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chaseatinydream · 3 years

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pirate king (31) || atz

“HAVANA-OHNANA-”

The five of you are walking along the streets, footsteps echoing on the cobbles as you take in the sights about you. It’s a bright and sunny day, with a stiff breeze keeping the temperature cool while you tour the town. You’re dressed lightly for the day, your hair done up in the pin Wooyoung had given you a while back to keep it out of your face.

But Jongho. What is Jongho doing?

Seonghwa sighs, turning to look at their maknae. “Well, he did get drunk yesterday after we told him I was staying with the crew and sobbed for a whole hour about how happy he was.”

“Let’s not forget how he danced around the ship trying to do a striptease to celebrate.” San mutters under his breath. You gulp at the thought and cover your eyes, as if that could change what your eyes have already seen.

You’re probably still traumatised.

“HALF OF MY HEART IS IN HAVANA-”

Yeosang stares worriedly after Jongho, who’s still dancing his way through the marketplace, belting out some song none of you have heard before at the top of his lungs.

“Is he still drunk?”

It’s funny how Captain actually let Jongho go into town with you and the others after the little fiasco yesterday. After returning to the Treasure on your little rowboat, Seonghwa had immediately explained to Captain and the rest about all that had happened. Hongjoong had simply listened quietly to Seonghwa, nodding in understanding when his cook had told him about how he had been tempted to stay in Nassau.

“It was understandable.” Hongjoong had shrugged.

But when Seonghwa had declared he was going to stay with the crew no matter what, you swore you had seen Hongjoong sigh a silent breath of relief under his breath, the tense muscles in his shoulders relaxing.

The rest of the crew hadn’t been quite so reserved in showing their joy.

Yunho and Wooyoung, once again the life of the party, had snuck down into the storage hold and swiped an entire cask of aged fire rum, giving drinks out to the whole crew, much to Hongjoong’s horror.

And absolutely the entire ship had gotten dead drunk.

The last time when you had gone drinking with the ATEEZ crew, you had thought you had seen everything. From flirting with inanimate objects to burning down restaurant kitchens, it had been bad. Until you had seen this.

Two words.

Absolute. Pandemonium.

What happened had literally been the stuff of nightmares. Your master, soft spoken oddball Choi San, had only managed two glasses of alcohol before he had gone streaking across the main deck of the ship, dressed in a grass skirt of medicinal herbs which you had been forced to toss this morning due to hygiene purposes. You had managed to save his clothes from being lost to the unknown, but your sanity had been sacrificed in the process as you tried to drag him back to the sickbay all with your eyes firmly shut against the evils of the world.

Mingi. The silent, steady quartermaster was one depressed drunk. After a few minutes of cheering like a lunatic with the rest of the crew, he had suddenly stood up, walked over to the captain’s cabin and lay down on Yeosang’s bed, hugging a terribly ugly plushie that you assumed your master had sewn years ago, a yellow bean in blue suspenders and clearly missing an eye. To it he had sobbed his life story, which mainly involved how he had joined the Treasure and how he wished Hongjoong could have had a better life. You had chosen wisely to leave the cabin before the room flooded with his tears.

Only to run in Jongho, who was in the middle of the main deck attempting to do a striptease along to a tragic ballad he was singing at full volume, hyped on by the rest of the crew chanting along. You had gone already nearly gone blind trying to escort San back to the sickbay, but with Jongho, you weren’t quite as lucky.

For a moment, you had very nearly wanted to claw your own eyes out. Fortunately for you, you had been saved when Jongho had decided to do a swan dive over the side of the ship into the sea all while screaming something that sounded suspiciously like ‘yeet’, prompting the only other sober person besides you on board, Seonghwa, to jump into the frigid waters to rescue him.

And gods. Rational, gentle, innocent and sweet Yeosang had gotten drunk. And when he got drunk, he drank even more. And when he drank even more, boy did he let his mouth run. You never wanted to hear the words that he had used to describe his father leave his mouth ever, and in the morning when they had been slightly more sober than before, Hongjoong had threatened to wash his mouth out with rubbing alcohol if he ever heard them again.

Which was rather ironic, considering that Hongjoong himself had been Yeosang’s most ardent supporter and listener the night before, cursing his own father with all sorts of colourful and creative words that had nearly made your ears bleed. The two had sat in the bow with a bottle of fine, powerful whiskey between them, screaming all sorts of unrepeatable expletives into the dark of the ocean. You had carefully kept clear of the forecastle deck, but even from the main mast you could hear them shrieking words like ‘shitbag’ and ‘bastard can’t even aim a gun properly-’ over the howling of the wind.

You had chosen not to dwell too much on that. After all, you had bigger problems to deal with.

Yunho and Wooyoung had been attempting to swing around the masts. The three of you were rigging monkeys, so this was nothing unusual. The problem with that was that Yunho and Wooyoung were on the verge of getting into a fist fight on the yardams, and that scared you more than it should have.

Because the two of them were fighting over the mast.

