#you can tell i was too lazy to draw his boots | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

batneko · 3 months

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Can you believe I've been drawing the Undead Kingdom AU for three years? I sure can't!

But since I actually remembered in time to prepare something this year, I present to you an AU of an AU:

Squire Beauto

(in which Amai never gave in to the curse, never reinvented himself, and yet finds himself on a remarkably similar path) rated: T for swearing and innuendo words: 12,317 tw: bullying, light bdsm, religious baggage

"Come on, Dogface! We're burning daylight!"

This was not, in fact, true. The sun hadn't even fully crested the horizon, and the one the knights called "Dogface" had been up since long before. He ate, bathed, and dressed alone, then woke the young squire to serve breakfast to the knights and pack up the camp.

Now he finished loading the last pack on the last horse, hitched his own bag over his shoulders, and followed the rest of the group. Unnoticed, the crows followed him.

The tallest knight (a bit shorter than Dogface without his boots) shifted his armor as he walked. “You left my straps too loose again. We're not all as porky as you, Dogface.”

The other two knights chuckled, though both of them looked heavier than Dogface. Fighting in full armor took a lot of brute strength, and most knights tended on the stocky side. The fact that Dogface was being singled out for his weight said far more about the speaker than it did the target.

There was a pause of several seconds. Dogface wore an old-fashioned bucket helmet that completely covered his head. No expression could be seen, and when he spoke there was nothing but polite subservience in his voice. “I see. I won’t do that next time.”

They kept walking, the crows kept following, and Psykos kept watch through their eyes.

“They're all the way from R Kingdom,” Psykos said, keeping her eyes on her crystal. “You can tell by the accent, bunch of hicks.”

“Why would knights from R Kingdom come here?” Fubuki asked, leaning over her shoulder. Her hand was cool even through the fabric of Psykos' dress.

“The usual,” Psykos said. But she added, quietly, “They prayed before their meal.”

“Oh.”

More than one religion decried the undead as unholy. Only a few decided that meant all undead should be unilaterally wiped out. Psykos would have expected more hymns and solemnity if that was what this group was really after, but she was sure they wouldn't have traveled so far without believing they were on a mission from their god.

“Will you sing for us, Squire Beauto?” the young squire asked. So that was the older one's name. Now she could stop thinking of him by that ridiculous nickname.

“Yeah, Dogface,” the tallest knight said. “Give us a song.”

If he chose a hymn, Psykos would stop observing now and rally the army.

Beauto didn't audibly sigh, but his shoulders (already stooped) rose and then slumped. After a moment, his voice came from behind the helmet.

Not a hymn. A ballad. One of those old ones about jealousy and betrayal and murder. Squire Beauto sang with a strong clear voice – a tenor, unless Psykos missed her guess – and he was good. Ballads weren't designed to strain a singer's talents, but he nailed every note. Psykos would have paid money for this.

“They brought a bard?” Fubuki asked. She couldn't see through the crystal as well as Psykos could, but the sound carried.

“No, that's a squire.”

“He missed his calling, then.” She straightened up. “Shame if we'll have to kill him.”

“I know.”

***

They reached the castle shortly before noon. There had been one stop for rest and food an hour earlier, but "rest" applied only to the knights, of course. Beauto and Atama were expected to serve them just like always. As soon as Beauto sat down for a moment he had Sir Kakato barking at him, "Come on Dogface, don't be so lazy!"

It was always the same. If he sat, he was lazy. If he ate in front of others, he was a glutton. If he slipped up even slightly in keeping himself and his clothes spotlessly clean, he was a slob.

It was better now, with the helmet, but the knights still knew. Kakato still knew.

So Beauto was tired and hungry and ready to kill someone when he arrived at the castle of the undead king. It was almost disappointing when there was no one to try and stop them.

"Doesn't look like much," Sir Onaka said.

Beauto didn't agree, but he knew what he meant. "I doubt this was the main palace," Beauto said. "I think that got destroyed when the last prince cursed the country."

Onaka stared at him for a few seconds, and Beauto added, "Sir."

Kakato clicked his tongue. "Mind your manners, squire," he said. "Your behavior reflects on me, remember?"

All the more reason to ignore propriety, Beauto thought, but it wasn't true. Nobody had ever blamed Beauto's behavior on anyone but himself. He even got blamed for things he'd been nowhere near. He even got blamed for getting attacked.

“I know, Sir Kakato,” Beauto said. “I will be mindful.”

They entered the castle by the front doors. There may have been a side or back entrance once, but the ground around the castle had risen up in jagged points, blocking off all but the face of the building. It wasn't built to be defensible but it certainly was now.

The entry hall was wide, tiled in cracked slate covered with random carpets. Sir Onaka drifted to the side and pulled aside a curtain, whistling at the painting behind it.

It was a hunting scene, deer running across green hills. No part of the country looked like that now.

"Gold frame," Onaka said.

"Look at this," Sir Tsume called from the other side.

She'd found a small table with a basket full of flowers and a vase waiting to be filled. The staff must have fled without finishing their tasks when they heard knights were coming.

Sir Tsume picked up the vase. "Porcelain," she said, tapping it with a fingernail, "the good stuff."

The three knights exchanged glances. Beauto did his best to ignore them.

"Let's split up," Tsume said. "Do a little… scouting."

Beauto was instantly disappointed; Tsume had the most level head among the three of them, and he'd been hoping she'd stop the others if they suggested the same thing.

"Works for me," Kakato said, grinning.

"Figure out what to grab on the way out, and we'll meet up at the throne room."

"I'll take the squires, you two stick together?"

"Works for me," Tsume said, and Onaka nodded.

Beauto said nothing. What was the point?

When the group found a doorway they made the split; Kakato in the lead, Squire Atama sticking close to him, and Beauto with his hand on his sword hilt bringing up the rear. They walked for some time without encountering any people, living or dead. Occasionally they heard footsteps fading into the distance, occasionally they encountered a locked door, but mostly it was hallway after hallway.

They must have chosen the wrong direction, because the doors themselves got less and less ornate the further they walked. These were the areas where the servants traveled, the part of the castle where work got done.

Beauto was intimately familiar.

“Nothing,” Kakato said, and spat on the floor.

It was stone tile, with mismatched carpet runners in the center of each hall. If his spittle had hit the carpet Beauto may very well have slugged him, damn the consequences.

“Let’s go back,” Kakato said, and Beauto followed without a word.

They took a different path this time, back into the palatial part of the palace. Here, the carpets were coordinated and embroidered - though Beauto noticed they seemed very worn. Old, then. Cleaned so often their colors had faded and fibers had begun to wear away.

The wall hangings (and there were many) were newer. In a large building like this there were often drafts no matter how many fires were lit, and thick fabric trapped heat. It helped that they were beautiful, rich velvet, made from silk in the old style unless Beauto missed his guess. He found himself reaching out as they passed to touch a particularly charming drape embossed with stylized wheat, only remembering to pull his hand back a moment before his fingers reached the fabric. He was always lectured when he dared to put his hands on anything expensive. As if he would dirty it by his very presence.

Funny. If the kingdom was full of undead, why did they work so hard to keep the castle warm?

A scream ripped through the air, and Beauto had his sword half-pulled before he’d fully turned. Kakato was only a second behind him, shoving him aside as he sprang into action.

Except… there was nothing there. No one, living or dead. Just Beauto and Kakato.

Just Beauto and Kakato.

“Sir, where’s Atama?” Beauto said.

“What?” Kakato’s head whipped back and forth. “I thought you were watching him!”

“I-” He’d been distracted. Lost in thought and dreams of luxury. “I didn’t-”

“Fuck,” Kakato said. Vulgar as ever. “Well it’s too late for him. Let’s find the others and kill that monster they call a king. That’ll be a fitting tribute to Squire Atama.”

“He’s not dead,” Beauto said through gritted teeth. “Not until we’ve seen a body.”

“He’s a goner, Dogface! There’s no point!”

Beauto snapped his sword back into its sheath. “I’m going to have a look.”

“Fine, it’s your funeral.” Kakato waved one hand as he turned. “We’ll get all the glory for wiping out that monstrosity, and you’ll lose whatever chance you had of finally getting knighted.”

Beauto stopped.

He clenched his fists, his jaw, his whole body so tight he was certain he was trembling. Right now it was just the two of them. If he were to beat Kakato to a pulp - or less - no one would ever know it was Beauto. It would be blamed on the undead, doing what everyone expected of them.

He heard the clank of Kakato’s armored boots walking away, unbothered, probably barely even remembering what he’d said. He certainly didn’t seem to think about any of it before he spoke. He couldn’t know how much it rankled, every single day, to serve a knight a year younger than him.

Beauto stepped forward, in the direction of the scream.

Atama wasn’t far. Almost as soon as Beauto set foot in the last servant’s hallway they’d left, the boy ran straight into him. He came away with a scratch on his chin from Beauto’s old layered plate armor, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

“What’s wrong?” Beauto asked. “What happened?”

“There was a skull!”

Beauto stared at him. He was grateful every day for the helmet that hid his face, but never moreso when he was sure he couldn’t keep his expression neutral.

