up) asks him to confirm but in Sanemi's mind he thinks Giyuu is making fun of him too.

So Tanjiro has, so far, called him a shitty Hashira, a shitty brother, and now a shitty man. All he wanted to do was smash and now he's getting pressed by a 16 year old. So yea, our boy is going to react in the only way he knows how - by giving Tanjiro a swift clock to the jaw.

At this point, you've gotta pity Sanemi, he's the real victim in this relationship. But let's move on.

The Trainees

This is another complaint that also confuses me because the answer is so obvious. Why is Sanemi hard on the trainees?

Because Sanemi's training is Infinite Strikes! Because his training is supposed to be hard! Because they're at war! Because Muzan might be coming soon! Because this is a military training! Because the Hashiras are basically Drill Sergeants! Because Sanemi says fuck you!

But seriously, I don't understand why Sanemi and Obanai are getting hate for their training methods when Tengen's was just as harsh, Mitsuri was basically ending family bloodlines, Muichiro deadass was about to sashimi someone's child.

And Gyomei? Gyomei's training basically qualifies as torture by the Geneva convention laws. You see these guys below? These boys are all dead! Dead, i tell you! You can't convince me otherwise!

Even Inosuke died!

The training is meant to be harsh because it's not just the trainees lives at stake, it's the people of Japan, it's the lives of their friends, families and loved ones. The Hashiras know this and Sanemi whose whole life revolves around being a demon slayer and killer, especially knows this.

He and Obanai don't have the luxury of sending the junior slayers back for their protection like they did in the mansion. Like we saw in the last episode of the season, Muzan came after everyone not just the Hashira. Despite his rough and harsh exterior, Sanemi actually cares about his colleagues and his subordinates and he doesn't want them to die needlessly. If that means he has to be the 'bad' Hashira, then that's fine with him.

Genya

There's no justification for the shit he pulled trying to poke Genya's eyes out. I've made like two posts regarding this before about how his actions were not only stupid but will ultimately be pointless because Genya is amazing!

Aside from wanting to keep Genya safe (whatever that means), I think one of the reasons Sanemi doesn't want to come in contact with Genya is because when he's around Genya he's reminded of the past and trauma that he's trying to repress. I don't think it was a random choice that older Genya is dressed in a way almost similar to baby Genya. So everytime Sanemi sees him, despite Genya's size and the awesome things he's done, all he can see is that little boy that he almost failed to protect, that called him a monster, that rejected him and seeing that reopens that old core wound. That he's a monster.

Sanemi isn't ready to face all that, so with the little understanding of his own emotions and the trappings of toxic masculinity, he pushes Genya away becuase doing so is way, way, way easier than talking to his brother. It's easier than revealing to Genya that Genya's words did hurt him, that he failed to protect their mom and siblings and that maybe Genya is right, he is a monster, that even though he saved Genya it doesn't change the fact that he used his very hands to kill the only person that loved and protected them in this world.

I think a lot of people really underestimate the gravity of what baby Sanemi did. Tanjiro couldn't kill Nezuko and I'm sure he himself would've rather died than raise a hand to his loved ones but Tanjiro was lucky in a sick way because Nezuko was not only the only survivor but encountered Giyuu who who gave him the opportunity to save Nezuko, essentially giving her a second life. Sanemi never had that chance. In order to protect his brother, he had to kill his beloved mother, and you can just imagine the amount of damage that can do to a child's psyche.

I read a comment on Youtube that said this was probably the reason why Sanemi was so feverently against the Master's defence of Nezuko and that when Nezuko rejected his blood, his whole worldview must have shattered because if Nezuko was able to overcome her demonic urges and still maintain her sanity, why couldn't his beloved mother?

But you might ask, how come Genya seems fine? Well, he wasn't at first, he was basically Sanemi 2.0 but he was able to make peace with himself, escape the trappings of toxic masculinity and the violence that they were raised in. Instead of bottling up his emotions, he wants to reach out, to apologize for his behavior, to mend their brotherhood because no matter how Sanemi is now, no matter how many times he tells him to get lost, no matter the harsh words he throws at him, to Genya he'll always be his Aniki.

The same Aniki who's been looking out for him, the same Aniki that sought him out and comforted him after he punched the landlord's shitty son, the same Aniki who gave him a piggyback ride despite them practically being the same height just to make Genya feel happy and loved, the same Aniki who let out that brilliant laugh after they made the promise to protect their family as he pulled the Rickshaw to make some money for the family, the same Aniki who is the sweetest, kindest person in the whole world.

While we see the rough, scarred, aggressive and scary Sanemi, Genya only sees this:

I'm sure a lot of us know what it's like to be angry, to lash out, to push people away and how difficult it is go through life in a world that doesn't care about you or your trauma. We know what it's like to be left behind and forgotten. We wander aimlessly through life hurting with a feeling of emptiness and we don't even know why. Some of us overcome, some of us don't. We just make do with the tools and little resources we have and Sanemi is a painful reminder of that.

In Conclusion, Sanemi is a complex character. He's not all star good, he's a dick, some of his actions are straightup unhinged, but that's what makes him human. He's not perfect, and for us to appreciate this character we have to accept him in all his wild, raging, scarred, petty-ass, little-brother-eye-poking, women's-size-7-feet-having, ohagi-loving glory.

[doctor-vertigo]

Simping for this guy again [bangs my fist against the desk and starts sobbing uncontrollably]

The second image is a reference to this iconic image, I’m sure people have already drawn this with him and better but yk

[magnusbae]

Your obikin rants when you reblog my post are my daily delight, please never stop 🥰

Oh you darling 😌🤭🥰 I'm glad that it is amusing to you. I often do wonder about the people who just get a massive text block in their activity and then just proceed to do it anyways -amused- it's good it provides for good reading material 😌😏😏

[thelovelybitten]

🕯️this is a manifestation post that the pink parrots get into top two for MCC 🕯️

[baskeigh-ball]

pov: you’re the poor sap stuck in the ring with the Red Angel

I don’t explore his unhinged side nearly enough but like, doing so would mostly involve drawing fight scenes. So maybe that’s why, because I cannot draw a fight scene for the life of me ._.

[comatosebunny09]

heel | sylus

sum: he knows without looking that you’re beside him once more. you always are. like a faithful crow perched on his shoulder, awaiting his command. he wouldn’t have it any other way.

cw: reader is implied to be female, reader has hair, guns, mentions of violence, implied minor character death, innuendos, you’re a little unhinged and sylus is here for it, & maybe he has a thing for you, scent kink (?), mdni

notes: idk what this is. i just wanted to write something about sylus having a bad-ass lapdog. inspired by that unleashed movie with jet li. might continue this. thank you for reading!

He can’t focus. Not with you smelling like that behind him.

It’s an arresting scent. Sweet, floral, nostalgic. Intertwined with your natural fragrance, it’s quite a heady mix.

He first catches wind of it when you angle yourself over the table beside him to place a case—heavy with military-grade weapons—onto its polished surface. Your warmth fades along with the aroma, the wispy tendrils of your hair grazing his neck.

Sylus finds himself chasing the smell when you ease back to rejoin the twins. He peers at you over his shoulder as if to convince himself he isn’t imagining things.

You bear a deceptively innocent smile. Acknowledge Sylus with a nod, and your eyes darken into something indistinguishable. Mischief? Admiration? Murderous intent?

You’re always itching for a good fight. Vibrating with the need to protect and maim at the drop of a hat. At the subtle tremor of Sylus’ fingers.

Sylus shakes his head to dispel the tension, smirking down at his lap and returning his attention to the table. Regains his composure, fixed on the gentleman seated across.

“Ten million,” Sylus simply states through the lazy furl of cigar smoke. Beneath the sepia-toned veil cast by the filament lights overhead.  

The portly man on the opposite side of the table harrumphs. Gradually erupts into a fit of laughter mixed with coughing and wheezing. Sylus winces. Maybe he should give the cigar a break.

As if reading Sylus’ thoughts, the gentleman does just that. Signals to one of his bodyguards—one of ten. For little old Sylus? He then snuffs out his smoke on the summoned guard’s palm, not batting an eye.

Disgusting, Sylus thinks, lips twitching with the urge to sneer. How could humans make themselves so disposable?

“Mister Sylus,” the gentleman begins, disrupting Sylus’ inner monologue. He folds his fat, liver-spotted hands on the table and leans forward until his chair creaks. “My family has worked with you for years—”

“Your point?” Sylus interjects, his brow ticking. He’s trying to keep his cool. Trying to maintain that poker face. Between this deal sapping up more time than he initially anticipated and your heavenly scent beckoning to him like ghostly tendrils curling under his chin, he’s more than a little antsy.

The gentleman clears the phlegm from his throat. Tugs on the round of his tie, disbelieving Sylus’ gall. He tries again, sitting up a little straighter.

“My point, Mister Sylus, is that ten million is a little…eh, steep.” Leaning back, the man’s lips crook into a smirk. Sylus narrows his eyes. He knows this song and dance. This fool thinks he’s already won. “Especially given that these weapons are mere prototypes—”

Sylus doesn’t have to speak. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, that fragrance once again pervading his senses like creeping mist. It’s accompanied by a swift breeze caressing his cheek. By the clack of something metallic set on the table. He knows without looking that you’re beside him.

You always are. Like a faithful crow perched on his shoulder, awaiting his command. He feels it rolling off you in waves. The vitriol, the malice.

Down, girl, Sylus thinks, eying you in his periphery. Swells with pride. Leans back in an easy slouch, crossing his legs with humor gracing his features. He pushes that bewitching smell to the backburner. There’s money to be made and a scourge to be wiped from the face of the planet.

The room had lapsed into an impenetrable silence when you slammed a pistol on the table. A show of power. A threat bleeding into a promise.

All eyes are on the shiny gleam of the revolver.

The gentleman swallows thickly, fretting with his tie, Adam’s apple bobbing. He glances between you and Sylus, and it’s comical how a bead of sweat forms on his mottled temple.

He swiftly feigns nonchalance, throwing his hands up as he cackles with his guards over his shoulder. Red-faced like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “What is this? Am I—am I really supposed to be intimidated by that?” He gestures to the revolver like it’s something of child’s play.

Another gust of air grazes Sylus’ skin. He’s bereft of the scent you carry, finding his wits scurrying back to him. Like you released him from a spell.

In an instant, you’re behind the gentleman. A deviously soft hand presses between his shoulder blades. You pitch yourself forward over his shoulder, your lips brushing the outer shell of his ear.

“No,” you whisper, and the man shirks away with a shriek pinched from his throat like he’s seen a ghost. Your accompanying giggle bodes danger. “But you should be scared a’ me.”

The click of various weapons shifting to semi surrounds you. Ten guns aimed at your back, threatening to rend you to sinew and bone. But you’re too quick. In the blink of an eye, you’re seated on the table before the gentleman, one leg crossed over the other, leant back on your hands, your head coyly cocked to the side.

You’re a cheeky little shit. Sylus wouldn’t have you any other way.

The man’s tie is suddenly between your fingers. You’re admiring the texture of it, lids lowered, lips pursed whilst you tug him forward. Your breath fans over his blanched skin, and you scrutinize his features like a curious feline. He’s petrified, his men’s weapons poised at his back.

You grin something sultry, toying with the gentleman’s tie. Gaze flits between him and his goons, signaling for him to call them off. They’ll have to riddle him with holes to get to you. Have them do the dirty work for you. Crafty little thing.

His bodyguards acquiesce when the man raises a trembling hand. Reluctantly lower their weapons, a symphony of quickened heartbeats and clenching buttholes invading the air. The man’s stricken by your beauty and otherworldly speed. He thought this would be cake. Figured he could pull one over on Onychinus’ notorious kingpin, unaware that he would drag his guard dog into the fray.

Sylus sighs, shifting in his seat. Stuffs a hand in his pocket, nothing short of amused. “And here I thought you were a smart man,” he huffs, examining his nails. “This could’ve all been so very easy.”

“But you had to make it hard,” you tack on against the swell of the gentleman’s lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”

At some point, you pilfered the man’s phone from his pocket.

You hold it to his face, unlocking it with his biometrics. His bank app has already been cued up with Sylus’ information. Your humored visage ebbs in and out of focus as the gentleman peers between you and the screen.

The man swallows again, his throat clicking. He cautions another look at your boss, silently willing him to call you off. Sylus does no such thing, instead holding his hands up in mock surrender.

Shakily, the gentleman keys in the proffered amount. Presses send, the chime of it the only sound heard in the tense atmosphere.

You look at Sylus over your shoulder. Smile sweet as sugar, and something in Sylus’ chest pulls. He nods once he’s received the transaction. Quietly praises you with a smoldering look before maneuvering to dismount his seat with a flourish of his coat. Luke and Kieran flank him without a hitch, snickering at his sides.

Sylus smiles, playfully waving his phone in the air. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, moving to the room’s only entry point with the twins in tow.

The man bristles, sweat coasting in rivulets down his neck. He moves to stand, but you bar him, blotting out everything from sight that isn’t you. You twist his tie around your fist, wordlessly telling him to heel. He’s already lost. Already tried to undermine the devil and failed. No sense in prolonging his sentencing.

Not that Sylus intended to let him live from the start.

“Oh, and, sweetie,” purrs Sylus, halfway through the threshold over his shoulder. Your gazes interlock for the briefest of seconds. He does so love it when you look at him like that. “Have fun.”

You need no further goading as the door slips shut with Sylus’ exit.

Your body hums with the prickle of your Evol, and a crazed smirk warps your countenance as the gentleman’s bodyguards close in.

[daylighted]

( -_•)╦̵̵̿╤─ ㅤ ─ ㅤ addicted to the knife. ( d.w )¹

cw. graphic depictions of blood & violence. pre-established relationship. normal!au (kind of). unhinged!dean. sweet!reader. inspo from this tiktok edit.