“The main mast is the best mast of the three! She’s tall and gorgeous, with such a slim and sleek figure! What does your mast have?” Yunho screamed from above, clinging onto the main mast’s rigging like it was his one true love. You had wondered briefly who he was talking to, until a voice from the mizzen mast had shrieked back in response.

“The mizzen mast is made of the most exquisite conifer! I’d like to see your mast made of anything better!”

It was Wooyoung, the drunk idiot second only to Yunho.

The first time you had caught wind of their argument, you had briefly wondered if you were the drunk one instead, but then you remembered that you hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol.

“Guys,” You had tried to cajole them into coming down from their dangerously high perches, “The masts are just big sticks-”

From the horrified screeching above you, you would have thought you had just murdered their firstborn children.

“How dare you, Haechin!” Yunho had blubbered, sloshing alcohol everywhere from above and you had been forced to dive out of the way to avoid a shower of rum. Wooyoung had thrown his wooden mug at Yunho with all the fury of a professional thrower but without the aim, so his shot had gone far off. The piece of tableware had flown through the air and hit Jongho straight in the forehead when Seonghwa was trying to haul him back on board, so the maknae simply toppled back into the ocean, much to Seonghwa’s horror.

“Don’t you dare call Chon Ha’s name wrongly!” Wooyoung had screeched from the mizzen mast, dangling upside down from the ropes, failing to recognise the hypocrisy of his statement. “Names are important, Yun Hoe!”

“What did you just call me, Poo Young?”

You had merely stood at the main deck for a long moment, staring up at the masts as you wondered how on earth you were ever going to get them down, the two slinging insults at each other with all the maturity of a five year old child split between the two of them.

“They’re very passionate about this.” Seonghwa had appeared at your side with a limp, kicking Jongho slung over his shoulder. He watched as the two flung rude hand gestures at each other, occasionally forgetting that they needed their hands to hold on to the rigging and almost tumbling off the masts, but somehow managing to save themselves at the last moment. “That’s how the two of them started talking when Wooyoung first joined the ship.”

You had stared at the cook incredulously even as Jongho attempted to struggle out of the sackcloth Seonghwa had tied him up in to save what was left of his shredded dignity. “By talking about which mast is better?”

Seonghwa had shrugged in reply. “Every time they get drunk, they flirt with inanimate objects. Along the way, Wooyoung and Yunho just… fell in love with the mizzen mast and main mast, I guess.”

Maybe the maturity of a five year old split between the two of them had been a little too generous. You doubted they had more brain than Shiber even if you put their minds together.

“I once woke up to see Wooyoung getting it down the mizzen mast. And Yunho attempting to seduce the mast with terrible puns about… you know.” Seonghwa had mumbled, shaking his head as he massaged his temples. He had clearly seen terrible things, you could see the trauma of his experience on the lines of his handsome face. What a difficult life he has been through. “Well, anyway, I need to get Jongho below deck before he attempts to go skinny dipping in the sea again.”

Your eyes had widened in horror as Seonghwa hoisted a whining Jongho higher up his shoulder. “You can’t leave me alone with these two idiots! You’ve known them longer, you should know what to do!”

But Seonghwa merely waved over his shoulder, opening the hatch to below the decks and rolling Jongho’s body down the stairs.

“Look at the blue she dresses herself in! The beauty of her robes, she’s such a fine mast!” Yunho screamed above you, and for a moment you had been very tempted to just grab Mingi’s ax from the cabin and hack the entire mast down.

“You’re merely dressing a swine in pearls!” Wooyoung waved his fist back furiously, his face red from hanging upside down or from the alcohol, you didn’t know. “What matters most is the person within!”

“That would have been so much more touching if he hadn’t been talking about a mast.” You shook your head, completely exasperated. But Wooyoung and Yunho had obviously not forgotten about you, because they turned to you simultaneously.

“Haechin!”

“Choo Ha!”

Their voices echoed together. “Which mast is better?”

You had buried your face in your hands. This was actually a real conversation. These two grown adult men had just asked you which big wooden stick was better than the other.

You’d had enough.

“Neither.”

Yunho had slid down his rope precariously to stare at you in the eye seriously. Then he screamed “What?” so loud in your ears you were pretty sure one eardrum had just given up on you, the sound ringing in your ears. But you had forced yourself to keep your calm.

“The foremast is better.”

Now that you think back on it, you had probably broken them. The two of them had merely gaped at you in shock and horror, and Yunho had actually slipped from the ropes to land in a crumpled heap right next to you.

Sobs had burst out from the mizzen mast.

“How could you say such a cruel thing, Choo Hoo?”

That was probably why the two other rigging monkeys had refused to join your little excursion to Havana today. Neither Wooyoung nor Yunho had met your eye, probably still unable to accept by what you had told them.

It was either that or the roaring hangover both of them had.

Suddenly, a screech pierces the air, much like a dying ostrich and you clap your hands over your ears, eyes flitting around for the source of the noise. Yeosang, too, flinches, but manages to stay a lot more composed than you. He must be too used to the sound of cannon fire and Wooyoung’s shrieking laughter.