“That’s all?” Beauto said. “This castle is overrun with undead, of course there are skulls lying around.”

“It wasn’t lying around, it was on a stake!” Atama said. “I just- I just turned a corner and there it was!”

“Probably marking a room where they keep bodies for resurrection or something,” Beauto said. “Seriously, that was enough to make you scream? Weren’t you already prepared to face things like that once you heard where we were going?”

“Well, I was, but…” Good, at least he wasn’t panicking anymore. “This place just looks so… normal, you know? It looks like the castle back home.” He frowned a little. “But they have nicer stuff than we do.”

“It’s easy to have nice things when you have no qualms about robbing graves,” Beauto said. “Come on, let’s find the others. Sir Kakato was afraid you might be dead.”

A small lie, a white lie, but it didn’t count because Atama didn’t look like he believed it for a second.

They walked side-by-side this time. Beauto enjoyed feeling like a reliable senior squire for the few minutes it took to find their way back, and then he led the way with his mood sinking step by step. It was easy to find the throne room - just like Atama said, this castle was very much like the one back home. And besides, a throne room should never be difficult to find. The whole point was showing off the liege’s splendor.

Even if it wasn’t easy, they would have found it quickly. The sounds of fighting and swearing echoed down the halls.

Both squires took off running, passing through the massive double doors and into the empty space. Beauto felt cold the moment he stepped inside. For a split second he thought it was dark magic, but then he noticed the room lacked carpets or drapes aside from two on the dais that held the throne itself. It was wide open, all stone, not even furniture aside from that single tall chair.

And in front of him, locked in combat with Sir Kakato, was the undead king.

He was about average height (Beauto noted the click-clack of heeled boots and amended that) a little under average height, with the cropped short hair of a soldier and the shadowed eyes of an insomniac. If it wasn't for the bloodless pallor of his skin Beauto would have taken him for a living human, and a rather handsome one at that. He certainly didn't dress like a king. Then again, maybe the knights had caught him in the middle of changing. Beauto couldn't think of another reason his shirt would be half-buttoned like that.

He fought wielding a massive sword, hardly more than a slab of metal with a handle, and he moved far more gracefully than someone encumbered by such a weight should. Unnatural strength, no need to rest or fear muscle strain, a being that existed outside human limitations.

As Beauto watched, the undead king brought his sword down so hard it cracked the blade of Kakato’s, then swept the knight’s legs out from under him with a kick. One-handed, the king picked up Kakato by the straps on the back of his armor and tossed him on top of the other two knights, already lying prone on the floor.

Beauto shrugged off his pack and threw it to the side before drawing his sword. It was smaller than the king’s; a hand-and-a-half sword, a “bastard” sword as Kakato liked to remind him. Lighter than a broadsword but stronger than a short sword. Against an unarmored human Beauto would always have the advantage.

“Take care of them,” Beauto snapped at Atama. “I’ll take care of him.”

He was surprised to see the undead king smirk as Beauto charged him. “Cocky, aren’t we?” the king said.

They met, blades crashing together. The weight was intense, just as Beauto had been afraid of, but he was a better fighter than Kakato. With the king’s attention on his sword, Beauto leaned back and kicked the man square in the gut.

Even with unnatural strength, a body reacted to that. The king made an undignified noise as his breath escaped him, and stumbled backward, giving Beauto just enough time to swing again and cut deep into the side of his neck.

Blood burst from the wound, spurting over the king’s ridiculous ornamental shoulder armor, turning into a fountain as Beauto pulled his sword free. For perhaps a tenth of a second Beauto thought he might have won, but the blood stopped as quickly as it started, and aside from the fresh coat of red the king’s neck looked good as new two-tenths of a second later.

“Damn,” Beauto muttered.

“What did you expect?” the king said with a laugh.

He had… a nice laugh, actually. Deep, warm, with the merest hint of gravel to it.

“I’ll just have to keep trying,” Beauto said.

They clashed again, blade hitting blade, Beauto grateful for his armor more than once, and the king only taking a split second to recover every time Beauto hit one of his openings. When you healed that quickly you must not need to learn to guard your vitals. Beauto was almost jealous.

It only went on for a few minutes. Real fights were like that, not like the theater where actors both in the duel and observing it could deliver full monologues while wooden swords knocked together. A real fight was quick, and messy, and you didn’t have time to think of anything other than not getting stabbed in the liver. That was why knights trained for years to be able to battle on instinct instead of thinking about every move.

Beauto wasn’t a knight, but he’d trained more than any of them. And he’d been getting into fights (that is to say, preventing himself from being beaten) for even longer.

He felt himself slip, and he saw the king’s massive sword swing into his cone of vision, and all he had time to think was -

Why couldn’t it be my face?

The sword hit his side, where the layered armor didn’t cover, and the shock of pain sent him stumbling. It didn’t feel like he’d been cut, but he was wounded now, and the king would easily be able to take advantage of that. The fight was as good as over.

As he shifted the weight of his sword to his other side, he heard a creak of what sounded like door hinges.

It was foolish, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking. Beauto saw the double doors pulling shut, Kakato on one side and Tsume on the other. When Kakato saw Beauto’s head turned in their direction, he smiled suddenly and shouted, “You got this Dogface!”

Then the doors were shut, with all three knights and one squire on the other side of them.

“What?” Beauto said. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t have really just abandoned him, could they? Anyway, what idiot would make doors to a throne room that locked from the outside?

He ran to them and pulled on the handles, the wood creaking but refusing to open. It felt not just locked, but barred.

“What…” Beauto said again. “What idiot makes doors to a throne room that lock from the outside?”

“Oh, we put that in after we took over,” the undead king said, conversationally. “For, y’know, this type of thing.”

Beauto glared at him, though he knew he couldn’t see it. “Trapping people?”

He grinned. Something about it made Beauto’s chest feel tight in the way usually only novels did.

“Yes,” the undead king said. “Trapping prey.”

He was bluffing, Beauto realized immediately. He hadn't killed any of the knights, and Beauto hadn't even been cut by a direct blow from his sword. But the knights wouldn't have known that, not even Sir Tsume. They locked him in here with an undead thing, believing that it would kill him.

"They took my bag…" Beauto realized. He'd dropped it inside the doors, and now it was gone.

They'd left him to die and made sure to salvage his part of their supplies.

“Wow, seriously?" Beauto heard the king say. "What assholes. You need better friends, sir knight."

"Wrong on all counts," Beauto said through gritted teeth.

"How so?"

"I'm not a knight, I'm a squire," he said. "And they are not my friends."

"A squire?" the king repeated. "Aren't they usually- You're not one of those super tall teenagers, are you?"

"I'm twenty-four!" Beauto said, letting his exasperation bleed into his voice. What was the point in hiding it now? It was that same thought that led him to admit, "I was this tall by the time I became a squire, though."

He was sure that was the only reason he was finally chosen. It was embarrassing to have a page the size of a grown man, especially since guests kept assuming he was a footman or guard. The seneschal must have bullied Sir Hana into it. He was a senior knight, he barely needed any help anyway, but once he'd gotten used to looking at Beauto he did actually bother to teach him. Beauto would always be grateful to him for that.

“You're probably telling the truth,” the king said, thoughtfully. “That's too specific of a number to be a lie.”

“If I was lying I'd tell you I was thirty,” Beauto said.

The king laughed, a more genuine one this time. “But that's weird, isn't it?” the king said. “Aren't most squires teenagers?”

“Not all,” Beauto muttered.

“Apparently not. What did you do that they won’t make you-”

Beauto turned, sword in hand, and charged once more at the undead king.

The man barely managed to block his strike. That big blade of his almost worked better as a shield than a weapon, but if Beauto had him on the defensive that was a good thing. He'd caught his breath, and he knew now that the king didn't want him dead. There was no reason not to fight until he couldn't move.

He took advantage of his greater speed, especially now that he didn't have to worry about leaving openings. The king could do little more than dodge and attempt to block Beauto's relentless assault. An assault he didn't want to end too quickly. When would he ever get another chance like this? To fight to his heart's content, to hurt someone as much as he wanted with no consequence?

He kept his attacks to the king's extremities. A slash on the arm, a deep cut on the thigh, watching the king's face as he flinched each time, though never for long. Beauto actually managed to cut through a finger, though the leather of the king's glove held enough that Beauto could see the flesh knit back together.

Beauto drove him back, toward the dais where his throne sat. As expected, the king tripped on the first step, and that was enough for Beauto to knock the sword out of his hand, kick his feet out from under him, and pin him to the floor with a boot on his back.

For a moment Beauto didn't move. Neither did the king, though his breath came in wheezes. Beauto knew, from experience, that it was difficult to get out of this position. If the one stepping on you used any weight at all (and Beauto did) you couldn't just roll out from under them. It was hard to grab onto something in the middle of your own back, and what would you do with it if you could? Not to mention the pressure compressing your lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

Beauto brought his sword down, hovered the blade next to the king's face, and pressed the tip against his cheek until he turned it enough to look up at him.

“What are you going to do?” the king said. He was flushed from exertion, making him look more alive. “Cutting my head off won't kill me. Stabbing me in the heart won't even slow me down.”