THE BLOOD STAINS the sink this time, while he tries to wash it down the drain. pink on porcelain white, so vibrant still that he can almost hear the screams echoing in his ears.

there are so many justifications he has for himself in his head, and not a single one holds a candle to the reality of his reasonings. they were monsters, and they were going to hurt you.

he couldn't let them get away with it, could they? what kind of person would that make him if he didn't step in and protect the only person that broke through his defenses? it'd make him a monster too, wouldn't it? couldn't have that.

his fingertips are raw from trying to scrub the blood out from under his nails, and yet it still doesn't come out. the sink is still pink. and you're blissfully asleep in bed in the next room, unaware of the scent of decay dominating the house.

vampires, this time. that was why they bled so much. all the blood in their stomachs from draining innocent people; one could have been you. bled so much, not because of the fact he'd bludgeoned them until they were unrecognizable, and burnt them to be safe ─ was that the burning smell that clung to his nostrils? he'd thought you burnt dinner, too desensitized to it all that he couldn't distinguish the different scents of burnt meat.

the sink water is so hot, that steam billows off of it and condensates on the mirror. dean does not meet his reflection, and tells himself it's not because he'll see truths in the depths of his green eyes that he isn't ready to face yet. it's because the glass is foggy, and you're in bed, waiting for him to coil around you like a snake, and suffocate you in his protective embrace.

"dean?" your voice calls, soft padded footsteps echoing closer and closer in the room, to where he stands in front of a blood-stained sink, with the evidence of his crimes so deeply embedded into his clothes that his skin is sticky with it. not pink yet, but disgustingly red. dark. matches his eyes.

dean barely manages to turn the faucet off before you arrive, your face softened with exhaustion, pinched tight in confusion. "y'never came to bed," you slur through your sleepiness, blinking up at him. so damn sweet. and the world wanted him to let you get hurt. to let all of the monsters in the world destroy you.

no. not on his watch. he may have blood on his hands, may keep secrets from you, but he was not them. he'd never, ever lay a finger on you and risk hurting your pretty little head.

dean's smile comes so easily. it's you: of course it does. "stayed late at the office," the smile falls slowly, to mimic your sleepy expression. it's so easy for him to blend in with you.

you don't even blink at his lie. this is why he has to keep you safe. pretty and trusting. a fawn wandering into a wolf's den, too distracted by their soft fur to notice their snarling teeth. "come to bed now?"

"f'course, baby," dean whispers, and when he looks down to follow your reaching hand, the sink is the same porcelain white, and his hands are raw and aching.

relief seeps out of him like sap. slow and dripping, always a little left in the tank, never quite able to be fully excavated. this was why he did what he did, after all; that fear drove him like a knife.

your fingers close around his, though, and your eyes do not see the blood on his palms, as you pull him to bed. it's too dark in the bedroom for you to notice the fact that he'd missed speckles of blood on the collar of his button up.

your face buries into his chest, and the only smell you find in the bare skin is the strong scent of your floral handsoap. anything, to keep the scent of coppery blood from ever touching you.

nothing would ever touch you.

he stays up all night to make sure of it.

. . . tags.

@whyyouegg @sthefferrete @cevansbaby-dove @titsout4nicholas @cosmicanakin

@bluestrd @ultravi0lence14 @mccartneyqp @poughkeepsie99 @depressionbarbie2023

@im-bili @ariasong11 @chevroletdean @angelblqde @ostaramoon

@deansbite @lyarr24 @psyches-reid @reynas13 @momoewn

@deanswidow @jasvtsc @figthoughts @beausling @frosttbitessam

@aileenunfiltered

[m4rs-ex3]

the season 7 quotes ever: unhinged edition

"ooh, what about a primal jelly tart?”

"sunfire? always hot."

“i guess that’s as good a spot as any to hide a secret basement… at the top of a tower.”

“we’ve been sitting here eating dessert, Rayla. DESSERT.”

“you were collecting worms for dark magic, weren’t you? or for… FISHING."

“for what purpose?” “‘to save your… posterior.’ she wants you to know that she used a different word. than posterior.”

“SALAD GUY!” “oh, good. somebody does know me!”

“alright. we’ve turned the unicorn bones into unicorn bone goop.”

"uh, so, here’s the thing. love is good."

“you say potato, i say po-tah-to…” “just so you know… it’s potato.” “um, no. that’s the whole point.” “don’t even get him started on tomatoes.” “ugh, they’re to-mah-toes. we’ve been over this, Corvus."

"yes you am."

“here to judge me, Captain Trueheart?”

“i mean, at the end of the day, you’re at the top of the org chart.” “we have an org chart?”

"i’m Terry. uh, Terrestrius for short. i mean, for long, i guess.”

“confirmed. regular sap.”

“i’m sorry. i’m not sure how you want me to respond.” “YEAH, WHILE I’M CONFUSED TOO.”

“oh no! DARK MAGIC? wHaTeVeR sHaLl I dO?!”

“RAYLAAAA, CALLUM WANTS TO HAVE TEN BABIES WITH YOU! TEN!”

[ravensmadreads]

Unhinged totally unasked for thots about Riding Pedro Boys

Authors Note: So this came from me chugging entirely too many energy drinks and then projectile vomiting in Taylors inbox. I'd like to warn you that: English isn't my first language, I have never written smut before, I'm not a real writer, and also I'm trash goblin levels of unhinged about this. That being said; Enjoy and uhh. Forgive me Fandom

JAVIER PEÑA

Javier Pena doesn't let you do it.

Don't @ me LISTEN! (YES I STARTED OFF WITH A CONTROVERSIAL THOT FUCKING BITE ME.)

That man does not have the time, or the patience, or the good sense (the sense is at the other end) to let you ride. He needs the control okay? And sometimes it's not even about the control ! It's the frustration. It piles and piles and piles until he snaps. He needs to do. He will bend you over and work his frustration away until he has had enough and you let him because he needs it. (And lets be real he makes it worth your while every single time)

BUT. When he finally fucking retires, and gets a ranch, and breaths air not tinged with the smells of death, cigarettes and guns for the first time in however many years, and maybe drinks some fucking water, he takes you out on a date. He fumbles through the entire thing, panics because he thinks he blew it, still manages to get you home, gets ridden for the first time in like 6 years, and can't walk straight for an entire day and stammers every time someone asks him why.

JAVIER GUTIERREZ

Javi G loves it. He loves watching you. Gets all puppy dog wide eyed (remember the pool scene face??? Thats it.) and you have to really focus because his look of straight up wonder and awe and bright eyed eagerness makes you want to cry. He's panting like he's running a marathon, running his big hands EVERYWHERE he can reach. He makes you feel worshipped and adored and so very very loved. Thanks you after. For being so amazing, and so wonderful to him, and thanks the universe that he found you. Cause he's sap. You definitely cry after.

JOEL MILLER

(Watch me be controversial again) Joel is fucking tired okay? He has old man bones and creaky joints and his back is achy. Patrol was agony, Jesse wouldn't shut up the entire time, and Tommy was giving him shit, and he has no energy to drill anyone into the mattress (as much as we all want him to). He's just plain tired. He likes you on top. Likes it slow (like a roast chicken on a sunday slow). Enjoys the gradual build up, likes to lean back, watch with half open eyes as you take your time. Wants to indulge in something beautiful at the end of the world, and that something is you. He makes sexy grunting noises, mutters a whole lot of praise ~and filth~ and just y'know. Savours it. 🫠🫠🫠 savours you. 🫠

DIETER BRAVO

Dieter is a maniac. (Leave him alone he has adhd!!) He can't still still for the life of him so you best believe he changes positions 6 times and the only way you're getting to ride is if you're also putting some weight elsewhere. To hold him down! You squeeze his neck once and he MELTS. INSTANTLY. Loses all sense. Starts babbling and whimpering and making extremely pathetic noises. Will definitely buck up and whine. PRAISES YOU. BEGGING. LOUD NOISES.

MAX PHILLIPS

Max is a heathen. He just likes watching you bounce. That's it. That's the post :p

MARCUS PIKE

Marcus P is a romantic. He will be doing the whole "lean forward and try to get kisses in between" while also "moaning and maintaining eye contact" and he's holding you so tight , squeezing your sides and also muttering declarations of love. About how he wants a life with you, and a family, and a home, and a future. How he's going to "make you so happy baby, I promise I will, I swear to you". Doesn't let you off for from on top of him for atleast a half hour after; kissing all over your face and rubbing your back and petting your hair "I meant all of it sweetheart. I want all of you." shsbzgwgsvsg ilovehimsomuch and I've only ever seen gifsets of this man what is wrong with me

MARCUS MORENO

Marcus M is A MENACE. He wears his stupid glasses, and has his stupid shirt off, while he does stupid taxes/meeting plans in bed. You keep throwing side glances and getting increasingly wound up and he just has this gentle smirk but he's mostly ignoring you. You sidle up to him and maybe start kissing his jaw, laying gentle pecks down his neck, and he's still fukcungh working "Baby. I need to finish this. I'm sorry, you need to wait." But that smirk is still there and it's driving you crazy and maybe you keep kissing until you reach his *coughs* and then you're working on getting him interested. You can still hear the fucking pen scratching though and so you go deeper, and he raises an eyebrow. "be good now honey" You're settling in his lap and he has you sitting there until he has finished his paperwork with you whimpering and trying not to squirm because you want to be good you really do and you know he'll make it so much better but he feels so good and when he's finally finally done you get to move but you're so wound up you can't pull yourself together enough to find a rhythm and you're nearly in tears and he has to grip your sides and murmur instructions in your ear and help you until you're satisfied and just when you think he's done, and about to flip you over, he adjusts his grip and starts moving from underneath you until you're crying and he's finished ~which doesnt happen until you've come 2 more times~

DAVE YORK

Dave. Oh my gosh Dave. Dave is a strict dom if ever there was one. With him it's a punishment. He'll tell you to hold off until he's done which is freaking impossible with how deep he gets, and how he likes to warm up his hands on your butt while you're trying desperately to hold onto that last thread of control. He is muttering absolute filth, holding your arms behind your back with one hand while the other is either laying smack after smack or rubbing you furiously all the while he's got the smuggest look. "Don't you dare baby. Be a good girl now. Listen and obey for once". But you can't because he's not fair and he knows it. And when you do finally fall apart he's clenching his teeth trying to hold back himself and his hands are holding you up as you gasp his name like it's the only word you know. He's running his hands down your back and kissing you softly and helping you catch your breath and when you finally get your heart to stop pounding and look up at him, he's watching you with this dangerously soft smile and he goes "oh you're in for it now aren't you honey?" and kisses your forehead while you try not to whimper.

FRANKIE MORALES

Frankie is a soft boy. He loves it. Craves it. He loves giving up control. Wants you to tie him up and have your way until he has no thoughts left in that pretty little head. He is swearing like an absolute sailor the entire time, calling you ma'am, begging to be released so he can kiss you and touch you, absolutely nearly breaks the head board once he was so desperate. Wants to be edged but also is the biggest WIMP about it. Will pout and swear and beg and plead but then want you to deny him again. Will definitely be mumbling absolute nonsense once you're done. Needs all the aftercare. Blushes pink when he gets it. Wraps himself around you like a HUGE koala bear after. ~and returns the edging favour 3 times over when he gets in his Captain Francisco Morales Mood~

JACK DANIELS

BONUS TWO I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT and tumblr won't let me put gifs for:

Jack makes every single cowboy joke known to man. You have to put your hand on his mouth to get him to shut the hell up. His eyes get all glassy when you do. He puts his hat on top of your head and busies himself in your neck (dual benefits: A. He shuts up and B. HICKIES) will definitely drag you on top of him in his Bronco (he likes to show off) will pull up on the side of the road almost 70% of the times you drive together. Bites you over your clothes. Loves the way you grab desperately at this leather jacket. Definitely makes you bend over and 'clean up the mess sugar' before driving like the hounds of hell are after him all the way back home and doing it all over again because "we gotta make you a mama now love"

PERO TOVAR

Pero got married after he came back and retired as a sell sword. His wife is a soft but sassy thing who's a little (read: not at all, she returns his snark twice over) intimidated by him but also thinks he's a good man because he saved her village from raiders. She has seen him grumble and snark at but then also share his food with the orphans who works at the village inn. She's inexperienced (let me live my victorian life) and he doesn't really think he deserves her but also he's not so much an idiot to say no to someone like her. She's the village "healer" and he met her when he got stabbed by one of the raiders (arm wound: not serious.) He has to teach her. She gets shy and flustered, which is a total 180 from her sassy self, and Pero loves it. She makes the most amazing sounds that have him thinking that maybe he did something right in his life to end up in her arms. She wants to please her new husband and asks her married friends for advice and they tell her about this new position. So she asks him, stuttering and tripping over words, if she could try something she heard about? From a friend? She straddles him and Pero loses his mind. He's closing his eyes and clenching his jaw so hard and she's whimpering in the most DELICIOUS way and he's trying so hard to hold back and let her take her pace and she's so worried "am I not doing it right?" Pero has to take 3 deep breaths before he's centred enough to answer and then he helps her. Puts his hands on her hips to guide her. Puts one of her hands on his shoulder "steady now pequenita" and puts the other low on her belly and presses in so she can feel him. Loves the way she cries out. Bends forward to leave little marks everywhere he can reach. She's scrambling at his chest, leaving nail marks he loves, and finally grabbing his hair and pulling until he groans. And when they're both done and sated and sweaty he kisses her, looks her in the eye and winks. "I'm going to have to go thank your friend now, mi esposa."