“What was that?” You gape, but then all you see is a fruit cart, overturned, and suddenly, it explodes into flames.

Yeosang dives at you, knocking you to the ground as bits of charred wood fall all about you. To your left, you see your master crouched behind another stall with his hands protecting his head. To your right, you see Mingi and Seonghwa ushering a small girl to safety and away from the explosion.

“What happened?” You ask as Yeosang crawls off you, brushing ash from the knees of his pants as the two of you rise to your feet. The navigator frowns, coughing from the sheer amount of smoke as he attempts to see where your battlemaster has gone.

“Where’s that dumb maknae?” San yelps from the ground, and you can see him clutching a small Shiber stuffed toy to his chest protectively. “I swear, if he got into some sort of shit-”

“Language, San!” Yeosang chides, but the tips of his ears turn pink in embarrassment at his hypocrisy. Then he catches sight of something, and his eyes widen in sheer horror. “What the fu-”

You clap a hand over his mouth before he can say anymore.

“-urry cute bunny.” Yeosang manages to save his mouth from a date with rubbing alcohol. “Is that Jongho? With my new explosive, highly dangerous smoke bombs?”

You almost choke in shock as you stare into the clearing smoke. Then you see it. Jongho, hooting madly with laughter as he raises another hand bomb in his hands. Yup, definitely still drunk. “Oh, fu-”

What has Jongho done?

Before you too have a date with rubbing alcohol, San spots the town law enforcement approaching, the sound of their boots thundering across the stone pavement. The healer looks at you determinedly. You glance at him, intending to convey your message to him. Your master has always understood you intuitively, much like how you and Wooyoung can communicate through touch alone.

We’ve got to get Jongho out of there before the officials spot him.

San nods seriously in agreement.

Then he opens his mouth and screams. “Abandon ship!”

With that, he shoots down a small lane and out of sight before you can say a word. To your horror, Mingi and Seonghwa bolt as well, as if this is a drill they’ve practiced thousands of times.

Your eyes widen. Those little shits...

You and Yeosang exchange grim looks. Neither of you want to do it, but you’ve been saddled with the responsibility. You’re going to murder San when you get back to ship.

“We need to save Jongho’s ass.”

“We do.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t make it any easier to do.

So this time when Yeosang swears rather colorfully, you don’t bother stopping him.

Yeosang takes your hand and yanks you with him as he grabs Jongho by the scruff of the neck. The surprised maknae barely has the time to react before Yeosang is dragging him down the street with you, deceptively strong for such a lithe person. The three of you duck into an alley, just as the officers dash past you, shouting for the offender to step forward and admit to his crimes.

“Let the world burn!” Jongho crows, attempting to toss the bomb to the ground. Yeosang struggles against him, trying to get him to let go of the bomb and simultaneously attempting to shut him up at the same time. Honestly, what on earth did Jongho drink last night? How was he still drunk even now?

Then the memory comes back to you.

This morning, Jongho had woken up with a hangover, like everyone else on the ship. He had come to you, looking for something to help with the headache, so you had suggested a common household remedy, a splash of gin with a tomato based drink to take the edge off.

Just a little gin, you remembered saying. When you had walked into the storage hold to clear up after the night before, you had seen an entire bottle of gin, empty and bone dry on the floor. At the moment, you had wondered if Jongho had drunk the whole bottle himself in the morning, but you waved it off, Jongho couldn’t be that stupid, and the empty bottle was probably just from last night.

Well, apparently Jongho was that stupid, because he had likely downed the entire bottle of hard liquor by himself in the morning and had gotten drunk all over again.

“I heard some noise coming from over here!”

You and Yeosang exchange glances and begin panicking simultaneously. Your eyes search the alleyway desperately for some means of escape, but all you see is a shop with grimy windows that are too dirty to see through…

And that is perfect.

You pull on Yeosang’s sleeve and tug him into the door, the tinkling of chimes signalling your arrival. The two of you barely manage to bundle the screeching human shape that is Jongho into the shop after you before you hear the guards run past the door. The three of you land in a tangled heap on the ground.

“We’ve got to catch those offenders!”

You groan in exasperation and feel tempted to slap your forehead, but you reach over and smack Jongho instead. The maknae yelps, but at least he drops the bomb into Yeosang’s outstretched palm before abruptly falling unconscious.

“I wish we could kill him.” You glare at his form. Today was supposed to be a relaxing day off, one in which all of you could relax together, and you and San had intended on visiting the herb garden markets for rare plants and the like. Now it seems as if you will have to wait until tomorrow to wait for the fuss to die down.

“How may I help the three of you?”

You jump in shock, scrambling backwards and almost knocking Yeosang over. He moves in front of you protectively, and from his sleeve you see the glint of something silver just in case.

But it’s just an old man standing there, with greying hair and eyes that seem to keep shifting colour. You frown. At one moment they seem to be blue, then brown, then grey, and in the end you give up on trying to decide exactly what shade they are. He must be the owner of this shop.