“I've got no reason to kill you, but I've got nothing left to lose either.” Without shifting his weight, Beauto carefully sheathed his sword. “We're both stuck here until your people or mine open that door.”

Then he bent forward and retrieved the knife he kept tucked into his boot. He couldn't help grinning at the way the king's eyes widened when he saw the flash of metal.

“You are at my mercy, your highness,” Beauto said, keeping his voice cool despite the way his heart was pounding. “And I am not a merciful man.”

The king bit his lip. Beauto had been expecting the blood to drain from his face, but if anything he flushed a little more.

“Okay,” the king said, “but you can't get mad if I get a boner about it.”

Beauto startled, and instinct had him press his heel harder into the king's back to keep him in place. The king let out a breathless noise that didn't sound entirely like pain.

“What?” Beauto said. His voice was low, in that way that usually made people recoil from him. He cleared his throat to try again, but the king was smiling.

“Does it ruin it for you if I enjoy it too?” he said. “Sorry to say I'm actually desperate enough that almost anything you do with that knife is going to be fun for me.”

Beauto brandished the knife again, a glint of light off the blade seeming to reflect in the king's eye. “You like this?”

“Knifeplay's not my favorite but I do like it, yeah.”

Beauto swallowed.

He shouldn't ask, but... he couldn't stop himself.

“What's your favorite, then?”

The smile widened into a grin. “I like it hands-on. I like hair-pulling, slapping, choking. Mostly I just wanna be picked up and used like a toy.”

Beauto had to swallow again. He almost dropped his knife, he wanted so badly to immediately try something from off the king's list.

But he couldn't. This wasn't an invitation, it was a conversation. One in which he currently had all the power. The novels he read (they were easy to find, though the quality was a crapshoot. His best luck had been at the brothels Sir Kakato thought it was funny to drag him to – they often had erotica lying around for inspiration. Since none of the entertainers wanted to meet his eyes, it was easy for Beauto to tuck himself into a corner of the lounge and read while he waited) often crossed that type of line, but he knew they were fantasies. This... this kind of arrangement, it had to be negotiated beforehand.

“How did you know?” Beauto asked, quietly.

“That you’re into this too?”

Beauto nodded.

“The way you fought. You dragged it out, you hurt me instead of disarming me. You were enjoying yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Beauto said.

“Don’t be sorry for having fun. I was too.”

“No, I… I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you, instead of the people that deserve it.”

“Apology accepted.” The king shifted beneath his boot. “Now that that’s in the open, how about letting me up?” He grinned again. “Or don’t, and do that thing with your heel again.”

He couldn’t have stopped himself. Not even with a blade to his throat. Beauto pressed the heel of his boot against the king’s back, digging the edge into his spine, and the king gave a soft gasp.

Dear god, Beauto had never been this turned on in his life.

“What’s your name, anyway?” the king asked, still breathless, a little teasing. Was this… flirtation? It was a tone that Beauto had heard before but never caused.

“Beauto,” he said. “What’s yours? Everyone only ever seems to call you ‘the undead king.’”

The flirtation (if that’s what it was) quickly disappeared. “That’s because I don’t have one. I was numbered, not named.”

Beauto barely managed a “Wh?” sound.

“They call me the undead king for a reason. I’m not exactly dead, but I’m certainly not a human. I was made in a lab by a necromancer. I’m nothing but an experiment that happens to be able to walk and talk.”

Immediately Beauto pulled his foot off the king’s back and stepped away. The king was frowning as he sat up. He had hooded eyes that exaggerated the expression, like red coals peering out of the shadow of his brow. If Beauto hadn’t already seen through him he may have been afraid.

“Disturbing, isn’t it?” the king said.

“This person made you but never bothered to name you?” Beauto said. “Of course that’s disturbing!”

The king looked surprised, for some reason. The frown fell away and he blinked up at Beauto. “Isn’t it?” he said, distantly.

“What a piece of shit,” Beauto said firmly.

“He was,” the king agreed. “Still is, probably.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Not if I ever see him again.”

Beauto nodded. He had enough practice in his helmet that the bottom of the face shield no longer clanked against his chest plate when he did. “They say the best revenge is living well, but what’s the point if you can’t rub it in their faces? Drag him before your throne and order your knights to kill him, let him see you’ve got loyalty and respect. Let him die knowing what a fool he was.”

The king’s eyes were slightly widened, but he was smiling again. “Is that a fantasy you’ve had?”

Beauto tilted his head. “No?” he asked, confused by the question. It was just logical, wasn’t it?

“No?”

“No, it’s not. Why?”

The king laughed, shaking his head. “You know, I think I like you Squire Beauto. I really do.”

Behind his helmet, Beauto smiled.

“Speaking of which…” The king, still sitting on the floor, leaned back against the bottom step of his dais. He smiled up at Beauto, something like heat in those strange red eyes of his.

His body was relaxed, his posture casual, and as Beauto looked at him he - without looking like was doing anything other than getting more comfortable - spread his thighs.

The king wore his trousers very tight.

“Did you want to step on me again?” he asked. “Or… something else, maybe?”

Beauto swallowed. His heart was pounding, his blood rushing so loudly he almost couldn’t hear his own response.

“That's... an option?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Beauto, knowing he must look like an idiot, pointed at his chest. “Me?”

“Yes,” the king said. He didn't roll his eyes, which Beauto took as a good sign he meant it.

“I’m your enemy. I was sent here to kill you as a monster. And you'd... lay with me?”

“Absolutely,” the king said. “My standards are not high right now.” He hesitated, and added, “Do you think I’m a monster?”

“No…” Beauto said, though he was sure the king heard the doubt in it.

The church taught that the undead were not truly the dead come back to life, but demons inhabiting their bodies. Putting them down was the righteous thing to do. And though Beauto didn’t believe anymore, not really (a loving god wouldn’t allow children to be cursed before they were even conceived), it was difficult to forget something you had known as a “fact” for most of your life.

“Maybe,” Beauto admitted. “But my standards aren't high either.”

The king laughed, and reached out a hand to beckon him. Beauto took a step forward. And another. And, gently, pressed his boot against the king's thigh, forcing his legs even farther apart.

“What are you going to do to me?” the king practically purred.

Beauto had never heard that actually done before. He'd read it in novels, seen actors on the stage try it, but he'd never heard it in a voice that wasn't performing. This... right now...

This was real. This was happening. He might really, really, lose his virginity. Beauto had all but given it up for a lost cause – no one would want him with this face, and his body wasn't much to speak of either. And if he managed to survive until he didn't have this face any more, what were the chances merely being average-looking would find him a partner either? At least he could hire company then.

But right now... someone wanted him. Someone hadn't seen his face, and Beauto was fairly sure he could bluff his way through this encounter without having to remove his helmet. If the king actually preferred to be treated like an object, keeping a barrier between them shouldn't be that big of a deal.

It could happen. It could work.

Trying to hide his trembling, Beauto pulled off one glove and leaned forward to grab a fistful of the king's hair. The smile never budged.

“I want you,” Beauto said. He meant it to be the beginning of a sentence, but nothing came to mind. He was so excited he was feeling light-headed.

“You've got me, baby,” the king said. As Beauto tugged at his hair, the king's eyelids fluttered in pleasure and he let out a soft moan.

Holy shit, was it normal to get dizzy when all your blood rushed to your dick? Some of those novels had been pretty stimulating, but he'd never felt like this. The strength was even going out of his fingers with how hard it hit him.

No, wait.

Beauto stumbled, putting both feet back on the floor, hoping it would keep him upright. His vision slid sideways and he saw the king, brow wrinkled in concern, reach out for him.

He hit the ground on his already-injured side, and then everything went black.

***

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Her king had grabbed Psykos by the shoulders and was shaking her. Considering she was a witch and quite a bit older than him, the responsible thing to do here would be to remain calm and allow him to get his aggression out before asking why he felt it.

Instead, Psykos kicked his shin until he let go.

“Ow!”

“Ow first! What do you mean what's wrong with me?”

“Why did you have to cast a sleep spell on the room? Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone?”

“You were in there with one of those asshole knights!” Psykos gestured at the now-open doors to the throne room, where the enchanted knight was laying on the floor, right next to the dais.

“So what? You could have come in the side door to check first!” The servant doors were used by everyone now that the castle inhabitants lived communally, but people who didn't live there never considered there might be an entrance that wasn't huge and extravagant.

“Why? This is standard procedure.”

“I know, but-”

“You're immune to most magic, so if I cast a sleep spell everyone falls over until we can run damage control.”

“I know, but-”

“But what? I shouldn't do what I've done a dozen times? I shouldn't try to help you?”

“Help me?” the king repeated. “You just coc-”

He stopped. His eyes looked off to her side, and about two feet down.

“Co... cost me a chance to get along with somebody!”

Psykos glanced back, and confirmed that Isamu was standing there ready to help. He gave her a confused smile when she met his eyes, and she patted his shoulder.

“It's okay Isamu, we're just talking. Did you get the prisoners situated?”

“Yes, they're in that wine cellar that we emptied out because the king is trying to quit drinking.” Isamu smiled at him so brightly it even hurt Psykos to look at. “We're really proud of you for doing that!”