DIN DJARIN

Din and you dont have time. The razor crest is finally in hyperspace, you got shot at for the 50th time in 2 weeks, (because Murphys Law seems to be the only law Mando never breaks), you're exhausted, sweaty, and the giggly green monster of chaos only made you chase him down from the top of a weapons cabinet twice before he finally decided to take a nap. You're frustrated, and in desperate need of a shower, and a nap, but also you can't get the image of Mando fighting out of your head. Before you know it, the hormones have taken over and you're attacking him in the pilot seat. The bucket is off (I refuse to look at my own reflection in the tin cans helmet while we do the do), he's got you arching into him, your shirt is half torn from the top because Din refuses to wait for "so many fucking buttons Meshla" the gloved hand is squeezing the back of your neck, his mouth is on your chest, his other hand (you only managed to get one glove off) is splayed out on your back. You're riding him like you're trying to break him and his thigh holster? thing (do i look like i can figure out what they're called?) is digging marks into your skin but you're too turned on to care. It's frantic, it's messy, you're PRAYING the tiny green menace stays asleep as you do your best to muffle your sounds. The refresher isn't big enough for a round two, (you still do your best), and your legs feel like jelly, when you finally pass out; curled up on top of the human space heater while he hums Mando'a in your ear.

*****

TAGGING: @chronically-ghosted (you are a menace but ily)

@fuckyeahdindjarin (here I go trying that writing thing again, stop me pls)

[darlingdaisyfarm]

͙͘͡★ i asked the stars about you

tags: sfw, Bill x reader, Bill is an asshole but he cares in his own way, existential crisis?, eh i tried to portray it like romantic tension but i failed, hurt/comfort but i failed it too lmao

a/n: why does writing Bill always unlock the part of my brain that wants to write biblical nonsense. this was meant to be like a paragraph, mb two. and now it’s this mess that ive been writing for a damn week and i still don’t like it cuz Bill here feels kind of wrong and ooc. but hey!!! fanfiction is a lawless land where we make the rules :) sorry to any Bill lovers out there tho, pls don’t kill me for bad characterisation

night in gravity falls was so warm and unusually silent, you knew that only happens in august, when the town is still too sleepily. summer is already fading, but the air still holds sweet memories in it, dust from the asphalt, warm sap from pine needles, the soft haze of moonlight across your forehead.

you’re here again, in the empty yard, on the playground where you used to play until it got dark and someone called you home. there’s no one around now. the swing creaks barely and you sit on one of them, letting your toes brush the ground, clenching your fingers tight around the chains, and you swing.

back and forth, higher and higher, and every time it feels like you’re just a little closer to the sky.

the sky, it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed. everything else left because you grew up. people came and went, switched places. but the sky is still there, still silent, dark blue, scattered with stars, each burning in its own light. you still remember them though, the eagle, the swan, andromeda, cassiopeia.

you once dreamed of being an astronomer.

and even now, grown, you still can’t stop loving the stars. every swing lifts you closer, and you want to reach out to touch them.

well. . . at least something in this world stays in place.

though, except for the stars, there was one more constant in your life.

a triangle. a ridiculous, talking, floating triangle with a single eye and too many opinions for someone who didn’t technically have a mouth.

Bill Cipher. the thing that defied all laws of nature, laughed at gravity, and travelled through your thoughts like a parasite and a friend.

you’d be brushing your teeth in the morning, bleary-eyed and half-alive, and there it’d be, a sticky note slapped to the mirror, “YOU DROOLED. DISGUSTING. NEVER CHANGE.”

and when you were about to leave the house, keys in one hand, bag over your shoulder, there was another one waiting on the door, “REMEMBER: IF YOU DIE TODAY, I CALL DIBS ON YOUR BONES.”

even when you’d get in the shower, it'd be stuck on the sink: “HUMAN HYGIENE FASCINATES ME. DO YOU SCRUB YOUR ORGANS TOO?”

and yeah, they were weird. a little unhinged. sometimes kind of funny. and you started looking forward to them more than you’d admit.

he used to appear more, though. materializing out of nowhere, talking your ear off about planetary alignments and obscure constellations. you remembered those nights clearly. you’d point at the stars, and he’d name ones you’d never heard of, from galaxies that didn’t even have a number in human astronomy yet. he spoke of civilizations erased by time, of things older than your own galaxy.

you used to sit on your porch with him and talk about the absurdity of human civilization. he was smart, frighteningly so. and he never dumbed things down for you. he talked like you were capable of understanding, and sometimes you did, sometimes you didn’t, but you loved that about him

and when you asked, quietly, where he was from, his eye would narrow.

“delicate topic,” he’d say, too quickly.

Bill already knew everything about you. your fears, your dreams, your favorite songs, the names you gave the stars as a child. and it felt unfair how much of you he had, while you had so little of him.

he told you once that you were weird. and then, like it was some kind of comfort, “but don’t sweat it, sweetie. everyone in this freakshow town is weird.”

so maybe he’s appearing less because of that mysterious scientist he kept mumbling about. you heard the rumors, too. people talked, said the guy had six fingers. said he was here for the anomalies. you didn't really care.

and suddenly, Bill Cipher wasn’t visiting your dreams quite so often.

and you miss him.

you hate how much you miss him. how empty the silence gets when he’s not zigzagging through your kitchen talking about 4th-dimensions. how your mornings feel like sleepwalking without his notes. how dumb and pathetic it sounds even to you, that the one presence you long for most is a floating triangle with a god complex. but what could you say?

you kept swinging. the stars watched in silence. and you, in return, kept watching them.

forward, backward. the chains creaked softly with every rise. you closed your eyes at some point just to create the illusion of flying.

you were mid-swing, when it came again. that melody. it came from nowhere and everywhere, pressing behind your ears, vibrating somewhere between your teeth and your spine.

you smiled.

of course.

“ah. there you are,” you murmured, already looking around without needing to move. you knew better. Bill could materialize out of a crack in the ground or a coffee mug if he wanted.

but tonight, that demon was feeling poetic, apparently.

the moon blinked and one giant sharp pupil eye opened, and from that glowing socket rolled out a triangle. yellow. laughing. too bright to stare at directly. you squinted, shielding your face with one hand.

“aaaand guess who’s back, baby! enjoyin’ your little emo moment, i see? what’s this, swing therapy? should i book you a session with my imaginary assistant?“

“could you, maybe, not enter through celestial bodies? you nearly burned my retinas.”

“what’s the point of making an entrance if it doesn’t cause mild visual trauma?” he shrugged, floating backwards into a lazy spin. “so. what’s the occasion? out here all alone like a tragic indie film protagonist. spooky swingset, lonely stare. classic.”

you sighed, dry. “just. . . thinking.”

“uh-oh.” Bill floated closer. “dangerous hobby, humans thinking! leads to wars and taxes.”

you let out a breathy laugh despite yourself. “i guess i’m just feeling nostalgic. you ever get that?”

he burstee into laughter immediately. “nostalgia! adorable! you meatbags are the only species that cry over the passage of time, like it didn’t warn you in advance. TICK TOCK, SWEETHEART! y’all live like, what, seventy years on average? that’s not life, that’s a limited-time free trial.”

“wow. thanks. totally made me feel better.”

“you're always welcome, cutie!” his voice dipped in mockery. “sooo, whatcha doing? starin’ at the sky again? tryna hypnotize the stars into making your life less depressing?”

“yep, i just like looking at them. makes me feel like i’m not stuck here. like everything’s bigger than this town. bigger than me. i don’t know.”

“ugh.” he made a gagging sound and morphed briefly into a glittering puddle before reforming. “you and your stargazing. seriously. you’re one constellation away from joining a cult.”

you tilted your head at him.

“what? you don’t like stars anymore?”

Bill fell silent for a moment. his eye narrowed slightly. but then his usual teasing voice returned.

“hate to break it to ya, but your species is stuck on that rock for another ten thousand years at best. moon was a fluke. you guys’ll be lucky if you make it past microwaving leftovers without starting nuclear winter. you’ll never reach those twinkly bastards up there. not really.”

you blinked. your throat tightened unexpectedly from a wonderful support he provides. “you really think that?”

“babe, i know that. you all stare up at the sky and make up stories about it because you can’t deal with how small you are. here’s a fact: you’re not meant to touch the stars. you’re meant to burn under them.”

“you’re kind of a dick,” you said quietly.

“no, you’re just too sentimental and blind.”

you laughed. “well, i like pretending we could go further. beyond the moon and past saturn. doesn’t mean i don’t know it’s impossible, Bill.”

not like you were expecting anything serious in return, so you received that: “hm, tragic. and here i thought i was the monster in this story.”

you looked up again, to the stars.

“you still might be.” that made Bill shut his mouth, he was quiet, for once. meanwhile, you looked down at your shoes. “anyways, ou didn’t always sound so cynical about it.”

“i’ve always sounded cynical about it,” Bill corrected. “you just had stars in your ears.”

you bit your cheek, forcing a smile. “they’re pretty,” you bit your lip and kicked a pebble. there was a question curdling in your throat. it’d been sitting there a while, sharp and annoying, like a grain of sand in your eye.

you didn’t wanna ask. but you had to.

“where were you? why’d you disappear? i didn’t even get a nightmare. not a single one.”

Bill hovered and froze for five agonising seconds, but then laughed with that horrible, spine tingling laugh you loved hated.

“oh sweetie, you jealous?” he cooed, leaning forward. “missed me that much?”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s not an answer.”

“oh, someone’s clingy! but no, i just found a new toy to play with, that’s all!”

“a new toy?” your voice cracked with disbelief. “what do you even mean by that?” your brows furrowed

“sheesh, sweetheart, relax! you’re still my favorite toy! the others squeal too fast.”

you huffed. “you’re such an ass.”

“thanks!” he responded quickly, but noticing your face expression, he finally gave you an answer. “been busy. got tangled in a little puzzle box of a man. thinks he’s clever,”

he spun his cane around once, then tossed it into oblivion. “you’d hate him, he stinks.”

you didn’t say anything because you weren't in the mood, all what left your mouth was a deep tired sigh until—

“BOO!”

“FUCK!” you yelped, stumbling backwards as he popped into existence inches from your face.

“no need to cry, sweetheart. i’d never replace my favorite weirdo.”

you glared, the corners of your lips turned down in annoyance as you swatted your hand through him like mist. but then something above caught your eye. a tear in the dark.

a shooting star.

“Bill, look!”

you sprang off the swing, raising your arm, pointing your finger skyward like a little kid, excited. “there! did you see that?!”

Bill floated beside you, unamused, already knowing what's coming next. “agh. here we go again. . .”

you clasped your hands together and whispered under your breath, closing your eyes. Bill watched you make a wish without blinking.

if he had a mouth, he might’ve smiled. thankfully, he didn’t. because demons like him didn’t do that. they didn’t melt over dumb human eyes or the belief that the universe gave a shit about your whispered little dreams.

“why do you always get quiet when we talk about stars?” you asked suddenly, not looking at him. “you never talk about them like you do other things. didn’t you ever want to touch them, too?” you turned to face him finally, staring into his single eye. “didn’t you ever wish the same?”

“they’re empty,” Bill finally said after another silence. “cold rocks. radiation. broken bones and screaming voids. you think there’s what? some magic up there? there’s just more nothing.”

“then let me see it,” you whispered with hope in your voice. “show me. let me see the stars closer.”

he blinked, surprised at your words, as if you’d just asked to die. “you’re not serious.”

“i am.”

his eye tightened at that response, annoyed at your stubborness. “you won’t like what’s out there.”

you stepped back. “fine! then i’ll get to them without your help! i don't need you.”

and before he could respond, you ran, your feet carried you right through the dark into the trees, the swings creaked behind you. Bill didn’t follow, at least not physically. but a hundred golden eyes peeled open in the trees around, watching you as you kept running.

you reached a tree, tall one, crooked. and you climbed, feeling branches biting at your skin. your feet slipped on damp bark and you cursed under your breath but kept going. cuts bloomed along your arms, your legs, but it didn’t matter.

your hands were scraped and knuckles raw, twigs tugged your hair and the bark flaked beneath your fingers, but you didn’t stop.

you didn’t care that your legs were shaking or that your breath was burning in your throat, you didn’t even notice the thing behind you. the long black limb slithering up the tree’s spine, shadowed darker than night, waiting. Bill’s little safety net. of course he’d never admit it.

he was watching you.

through a dozen borrowed eyes, clinging to pine. he watched your foot slip and you gasped as you almost fell. and the tendril twitched, ready.

“you absolute idiot,” Bill muttered to no one. “you picked the tallest tree in the goddamn forest.”

but you were too high on spite. too high on that breathless wild hunger to prove him wrong.

and when you were there, at the top, the branch dipped beneath your weight but didn’t break. you sat, dizzy from the wind and the way the dark sky opened up in front of you like a mouth.

holy shit. you couldn’t even think.

the stars weren’t just above anymore, they were everywhere. on your skin. in your eyelashes. crawling into your blood.

you tipped your head back and laughed breathlessly, nearly crying. raised your arm toward the dark hoping it might reach back.

“see?” you called out. “i did it! i’m here. i got closer.”

at this time, Bill was right beside you, floating and glowing in the night. he didn’t say anything for a second, until “that’s it? that’s the grand finale? you climbed a tree. congratulations. you’re a squirrel with emotional problems.”

you grinned, not even offended. “i’m still closer to them than i was ten minutes ago.”

“yeah,” he drawled. “and thankfully, that’s your limit.”

“why thankfully?” your face dropped. Bill didn’t answer so you asked again, louder this time. “what does that even mean? why are you always like this about it? what’s there, Bill? what are you hiding? what’s up there that you won’t tell me? talk to me, what did you see? what are you hiding?”

Bill froze and his form wavered. suddenly, a crimson hue ran along its edges.

“you wanna know what’s up there?” he barked aggressively. “NOTHING!” his tone and words made you flinch, but that wasn't the end of his speech. “fire! death! you’ll burn before you even reach the edge of that velvet sky you worship so bad. what are you trying to prove, huh? that you’re special? some saintly sky-gazing freak who’s above the rest of the mud-crawling masses?”

you blinked, startled. and hating yourself for your own reaction, because your body and voice trembled treacherously, you felt anger.