“Ah!” You and Yeosang exchange glances and your eyes flit around the shop, your foot shoving Jongho’s prone form behind you as you try to find a suitable excuse. “We were… ah… we were looking for a book.”

It’s a bookshop, after all.

“That’s nice to hear. You rarely get youngsters such as yourself who are interested in books.” The old man smiles warmly, and something in you feels like you want to stay with him somehow. He radiates a sense of comfort that you want to keep with you at all times. “Are the two of you married? He seems like a sweet boy.”

You spit and Yeosang chokes at the same time, you reach over to slap his back as he tries to recover from his coughing fit. “Thank you, sir.” Yeosang thumps his chest, heart racing beneath his skin at the man’s words. “But we’re just friends.”

“Oh?” The old man raises an eyebrow, and you frown again, wondering how his eyes can be such a unique shade that you cannot identify. “Then again, there are always more choices. Fate changes, you know, like a stream flowing down a mountain. It curves and winds, overcoming whatever is in its way. No path is definite.”

You cough awkwardly. “Yes, sir.”

As weird as this conversation is, you’d prefer him to ask you about this than Jongho’s body. Maybe the man is too senile to think otherwise about a dead drunk body on the floor.

“Anyway, I might have the book for you.” The old man moves about the shelves, searching for something, you don’t know. You glance about you, the shelves are made from tree roots grown into the wall, the books leaning against a wall of soil. Then you realise why the floor is so soft. It’s a carpet of soft green grass, well kept with tiny flowers blooming. Your eyes widen in wonder at the beauty of it all.

“Your shop is beautiful.” You gush, astounded at the effort that must have gone into creating and maintaining this shop. “You must have worked hard on it.”

The old man’s fingers still on the spine of a book. “Well… I have a… talent for these sort of things and I enjoy it… I suppose you could say I have a green thumb.”

With that, he pulls out a book from the shelves and offers it to you. “That’s a beautiful necklace, by the way.” He comments, gesturing to the silver chain hanging from your neck. You smile as you accept the book gratefully, Yeosang peeks over your shoulder at the cover.

“Thank you. I’ve had it with me for a long time.”

The Little Mermaid.

“Isn’t this a kid’s storybook?” Yeosang asks, studying the rendition of the mermaid drawn on the cover. The old man nods wisely.

“It is sometimes the simplest things that hold the most truth.” He says and you nod gratefully, reaching into your pocket to pay him for the book (and for harboring the three of you from guards). But he stops you. “Ah, don’t pay me. I have a feeling you might need that book. Have you ever heard of the saying, do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it? Although it may be a little different… in this case.”

You don’t really understand what he’s saying and shake your head, but take the book anyway. “Thank you very much, sir.”

Yeosang hoists one of Jongho’s arms over his shoulder and the three of you prepare to leave, but the old man calls out to you one last time.

“Chin Hae?”

“Hmm?” You turn around in response to your name. The old man smiles at you, and suddenly you feel something wet sliding down your cheek. It’s a tear, you realise in shock, and hurriedly wipe it away before he can see.

Why are you crying in front of an old man.

“That’s a beautiful name. I’m glad they chose it for you. Stay safe.”

You frown a little at the strangeness of his words, but you thank him anyway for the compliment and well wish. Then you and Yeosang are out of the shop, the chimes swaying as the door clicks shut. The old man stares after the three of you, watching through the window as you speak to Yeosang about the book.

“Chin Hae, huh?”

He glances around the shop. This is such a measly sight of what he can do, but you complimented it and called it beautiful. If only you could see the true beauty of it, like you’ve always wanted to.

“Maybe soon.” He murmurs to himself and snaps his fingers.

Suddenly, the old, aged trees shrink back into the wall of earth, the plants wilting and dying in mere seconds, the flowers falling to the earth and vanishing into the soil. The books, shelves, everything disappears in mere seconds, and suddenly, the old shopkeeper is standing in the empty alleyway all by himself.

Except he’s not an old man anymore.

The skin on his face stretches and smooths out once more, his skin darkening till it takes on an earthy brown tone. The colours in his eyes swirl together, twisting and mixing in a kaleidoscope of shades until it finally settles on one single hue.

A bright, unearthly green that no one else in the world can replicate.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #jongho #wooyoung #ateez pirate king #w; pirate king #w; ot8 #w; fanfiction

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bjnurse · 4 years

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Risothulhu

Here’s my submission to #RisoDoppiWeek2019 for the Ritual prompt. Part 2 will be coming soon. Trying something different. I ya’ll like it.

Read this on Ao3 here.

Here’s my Ko-fi.

CW: Terror, Nudity and Language.

Cthulhu!Risotto x Doppio

18+ Only Below

----

Doppio wakes up. He blinks his pink lashes as he stretches. The light streaming through the curtain is beginning to hold a warm hue. It’s about an hour from sunset. Almost time. Doppio thinks with a smile. He hops out of bed and hisses as his bare feet touch the cold floor.

He looks dreamily out the window and considers his view. It's a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming... days like these are perfect for bringing about an apocalypse.