“Yes we are,” Psykos agreed. “See? We show our appreciation when you do things.”

The king took a breath, then slowly reached up and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Reminding me of all the wine we threw away is not helping...”

“Sorry,” Psykos said.

“Sorry,” Isamu said.

"But," Psykos continued, "did you really want to get along with somebody like that? Somebody who came to kill you?"

"Not the first time," the king said, and tapped two fingers on the side of his neck. Psykos scowled and made sure her collar was tugged up high enough to cover last night's bite mark.

"Trust me, I was watching them, those knights are assholes."

"He's not a knight," the king said.

Psykos looked, closer this time, at the figure laying on the floor. He was wearing only partial armor, an old-fashioned breastplate made of layered metal plates, and an even older bucket helmet. And he was on his back, flat, with his arms straight at his sides. Very unlikely he'd fallen that way naturally. The king must have repositioned him.

"The squire," she said. "The one they called-" She cut herself off. What was his real name? "Bureau?"

"Beauto," the king said.

"Beauto. Right. He was…" He was the one they were all being assholes to. "He seemed all right."

"And you just knocked him out right when things were getting good." The king rubbed his hands over his head, curling his fingers into his hair. "Shit, he's going to think it was a trap. Think I was buying time, not…"

"It's my fault," Psykos said quickly. "I'll apologize and explain everything if you want."

The king looked up.

"The spell will last about an hour, let's put him in a guest room so he knows he's not a prisoner as soon as he wakes up."

"You think?" the king said.

He looked so hopeful. This was more than just a cockblock situation, the king really liked this guy.

"I'm sure," Psykos said.

After all, she'd seen his face. He couldn't have a line of prospective lovers knocking down his door. If a king - undead or not - was interested in him, Beauto would be a fool to say no.

***

Beauto woke in bed. For a moment he was disoriented, feeling like he'd been dreaming something completely ridiculous. He reached out for his helmet, like he did every morning he spent in the barracks, hiding his face as quickly as possible before any of the younger squires woke up.

His hand met nothing but more bedding. Soft, plush mattress, smooth fabric. This was not his bed.

The castle. The king.

Beauto jolted upright. The curtains in the room were open, sunlight streaming in, unimpeded by either curtains or the face shield of Beauto's helmet.

"Shit!" He covered as much of his face as he could with one hand and fumbled for the edge of the bed. Who took it? Why? The king hadn't seen, had he?

"Oh hey, you're awake!" The king stood up from a chair in the corner. He was smiling, nearly as bright as the sun, looking Beauto right in the eye.

Beauto threw himself backward and covered himself with the sheet.

"What's wrong?" he heard the king ask.

"Why?" Beauto demanded. "Why did you take my helmet, why?"

He could feel himself choking up. This was foolish, it was just sex, he'd known it was never going to happen for him.

"Why? Why?"

Why did he feel like crying? Why did this upset him so much?

"Okay, okay," he heard the king moving around the room. "I wasn't supposed to, I guess? I'm sorry. Is this a religious thing, or…"

"Why would you do it?" Beauto said. Begged. "I don't understand, why couldn't you just- just- Why?"

"You were knocked out, we wanted to make you more comfortable while you had to lay there."

"We?" Beauto repeated. "Who else saw?"

"Uh, a couple of guards? Hana and- Shit, I can never remember Ami's dad's name."

"Three people saw me? You saw my face?"

"I'm really sorry, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to."

Beauto could see the shadow of him moving, between the sheet and the window. The king was close, too close. What did he want? He couldn't want what he'd wanted before.

"Here's your helmet," the king said, his shadow holding something out.

Beauto stuck one hand out of the blanket, and when metal touched his fingers he whisked the heavy object under the covers with him to safety.

Only once he was sure he was hidden did Beauto pull the sheets off his head.

"Where's the rest of my armor?" His clothes were intact, only his armor and boots had been removed. Ugh. Undressed like a doll.

"Over here."

Through the eye slits in the helmet, Beauto saw the king gesture at the same corner where he'd been sitting. There was an armor stand there, a real one, looking naked without more than the random pieces Beauto was permitted to wear.

He turned away from the king, making sure his tunic hem was pulled down and his trousers were pulled up before climbing out of the opposite side of the bed.

"Do I have permission to leave?" Beauto asked, trying his best to maintain what dignity he had. His voice was still shaky and thick with snot.

"You're not a prisoner," the king said, sadly. Of course he'd be disappointed. "I'd like it if you stayed as a guest, but that's entirely up to you. No hard feelings here, I promise."

Beauto didn't believe it but he didn't dare call it out. He hadn't lied, the king had never asked to see his face, but realizing he'd nearly slept with someone who looked like Beauto must have felt like dodging a cannon ball.

"What happened to my… traveling party?"

"They were caught trying to loot the castle. The rule around here is that anyone's allowed to challenge me to a fight, the rest of the residents and staff will get out of the way, but stealing isn't something we can tolerate."

"At least let me take Squire Atama," Beauto said. "He's only fifteen, he hasn't had a chance to know better."

"What?" the king said. He shook his head. "You can take all of them, we don't want them, I just meant my political advisor cast a sleep spell on them and tossed them in the wine cellar."

Beauto blinked. He hadn't quite shed any tears, but his eyes still felt tired. "Your… political advisor?"

"She's pretty good at manipulating people so it was as good a title as any. But she's a witch if that's what you mean."

"Why the wine cellar?"

"We don't have dungeons or anything. It's an enclosed room with nothing in it at the moment, and the only door is at the top of a narrow staircase so we've got the advantage if they try to break out."

"You don't have dungeons," Beauto said, flatly.

"No. I think this castle used to be a fancy hunting lodge."

"What do you do with all the other knights that try to kill you?"

"They usually fight themselves into exhaustion and then we toss 'em out."

Beauto shook his head. No wonder so many rumors had spread about this damned kingdom and the "monster" that ruled it. They kept letting their enemies survive! Let them leave humiliated and carrying a grudge!

"I'll tell them we lost," Beauto said. "I… won't tell anyone about what-" No, the king wouldn't even want Beauto to acknowledge what had almost happened. "I'll go," he said, quietly. "I won't come back. The knights won't talk about me when they tell this story, they never do. No one will ever know I was here."

Beauto had been standing there with his face turned down, no desire to see the look at the king's expression when Beauto alluded to their near-tryst. Would it be anger? Disgust? Fear? He'd gotten all three before, and in every combination.

"I'm sorry," the king said. "It wasn't a trick, I swear. I didn't want Psykos to knock you out."

"I know." But he must be glad for it now. He'd probably give her a raise.

“You can ask her yourself!”

“There's no need.”

“Can you tell me why people shouldn't see your face? Or is it a personal thing.”

In surprise, Beauto looked up at him. The king's expression was… confused. Concerned. Not a trace of disgust.

“Why would I want anyone to see it?”

“Because… it's your face?” The king's brow squiggled like one of those flat-faced dogs.

“And now that you've seen it, do you still want to bed me?”

“Yes?” the king said.

“You see? That's why-” Beauto stopped. “What did you say?”

“I- I said yes?” the king said. “I wanted you when as far as I knew you had no face, why would seeing you make me feel different?”

He tilted his head, as if Beauto were an abstract painting he was trying to figure out. Beauto was very glad he wasn't being seen at the moment, because his mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish as he tried to process what he'd just heard.

Yes. The king said yes. He still wanted him.

It couldn't be possible.

“That can't be possible,” Beauto muttered aloud.

The king's expression changed, smoothed out, his eyes widening. “You really believe that,” he said. He shook his head. “Holy shit, who hurt you?”

Beauto gave a mirthless huff of laughter. “Everyone?”

Over two decades of memories hit Beauto all at once, and he sunk back down onto the edge of the bed.

“Everyone,” he said again. “No one has ever seen my face and not been put off by it.”

He heard the king's voice behind him, and felt the bed sink as he sat on the other side. “Really? I mean... it's not that I don't believe you, it's just... Are you sure?”

Beauto would be angry if it was anyone else, but there was nothing to gain for the king to jerk him around like this. Nothing but sick sadistic pleasure, and Beauto knew what that looked like from both sides. This wasn't bullying, this was ignorance.

“You said it yourself, didn't you? You asked what I'd done that I still haven't been made a knight. The answer is... be born like this.” Beauto smiled to himself. He had to smile, or he'd start screaming. “I've been a squire longer than I was a page, now, but that was a long time too. No knight wanted the ugly kid to strap on their armor for them.”

“But... but that's...”

Beauto turned. His helmet slits weren't wide enough that he could see the king unless he pulled one leg up on the bed and brought his whole body sideways. He was surprised to see the king had done the same, leaning toward him across the mattress.

“The knights... Well, you heard them. You know what they call me.”

“They're assholes,” the king said. “Who cares what they think?”

“Everyone thinks it. When you look like me, people are happy to jump to the worst conclusions.” Beauto had to avert his gaze again. "And… they're not entirely wrong. You know what I am. What I like."

“Nobody gets to choose what they're turned on by,” the king said. “Being an asshole is a choice. Every time.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Beauto said.