“yes,” you answered. “yes, Bill. i think i’m fucking special. because i fucking try! because i look! i don’t just let everything rot around me and laugh at it from the sidelines like a fucking coward!”

and that’s when your foot slipped, it happened too fast. bark tore under you and your body tipped backward, air was gone and you were falling like a shooting star, metor, until something caught you, the thing wrapped tight around you, too cold for your skin, winding around your waist, your arms, your ribs. a single black tendril, pulled you from the fall, yanking you from death.

Bill had caught you. and he immediately knew that somewhere, in another timeline, he didn’t.

but in this one, he placed you gently on the ground and his all seeing eye watched you intensely. good. not a scratch more on you.

although he didn’t float down to check more. Bill stayed at the top of the tree, watching the sky.

you looked up at him. heart still punching inside your chest.

“you just saved my life.” you whispered in disbelief, knowing full well that he wouldn't hear.

it was just silence, and that fucking tendril, still curled tight around your body like a belt. you hated this, but more than all you hated how still he was, as if he was trying to look unreadable on purpose, like he hadn’t just snapped at you five seconds ago. you felt like you were a curious child who touched the wrong lever on the wrong machine and now had to sit in time out.

you squirmed and tugged, making the the tendril tighten. you knew Bill controlled them, and if it wasn't letting go, it meant he wasn't letting go.

“seriously?” you snapped, still breathless. “what now, punishment? gonna strangle me with your magic spaghetti thing now? teach me a lesson or whatever?” you wrestled with the slick thing coiled around your waist.

nothing. and that nothing made you exhale in annoyance. worse was that he wasn't speaking. you would've rather he yelled again, mocked you again, burned you with words. . . at least that meant he cared.

it was embarrassment you felt. or maybe just confusion. whatever that emotion was, you couldn't understand it. because you didn’t fight like this, not with him. it wasn’t like that between you two, even your worst disagreements had spark, play, jokes. meanwhile, this felt like a wall had slammed down between you and he was standing behind it with his arms crossed, eye closed, pretending you weren’t pounding your fists on it.

“you want me to apologize? is that it, triangle guy?” you asked louder, tired. “fine! here. im sorry, okay? im sorry i tried to understand you, sorry i wanted to see what you saw. sorry i cared. now let me go.”

Bill looked down, as if you’d finally reminded him you existed. his shape turned back to gold, he tilted in the air slightly, observing you from a new angle.

your stomach flipped, because you still didn’t know what the end of a friendship with a demon looked like. you assumed, at best, it ended with your blood on a rock.

he floated down a little.

his voice, when it came, was softer than you expected.

“you said you wanted to be closer.”

and your heart jumped, because yes. yes, you had. and you meant it. you weren’t just saying things to hurt him. you wanted this. you wanted him, wanted to understand what he saw when he talked about the stars. you wanted to be part of that world, even if it was dangerous or made no sense.

“i did. i do.”

Bill stared at you a moment longer and saw a human who reached for impossible things, despite being made of bone and flesh.

he saw in you the thing he hated about himself. curiosity, untempered. wonder, unstoppable. the desire to know, even when the knowing came with teeth. and he hated how you’d burn yourself just to see what lived behind the clouds. hated how he adored you for it.

Bill didn't like emotions, but fuck, you stirred up all the ones he thought he'd buried in whatever remained of his dark soul.

because you were the only creature he'd ever met who looked at the sky the way Bill used to. you were the first one to get that close. and you didn’t even die.

finally, Bill let the tendril slide away from you, melting into nothing.

and then his form grew, literally expanded upward in impossible geometry. limbs stretching until they threatened the shape of the forest, until everything around him felt small. and you felt small.

your head fell back to keep him in view and fuck, your knees wobbled as you staggered back.

“holy fuck,” you breathed in awe. “you are so dramatic.”

you think you just developed megalophobia.

but still, your feet didn’t move.

his hand, now the size of a huge car, unfurled from his side. he brought it low, slow, like the offering of a god.

“step on.” his voice sounded through trees and came from all directions. that's how huge he grew.

you stepped into it and his hand lifted you slowly.

Bill knew, you were the only thing he could show the stars to without it killing you.

and the air tore through your lungs like lightning. you gasped and clutched at his finger for balance, every inch of you burning with euphoria while trees became moss, rivers became threads of silver. gravity falls, your town, your whole life, was now the size of a postcard.

and you were laughing. you didn’t even realize you were until tears blurred your vision.

“oh fuck, Bill,” you gasped, dizzy. “this is— this is insane! i’m gonna die up here.”

“not unless i drop you.”

“don’t you fucking dare.” you grinned so hard it hurt. you clung to one of his fingers, half-laughing, half-crying. still not realising fully what even happened, being held by something you thought hated you five minutes ago.

“see? this is what i meant,” you said in excitement looking down at gravity falls. “down there, they live their lives without even looking up. they don’t know. dont even look up!”

“then why are looking down?” Bill questioned calmly. “didnt you want to be closer?”

and you turned to look, not down, not anymore. up. and for the first time, the stars weren’t distant and unreachable. stars weren’t a ceiling. they were around you, they swallowed you, clustered like diamonds, glowing.

“thats cassiopeia,” you whispered. “and andromeda, and— that’s perseus right? oh my god. i can see saturn! Bill, i can see saturn!”

Bill didn’t answer, because he wasn’t looking at the sky. his eye watched you, unblinking, drinking in the reflection of the stars in your eyes like a creature starved for beauty. the stars were in your eyes, not just above your head. and Bill had never seen anything like it. a creature with galaxies instead of pupils.

“you have a beautiful iris,” he said suddenly.

“what? iris?”

“part of the eye, controls light. yours looks like it could hold galaxies. i like it.”

your cheeks flushed. “oh uh, always thought my eyes were boring, heh.” inside though, you panicked because a triangle just called you pretty and that forced your heart to beat stupid.

Bill's voice sounded offended. “you’d be wrong.”

you laughed nervously, gripping his finger tighter, feeling your pulse in your ears. the cold air stung your face, but you didn’t care.

you looked away quickly to hide yourself from his all seeing eye. “hey. . . can we, can we get closer?”

Bill's eye narrowed, glinting. “oh?” he purred and his usual cockiness returned to his voice. “what kind of ‘closer’ are you asking for, sweetie?”

your face went completely hot and your heart screamed. you tried to hide it, giving him a blank expression, “to the stars, Bill. closer to the stars.”

he groaned. “i swear i should drop you.”

and you giggled as his eye lingered on you, wide. “i don’t get it though,” you muttered, gripping his finger tighter as the cold stung your cheeks. “you tell me not to look up, you say there’s nothing out here. but you live here. you literally float through it like it’s your playground. so what, i’m not allowed to want it too?”

“ohh, back to our lovely term, you think you’re special?” he asked, voice flat.

you flinched at the sharpness. “yeah,” oh, how stubborn you were. “i mean, i already answered that question, Bill, i think maybe i am, so what?”

Bill was silent again. longer, this time. until you almost regretted speaking. then, “that’s cute.”

you frowned because you waited something else in response, but yeah Bill was still Bill. “oh fuck off.”

“i mean it. it’s adorable the way you reach for shit that’d melt your brain in two seconds. how you think being ‘different’ makes you immune to the burn. i remember that.” he looked to the sky too. “that hunger. that stupid obsession with wanting to matter. to see something no one else does. to believe there’s something waiting out here if you’re just brave enough.” then he let out an amused laugh, “you’re wrong. but i like that you believe it.”

you didn’t know whether to feel insulted, supported or understood. “so what now? you gonna let me fall back down?”

Bill laughed at how offended and naive your voice sounded, “nah.” a tendril, cold one and weirdly gentle, slid from the air and rested against the top of your head, petted you like you were some kind of little puppy.

“you’re good, human,” Bill admitted simply. “i love good humans.”

[kayharrisons]

If you got a boyfriend, I'm jealous of him. But if you're single, that's honestly worse [Tyler x Reader x Bjorn] [NSFW, 18+ ONLY]

He doesn't know what's worse; his cousin's girlfriend or the fact that he can't get her off his damn mind.

A/N: 18+ only!!! i promise igddtdts is STILL in the works but I wanted to get this lil brain bunny out ehehehehe yes the song is a line from gorgeous by taylor swift also PS this is a FIC in no way do I condone cheating or anything like that so like. Don't go out and do that, it's bad!!!!! I'm DEBATING a part 2 for this but we'll see

Warnings: jealous behavior, possessive thoughts, Temptation™️, cheating, Bjorn knows he's fucked up here but he makes no efforts to change LMAO, exhibitionism, accidental overhearing of Sex, Cheeky Wank Mention™️, sexual acts, Tyler's face gets ridden, unprotected sex (wear a condom!!!), reader is a lil bit of an attention seeking minx ehehe, footsie

He can't stand her.

Tyler's new girlfriend is a sweet thing, always attached to him at the hip, it seems.

She works down at the housing offices, had met Tyler when he'd came by to pay rent and sparks had flown. Or some shite.

Tyler is head over heels, acting like a fucking sap most days. It's not surprising, he'd acted as such with Rain when that doomed relationship had been a thing.

But Rain and Tyler had broken up (damn near split the entire group too, fuck you very much), had been over for some years now, it was natural for his cousin to go out and get out there again.

Hell, Bjorn had encouraged it. In less than polite terms, of course.

But damn, did Tyler need to get fucking laid. His cousin had been tense more often than not, always frowning, always moping.

Sad sod.

And so, he'd met her.

He'd made some dumb joke about rent that Bjorn couldn't even bother to remember, and she'd supposedly found it hilarious, and bam, here they were, going strong a year later.

He hadn't minded her, at first.

Sure, her laugh was always the loudest, easy to pick out amongst others. She laughed way too easily, seemed to find everything funny.

Sure, her smile was the brightest, brighter than any star Bjorn could recall seeing. It was toothy, framed by perfect lips, which looked oh so sof-

But then that had started.

His thoughts tended to wander, now.

She would show up to the shitty bar they'd deigned their hang out, wearing those damn pencil skirts that hugged her hips and backside just so, or those slacks that made her legs look longer. Her blouse would be untucked, a button or two undone and her elegant neck exposed. Sometimes her eyes locked with his for a beat too long and he felt a fucking current shoot up his spine.

Innocent enough.

But oh, how Bjorn had thought about tearing that skirt right off of her body, collapsing to his knees and feasting on her pussy until the only name she knew was his. Hell, he'd do it in front of Tyler, if he had to, just to get the fucking point across-

Fuck, he was fucked.

If there was a hell, he was going straight there. Normal blokes didn't fantasise about fucking their cousin's girlfriend. A cheeky wank or two over it, maybe, but god, Bjorn felt unhinged.

He could feel his self control slipping, with every interaction, with every meeting of eyes.

He felt insane every time he saw his cousin's hands on you. An arm around your shoulders, a hand on your thigh, a finger tucking your hair behind your ear.

All instinctive, sweet touches between a couple. Nothing offensive.

And yet Bjorn wanted to set himself on fucking fire every time he saw it.

Jesus, maybe he needed to get laid.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

You let out a strangled moan as Tyler licks another hot, wet stripe from your core to your clit, your fingers tightening in his hair as you ground down on his face.

"That's a good girl," he groans, hands tightening on your hips, rocking you to and fro against his face. He gently sucks your clit into his mouth, before soothing it with his tongue, releasing it briefly. "Always ride my face so fuckin' well, darlin', always look so fuckin' good using me to get yourself off."

"Tyler-" you damn near sob, bucking your hips faster, and faster, as you feel that ever familiar tightening sensation that signals your orgasm is approaching. "Baby, fuck- I'm so fucking close-"

He groans again, removing his mouth and staring up at you, panting softly. His handsome face is soaked in your slick, his eyes dark as they hungrily rove over your figure. A boyish grin lights up his face as you whine. He stands to his full height, towering over you as he backs you over to your desk.

"The blinds aren't down-" you hiss, only to be silenced by a kiss that tastes of you.

"So?" he hums, nosing at your neck, kissing his way down to your collarbone, where he lightly nips a mark into your skin. He kisses further, over your clothed breast, swirling his tongue against the pebbling nipple. "All people are gonna see is me fuckin' my girl, just the way she wants it."

You moan softly, rubbing your thighs together at the thought. It's sinful, downright naughty, even. But it gets you... well, hot. Thinking about someone happening to glance in, to see Tyler balls deep inside of you, making you forget your own name.

Fuck, it makes you damn near gush a fucking flood.

Tyler smiles that boyish grin again at your moan. "Such a good girl for me," he coos, as he unzips his jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He pumps his hand up and down his shaft once, then twice, gathering the precum slowly forming at the head and stroking it up and down his cock with a stifled sigh. "Fuck, jesus- you want it-"

"Raw," you whisper, leaning back on your desk, legs spread wide for him. "Wanna feel you, Tyler. Need you to cum inside me so fucking bad, baby, I've been aching for it-"

He groans again, stepping between your spread legs and rubbing the head of his cock through your wetness. Both of your breaths catch in your chests, your eyes locking as he finally pushes his cock inside of you.

Your twin moans echo in the small building. Thank god it's your lunch break.

He doesn't start off gentle, like he usually does. No, neither of you have the patience today. The pace is damn near brutal, his hips snapping fiercely against yours, your cunt aching in the most delicious way possible as he fucks you hard and fast.

It's a miracle your desk is still standing, by the time you're done.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"You alright, cuz?" Tyler grins as he claps Bjorn on the shoulder, collapsing into a seat beside him at the bar.

Bjorn grunts, not quite looking at him as he fidgets with the tab on his can of beer.

Tyler arches a brow. "Fucks sake, must've been a shite day if it's got you all quiet."