With a delighted sigh, he turns and walks out of his room heading to the bathroom to take his ritual bath. He doesn’t bother throwing on a robe. His roommate has seen him make the naked trek like this every day for about month now.

“Morning Diavolo!” Doppio cheerily yells into the living room.

“It’s 5:00pm. I’d hardly call that morning,” Diavolo calls back without looking up from his notes as he cross references a few ancient books.

Doppio runs a bath for himself, checking the water to make sure it’s just warm enough. He allows the tub to fill while he takes a bit of cheese cloth and places various herbs in it. He ties it at the top, creating a satchel and tosses it into the bath. He also adds a generous pinch of Himalayan sea salt directly to the water.

He turns his attention to his reflection. He absentmindedly looks at his freckled form as he brushes his teeth. Looking at his reflection, he runs his hands over his body wondering what he’ll feel like. Doppio loses himself in thought, but then remembers the water’s running.

“Shit!” He whispers as he turns around to turn off the faucet.

Doppio lowers himself into the warm water. He bats at the floating satchel of herbs and squeezes it forcing out every drop of herbal essence. Every bit counts. He needs it all. Doppio reclines, letting the water reach his mouth and his knees bend, touching the cool bathroom air.

Enjoying the warmth of the water and the smell of the herbs, he closes his eyes and remembers his dream. The same dream he’s had for a month now. Each night more details are revealed to him. At first it was a question, Join me? He woke that night in terror of a dark shadow looming over him. He only remembered the eyes black with crimson at their center and tendrils. So many tendrils. Each night more and more was revealed. Upon waking each morning, he had to force the memory from his mind’s eyes. What surrounded this being was chaos and despair. After a time, Doppio grew to love the screams of terror he’d hear in his dreams. Those cries of desperation are glorious. He could get off on it, but the voice in the dreams specifically told not to.

As he lays in the warm tub, he can’t help but let his hand gravitate to his hardening cock. He takes hold of himself and wonders how much it would really matter? Would his new master really know? It was too much to risk, but the defiant thought tempts him.

“Doppio! Hurry up!” His friend knocks at the door, making Doppio shriek and nearly take in a mouthful of water in his surprise.

“Alright, Diavolo! Be out in a minute!” He hurriedly cleans himself as he remembers what it was like in the beginning. To think he actually ran to Diavolo the first night he had the dream. They nearly ran into each other in the hall both awakening from what they had called a nightmare. These days he looks forward to the dreams. Hearing the voice call his name and feeling those eyes upon him. He enjoys the company of his master as he slumbers- as they both slumber. The thought excites him and he bites his lip.

…

Diavolo and Doppio arrive at the beach they had scouted to make sure it was remote and far from civilization. The two worked in synchronized silence setting up the altar that neither of them had spoken about but both of them had seen in their dreams.

As Diavolo lights the last few candles on the altar, Doppio walks a few feet away and starts drawing in the sand. He makes a large circle, about three feet in diameter. Along the outside, he scrawls glyphs that he had been seeing in his mind’s eye, since he woke up. Having finished his own task, Diavolo watches. Being the one who spent years studying the R'lyehian language, he recognizes a few of the symbols, ”protect” and ”tribute.” The rest are a mystery to him. Doppio inscribes one more ”devotion” then stands and turns to smile excitedly at Diavolo. A blush covers his freckled face. He’s filled with glee, as if it were Christmas morning.

“Ready!” Doppio speaks joyfully, breaking the silence between them. With a giggle, he hops into the circle and he removes his cloak. Being fully naked underneath, Diavolo can see how truly excited Doppio is, but he quickly turns his attention to his tome. He flips to the marked page in the well worn book.

“C’ai Risothulhu c-uln! Goka c-gotha! Nog n shugg! C-sll’ha nnn hai! Uaah!” Diavolo reads from the tome, projecting his voice towards the ocean.

The words Diavolo recites were once foreign and archaic to Doppio, but now they reach his ears as a beautiful melody. At the sound, he’s filled with a joyful familiarity. Pride swells in his chest and butterflies flutter in his stomach as if being reunited with a lover.

Diavolo breaks out into a cold sweat as he finishes his incantation. He looks to the ocean, straining his eyes in the last bit of daylight before the sun fully sets. Diavolo exhales with a frustrated sigh, looking over the spell and the list of components. Everything is in order. It should have worked! Discouraged, he looks over to Doppio.

Doppio is looking out to the ocean, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“I guess it didn’t…” As Diavolo tries to break the bad news, he’s cut off.

“He’s here.” Doppio says confidently as the ocean breeze picks up. The candles of the altar are blown to the ground. Diavolo shrieks, picking up the ancient tome to remove it from danger. The lit candles fall to Doppio’s feet. The small flames dance around the circle and illuminate the sigils. Doppio giggles from within the ring of fire, feeling the wind caress his bare flesh. When he stops giggling, he puts his hands out in front of him and they meet an unseen barrier forming a circle around him. He grins maniacally as his gaze to the ocean resumes.