“It should be simple! It shouldn't have to be hard to expect basic human decency!”

Beauto looked up, and saw the king wince.

“Sorry… I think I'm projecting a little here.”

“Ah.” Of course, someone visibly undead would have faced even worse than Beauto ever had. And the king had been made this way, he said. He was never an ordinary human.

But it rankled, somehow. Being compared to something that never should have expected to be accepted. Beauto was a victim of a generations-old curse, he wasn't a monster like the king.

He said none of this out loud, having learned a long time ago that thoughts like that would never be rewarded.

“You’re right,” Beauto said. That was usually a safe bet, although he’d already forgotten what they were talking about.

“Damn right I’m right,” the king said, full of confidence. And then added, “What were we talking about?”

In spite of everything, Beauto laughed.

The king smiled at him, all warm eyes and soft lips. It still felt like Beauto would be thrown out of this bedroom at any moment, but he couldn’t help enjoying the view.

“You have an amazing voice, you know that?” the king said suddenly.

“Yes,” Beauto said, bluntly. That was the one thing he’d refuse to accept insults about. “I’m a singer. I was in the church choir for all of my childhood, and I’d have liked to do it for a living, but I was… gently discouraged from following that path.”

The king shook his head. “It’s the world’s loss.”

Beauto smiled. “Well… maybe in six years.”

“What’s in six years? Are you on a squiring contract?”

“That’s not a thing,” Beauto laughed. “No, it’s the deadline for the curse. That’s why I look like this, my bloodline is cursed.”

The king blinked a couple times, and his wispy brows drew together in confusion. “You’re cursed?”

“I think- I hope that’s why people react the way they do. That it’s magic and not human nature making them turn against me as soon as they get a look.” Beauto sighed. “But I doubt it.”

“We can solve that!” The king sat up straight and clapped his hands together. “I have a witch!”

Beauto did not succeed in stopping the king from calling his “political advisor” into the bedroom. Nor did he stop the woman (she looked mid-twenties but mages could sometimes extend their lives through unethical means, and her clothes were several decades out of date) from rattling off half of a rehearsed apology before the king stopped her.

“I explained all that,” he said. “He's cursed, Psykos.”

The king had at least had the foresight to move them to chairs, but there were only two in the room and the king had - of all things - elected to perch on the tea table between them instead of calling for a third. It was strange, but having him there as a buffer made Beauto feel more at ease.

“How so?” the woman, Psykos, asked.

The king turned to Beauto, waiting for him to explain, and Beauto allowed himself a sigh. He'd explained this so many times in his life that he'd gotten bored. How could you sum up a lifetime of suffering in a few sentences?

“It's my whole family. The firstborn is always born hideously ugly, no matter what their parents looked like. At twenty we gain shapeshifting powers, but if we use them we'll die in ten years.”

“Well that's some bullshit,” the woman said, as if Beauto had described something no more serious than a rude encounter at the pub.

“I’ve managed to hold out for four years, two months, and thirteen days.”

“Let's see,” the woman said.

She reached out for Beauto’s hand, and he automatically flinched back.

“I'm sorry,” she said, more gently. “If it's on your bloodline I'll need to touch you to get an idea. If I can see your face it'll be even easier, since that's that part it affects the most.”

Beauto didn’t move. Her words made sense, but he hadn’t willingly taken his helmet off in front of another human in over three years. Why would he, when all it did was destroy any favorable impressions they might have?

She wouldn’t be able to break the curse. No one could, no one had, not in at least three generations of searching. The king might not mind Beauto’s face, but the king was undead. Maybe the curse didn’t affect him in the same way.

“If it makes a difference, I’ve already seen you without that thing,” the woman said.

Beauto shrunk back further. The king said that he and two guards saw him, but he hadn’t said anything about this witch.

“When? Why?” Beauto demanded.

“I can see through the eyes of some animals, so it’s part of my job to keep an eye on any new visitors to the area. Your traveling party was suspicious, and I checked in on you several times over the last few days. I saw you getting ready before the others woke up.”

Beauto winced.

“I saw the way they treated you,” she added.

The ever-familiar anger began to well up within him. Of course she had. Of course. It was bad enough he’d been exposed literally, why not figuratively as well? At this point he could strip and feel less naked.

Fuck it.

Beauto pulled his helmet off and threw it across the room. He heard it bounce off the bed frame and rattle along the floor, coming to a rest just out of the corner of his eye. He glared at the woman’s face, and saw, just as he’d expected, shock and disgust twist her features.

“Oh that is nasty,” she said.

“I told you!” Beauto snapped. He tried to get up, but the king leaned over and grabbed his hand.

“No, come on baby, hear her out.”

“Why?” he said.

“That’s not what she meant.” The king turned to her and hissed, “It’s not, is it?”

“No!” the woman said, raising her hands quickly. “I just haven’t seen a death curse that detailed before.”

Beauto felt his brow furrow, before remembering his bare face and trying to compose himself. “Yes, I said it was deadly.”

“Not deadly,” the woman said. “A death curse. Meaning it was powered by death.”

Beauto sunk back in his seat. “Someone… killed someone to curse my family?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But that’s difficult as hell. This looks to me more like the caster died.”

“H… how?”

“Hard to say whether it was suicide or they were already dying. But either way, this is what they did with their last breath.”

Beauto shook his head. Whatever was showing on his face, it made the king take his hand.

“What did my ancestor do to this person?”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth dooming their whole family,” the woman said. “Don’t dwell on it.”

“No, I…” Beauto covered his mouth with his free hand.

He could picture it. A handsome bully, tormenting someone for their looks until that person felt they couldn’t go on. But they’d get their revenge, oh yes, they would make that bastard pay. They would make his grandchildren pay. None of them would ever forget what it was like to be the easy target.

He’d do the same thing in their place.

“Don’t dwell on it,” the king repeated, softly.

“I’m not,” Beauto lied.

“I can try to break it,” the woman said. “But this kind of magic is thorny. It’ll take me years to unravel, maybe a decade or more.”

Slowly, Beauto raised his head. “But you can do it?”

“I can, if you can wait that long.”

Years… He had six years left before the curse broke on its own, but if he could shorten that even a day he would go for it. And if it was longer, then… Then it wouldn’t matter, really. But if she could break it for him, she could break it for others.

“I don’t intend to have children, but I’d certainly like to remove the possibility of passing it on, just in case.”

“You don’t want kids?” the king said. There was just a bit too much interest in his tone.

“I didn’t think anyone would ever want me for a partner, so I haven’t considered it,” Beauto said.

“You have any experience with ‘em?”

“Kids? Yes, I have three younger half-siblings. We’re not close but we got along well enough.”

They were the only people - the only ones before the king - who had never been disgusted by him. They’d known Beauto for their entire lives, so perhaps that canceled it out.

The king nodded, as if filing that information away.

Beauto felt the corner of his mouth begin to rise. “Don’t tell me you’re considering a relationship with me. We’ve known each other for an hour.”

“Hey, it’s just good to know! If you hated kids I’d know not to get attached.”

“You’re undead, can you even father children?”

“Hell if I know,” the king said. “But I’ve already more or less adopted one and I’m not ruling it out for the future.”

Across the table, the woman cleared her throat. “So… Are you considering staying then, Sir Beauto?”

Beauto flinched. “Squire. I’m a squire.”

A moment later, her words filtered in.

“Wait, what?”

“Come on, Psykos,” the king said. Beauto noted he was blushing, a little bit of life once again returning to his bloodless cheeks. “That’s a lot to ask.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I- I do, but you can’t ask a guy to move in on the first date. Even if it’s just an invitation to join the kingdom, what if he thinks-”

“Yes,” Beauto said.

What did he have waiting for him back home? Six more years of humiliation, a king who expected three knights to overthrow an army of undead, a family who would rather forget he’d been born. His little siblings would only miss the solstice presents he brought them and his mother refused to talk about her first marriage at all. He only went to church anymore because knights were expected to be faithful, and he had to be better than perfect if he ever wanted that title. Why keep it up? Why keep fighting for respect he’d never get?

He would never have to see or speak to that damn Sir Kakato again.

“You want to stay?” the king said, sounding surprised, but happily so.

“I do,” Beauto said. “Though preferably not as a kept man. I think you’ll be disappointed by my skills anyway, I was bluffing earlier, I’m a virgin.”

“That was bluffing?” the king said, even more surprised this time. “Damn, you’ve got a natural talent then.”

“Okay I’m leaving,” the woman said, smoothly rising from her chair. “You boys have fun, I’ll have Isamu draw up the citizenship papers.”

“Yeah yeah.” The king waved her off, not taking his eyes off Beauto’s face.

His bare, helmet-less face.

Nervously, Beauto reached up and tried to straighten his hair. It was a futile effort, as always, not to mention the helmet making it worse. There would be weird creases and split ends and sometimes it got tousled so much it looked like a bird’s nest.

But despite looking like that, neither the king nor his advisor had shown any disgust. Beauto thought Psykos had, at first, but the rest of the conversation she was looking at him dead-on with nary a blink. Did they… really not care?