Rather the oppsite, Bjorn wants to spit back, Got to hear your girlfriend moaning and begging to get filled with cum, got enough material to fuel a thousand masturbation fantasies and fucking more. Close the blinds next time you fucking exhibitionist.

He of course says none of that.

"Summit like that." Bjorn shrugs instead. "So where's-"

"Hey," you grin, sliding into the seat beside Tyler. Bjorn almost groans.

Of fucking course it was the skirt today. God, he hoped some fucking grunt would come along and fire a pulse rifle into his head.

"Sup?" he greets, barely looking at you.

You're well used to Bjorn's behaviour by now but...

Well, that won't do.

You're in love with Tyler, yeah. Absolutely devoted to him alone, but...

You like the attention that Bjorn desperately tries not to give you. You like the struggle of watching him try not to stare at your ass in a skirt, or your tits in your blouse. You like watching his jaw tick and his knuckles tighten on his glass whenever Tyler gets handsy.

It's thrilling.

It's maddening when his eyes aren't on you.

God forbid he even thinks about looking at another girl.

You shift in your seat, crossing one leg over the other, completely casual.

Your foot stretches out, casually gliding up and doen Bjorn's calf. He tenses, looking at you with confusion, his brow furrowed in thought. Perhaps he thought you'd aimed for Tyler and missed.

You meet his eyes, sliding your foot up his calf, over his knee, up his thigh...

He inhales sharply, taking a sip of beer as he listens to Tyler chat about his work day.

You toy with the zipper of Bjorn's pants. Of course, you can't unzip but...

The feeling of something getting firmer beneath your touch sends a thrill down your spine, makes your pussy pulse with want. Your eyes meet Bjorn's again, and oh fuck, if the sight of the blue of his eyes being taken over by his pupils doesn't make your cunt fucking damn near gush...

You remove your foot, watching Bjorn's fingers tighten on his can, his eyes burning into your face, trailing to your lips, down your neck, your breasts...

His eyes snap up to the mark on your neck, his nostrils flaring as he leans back in his chair, throwing back the rest of his can in one smooth gulp.

"Gonna head," he grunts, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair and holding it on his lap, glancing between the pair of you. "Enjoy yourselves or whateva, alright? Try not to fuck in front of everyone, yeah?"

And he's off, before you or Tyler can even say a word. Tyler watches after his cousin with concern, brow pinched and frown of worry firmly set into his handsome face.

"What's up with him?" He ponders, and you hum, taking your eyes off of Bjorn's backside in order to smile at him.

"No idea."

[sara-frog13]

AU Age and role swap!

In this AU, Ken is the one born from an angel's egg, and Mel is his mom, ready to protect her son from any danger—even if it means cementing another Rotling and causing chaos! Breadhead here is the uncle, and Mud (like Ken) is Mel's son.

I didn’t change the characters’ personalities much, so Mel remains a hyperactive, slightly unhinged queen of the criminal underworld—even as a mother.

But she’s far from perfect. Sometimes, she ignores her kids because of her own obsessions and can be reckless (like assigning Ken dangerously risky jobs).

Mel also has a bad habit of running her mouth. She’ll accidentally spill Ken’s secret, then cement some poor sap in remorse, cursing her "big mouth". That’s actually how Mud and Breadhead found out Ken’s secret—though Mel justifies it with "We’re family!"

She gets along better with Mud since he’s just as reckless (though calmer, more careful, and sly). With Ken, she often clashes (he’s a teen full of anger and frustration), but deep down, they’re very close. Breadhead was originally created by Mel to protect Ken, but everyone adores him anyway.

Mel owns the Whale’s Belly shop, but Ken’s the one who mostly handles the cooking (the kid genuinely enjoys it).

[moonlight-prose]

PICK YOUR POISON

➻ 01. ATROPA BELLADONNA

a/n: the october season calls for me to delve into the grotesque and gothic story ideas i save up year round. so that's what this is! i love the idea of logan howlett stuck with an immortal reader. but there's a twist. our lovely reader isn't a mutant, but someone cursed to live life in the worst way possible. i hope you enjoy the small journey these two go on and happy spooky season!

summary: life as a lumberjack gives him the freedom to pretend he's human. that he hasn't lived enough lives to leave him withered and weary. ready for the grave that will never come. until he happens upon an unmarked grave in the middle of the forest and his life changes forever.

word count: 4.2k+

pairing: lumberjack!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: NOT EXPLICIT BUT DARK THEMES AHEAD, gothic themes, horror, necrophilia (kind of!), death, graves, vomiting, tw: blood, feral reader, poison, immortal!reader, curses, witchcraft of some kind, chance encounters, they're both a little unhinged in this one.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

The forest is silent save for the rhythmic thump of an axe against wood. Life doesn't exist in the small sphere of dead branches and fallen leaves. No bugs, no birds. The wolves hunt elsewhere; the prey have all but abandoned a place where death permeates the air.

What was nature to do when someone so unnatural had been laid to rest?

He knew he was too far from the predetermined area. The yellow tape was marked for trees ready to be chopped down. But the sound of the men laughing about some bar they found had set his teeth on edge—a rush of anger from deep in his chest now resurfacing quicker than he liked.

Some days were better than others. Some days he could join in on the laughter, make simple conversation, and pretend to be normal.

Other days he felt the clawing urge to bite and snap and dig his claws into flesh rear in his head. Try as he might, he couldn't ignore that unhinged sensation. Even if he wanted to. On those days he preferred to be alone. Away from humanity, separate from what they wanted from him.

They saw him as a man.

Not an animal.

That should be enough to appease his restless spirit; give him some peace after so much chaos.

His teeth ground together in his clenched mouth, sweat sticking to the back of his neck despite the cold weather. The axe felt like an extension of his arms. Hacking away at the base of a tree he knew would make enough noise to draw attention once it tipped. That didn't deter him from repeating his swing. From baring his teeth and growling through it in order to dig out what calm he could.

The blade wedged itself halfway into the bark before he heard it. The stifled scream of a woman. His body went stiff, head whipping around to see if someone had followed him. The instincts from before—days spent as a soldier still burned into his nerves—began to overtake his senses as another muffled scream pierced his eardrums.

He left the axe behind, heart thumping an unsteady beat in his chest as he made for the forest. Trees blocked what little sunlight poured through dense clouds; the air a murky fog that chilled his lungs with each breath. He could taste the sap dripping off tree bark on the tip of his tongue—his mind clinging to the edge of sanity as he moved.

Twigs snapped beneath his boots, leaves cracked with the weight of his body, but Logan couldn't think about moving silently. Someone was getting hurt. He could practically smell their fear. The heady coagulated tang of blood spilled over the forest floor.

"Hello?" he called out, emerging through the thicket of branches.

A small clearing gave way to what little light remained in the afternoon. Petrichor lingered in the pockets of clear air, familiar enough to set his earlier anxieties aside. Fall in Canada shepherded rain forward with a heavy hand.

He knew the woods would be soaked come morning. Any signs of life lost to the pelting drops of rain that dragged hail right alongside it.

His feet stopped at the edge of freshly packed dirt, a shovel tossed to the side with a dent in the metal large enough to resemble the size of a skull. Sucking in air, the hair rose on the back of his neck when the shriek sounded again. Pained. Anguished. As if someone was fighting to claw their way to the surface.

"Fuck," he gasped, dropping to one knee—fingers burrowing in the moist soil and heaving it over to the side. "I'm here. I've got ya!"

Another muffled cry filtered through the layers of dirt as he dug with heaving breaths. Sweat prickled along his forehead, dripping down his temple. The brine of salt dripping onto the already muddy area. What hope he could grasp onto began to slip through his fingers; now dragged beneath the surface of an already haunted forest.

Logan stumbled back when a hand shot through the dirt, piercing the ground by his foot. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide as an arm appeared, fingers grasping for leverage in the loose topsoil. He'd never experienced terror before. True fear that lingered in the bottom of his chest, echoing a solemn tune he wanted to rip from his flesh. But the sight of someone clinging to life filled his lungs with water.

You could feel it. The dirt and stones that packed themselves beneath your nails, slicing open what remained of the once pretty nail bed. It happened later this time. Took longer than you expected. Crimson blood mixed with the black soil as you vomited what stuffed itself into your lungs; the impacted earth was too heavy for your body to hold onto and thus the result remained the same.

Somehow it felt worse each time.

A cry of agony pierced the brume—splitting open the silence that could no longer exist. And with another heave, you managed to free yourself from a shitty dug grave with barely enough dirt to cover.

Sucking in a lungful of air, you collapsed to the ground. Body nude and streaked with mud. You couldn't tell which parts of you were sliced open this time around, could barely make out the color of the trees through the thick layer of fog. But the leather brown boots two feet away caught your attention instantly.

With a whimper, you lifted your head—eyes latched onto the broad man above you who looked ready to lose his breakfast, or join you on the ground. Perhaps both with the way his paled face stilled at the sight of you.

Of course, the time it took to return would fuck up your plans for solitude. Of course, you would have company at the worst possible moment.

This part was never easy.

"Hi," you meekly rasped, voice entirely gone from how many times you screamed.

Harrowing silence became the space that hung between your body and his. You curled your toes to force the blood back down through your veins. Hands holding an unsteady shake that would take a good hour to dissipate. You began to notice the color of his flannel—a deep umber with lines of brown. The scent of cedar permeating the air; sap a thick sweetness you could practically taste in the back of your throat.

Senses took a few moments to return back to their original vigor. Yet you couldn't allow yourself to slip into the you from twelve hours ago.

Not when the man still watched you, eyes overflowing with dread. You wondered if he was real. Would he flinch if you swung a fist at his shin? Or was your dilapidated mind conjuring him in a hallucinatory haze you'd eventually break free from.

Pushing yourself up on trembling limbs, you managed to contort your half paralyzed body into a sitting position. The feeling would return to your numb core; the steady drip of life slowly seeping back into your veins the longer you remained still.

Movement seemed to puncture a hole in his stupefied mind—yanking him back to reality. He dropped to one knee with a heavy exhale. "Who the fuck did this to you?"

You wanted to laugh. You nearly did laugh.

How were you meant to tell this complete stranger that you in fact...did this to yourself?

"Are you cold?" he asked as if you still held the capability to speak.

When it became clear you had no intention of offering him any sort of explanation, he promptly cussed under his breath. Hands stripping off the brown leather jacket that hung over his clearly muscled form. You tried to shake your head, hoping he'd get the hint and simply leave you alone.

The cold didn't harm your already frozen skin. Not when a rush of blood coursed through you—pumping an unhealthy amount of adrenaline back to your now racing heart.

He draped the heavy fabric over you anyways, securing it to cover what skin he could. His eyes fixed on the side of your face. What a goddamn gentleman. Hilarity of this entire situation flickered brightly in your mind, forcing a jolt through your body that had him rearing back a few inches.

He must not be used to the sight of someone coming back from the dead.

No one would be. Unless they understood your current predicament.

"Do you have someone I can call?"

Again...silence became all that lingered in your mirrored confusion. You pleasantly discovered that you liked the sound of his voice. He felt his stomach churn with the eggs he scarfed down an hour and a half ago. Oh what a hapless pair you made. Two strangers bound in this tight knit bond of befuddlement.

"Can you speak?" He pushed for you to give him something.

You nodded, trailing the curve of his jaw with your gaze. If you had to guess his profession, you'd pick lumberjack. That made the most sense as to why he found himself standing at the foot of your grave trying to help you escape it.

Although you supposed he might have just been on a stroll through the woods; seeking time to himself. An escape from the busy world above ground. You peered into his clouded hazel eyes - plucking what you could from her expressions alone. This was a man who didn't seem drastically horrified by the sight of you coming back to life. Rather lost in murky thoughts of how.

Again the aforementioned question you loathed answering left his plush lips.

"Who did this to you?"

Sighing, you felt the blood begin to rush to your legs, a tingle of awareness entering your system. You were coming back from the state of rigor mortis. Which meant that stick around here would no longer be an option. As much as you were inclined to entertain the idea of getting to know him, the reality was far too bleak for him to accept.

He was a mere human, you were something else. It would never work.

“What’s your name?”

Agitation clearly lined his nerves the longer he crouched beside you. He’d never receive the knowledge he wanted, never get to the bottom of this otherwise grueling mystery. The longer you stayed, the harder it would be to leave. Putting him out of his misery now was the only option you had.

The only one that might guarantee his safety.

“Please. Let me help you.” His sincerity struck your heart, causing it to twist until the jagged edge of pain spread through your entire body.

They always sounded this way.

Hopeful. Intrigued.

Too many people, too many broken souls.

The path of your existence was littered with unsalvageable pieces of those you allowed to wander into your life. You refused to say goodbye to someone who clutched your love too tightly. Who never understood what this meant—the horrid depth of what you were forced to endure. You’d never be able to find freedom in love, never find hope that things might one day be different.

Eventually your curse would kill them in the end. And you—the sole survivor—would be left to pick up the fragmented shards of your armored walls.

With a pained groan you stumbled to your feet—legs shaking like a fucking fawn right after birth. He shot up beside you, hands outstretched in case you collapsed. But after so many years, you’d grown used to the sensations of a body that fought against you. The sight of him made you grin; a man so large, so imposing, somehow looked small compared to your mangled body.

Oh, how you’d remember him.

Tucking his kindness into the depths of your heart—fondly looking at it more often than you’d ever admit.

Dragging the leather jacket off your shoulders—much to his dismay—you tucked it back into his grasp. For a brief moment, you traced the shape of his eyes with your gaze. Solidifying the hazel in your mind, the hints of dark umber speckled through the iris. Eyes that would haunt you for years to come.

You wanted to ask what caused him such anguish—what had he been through—to hold an unfathomable amount of grief in eyes so tender.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the unbearable scratch in your throat dissipating the longer you were alive.

“Wait–”

With surprising quickness, you walked past him, trembling with each step. Your stomach gnawed at your insides—the vacant sensation in your body determined your next course of action. Where you were heading with no need for direction.