Diavolo follows the brown eyes to find the water swirling and waves swelling, their ebb and flow are erratic. The unrelenting winds usher in storm clouds, devouring any remaining light. The only remaining light source is Doppio’s circle, providing them enough light to make out a figure rising from the water before them.

Each passing second, it gains height, slowly revealing how massive and incredible it is.

Each passing second, Diavolo’s mind screams, Flee while you still can! He’s filled with terror and his legs refused to follow his command.

Each passing second, a warmth coils tighter at Doppio’s core. He’s grinning wide. If the arcane restraints of the circle weren’t holding him in place, he’d have run to meet his master- his desire. Doppio giggles maniacally as he remembers the visions of his dreams: people running with faces contorted in terror, the delectable sound of their screams, the mouth watering smell of the city burning, and civilization crumbling beneath him.

From the depths of the waters, shrouded in shadows the thing moves towards them. Diavolo can start to make out a form: head, shoulders, torso, and tentacles. There’s more tentacles than he can count. He sees the sickly green-grey form with black eyes like a void with glowing red ember at their center. Where a mouth should be, its face is covered in smaller tentacles writhing and coiling upon themselves. Diavolo releases the breath he had been holding in a shriek as two large leathery wings extend at the thing’s back then fold neatly behind it. At that, Diavolo crumbles. He falls back screaming. He clings to his last shred of sanity as he crawls away then struggles to get to his feet. He runs stumbling to the car, leaving his friend behind.

“Bye Diavolo! Thanks!” Doppio calls out. He gives a half hearted wave over his shoulder to his absent friend. His eyes are transfixed on the gorgeous man before him. Towering over him now is this ancient God with short white hair, tanned skin, muscular body and eyes like a black void with the red ember center. Those eyes are the ones he’s been dreaming about. They’re just as he remembered them.

The familiarity in the tone instantly touches Doppio’s heart and he melts, as the voice from his dream speaks to him- finally in person.

“Hello, my little morsel.”

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setaripendragon · 7 years

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Yin and Yang - Part 1

I’ve been feeling pretty crappy today, and for some reason writing about these two depressing assholes makes me feel better, so have some super self-indulgent mpreg!Itachi/Hidan. I have no idea where I’m going with this, I just have this image of Hidan listening in rapture to a baby’s midnight screaming fit, so I’m hoping to wend my way to that point, eventually.

General warnings for this whole story include: Hidan’s religious sadomasochism and Itachi’s suicidal martyr complex and depression. Also, obviously, mpreg. Please be careful and take care of yourself <3

Despite everything that had happened in his life, Itachi still disliked violence. It wasn’t the visceral disgust of his youth, but he still acknowledged that he found it unpleasant. Still, as an S-rank criminal for hire, he was forced to see a good deal of it. Thankfully, with a partner like Kisame, who not only was well suited to violence, but seemed to take a simple sort of pleasure from a fight, Itachi mostly got to stand to the side and look intimidating, instead of having to engage in the violence himself.

Most of the time.

This was not one of those times. There were really too many of them to expect Kisame to handle them all by himself, and at least three of them were lightning users. Sighing softly to himself, Itachi stepped forward, putting himself at Kisame’s side. The larger man smiled nastily. Their enemies attacked.

Itachi immediately surged forwards, sharingan spinning, caught a handful of them in a genjutsu before they’d even realised what happened, took another two in the throat with kunai, and spun under the first attack to actually reach him. Kunai in each hand, he flicked his wrists, sending the blades spinning out, and got another foolish ninja with a simple yet debilitating genjutsu.

Behind him, he heard Kisame laughing, but he paid it no heed. One of the better fighters engaged him with a flurry of spinning blows, and even though Itachi could predict every one and move out of the way with ease, he could also see that she was driving him into a knot of her allies. He let her, and then, at the last minute, when victory lit her eyes and her allies dove for him, he replaced himself with a leaf off the tree above them.

Looking down, he saw them drive their weapons and jutsu into each other, and devolve into a screaming, disoriented pile. He had been planning to throw another genjutsu at them, to further their mindless panic, but he got distracted. There was a foreign source of chakra inside him. It couldn’t be a genjutsu, or his eyes would have caught it long before now, it couldn’t be a compulsion jutsu, because he regularly fluctuated his chakra to throw them off. It didn’t seem to be affecting him at all, except, he realised as he studied it more closely, that there was a miniscule flow of his own chakra into it.

Exactly like he’d seen on his mother, less than a year before the Kyuubi attacked.

At first, incomprehension was what held Itachi immobile. Then, slowly, tendrils of panic began to creep past the fog of his usual indifference. Because the sharingan never lied. The sharingan saw through lies, dispelled genjutsu, picked out every tiny deception. The sharingan recorded the truth, and with enough practice could even be used to predict the immediate future with startling accuracy.

Itachi could not doubt the evidence of his own eyes, and his eyes were telling him that he was – inexplicably – pregnant. The impossibility of that was its own problem, but Itachi remembered the day Sasuke was born, he remembered standing at his mother’s bedside, looking at this tiny, screaming thing, and being overwhelmed by how indescribably precious this new life was.