“Wait,” Beauto said as the woman reached for the door handle. “The curse. Did- can you see how it works?”

“Yes,” the woman said. She tapped the frame of her glasses. “I’ve got these enchanted, otherwise I’d need a blood sample. Why?”

“People have been treating me like…” Beauto trailed off. “Well, like you saw. It’s been like that all my life. I wanted to know, is it- is it the curse? Does it make me look inhuman? Does it cause people to be repulsed by me?”

He dared to look up as he waited for her answer, and he hated how much pity he saw in her eyes. “No. I’m sorry, Sir Beauto, the curse is purely physical. It seems like you’ve just spent your life surrounded by assholes.”

Beauto pressed his lips together, and nodded. “That’s what I thought. Thank you.”

It was what he’d thought, but not what he’d hoped.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Psykos said. “Goodnight.”

It was late afternoon, judging by the light coming through the windows, but the king’s advisor expected they would be occupied for the rest of the day.

Beauto swallowed.

The door shut, the king looked at Beauto expectantly, and Beauto found himself saying what he was thinking for the first time in years.

“I hate people.”

“Oh.”

“Everyone I’ve ever met.”

“Okay.”

“My life changed so much after I started wearing my helmet. I got it on my first mission outside the country, and everything was different. People didn't shy away from me, shop clerks actually greeted me...”

“They didn't before?” the king exclaimed.

“I don't know if... I'm frightening, maybe? I look like people think a thug should look. That, or... maybe they can tell I hate them. All of them.”

“You've got the right to,” the king said.

“I hoped it was the curse. I didn’t believe it, but I hoped. Now that I know for sure… I really hate them.”

“I’m sorry you went through that,” the king said. He’d still been holding Beauto’s hand this whole time, and now he squeezed it.

“Even my own grandfather. He was a preacher, and in his sermons he used to use me as an example of hardships his family faced. Say that god sent me to test them.”

“What the fuck,” the king said softly.

“I actually didn't mind that. I think I thought it gave me purpose.”

“Seriously, what the fuck?”

“I don’t feel that way anymore, don’t worry.”

“Good, because… Good.” The king shook his head and squeezed a little harder. “R Kingdom’s dinky, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s even smaller than here.”

“I hate to say it, but if everyone you've spent time with knew you your whole life, already thought of you as a target, maybe it was the location that was the problem?”

“Maybe,” Beauto said. “It’s a nice thought. But if I am going to stay here, I… I’d prefer to keep wearing my helmet.” He glanced at the king, who met his eyes without hesitation. “At least in public.”

“We can get you a new one. Hell, if you don’t mind armor that was died in, we can get you one for every day of the week.”

The old helmet had probably belonged to a dead knight too. “As long as it’s been boiled clean.”

“Then you’re staying?” the king asked, hope and warmth in his voice.

He kept asking that. Almost as if the king expected to be left behind at any moment.

A thought occurred, and Beauto nearly smiled. “I want to stay, and I want to spend the night with you if you’ll let me.”

“Hell yes.”

“But I’m still a little worried about my traveling party. If they think you’ve killed me, they might hold a grudge.”

“Okay,” the king said. “So you want to see them off?”

“Yes,” Beauto said. “I would very much like to see them off.”

Mid-morning, the three knights and one squire were dragged back to the throne room. The king waited on his throne, flanked on one side by his witch (now decked out in even-older-looking clothes, though the black dye had held strong), and on the other by a knight in full plate armor (with a black finish that had been hastily applied and still smelled faintly of chemicals).

Beauto thought to himself, standing on the dias, that looking through the visor slits of his new helmet at Sir Kakato cowering on the ground was very nearly as satisfying as last night had been. Whatever their treatment during their visit to the wine cellar, the knights now looked thoroughly dejected.

But not scared. Not yet. At least one of them was smart enough to know they’d be dead already if the undead king wanted to kill them, and would have explained it to the others. So they were beaten, but not broken.

“You come to my castle,” the king said, slowly. “You try to kill me. You spit on my floor. You steal my things.”

The knights didn’t say a word, though Atama looked at Sir Onaka as if expecting something. Kakato fixed his eyes on the floor and hunched in on himself, trying to look smaller. Like all bullies, he turned into a coward when faced with someone he genuinely could not beat.

“You are all very lucky. Luckier than you can imagine,” the king said. “Because despite your best efforts, I’m having a good day.” Beauto could hear the smile in his voice, and he was sure it was a wicked one. “So I’ll be letting you go on your way, with bodies and belongings intact.”

Relief washed across the whole party’s faces. But Atama glanced at Sir Onaka again, and then the other two, and finally spoke up.

“Um, sire, is it… May I ask what happened to our other companion? Squire Beauto?”

“Ah, yes.” The king smiled again. “He kept me very well entertained.”

Atama went pale. Beauto almost felt bad about it, but even the boy had looked down on him. Assumed the worst, like everyone else. Bragged about the fact he would surely reach a knighthood before “Dogface.”

But he was only fifteen, and Beauto remembered being fifteen. He couldn’t be too angry. The boy still had time to grow.

“Is he…” Atama swallowed. “Sire. What can I tell his family?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The king glanced at Beauto. “Tell them his adventure stopped here.”

Under his helmet, Beauto chuckled.

The king sat up and clapped, and two undead soldiers brought the knights’ supplies into the throne room, dumping it all unceremoniously on the floor.

“Take what’s yours,” the king said, and the knights and Atama quickly scrambled to their feet.

They picked up their packs, loading bags onto already-encumbered shoulders. Atama must have helped all three back into their armor that morning. He’d tightened Kakato’s straps too much and the knight’s clothing was bunching around it. He would be uncomfortable all day.

Beauto smiled.

The king leaned over, and whispered, “Which one?”

“Blue,” Beauto said. His bag was the largest by far.

The king raised his voice. “I said, take what’s yours.” He snapped his fingers and pointed, and Beauto strode forward to snatch his bag from Atama’s arms as if following the order, and not that they’d discussed this beforehand.

Atama skittered away from him in fear. “I just- I thought-”

“It is ours!” Kakato exclaimed. Of course he found his tongue when trying to steal something. “If my squire is dead, his belongings belong to m- us!”

Beauto ignored him, keeping a tight grip on the straps with one hand, and letting the other rest on his sword hilt.

“And our maps are in there, and most of our cooking stuff!”

“Give them the maps,” the king said. “We want them to be able to find their way out.”

Beauto nodded, enjoying the way his new helmet fit so well he didn’t have to worry about it sliding. He pulled the maps from the side pocket and handed them over to Atama. Kakato couldn’t read one and the other two wouldn’t take orders from each other, not even if it was just directions.

He turned, planning to hand the bag off to one of the soldiers, when behind him he heard Kakato say -

“Dogface?”

Maybe it was the sword. Beauto hadn’t replaced it along with the armor, he still had his hand-and-a-half sword sheathed at his hip. Maybe it was body language, and Kakato actually had paid enough attention to his squire over the last year to learn the way he moved. Or maybe it was that the black knight hadn’t needed to ask where the maps were in such an overstuffed traveling pack.

Whatever it was that gave him away, Beauto was caught.

Fuck it.

He took his hand off his sword and backhanded Kakato across the face, hard enough to send him sprawling. One of the undead soldiers stepped forward and took Beauto’s bag, leaving him with both hands free to grab Kakato by his breastplate and haul him to his feet. There was a red mark on his cheek and a shallow scratch that wasn’t even bleeding, but Kakato was wide-eyed and panting with shock.

“If I ever hear that name out of your mouth again,” Beauto hissed, “I will see to it your jaw needs to be wired shut. Understand?”

Kakato gaped at him, mouth hanging open like a fool. After a second he seemed to realize the irony of this, and snapped it shut.

Beauto let go of him, making sure to shove him just enough that he stumbled into Onaka, who moved out of the way rather than steady his fellow knight.

“Go,” the king said, his voice raised to carry. “Leave my kingdom while I’m still in a good mood. If any of you have half the brains of your former squire, you’ll never return.”

The knights didn’t wait on propriety, moving as soon as the door was open and already beginning to nudge each other and whisper in the hallway outside. Beauto saw Atama glance back, stunned, his eyes fixed on Beauto’s black helmet.

Beauto said nothing. Whatever conclusions Atama decided to draw were his own business.

The doors shut, the king sighed and slumped in his throne, and then one of the soldiers looked at Beauto and asked if he was okay.

Beauto nodded.

“Did he call you that all the time? What an asshole.”

Beauto nodded again, and let out a sigh of his own. “It’s over now.”

“Yeah, that’s right, forget about them,” the soldier agreed firmly.

Beauto would have to learn his name. He seemed nice, and if Beauto was going to stay he would need to get along with others. And a man with a gaping hole where his nose ought to be had no room to judge Beauto for his looks.

Maybe that was why the king and Psykos hadn’t reacted much. Being surrounded by walking corpses surely gave you a much higher tolerance for unpleasant visages.

The click-clack of two pairs of heels heralded the people in question. Beauto and the soldiers snapped to attention in unison.

“I hate that,” the king said. “Psykos, I hate it when they do that.”