This wasn’t unusual. Hours spent in the ground was bound to force your body to find its sustenance one way or another. Even if you weren’t technically alive. The adrenaline would wane, leaving you rattled—in a panic about the way your soul plunged into an infinite expanse of darkness. A place with no path.

Over the decades you managed to get a handle on your body;s tells. The routine it formulated to deal with the ancient magic coursing through your veins. Sparks of a past self never to be touched again; no matter how much you bargained.

Heavy footsteps trailed after you, entirely unaware that silence wasn’t his forte. He still clutched the jacket aimlessly, unaware that the temperature dropped rapidly the longer he remained outside. You’d grown used to the behaviors of men who found you. Their incessant need to follow, to see if they could get away with what they wanted.

The same fucking song and dance; a battle you learned to evade swiftly and without mercy.

You stuck to the carved pathway created by your own footsteps trekking the same ground over the span of many years. Those who worked this deep in the forest rarely stuck around to find out who dared to live this far away from humanity. Many assumed an old psychotic woman, man, or spirit, resided in the run-down cabin.

Others whispered of a witch cursed to roam in darkness for all eternity.

Though both were merely myths spread by bored townsfolk.

You often wondered what they would do if they found out that neither strayed far from the actual truth.

Each year that came and went people dared themselves to check—to see for themselves if the stories held a bit of authenticity to them. They more often than not, left scared out of their wits at the sight of a naked woman trailing dirt in across the threshold of an archaic home.

Your shadow persisted in his personal mission—five feet away, lumbering through the silent forest like a bear with no real direction. Scaring him off should have been your first priority. You knew the longer you sanctioned this behavior the harder it’d be to get him to fuck off.

Although you couldn’t deny the instantaneous attachment you felt for a man with such a tortured soul.

Perhaps some part of yourself could see the fragments that went missing harbored in his heart.

Like a fool, you continued on the familiar trail—giving yet another aimless person leeway in your life. Regret hung heavy in your heart—a promise of what would inevitably come to pass screaming in the icy air.

Your breath forms a cloud with each puff; the exertion far too much for your freshly revived body to handle. Later when you were adjusted once more, the remorse would return within each stiff joint that pleaded for an ounce of rest. Whether you wanted to partake in the act never remained up to you—rather an inescapable future that awaited you with open arms.

The cabin stood on the remnants of an old cemetery. Bits of cracked stones that once housed names were scattered around the front. Moss clung to walls built of worn in bricks that had seen better days. You liked each part of your home. The haunting beauty that kept others out, gave you the solace you needed on days like this. Here you could pretend you were a normal person, not someone stuck with the scars of wounds that never remained.

Of pain you held no proof of.

The path was lined with plants of varying species. None of them should have survived the weather in Canada, yet like you they persisted.

Just as fucking stubborn and determined to remain alive.

Kicking a loose stone over, you reached for the rusting iron key lodged into damp dirt. The man stopped speaking long before he followed you here. Probably coming to the same conclusion they all did. You were not going to listen to a single thing that came out of his mouth.

You had to hand it to him. He knew where he stood in a situation like this—given your relatively calm exterior.

The door creaked with a weathered groan as you pushed it open. A bag of grave dirt hung on a nail in the wall to your left, an old shovel stood propped against the entryway, and a trail of dried herbs were suspended from the ceiling. You inhaled the scent of home with a grin; finally at ease within the place you knew well. A line of hooks held blankets for this very situation—heavy wool lined coats beside them.

Instead of grabbing one, you reached for what was still tucked in the pocket. The thud of his boots against the front step echoed loud in your ear. That seemed to be all you needed to hear the warning bells signal in the back of your mind. Allowing him to shadow you had been fun, but the truth still glared in your direction.

You didn’t know this man—you never would.

Better safe than sorry.

Spinning your heel, you jammed the silver dagger against his throat, forcing him to stumble back. His hands clutched at your wrists, eyes wide with the shock of what just happened. You didn’t want to admit that a small part of you liked seeing him this way. Yet no fear could be found in the darkened hazel. Merely a hint of concern—pity.

That only served to piss you off. He dared to follow you home, thinking he could enter your house without permission. In such a case as this you faced him with the fire that fueled your inhumane rage. The match struck against your heart, igniting sparks that existed long before he was ever born.

“You’re not welcome here,” you spit, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a snarl.

He held every right to look at you as if you were a feral animal he accidentally cornered. You knew you resembled one. Right down to your hackles being raised—bloodlust burning in your glare. If he wasn’t careful, he would wind up with a split open throat and you’d have one hell of a mess to clean.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he murmured.

“You followed me home.”

Swallowing thickly, Logan felt an old familiar ache rise in his chest at the sight of you. He’d been where you stood once. Desperate to be left alone; angry at a world who abandoned him. The thought of you believing the worst in him left bile climbing the back of his throat, shame burning hot in his stomach.

“Just wanted to see if you were okay.”

You grinned yet a dullness remained at the center of your eyes. “I’m alive. You can go.”

“You crawled out of a grave,” he growled.

Only to be met with one of your own. “No shit.”

“You live alone.” The knife pressed down against his skin, red welling to the surface in an instant. “Who put you there?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

You held no reservations against cutting him open. You’d done it before and would do it again in a heartbeat. Logan could see that clear as day. This wasn’t about him attempting to help. He’d surpassed that half a mile ago when you began to walk it off like you knew what was happening. And perhaps he was stupid to keep standing there in a pathetic attempt to tame you.

But he needed to know what happened.

Simply for the sake of his own sanity.

“I won’t hurt you bub,” he echoed, releasing your wrists with a soft exhale. “That’s not why I came.”

The anger dulled like the blade of your knife at the sound of his voice. Putting your faith in someone to uphold their words wasn’t something you excelled at. In fact, you found it was easier to bite first before you even bothered to bark at them. A feral animal who held no sense of safety—who thrived in bitter chaos and would until the very end.

But for the first time…you found yourself unable to fight against someone who stood before you like a mirror from a past life. The anguish in his eyes resembled your own. A fractured window that spilled light along the darkness, even if it didn’t belong. Even if you were born to exist in the vacant nothingness they put you in.

“Help me out here,” he murmured.

Before you could silence it, you laughed. Short and stunted and still layered in the gritty rasp from earlier.

“Fuck you.”

He sighed, stepping forward—his throat opening even further. You expected him to flinch, cuss loud enough to scare the varying corvid that often perched in the trees, but all that remained was that damn sincerity. The echo of a man who you somehow understood exactly what ran through your mind even before you let him in on the secret.

Logan kept his eyes locked on yours, even when his body screamed for something else. He wasn’t a stranger to having a blade to his throat, nor to violence in general. But even with the intent of killing him clear in your gaze, he knew something else stirred beneath the surface of your mind. He latched onto the quick pace of your heart, clamoring for a deeper look behind the walls of your impenetrable armor.

“I know what it’s like.” Your eyes went wide for a brief second before you resumed your previous stance. That remained enough for Logan to feel he touched on exactly the right thing.

“You don’t know anything.”

“Believe me bub,” he retorted, lips curling into a half-hearted grin. “I know what not dying feels like. Even if you want to.”

The breath was punched from your lungs, body going still as the waves of disbelief washed over you. He grasped your wrist gently, prying the knife from his throat, and you watched his skin stitch itself back together. The only remnants of your violent act was left in a stain of red he promptly wiped off.

You had half a mind to try again. Test the proof he so blatantly showed you without an ounce of shame. He seemed to catch onto your interest quicker than you expected—his palm spreading wide beneath yours and hand forcing the blade along his skin. A gasp fell past your lips at the sight of his body healing rapidly—the cut nonexistent within seconds.

Logan felt pride pierce his chest. Unfamiliar and yet entirely welcome.

“How…”

“I’ll explain it bub,” he uttered, drawing your attention back to him. “If you tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

He huffed, moving close enough to feel the warmth emanate from your bare skin. “I’m pretty good at spottin’ bullshit. Someone put you in that grave.”

“Yes.” Blindly you reached for a jacket behind you, slipping it on as his eyes took in the small bits of your home he could see. “I did.”

His head snapped back to you, lips set in a firm line. “What do you mean you did?”

“It’s a long story.” You waved your hand as you tied the jacket’s belt around your waist.

“I got enough time to hear it.”

Turning back towards the entryway of your home, you didn’t bother to bite back the smile that bloomed across your face. Somewhere in the back of your mind the voices of years past shrieked in horror at the choices made in the past hour.

How could you drag another soul into the darkness? Torture them with the duress of your life—of what you were forced to endure. Was it merely to appease the growing ache of loneliness that gnawed at your heart. A constant hunger you could never satiate.

He didn’t deserve what came next.

No one did.

But you were a selfish person who had tolerated far too much—who gave up every piece of your heart to keep others safe. For years you claimed you were better off alone. Only for the sight of his ability to fracture that part of yourself in two, burying it in a shallow grave with the hopes of no resurrection.

One day you’d come to regret your choice. You always did.

Tonight however you would give yourself this. Time spent in the company of another, even if it might end in a tragic disaster.

“Would you like some dinner?” you asked over your shoulder, too afraid of what his response might be.

His lips pulled into a grin as he crossed the threshold of your home—placing his jacket on the now vacant hook. “I’d love some.”

note: i handwrote a giant portion of this & proceeded to type it on my brother's laptop. so if there's mistakes forgive that. i don't have a laptop rn and i'm working with literal scraps.

[universesweetheart]

I would love more chubby Dazai stories or headcanons if you have them! I also love the idea of cooking for him and feeding him and him having a cute chubby little belly! 💕

More to Love (Dazai x Reader)

In which dazai notices a few changes with himself

a/n: also never thought I'd be one of those people to write crazy unhinged author's note but here I am. I am soooo sorry it took literal months to reply to your ask but (buckle up) my mom died and I got laid off from my job so here I am, with the world of free time and a bucket of grief. Enjoy this short drabble!

My other dazai fics: here, here, here, here :]

Bye now - Mars ♡

After years of being together, Dazai notices he’s been gaining some weight, and his thinness is no longer visible.

Dazai has never felt at home with his body, but he also never cared about his size, or weight. He had much darker things to fill his time and days with than obsessing over his meatsac. His mind, his dark thoughts, his past, the blood on his hands, Odasaku.

When he started his relationship with you, it was all intense and consuming at first. Over the months, that passion has simmered into a softer slow loving. More deeply intimate.

Slowly his days merged with yours and your routines incorporated his. From making space in your closet for his clothes to always keeping extra rolls of bandages in your bathroom cupboard, and even tossing in canned crab into the cart when you grocery shopped. It all fell into place naturally. He was meant to be here, with you.

He noticed all the little adjustments you made with your space for him and he was grateful, truly. 

He also noticed how you’d slyly get him to take care of himself more. A sweet little ‘for me?’ easily did the trick. He was no match for your sweet tone and beautiful hope-filled eyes.

Dazai found himself changing slowly. He’d no longer drink sake first thing in the morning, instead he’d sit in the kitchen and entertain you with his dramatics and sweet words as you made a simple loving warm breakfast for you two. He especially loved when you’d make Korean sandwiches and shape the eggs into heart shapes. You were as much of a sap as he was. 

Osamu also started eating lunch. Not necessarily because he wanted to or he was hungry. But because he hated that sad disappointed look on your face when he didn’t eat the lunch you packed him. He saved all your notes and drawings, and he would share his meal with the young detective if he was having a particularly bad day and just couldn’t bring himself to eat.

When he got back home, all he wanted to do was sink into the couch and hug you and never let go. You’d whine about having dinner together and like a hopeless man in love he’d indulge you, even if it was a little treat. His favourite treat to indulge in was you. Ever the corny horny man he is. 

Over the years of being together he had noticed a drastic change in his eating habits. The biggest one being he actually eats now. 

And with eating, and a good loving, he inevitably noticed the weight he gained.

He’s not bothered by it. He’s even fascinated by the new softness of his body. And he’s flourishing in the added attention you give him. You seem to like this new weight. More of him to love, you tell him with a sweet kiss to his lips. 

He even went with you to buy new clothes for him. He obviously grabbed the opportunity to pull you into the changing room and absolutely wrecked you. Safe to say by the end of that shopping spree, you were full of cum, and his closet was full of new clothes.

Demands kisses and hickeys on the softer parts of his body and will not hesitate to moan wantonly when you cave and do it. Be sure to bite him too, gets him going. 

Press soft kisses and praise his newfound stretch marks and he’s folding you in two and hammering his cock into you, only to softly cuddle you after with whispers of love and affection.

[vaguely-concerned]

garashir snippets from a fic idea I regrettably think will not come to anything complete or coherent -- basically it's building on the dynamic I was talking about in this post, and the context would be something like them having some very enthusiastic but um perhaps under-negotiated kinky sex not too long after 'our man bashir' and the fallout of it!

--

Garak thinks, How much do I need to rile you up until you decide no one could say you had any choice but to make the crossing?

Julian comes at him with an expression like an unsheathed blade, and Garak wants to wrap his hands around it and bleed all over him. (In his most selfish heart, where he consigns all the things he hungers for but knows he shouldn’t have, he wants to bleed into him, until they mingle, until it cannot be washed clean even if he pulls away again; until nothing can be taken back.)

. . .

(postcoital catastrophe time)

“I shouldn’t have — I could have hurt you,” Bashir says.

“Well, that’s hardly unique,” Garak mumbles, feeling dozy and warm — something so rare on this interminable icy purgatory of a station, he’d almost forgotten his body could feel it. “Anyone could hurt anyone else at any time, that’s just the world.”

Bashir’s mouth tightens and his eyes flash a warning — don’t play with me on this. “Garak — ”

“Anyone could, but you wouldn’t,” Garak says, gazing up at him without quite knowing what his eyes might be revealing. 