As a child, a boy of only six, he’d been… a little jealous, that he couldn’t do that, too.

As a teenager, still just a boy of thirteen, he’d slaughtered his own mother in cold blood. He’d given up any right he’d ever had to call himself a good person, the sort of person who deserved to have a loving mother and adoring little brother. He could at least still call himself a good shinobi, but that was as far from a good person as one could get, in his opinion. He knew intimately the feel of his mother’s blood, the sound of his brother’s screams.

As a man, just barely twenty-one, he was a rotted, festered husk of a person, sick in body and soul, and far too damaged for this to possibly be… real. He had murdered his mother, destroyed his brother – oh, with a purpose, with a reason, but all violence had a reason, and all violence was still wrong – and he didn’t know if he remembered, if he’d ever known, how to be anything else with family.

Kill or be killed.

Somewhere past the ringing in his ears, he heard someone shout his name. Somewhere past the tingling in his extremities, he could feel the roughness of tree bark. Somewhere far, far beyond the memories of blood and terror in the eyes of the person he loved most in the world, he saw leaves scatter as a man with an unreasonably huge mace in his hands flung himself across the branches at Itachi.

At Itachi, and the new life that was resting inside him.

A new life that was so tiny, still so much smaller than Sasuke had been, that first time Itachi had ever laid eyes on him. Tiny and helpless and dependant; entirely, utterly, completely dependant on Itachi for the oxygen in their lungs and the blood in their veins and the beat of their heart. If Itachi did nothing, if Itachi failed, the baby would too.

In that moment, Itachi felt for the second time in his life an overwhelmingly fierce devotion to another person. Sasuke was his little brother, and this baby was his child. He had murdered his own mother to keep Sasuke safe in Konoha and out of a madman’s hands. He would do it a thousand times over if it meant protecting his child.

Black pinwheels spun to life in crimson irises. The world became orderly, predictable clockwork, and Itachi moved. The man in front of him wasn’t looking him in the eyes, unfortunately, so Itachi dispersed into crows, and reformed behind him, kicking him to the ground and following him down, letting gravity slam him into the man’s abdomen, crouching with the movement to drive his knee into his sternum and to slam his hand down onto his throat. The man gasped, eyes flying wide, and Itachi swallowed him in black flames.

Then Itachi looked up, assessed the battlefield, and marked out every potential threat. Too many. Far too many. He would change that.

With only a little blood and a few handsigns, Itachi summoned every crow that would answer to his call, and set them on his enemies. Crows, most people didn’t realise, were vicious birds, given the opportunity. They were carrion birds, scavengers, and that meant that they were not only capable of shredding corpses to get at the meat, but also sneaky, suicidally brave little shits, fully capable of stealing a meal out from under the beak of a fully grown eagle, given sufficient motivation.

These birds were bound to Itachi, they were his allies, and his protective fury was theirs, and more than enough to inspire them to murder. Itachi followed in their wake with black fire and madness in his bloodied crimson eyes.

A whirlwind of movement and screaming and death later, Itachi halted, and watched the last few amaterasu fires dwindle into nothingness. He stood very, very still, and breathed with lungs that were already more rot than lung. He let the sharingan fade away and looked with eyes that were as good as useless, with how little detail he could make out past the blurs of colour and light. He calmed the maelstrom that had swept through a mind so thoroughly overtaken by madness that he could easily slaughter an entire battlefield without a second thought.

Grass shifted under a shinobi sandal, and Itachi just barely turned his head to indicate to Kisame that he was aware the other man was there. Kisame whistled, low and impressed, and then, after a long, awkward pause, asked “You alright?”

Itachi laughed, startled into a moment of genuine, absurdist humour. He had never in his life been alright, long before this moment, long before he’d killed his family, long before he’d even so much as laid eyes on Sasuke. He was not the sort of person who could ever touch ‘alright’, wasn’t capable, wasn’t permitted. He was allowed just enough sanity to protect Sasuke, just enough lucidity to know to prepare him for when Itachi could not, just enough self-awareness to know that he deserved nothing more than death.

But he couldn’t die. Not yet. Not today or tomorrow. Not for years. Not until this new responsibility could stand on their own two feet and face down Kage if they needed to. He had been so close, so damned close, to finally meeting his end, to gifting Sasuke his own mangekyou, that ultimate power, and now… Now, despite his lungs and his eyes and his poisoned soul, he suddenly had to live.

His laughter choked off, curdled in his throat as tears spilled over his cheeks. He pressed a hand over his eyes as if that might help, but they continued to stream, regardless. His breath shook, his shoulders hitched, his throat constricted.

“Er…” Kisame began, and laid a tentative, awkward hand on Itachi’s shoulder. “I guess that’s a no.”

“I’m pregnant.” Itachi announced, although his voice came out far quieter than he meant it to, far more strained under the weight of his hysteria than he’d wanted it to. “I’m pregnant.” He repeated, in bewildered, horrified disbelief.