“I know you do,” she said, soothingly. “All right, I’ve got to go keep an eye on those assholes to make sure they leave the country and don’t set any fields on fire on the way out.” She glanced at Beauto. “Want me to have the crows shit on them?”

“No,” Beauto said. “Atama would be the one to have to clean it off.”

“Fair enough.” She waved as she flounced off, wavy hair flowing behind her.

How did she make it look like that? Was it magic or could Beauto actually do something about his rat’s nest?

The soldiers trooped off as well, returning to their usual duties. They still had their army training, but the way they spoke to Beauto and each other was far more relaxed than the soldiers Beauto knew from home.

His old home, that is.

Now alone in the throne room, Beauto followed the king back to his throne. He glanced around, making sure he hadn’t missed someone, and turned away from the doors before lifting his visor.

“Are you okay with this?” the king asked.

“It was my idea, my king.”

“Yeah but… you could have gone further.”

“Would you have let me?” Beauto asked, with a smile.

“If you thought they needed killing, I’d trust your judgment.”

“That’s a mistake. I think I’m less merciful than you are, sire.”

The king tilted his head and looked up at Beauto. His eyes were blood red, but already Beauto found the color more fascinating than disturbing.

“But you didn’t do it,” the king said. “You let them go, you didn’t even beat the shit out of that one guy.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Beauto said. “I’m a knight, and you’re my liege. My behavior reflects on you.”

The king smiled. He was so handsome that if Beauto hadn’t spent the entire previous night defiling him, it would have been hard not to hate him.

“Does it?” he said softly.

“Of course. This is my home now. Even if we tire of each other, it will still be my duty to protect this kingdom and its king. And that includes our reputation.”

The king crooked a finger, beckoning Beauto closer. “You can guard my reputation,” he said warmly, “as long as you keep calling me a slut in private.”

“You are a slut,” Beauto said. “It’s not slander if it’s the truth.” He put his hand on the arm of the throne and leaned over the king’s body, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “But only I’m allowed to say it.”

The king’s eyes lit up, and he tilted his head back, welcoming Beauto as he went in for a kiss.

A few days ago Beauto thought he would die a squire and a virgin, and now he could kiss a king whenever he liked. If this was a dream he hoped he never woke up.

The door slammed open and Beauto jumped back, pulling his visor down over his face. The young boy Beauto had seen in passing this morning ran across the room without waiting for permission, and stuffed a stack of papers into the bewildered king’s arms.

“Horses!” he said, as if that explained anything. “I gotta go, the sables got out!”

“How the- Isamu!”

The boy kept running, out the side door behind the drapes.

“Isamu!”

As that door too slammed shut behind their visitor, the king sunk down in his throne and groaned.

“Is it always like this?” Beauto asked, amused.

The king grumbled something incoherent.

“Do you want help?”

Wordlessly, the king held out the papers for Beauto to take.

It turned out to be a list of items they needed to get the stables resupplied. No part of the list actually mentioned horses, but Beauto had done most kinds of chores around a castle before and he knew what went where.

“I’ll take care of it,” Beauto said.

“Wait, really? Can you?”

“Sure, this is simple. Why did the boy give it to you instead of the stablemaster?”

“We don’t have one of those.”

“The castle seneschal then.”

“Isamu is the seneschal.”

Beauto was quiet for a moment as a lot of things he’d noticed began to make sense. Though the castle was large and they’d gone to effort to make it comfortable for all the inhabitants, and everyone respected the king and his authority, no one seemed particularly organized. Even the armory had been unlocked and unguarded when Beauto went to pick out his new armor.

“You need me,” Beauto said.

“I do,” the king agreed, no hint of innuendo in his voice for once. The situation may be even more dire than Beauto suspected. “Oh gods, I really do.”

Taking that as blanket permission to act on his behalf, Beauto set out. With his new armor and his old sword and a long night’s worth of aches and bruises that he wouldn’t have given up for the world. For now his job was just shopping and scrounging, but he was trusted now, truly trusted. Piece by piece Beauto would take the power that trust gave him and turn this kingdom into something to be proud of.

He hummed as he walked the halls, an old ballad about love and loss and the faithful getting their just rewards.

Beauto was a traitor, technically, but right now he felt very rewarded indeed.

#undead kingdom au #opm au #batfics #zombiemask #amazomb #amai mask #sweet mask #zombieman #psykos #child emperor #fubuki

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salemruinseverything · 8 months

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i haven't made a headcanon post in yeeeeaaaars but i'm too lazy to try and draw these so....... alternative styles i think the sides would be into

virgil:

- emo. thats fucking obvious. and canon.

- wants 2000s hot topic back so fucking bad

- his entire wardrobe (outside of his like. one canon outfit) is nightmare before christmas & set it off merch

- wants to put his emo quartet phase in the past so badly but he still jumps every time he hears a g note

patton:

- EVERYTHING jfashion. to some extent at least

- especially loves yumekawa & lolita; dabbles in hime gyaru quite a bit

- i know that man wears platform boots. im not letting go of that. giant baby blue sparkly demonias with enough buckles for the entire cast of a kingdom hearts game

- so much cinnamoroll in the yumekawa fits. he is a pubpy he is blue he is silly what do you want

roman:

- i don't know ???? he gives off such heavy prep energy that i cannot imagine him in anything other than like a red & white vineyard vines shirt

- maybe like. something vaguely approaching eboy. (he put on one (1) chain and some eyeliner and called it an eboy outfit)

-maybe patton manages to get him in a tsuyome gyaru outfit once in a blue moon he'd look good as hell in that

- assigned terminal prep at sanders sides headcanon post

logan:

- suuuuper like. 2000s numetal punk. i need that man in a black untucked button-up and baggy jeans with wallet chains on the belt loops immediately.

- he heard "math rock" and took it as an instruction

- i don't know why but i can see him being super obsessive over system of a down and green day. he bonds with virgil over them

- he owns jncos and wears them regularly

janus:

- very very heavy trad goth. almost leaning into victorian/cabaret goth

- i know in my heart of hearts that man is blasting depeche mode 24/7

- i want you to just picture with me for a moment. black poet shirt with yellow ruffles, home-dyed black flared jeans, yellow platform mary janes, big overdramatic black parasol. yellow satin gloves

- can you tell these were drawing ideas before they were a headcanon post

remus:

- SCENE KID. no other option.

- the kind of scene kid who called people slurs in casual conversation on myspace in the 2000's. i'm sorry. he would

- ungodly amount of gir clothes. he just raided the entire gir section at hot topic. i'm imaging this takes place in a world where those are still a thing. i want them back. he's head to toe in that fucking furry robot

- listens to msi (sorry. jimothy piss is also the kind of scene kid who called people slurs on myspace) (i don't support msi. i also do not support remus)

#salem's random thoughts #sanders sides #thomas sanders #sanders sides headcanons #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders

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justjams2003 · 8 months

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Sweet Savagery 7

Paring: Dark!Thor Odinson x Slave!Reader

Summary: All your life, Thor's blue eyes have haunted you. You believed you outran him, but now all your hopes come tumbling down.

Warnings: Death of loved ones, violence, nightmares, non-con, p in v, degradation, gore, blood, violence, Stockholm syndrome. Tell me if I missed any.

Word count: 1.6k+, Unedited

1st Divider by: @firefly-graphics

2nd Divider by: @cafekitsune

Tag list: @torossosebs @steverogersistheguy

~Masterlist~

Part 6~Part 8

That night, Thor did not even visit you. Though, the first thing you see when you wake up is the back of your fiance.

It has occurred to you, that this marriage everyone seems so keen on, is not one you ever agreed on. It was out of the blue where the word, "future wife," or "queen to be" started popping up. Can you say yes at the altar if you do not even know you're getting married?

He's sat on the edge of the bed and as soon as you start to move and wake up, he turns to face you. "Good morning, little dove, were you tired?" He asks, drawing little circles up and down your bare leg. Show no fear. "Why, is it late?" He chuckles at your words.

He nods, "Almost noon." Your eyes grow wide. "Why did Mira not wake me?" You sit upright, it's not that you have something to do, you just hate being lazy. "I told her to let you sleep. But unfortunately, you have duties to attend." You furrow your brows, you do not have meetings now that he is back.

"Now that I am back, the monthly punishments must be carried out. I had hoped this would be the first time the kingdom saw our engagement, but I was informed you announced it without me."

He seems deflated with the news. Though you can only furrow your brows at this. Thor, like always, reads your expression within a second.

"You do not know?" He asks, seeming shocked and you shake your head in a response. "In our culture, you cannot get married without a human sacrifice. Usually, the partner's worst enemy. However, before the ceremony, wearing the partner's clothes is seen as an announcement of engagement." This is entirely new to you. You clearly have much to learn.

You nod, not wanting to set him off again with the true words you want to say. "I've picked a dress for you." Thor then proceeds to help you get dressed.

His touch is gentle, it's like a rollercoaster with him. One moment he's screaming and threatening your life, the next he's braiding your hair and clipping your corset.

You've got your thickest snow boots on, Thor's winter cape hangs around your shoulders. Even still, you're shivering. People seemed to have taken their place inside the coliseum. There is a buzz in the air. A murmur of thrill.