Bashir’s gaze lands on the spot on Garak’s neck where his surprisingly precise shot had grazed skin and scale. There was nothing to see there now, of course — Garak  had rather wanted to keep the scar as a memento, but the Doctor insisted on treating it once they finished the program, and trying to deny Julian Bashir in full doctor mode is a lot like setting out to halt an oncoming glacier by engaging it in a fistfight. From the look in Bashir’s eyes he hasn’t forgotten it any more than Garak has, though. 

“But I did,” Julian says, his voice small. Had Garak been in a less blissed-out state of mind, he probably would have picked up on that before it was too late. 

“Yes, I know, I was — and remain — very impressed, my dear. There are few things as attractive as a man with the courage of his convictions.”

“This isn’t funny.” All warmth has fled Julian’s voice. 

of course b/c of what a sap I am as a person and as writer it would eventually turn out okay in the end after they talked it out and figured some stuff out lol. then they could go on to have on-purpose unhinged soul-baring deeply intimate kinky sex that leaves everyone happy and fulfilled by the end

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (17)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Previous part: 16

- Next part: 18

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The wind tore at your hair and clothes as Terrax flew through the night sky, the stars above a blur of distant light as the dragon carried you farther from familiar ground. Your hands, slick with blood from your wounds, trembled as you gripped Terrax's spine, the jagged edges of his scales digging deeper into your flesh with each passing moment. The sharp sting had become a dull throb now, but the pain was constant, a reminder of the unnatural bond you shared with the creature beneath you.

The air was cold, biting at your skin, and though the world below you seemed vast and endless, you were beginning to feel the weight of exhaustion creeping in. The blood loss had sapped your strength, making each breath more difficult than the last. You pressed your forehead against Terrax’s warm scales, your vision blurring as you fought to stay conscious. The dragon’s massive wings beat steadily, each stroke carrying you farther from safety, farther from Starfall, and closer to some unknown destination.

"Broken wings, falling stars, mother sings, father scars."

The voice in your mind was louder now, more insistent, its disjointed phrases swirling like a storm. Terrax’s thoughts were bleeding into yours, the fragmented remnants of the dark magic that had brought him into the world. You could feel the chaos in his mind, the way his thoughts twisted and tangled, a reflection of the madness that had been bound to him in the ritual.

"Fire burns, blood flows, mother weeps, father knows."

"Terrax," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the howling wind. "Please... take me back. I need to go back to Starfall."

But the dragon did not respond. His golden eyes were fixed ahead, his massive wings carrying you farther into the unknown. He was driven by something beyond your understanding, something that had brought him to these unorthodox places, far from the comfort of home. You had already flown past the ruins of Meraxes, and now, as the land shifted beneath you, the terrain below became more desolate, more barren.

Your head swam, the dizziness growing stronger as your blood continued to seep from the wounds Terrax’s scales had inflicted. The cold was seeping into your bones now, making it harder to think, harder to hold on. You clung to Terrax, your grip weakening with every passing moment.

"Terrax..." you murmured again, your words slurring as the world spun around you. "Please... take me back..."

The dragon’s thoughts continued to whisper in your mind, fractured and unhinged.

"Mother cries, father burns, all the world returns."

"Grave is near, fire is here, blood is clear, nothing to fear."

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the madness of his thoughts, but the connection between you and Terrax had grown too strong. It was as if the dragon’s mind had become entangled with your own, a reflection of the dark magic that had bound you together.

You tried again, desperation filling your voice. "Terrax, please. I need to go back."

For a moment, there was silence. Terrax’s wings continued to beat, but the chaotic swirl of his thoughts seemed to quiet, as though he had finally heard you. The dragon’s massive body shifted slightly beneath you, and you felt the subtle change in his flight path as he turned, angling his wings toward the direction of Starfall.

Relief flooded through you, but it was short-lived. The exhaustion from blood loss was catching up to you, and your vision blurred once more, the edges of the world fading into darkness. You clung to consciousness, but it was slipping away, your strength ebbing with each passing second.

"Mother sleeps, father weeps, the blood runs deep."

The voice in your mind echoed one final time before the world went black, and you felt yourself slipping away into the darkness, your body limp against Terrax’s warm scales as he carried you back toward Starfall.

You could only hope that you would survive the journey.

You woke slowly, the haze of unconsciousness lifting like a fog, but with it came the dull ache of your body, the raw sting of wounds that still hadn't fully healed. The unfamiliar scent of spices and sea salt hung in the air, and the warmth of the room felt too dry, too hot. You blinked, trying to focus as the room swam into view. This wasn’t Starfall.

The bed beneath you was soft, covered in richly woven blankets, but the architecture around you was distinctly Dornish—the arched windows open to the breeze, the light sandstone walls, the distant sound of the sea crashing against the shores. You were in Sunspear.

Confusion rippled through you, your heart pounding as the memories of the last hours—or had it been days?—flooded back. Terrax had taken you, carried you through the night sky, ignoring your pleas to return to Starfall. You had fainted, your blood loss too much to bear. But now you were here. How had Terrax brought you to Sunspear?

Before you could make sense of it all, the door to the room creaked open, and a familiar figure entered with a graceful stride.

"Ah, you’re awake at last," Ellaria Sand said, her voice carrying a soft note of amusement as she stepped closer. Her dark, sun-kissed skin seemed to glow in the warm light of the room, and her dark curls fell loosely around her shoulders. She wore the loose, flowing silks of Dorne, and her expression, though friendly, held a hint of curiosity.

You tried to sit up, but the effort made you dizzy. Ellaria quickly came to your side, her hand gently pressing you back against the pillows. "Take it easy. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, my dear. It’s good to see you finally awake."

Your mind spun, the weight of your confusion and worry pressing down on you. "What… what happened? How did I get here?" you asked, your voice still weak and hoarse.

Ellaria smiled faintly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Your dragon brought you here," she said with a slight chuckle. "He gave us quite a bit of trouble when he arrived. Terrax isn’t exactly subtle when he decides to land in the middle of Sunspear. You were unconscious when we found you, and it took a great deal of effort to calm him down. He didn’t seem too pleased with anyone touching you."

You blinked, the memories coming back in fragments—Terrax’s wild flight, the pain, the disjointed thoughts that had filled your mind. The dragon had brought you here, to Sunspear, but why?

Your heart suddenly clenched with fear as your hand flew to your abdomen. "The babe," you gasped, your voice laced with panic. "My child—"

Ellaria's expression softened as she placed a calming hand over yours. "Your child is fine," she reassured you, her voice soothing. "Don’t worry. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but the babe is unharmed. The healers checked on you as soon as you arrived. You’ll need time to recover, but you and your little one are safe."

The rush of relief that flooded you was almost overwhelming. You sank back against the pillows, closing your eyes for a moment as the worry drained from your body. The weight of that fear had been unbearable, but knowing your child was safe—knowing that despite everything, they were still with you—was enough to soothe your racing heart.

"And Arthur?" you asked softly, opening your eyes to meet Ellaria’s gaze.

She smiled warmly, her tone reassuring. "Word has been sent to him. He’ll be relieved to know you’re safe, I’m sure. He’s probably already riding this way. It’s not every day a knight finds out his lady has been flown to Sunspear by a dragon."

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, though the exhaustion still clung to you. Arthur. You knew he would come, but you hated to imagine the fear he must have felt when Terrax took you from Starfall. The bond between the two of you had always been strong, but now, with the child growing inside you, you could feel his presence with every beat of your heart. He would come. Of course, he would.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

Ellaria tilted her head, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "There’s no need to thank me. You’ve brought a bit of excitement to Sunspear. Besides, it's not every day we have a dragon princess among us." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Just promise me you’ll keep that beast of yours under control next time. We had quite the spectacle when he landed."

You managed a small smile, though your body still felt weak, the lingering pain a reminder of just how much you had endured. "I’ll do my best," you murmured. "But Terrax has a mind of his own."

Ellaria chuckled softly, her fingers brushing a lock of hair behind your ear as she stood. "Rest now. You need your strength. Arthur will be here soon enough, and we’ll make sure you’re well taken care of in the meantime."

As she moved toward the door, you closed your eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling you back into a fitful sleep. But even in your dreams, the voice of Terrax still echoed in your mind, the disjointed words flickering like flames in the distance.

You sat near the open windows of your chamber in Sunspear, gazing out at the endless horizon. The sea beyond shimmered in the midday sun, and though the warmth was comforting, your thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the events that had unfolded in the last few weeks. Terrax’s unpredictable behavior, the constant threat looming over your house, and the uncertainty of what the future held had left you feeling like a ship without a course.

A soft knock echoed from the door, and before you could respond, it swung open with a sudden force. You turned, startled, just as Rhaegar strode into the room, his silver hair catching the sunlight. Without hesitation, he rushed toward you, his arms open. The sight of him—your brother—flooded you with a wave of emotions, and before you knew it, you were on your feet, rushing to meet him halfway.

“Rhaegar!” you breathed, your voice catching in your throat as he wrapped you in a fierce embrace. It had been many moons since you had last seen him—since you had fled the chaos of King’s Landing—and now, here he was, holding you like he had feared he might never see you again.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Rhaegar whispered into your hair, his arms tightening around you, his voice thick with relief. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to cup your face, his violet eyes scanning your features as if searching for any sign of harm. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried...”

You nodded, your hands resting on his arms as you gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Rhaegar. Terrax brought me here, but I’m safe. I’m safe now.” You reached up, resting your hand over his as he continued to study your face, his brow furrowed with concern.

He sighed softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “So many things could have happened, and I wasn’t there.” He shook his head, his gaze still lingering on you as though trying to memorize every detail. “When I heard you were here in Sunspear, I had to come. I couldn’t stay away.”

You smiled again, though the tension in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. “What are you doing here, Rhaegar?” you asked softly. “I didn’t expect you to come to Dorne.”

He released your face, stepping back slightly but still holding your hand. His expression darkened, and you could see the weight of the world on his shoulders, the burden of the rebellion and everything it had torn apart. “Most of the men who followed me have now joined Robert Baratheon,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with frustration. “He intends to remove our House from the throne—completely. All of us.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The thought of your entire family being wiped out, the Targaryen legacy erased, was unbearable. “All of us?” you whispered.

Rhaegar nodded, his jaw tight. “Every last one. He won’t stop until there is nothing left of House Targaryen.” His gaze flickered, darkened by the weight of the news. “That’s why I came here. Dorne offers support.”

Something in his eyes, something unreadable, caught your attention, and you frowned, stepping closer to him. “There’s more, isn’t there?” you asked, your voice soft but firm. You knew your brother too well to miss the unspoken tension in his posture, the way his eyes shifted slightly as if he was holding something back.

Rhaegar’s expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “They want something in return for their help,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you swallowed hard. “What is it?”

He looked away for a moment, his gaze distant as if he was struggling with the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with frustration and sorrow. “They want me to marry Elia,” he said, the name hanging heavily in the air between you. “Like it was planned, before Aerys refused.”

A silence fell over the room, the warmth of the sun suddenly feeling oppressive. You knew the marriage had been arranged long ago, and that Dorne had always wanted the union between the two great houses. But hearing it now, in the middle of this war, with everything that had happened—it felt like a betrayal.

Rhaegar turned back to you, his eyes filled with both defiance and tenderness. “But I won’t do it,” he whispered, his hands reaching out to take yours. “My betrothal to you still stands. You and I are the last of our line. We have to stay together.”

Your heart raced, but you couldn’t ignore the implications of his refusal. “And what about the support from Dorne?” you asked quietly. “If you don’t marry Elia, will they still help us?”

Rhaegar looked conflicted, his gaze shifting as though weighing a decision he had already made. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, “I’m still in contact with Varys. The Spider has promised to take us away—both of us, and Mother. To Essos, where we’ll be safe. Away from Robert’s reach.”

“Essos?” you murmured, the word foreign and distant. The idea of leaving Westeros, leaving everything behind, was both tempting and terrifying. But the thought of leaving without Arthur—without the man you loved—was unbearable.

“I won’t go without Arthur,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

Rhaegar’s face softened with understanding, his hand squeezing yours gently. “I know,” he said. “We’ll find a way. But we may not have a choice. The war is coming, and we have to survive, no matter the cost.”

The thought of leaving everything behind, abandoning the fight for the throne, and fleeing to a foreign land filled you with a strange mix of hope and fear. 

But the shadows of the war loomed ever closer, and in the distance, you could still hear the whispers of dragonfire, calling you back to the flames.

The warmth of the Dornish sun bathed the stone walls of Sunspear as Rhaegar and Oberyn led you through the winding halls toward the courtyard. The breeze carried the scent of citrus and spices, and though you had been recovering from your wounds, the fresh air felt invigorating after the days spent resting indoors. Rhaegar walked at your side, his arm lightly supporting you as you moved carefully, still feeling the dull ache of the gashes Terrax's scales had inflicted. Oberyn walked just ahead, his usual swagger tempered by the seriousness of the moment.

As they guided you to the courtyard, the sound of rustling wings and agitated growls reached your ears. Terrax was there, his massive form restless as he paced, his golden eyes gleaming with a wildness that had only grown since his unpredictable flight. The dragon's agitation was visible, his claws scraping against the stone floor as his tail lashed behind him.

You swallowed, your heart tightening with a mix of affection and apprehension as you looked at him. Terrax was a creature of raw power, bound to you in ways you still didn’t fully understand, but today there was something different in the air.

"Don’t worry," Rhaegar said softly, his voice calming as he glanced at you. "He knows you're here. He’ll settle."

Oberyn smirked from just ahead, his usual devil-may-care attitude on full display. "Though I’d keep my distance while we fit him with what we’ve made. Dragons have a temper, and I’d hate for him to take it out on the wrong person."

You gave a small smile at Oberyn’s jest, though the thought of Terrax’s growing restlessness did nothing to ease the tension in your chest. As you approached the courtyard, you finally saw what Rhaegar had brought you here to see.