“I… What? Are you… sure? I mean, I was pretty sure you’re male, and-”

Itachi snorted, but delicately. He’d learnt that trick from his mother. Mikoto had been able to make just about anything look elegant, and Itachi had always been pleased by the fact that he took more after her than his father. In more ways than he’d expected, apparently. “Yes on both counts.”

There was a long silence, until Itachi felt, through the hand on his shoulder, Kisame shrug. “I suppose having a giant mouth on your chest is still weirder.” He capitulated easily. “Or having a giant flytrap around your head. Or turning yourself into a puppet.”

“Or being half-shark?” Itachi suggested, with a hint of wry humour.

“Well, that seems pretty normal to me.” Kisame retorted with a grin that showed off his jagged, pointed teeth. Deliberately.

Itachi did appreciate Kisame’s sense of humour. Truly. “This… does not seem very normal to me.” Itachi admitted, letting a hand drop to his stomach. There was… Now that he was looking for it, now that he was aware, he could feel the barest beginnings of a bump there, beneath his navel. And he had been feeling unwell for the last month or so, but he’d put that down to his deteriorating health.

“No idea this could happen, then?” Kisame checked.

“None. I-” Itachi started, then stalled. He did not talk about his clan. Only one person was privy to his thoughts and feelings about his clan, and it wasn’t Kisame. He couldn’t make the words leave his mouth, couldn’t allow the truth of it out before… before what? Before Sasuke killed him? He could hardly allow Sasuke to kill him now.

“Any records you could check?” Kisame asked, skirting around the issue with surprising grace.

Itachi hardly knew what being friends meant, but he rather thought he liked having one in Kisame. “Perhaps…” Itachi hedged. “And I think a visit to a skilled medic-nin would be in order.”

“Probably.” Kisame agreed. He looked around the small clearing. It was nothing but a green, brown, and red blur to Itachi, but he had seen the aftermath of the battle with the sharingan, and the memory was vivid and clear in his mind. “Are the killing-sprees going to be a regular thing?” He wondered, completely without judgement.

Itachi wanted to say it wouldn’t happen again, but, well… He still felt very uncertain and off-balance about this whole pregnancy thing, and if he thought too hard about it, he could feel the hysteria rising within him again. “Only if someone threatens me.” He hedged.

Kisame winced, then shrugged. “Okay. Let’s head back to the base.”

Itachi’s breath hitched, but he ignored it and the side-eye he got from Kisame, and nodded. When his partner didn’t move, Itachi turned and started walking. Kisame fell into step with him. They walked in silence for a while, and Itachi did his best not to lose his mind over the fact that somehow he’d wound up pregnant.

He wished he understood better the logistics of the thing. He had been having a fair amount of sex lately, penetrative sex, both giving and receiving. There had been plenty of exchanged bodily fluids, and even some chakra usage. But Itachi didn’t have the first clue how, when, or where the child had begun to grow. There had to be some sort of jutsu involved, surely, because Itachi was fairly certain he did not have the right organs, usually, to bear a child.

Except, he’d been thirteen the last time he’d seen a medic-nin for anything. He had no idea how his body might have changed during puberty. There were some pretty strange mutations in certain ninja clans, physical alterations that frightened or disgusted most civilians. Itachi would have thought that as the clan heir, he would have been made aware of all the pertinent details of their clan’s traits. But, of course, he’d been thirteen when he’d killed everyone who might have been able to explain, and most people, even ninja, did seem to think that was a bit young to be talking about sex. Never mind the fact that Itachi had been killing people since he was six.

Why sex was supposed to be that much more traumatising than murder, Itachi did not know.

Kisame’s sudden question knocked Itachi out of his increasingly hysterical thoughts; “Is Hidan going to try and kill me for knowing before he did?” He wondered, without seeming very bothered by the prospect.

“Why would he?” Itachi wondered.

“He is the father, isn’t he?” Kisame checked, although he didn’t sound very uncertain at all.

Which was fair. Hidan was not a subtle man. Everyone in Akatsuki had known they were sleeping together less than a week after they started. That was a full six months ago, and in that time, they had slid seamlessly from what Kakuzu had crassly termed fuck-buddies to what Deidara had called ‘disgustingly and creepily married’ with a visible shudder.

“Yes.” Itachi confirmed, even though he was fairly sure he didn’t need to.

Kisame nodded. “So, do I need to watch my back?”

“I cannot see why you would need to take any extra care.” Itachi replied. Kisame watched him for a moment, then shrugged and seemed to accept that for what it was. The rest of their journey passed in an easy, companionable silence.

#Naruto #Uchiha Itachi #Hidan #Hoshigaki Kisame #HidaIta #Hidan/Itachi #Hidachi #whatever the ship name is #I like Hidachi #Itachi has about minus three thousand chill when it comes to family #also #some shameless self advertising #if you want the story of how Hidan and Itachi went from 'fuck-buddies' to 'creepily married'#check out my story Burnt Sugar and Blood #(also it's prequel Eviscerated)#I love these two please come join me on this piece of driftwood #rare pair hell #I am in it so deep

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