In the center of the courtyard, laid across a low stone bench, was a saddle—no, the saddle, the one Rhaegar had been working on with the help of Sunspear’s leatherworkers. It was unlike any saddle you had seen before, clearly designed with the unique needs of a dragon in mind. The intricate leatherwork, the reinforced straps, and the careful stitching were all signs of skilled craftsmanship, but what made it truly remarkable was its size and shape. It had been built to fit the ridges of Terrax's back, the design functional yet elegant in a way that suggested both utility and royalty.

Rhaegar gestured toward the saddle, a slight smile on his face as he glanced at you. "I found some old writings about saddle designs in books on the Conquest here in Sunspear’s library," he explained, his voice filled with pride and warmth. "Saddles like this were used by our ancestors during Aegon’s conquest. They were meant to help dragonriders better control their mounts during battle. I thought it might help with Terrax, especially after what happened."

You blinked, momentarily speechless as you took in the sight. The saddle was more than just a tool—it was a symbol of your bond with Terrax, a connection that ran deeper than blood, deeper than even your heritage. Rhaegar had gone to such lengths to make this for you, to ensure your safety and strengthen your bond with the dragon. It was humbling.

"Rhaegar..." you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. "You did all this?"

He smiled, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. "For you. And for Terrax. I know how much he means to you—and what he represents for all of us."

Oberyn grinned, his hands resting on his hips as he looked between the two of you. "It wasn’t easy, I’ll admit. Getting a dragon to stay still long enough to measure him for a saddle? Quite the challenge. But we managed. Somehow."

Your gaze shifted back to Terrax, who was still pacing restlessly in the courtyard, his wings twitching slightly as if he could sense the attention on him. There was an air of unpredictability about him today, a wildness that made your stomach churn. But you had to trust that the saddle would make a difference—that it would allow you to ride him without the pain and danger that had come before.

Rhaegar stepped closer to the saddle, motioning to the leatherworkers who had been waiting nearby. "We’ll put it on him now. You’ll see how it fits." His voice was steady, but you could see the tension in his posture. Terrax was not an easy dragon to handle, especially when agitated.

The leatherworkers moved with caution as they approached Terrax, the saddle held carefully between them. The dragon’s eyes tracked their every movement, his golden gaze sharp and unblinking. His massive tail swayed behind him, the muscles in his body coiled with barely contained energy.

You held your breath as they moved closer to him, murmuring soothing words to calm him, though you weren’t sure if Terrax even heard them. Rhaegar watched closely, ready to step in if needed, but his focus remained on you, watching your reaction, ensuring you were comfortable.

Terrax let out a low growl, his wings flaring slightly as the leatherworkers lifted the saddle toward his back. But he did not lash out—did not burn them with fire or snap his jaws at their hands. Instead, he allowed them to fit the saddle over the ridges of his spine, though his body remained tense, his muscles twitching beneath the leather straps as they fastened them securely.

The saddle fit perfectly, its shape and size molded to Terrax’s form in a way that seemed almost natural. You could see the relief in Rhaegar’s eyes as the last strap was secured, and Terrax settled slightly, his wings folding against his body. The dragon’s agitation had not fully faded, but he was calmer now, his gaze shifting to you as if waiting for your next move.

"It’s done," Rhaegar said softly, turning to you with a small smile. "The saddle should make things easier for you. You won’t have to worry about his scales cutting into you anymore."

You took a step forward, your heart pounding as you approached Terrax, your hand brushing gently against his warm scales. The saddle felt sturdy beneath your touch, the leather smooth and well-crafted. You glanced back at Rhaegar, gratitude shining in your eyes.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the wind.

He gave you a gentle smile in return. "You’ve always had a special connection with Terrax. I just wanted to make sure you could keep riding him—without getting hurt."

Oberyn chuckled from behind you, his tone light. "It’s not every day you see a dragon tamed—or saddled. I must admit, I didn’t think we’d pull it off."

You turned to face them both, a smile tugging at your lips despite the lingering soreness in your body. "I’m grateful. To both of you."

And as you looked back at Terrax, now fitted with the saddle that would help you ride him without fear.

The air in the Water Gardens was warm. You sat on a stone bench near the edge of a shallow pool, the cool water reflecting the bright Dornish sun. The sound of children laughing in the distance, running and playing under the watchful eye of attendants, was a soothing backdrop to the quiet conversation shared between you, Ellaria, and Elia.

Your hands rested on the small, but unmistakable swell of your abdomen, a sign of the life growing inside you. The soft fabric of your gown flowed around you, the heat of the sun tempered by the shade of the lush green trees that lined the gardens. You felt more at ease here, far from the chaos of the rebellion and the constant threats that loomed over your house. Yet, the lingering weight of your recent ordeal still clung to your thoughts.

Ellaria sat beside you, her dark eyes sparkling with their usual mischief, though her tone was soft today. "You seem to be healing well," she said with a gentle smile, her gaze drifting down to your stomach. "And the babe? No more complications?"

You gave a small, contented nod, your fingers tracing the slight curve of your belly. "No, everything is as it should be," you replied softly. "The healers say I’m making a good recovery." Your voice wavered slightly as you spoke, still overwhelmed by everything that had happened.

Elia, sitting across from you, her delicate features shadowed with a quiet concern, nodded in agreement. "It’s good to see you outside again. Sunspear has done wonders for you, princess," she said gently, though her eyes lingered on your abdomen with an expression that spoke of her own unspoken worries.

You smiled at both women, appreciating their company more than words could express, but before you could continue, the sound of hurried footsteps caught your attention. Your heart skipped a beat as you turned toward the entrance of the gardens, where a familiar figure was striding through the arched doorway.

Arthur.

Your breath caught in your throat as you saw him, his eyes immediately locking onto yours. His face was drawn with worry, but the moment he spotted you sitting safely by the pool, his expression softened with overwhelming relief. Without hesitation, he moved toward you, his long strides urgent, yet careful.

Ellaria glanced between you and Arthur with a knowing smile, her hand resting lightly on Elia’s arm. "Perhaps we should leave you two alone," she murmured, rising gracefully from the bench. Elia followed suit, offering you a small, reassuring smile before they both stepped away, giving you the space you needed.

Arthur rushed toward you as soon as they were out of earshot, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. He knelt beside you, his hands immediately reaching for yours, his touch warm and trembling with barely restrained emotion. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse with relief. "Thank the gods… I was so worried."

You smiled weakly, your own hands gripping his tightly as your heart swelled with love and relief at seeing him. "Arthur," you breathed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. "I’m here. I’m all right."

He stared at you for a long moment, his violet eyes filled with a mix of tenderness and anguish. His fingers trailed down to your abdomen, where the gentle curve of your stomach pressed against your gown. His hand rested there, his thumb brushing over the fabric as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

"The child?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly.

You nodded, placing your hand over his. "Safe," you whispered. "Our child is safe."

Arthur exhaled shakily, his head lowering as he pressed his forehead against your stomach, his hands cupping your belly with such reverence that it made your heart ache. "I thought I’d lost you both," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "When Terrax took you… I didn’t know if I’d see you again."

You gently stroked his hair, your fingers running through the familiar strands as you tried to calm him. "We’re here, Arthur," you said softly. "I’m not going anywhere. I promise."

For a moment, the two of you remained like that, the world around you fading into the background. The distant sounds of the gardens, the soft trickling of water, all seemed to blur as you held onto each other, your bond unspoken but unbreakable.

Arthur lifted his head after a moment, his eyes still shining with unshed tears. He leaned forward and kissed you, his lips soft and urgent against yours. It was a kiss filled with longing, with relief, with the promise of everything that was still to come. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands still gently cradling your abdomen.

"I won’t let anything happen to you or the babe," he whispered, his voice fierce with determination. "No matter what comes, I’ll protect you. Both of you."

You nodded, your own heart echoing the promise in his words. 

And hope was enough. For now.

The sky was overcast as Rhaegar and Oberyn rode out, the distant mountains casting long shadows over the barren borderlands where Dorne met the Reach. Behind them, the Dornish army stretched in disciplined rows, the sun-and-spear banners of House Martell flapping in the wind. The sound of hooves on dry, cracked earth was a steady rhythm, but the tension in the air was palpable. Ahead, King Aerys and his army were approaching, their banners dark and foreboding. It was a rare thing for Aerys to leave King’s Landing, especially at such risk, but his obsession with your whereabouts had driven him to the edge of reason.

Rhaegar’s face was drawn, his jaw set as he rode in silence beside Oberyn. His thoughts were dark, his heart heavy with the knowledge of the confrontation ahead. It was no longer just a matter of rebellion or loyalty. His father’s madness had spiraled into something dangerous, and Aerys’s fixation on you—on his own daughter—had only grown with each passing moon. The rumors had spread fast, whispers that you were with child, whispers that Aerys was determined to have you and the babe for his own twisted purposes.

Oberyn glanced at Rhaegar, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes was unmistakable. "Your father has lost what little remains of his sanity," Oberyn said dryly, his tone laced with sarcasm. "And now we meet him here, on the brink of war, while Robert Baratheon likely marches on King’s Landing. Madness has never been so well-timed."

Rhaegar said nothing, though the truth of Oberyn’s words gnawed at him. By leaving the capital exposed, Aerys had all but invited Robert’s forces to strike. But that was the price of his father’s obsession. Aerys cared for nothing now except you and the child he believed was Rhaegar’s.

As they crested a low hill, Rhaegar spotted Aerys’s forces—thousands strong, their black and red banners stark against the gray sky. At the front of the formation, Aerys sat on his horse, his silver hair wild in the wind, his eyes burning with manic energy. His presence was unmistakable, a figure of chaos, dressed in dark armor that gleamed with the reflection of wildfire in his gaze. Even from a distance, Rhaegar could see the twitch of his father’s lips, the erratic movements that betrayed his instability.

The two forces halted, and a tense silence followed, the wind whipping between them as Rhaegar and Oberyn rode out to meet Aerys, the armies watching from a distance.

As they drew closer, Aerys’s gaze locked on Rhaegar, ignoring Oberyn entirely. His lips curled into a sneer, and his voice cracked as he spoke. "Where is she?" Aerys demanded, his tone sharp, biting. "Where is my daughter? Where is Y/N?"

Rhaegar met his father’s wild gaze without flinching. He had known this question was coming. "She is safe, away from you," he replied, his voice steady, but there was an edge of defiance in his words. "You will not have her, Father."

Aerys’s expression twisted into one of rage, his hands gripping the reins of his horse tightly, knuckles white. "You dare defy me? You—who stole her away from me?!" His voice grew shrill, his eyes wide and gleaming with madness. "She belongs to me, and you will bring her to me, or I will burn the world to ash!"

Oberyn, sitting astride his horse beside Rhaegar, looked utterly unbothered, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He watched Aerys with a kind of amused detachment, though he made no effort to intervene. The Dornish prince seemed content to let the mad king rant, his dark eyes glimmering with quiet amusement at the scene unfolding before him.

But Aerys ignored Oberyn entirely, his fury focused solely on Rhaegar. "And I’ve heard whispers, rumors," Aerys hissed, his voice lowering but no less venomous. "That my daughter is with child. Is it true?"

Rhaegar’s heart clenched at the question, though he had prepared for this moment. He knew what Aerys wanted to hear, what madness would drive him further into obsession. With a calm he barely felt, Rhaegar met his father’s gaze and lied without hesitation. "Yes," he said, his voice firm. "She is with child."

Aerys’s eyes blazed with manic excitement, but before he could speak, Rhaegar continued, his tone cold and final. "But the child is mine. You will not touch her, and you will not touch our babe. You will never see them."

The words hung in the air, heavy with defiance, and Aerys’s face contorted in a mixture of shock and fury. "Lies!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "You dare claim what is mine?! You would steal from your own father—your king?! I will burn you, Rhaegar. I will burn you and that bastard child in her womb!"

Rhaegar remained calm, his expression hardening. He had expected this, but the depth of Aerys’s madness still sent a chill through him. "You will not touch them," Rhaegar repeated, his voice low and filled with quiet menace. "No matter what you do, you will never have them."

Aerys’s fury boiled over, his whole body trembling with rage. "I’ll see you dead!" he screamed, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "You and all your traitors—burned in dragonfire!"

Oberyn finally spoke, his voice calm but mocking, his amusement at Aerys’s tirade evident. "You may want to rethink your strategy, Your Grace," Oberyn drawled, leaning slightly in his saddle. "You’ve left your capital wide open for Robert’s men. While you chase after your daughter, King’s Landing may not be so forgiving of your absence."

Aerys turned his wild gaze on Oberyn, his eyes narrowing in hatred. But he said nothing, as if the words of the Dornish prince were beneath him. His obsession with you had consumed him to the point where the fate of the capital, of the Iron Throne itself, no longer mattered.

"Enough!" Aerys barked, his voice ragged. He turned back to Rhaegar, his face twisted in fury. "I will have her, Rhaegar. One way or another, I will have her. And if you stand in my way, I will see you burn."

Rhaegar’s eyes met his father’s, filled with a quiet, unyielding resolve. "You will never touch her, Father," he said once more. "No matter what you do."

Aerys’s expression twisted, and for a moment, his hands shook on the reins of his horse, his entire body trembling with the force of his rage. But then, without another word, he yanked the reins and turned his horse around, riding back toward his army in silence.

Rhaegar remained still, watching his father retreat, knowing that this was far from over. The mad king’s obsession had only deepened, and there was no telling what he might do next.

Oberyn let out a low, amused chuckle, his eyes glinting with mischief as he turned to Rhaegar. "Well, that went about as well as expected," he said with a smirk. "Though I must admit, I was hoping for more wildfire."

Rhaegar gave him a small, grim smile, though the weight of the encounter still lingered. "It’s not over," he said softly. "Not yet."