"They're excited. We've missed a few months since your arrival." Thor explains as you look over the balcony. The place where you sit is on a raised platform above them all.

In the middle, the ground where the punishment will be held is covered in a foot of snow. The steps where the people must sit too. Not that it bothers them. The villagers all have animal skin wrapped around them, some are of animals you don't even recognise.

A shiver is sent down your spine when the snow begins falling again. Thor notices and opens his arms for you. There is a moment of hesitation. If you go to him, it shows your compliance with his violence. If you do not you might get punished.

It's as if he himself is a blanket. His size swallows you whole, not a part of you isn't covered by his body heat. Small moments of domestic bliss.

Once everyone has settled in their seats, Thor steps up to the balcony. (With you still in his arms.) The crowd is as silent as the dead. No one dares interrupt their king. Without warning, he pushes you in front of him.

The whole crowd cheers at the sight of Thor's cape on your shoulders. He gleams at the roar of his people. Glad of their approval. Then, after seeing you shiver from the cold, he warps you in his arms again.

"Bring out the criminal." He commands and then the gate at your side of the collosium opens. Out steps the man you know as Sir Lancelot.

A gasp flies from your mouth and you jerk away from Thor. But his hand on your waist is tight and makes sure you aren't going anywhere. "What? But I-" you begin to plead, not wanting to see this man's death. "Apologized, yes, little dove. But he must still be punished for his crimes." He replies, his voice seemingly almost excited.

"The crimes this man is charged with, are treachery against the king and espionage against New Asgard. How do you plead, Lancelot?" The one who was a good knight before now stands shaking in only his underwear.

He turns to face the king, his arms pressed against his body. "Guilty!" He calls out, likely brainwashed to believe this. Your heart drops in your shoes that he truly believes this.

The crowd is on the edge of their seat. "Your punishment is combat to the death. May the gods decide your faith." The crowd cheers, people clapping and screaming, clearly they know something you don't. A loud growl vibrates through the arena. Lancelot begins to shiver more. The gate on the opposite side opens with a clatter.

Out storms a beast. A creature twice the size of Thor and, in this case, thrice the size of Lancelot. It's similar to a bear but somehow larger in size with twice as many teeth and claws. This creature lets out a growl and the floor rumbles.

The crowd begins jumping up and down with excitement. Their faces filled with glee to see this man get ripped to shreds. No wonder no one ever leaves. The people in the kingdom are more likely to kill them before Thor ever gets a chance.

In one swift motion, the monster tackles the guard into the snow. Lancelot gets a few punches in, but it doesn't little and he doesn't stand a chance. Within seconds the frosty white ground is splattered in red hot blood. Soon enough, guts start pouring out.

You jump, forcing your face into Thor's side. Gripping onto his clothes, just to keep yourself upright. The sight is gruesome and like nothing you've ever seen.

This beast makes Lancelot's insides his outsides. The people of New Asgard laugh at his pleas for help. They all cheer when the creature stomps on the knight's neck. It consumes its fill, its coat covered in blood and it soaks into the snow.

Thor gives your side a squeeze when the creature retreats back inside the gate. Little is left of Lancelot and it's certain he's dead.

"Wipe your tears." He commands and you don't even realise you are crying. Show no fear. Within seconds you force a stoic look on your face. "The gods have decided," Thor calls out and the people cheer. Happy as ever to be rid of such a traitor.

And that's the end of it. The people take their leave, some stay, however, just to watch his corpse begin to decompose.

As soon as you're alone, finally inside the room you've made into your home, you turn to Thor and shove your body against his. Your body racks in tears and sobs, your hands gripping onto his clothes. He responds by pulling you closer in, rubbing circles on your back. "They're savages!" You exclaim, struggling to believe that they find such joy in their death.

Not only that, but also struggling to understand how these are the same people as a week ago. Is the whole Kingdom an exact mirror of Thor? Kind and gentle the one moment and the next vicious and cruel?

"The mortals of this realm are cruel. Their minds wander and only violence seems to quench their thirst for knowledge of the world. This is why we do not show fear. They will eat you alive. This is how we keep them occupied and happy." He comforts, shunning the brutality of the world.

"Was Lancelot really a spy?" You ask, your eyes filled with tears but you're determined to look him in the eyes. He nods, "Yes, he was sent by the English to learn of a weakness. He confessed after some guidance." He explains and his words only make you comfort yourself again on his side.

"Thank you for protecting me. I know I act out at times. But I am grateful for what you've given me."

After your talk yesterday, it dawned on you in the maid's closet. It is true. He's taken you from being a slave to a queen. Given you a warm bed, a full belly, beautiful dresses and not a dull moment. If he's harsh at times, it's merely discipline, right?

He doesn't mean what he said. He cares for you. You're sure of it. If he didn't you wouldn't be alive. You know it.

He caresses your cheek like he's done so many times before. "I understand, little dove. You act out because you're not used to being spoiled. It's alright. I'll teach you to be the bestest wife and Queen you can be." His smile is gentle and kind and holds a promise he plans to keep.

You nod and just can't help yourself, bringing him in for a kiss. He holds your small hand in his own. "Come, you must be hungry, it's dinner time." The realisation hits you and after a glance out the balcony, you realise it's true. The sun is low on the horizon and just barely peeks past the snow clouds.

At dinner, he makes sure to pile food onto your plate. And even though, in the end, each bite makes you nauseous, you make sure to eat every last bit of food. Not wanting to spoil any of it. The conversation with the Warriors three holds much less tension. This time you make sure to keep your mouth closed. Speak when spoken to.

Things move much smoother this way. He won't hurt you.

#thor x you #thor x reader #dark!thor x reader #dark!thor smut #dark!thor #thor smut #thor x reader smut #dark!thor x reader smut #king!thor x slave!reader #thor #king!thor #thor odinson #thor fanfiction

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danafeelingsick · 1 year

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i'm back to writing again, finally 😭 i've been busy! drawing, doing a bunch of commissions (which you should check out 👀), and brainroting over that c.haracter.ai bot. i don't recommend it, makes you lazy...

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: i feel like i went a different route with this one, you can tell i was excited about the fight scene, so it's much more angsty and edgy than my normal stuff, but i couldn't help it! the whole darknight hero storyline is so cheesy and i love it. heed the warnings below:

HOT PURSUIT

In his restless search to stomp the abyss order, Diluc stumbles upon a sickly Venti left to die, and a race against time to save him. Will the darknight hero be able to save our beloved bard, or will both succumb to the abyss' dark scheme?

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of vomiting, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of poisoning, stomach ache whump, nausea, regurgitation, fainting, vomiting blood (only slightly descriptive), drowning, implied character death

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ 4,5k~

Silence is severed by the tread of hefty boots. The sound was followed by two figures cutting the empty street in pursuit. A man in a tattered dark cloak tags several steps behind an abyssal creature, a hydro mage protected by an elemental shield.

The creature snickers, mocking him. He grits his teeth, he can't keep up the pace for much longer, and a metallic taste lingers at the root of his tongue. The mage knows it, the deranged chants of a mind long lost carry the tone of a thing that knows it has won.

The stalker keeps to the shadows of the buildings, guarded against the moon's light, almost as if its watchful eye could scorch him. The worn-out fabric of his black cloak flaps in the wind, like the broken wing of a bird falling from the sky. He resisted the urge to clutch his flank, where a cloth had been wrapped tight over a flesh wound, the frigid current made it burn anew as it whipped his skin.

His resolve didn't waver, even as he watched the abyss mage drift away like a bubble of soap in the wind, even as the chanting preluded its escape, the pursuer pushed on. In a last effort, he summoned his weapon, feeling the all too familiar weight of a greatsword fall into his hands. He catches it even before the long blade can touch the stone path, balancing it without a false step, without even destabilizing his breath. All for naught, the creature vanished before his eyes.

A curse escapes the man's lips as he stops dead in his track, standing where the mage had been less than a second ago. Traces of hydro still hung in the air, evaporating to the naked eye as the wind swept it away like it was never there in the first place. A vision had already been enough favor from the gods, but now the man deeply envied the few who possessed elemental sight.

He muttered another curse under his breath, finally allowing himself a few long drags of air, even if it made his side sting, it dispersed the anger gathering in his scowl. He had been stalking that creature since nightfall, he had it cornered, but he had been overzealous when it came to disposing of it.

The silence was deafening once again. He looked to his right, realizing he had been standing at the mouth of a pitch-black alley, inviting an ambush. He glued his back to the wall and listened closely, for any sign of life in that deserted city. His eyes were peeled for any movement in the dark, his gaze focused like a famished falcon.

To provoke even further, he pulled down the hood of his cloak, revealing a mane of fiery red locks cascading down his back. There wasn't a single soul in Mondstadt who wouldn't recognize that man, Diluc Ragnvindr knew it well. If anyone were to see him… Sometimes he wished he still had that beaked mask, but part of him knew he had already outgrown it.

The nobleman didn't allow himself another moment to breathe, he could feel the many bruises dotting his skin, under his layered coat, the wound on his side, throbbing as if his heart could leak from it. The abyss mage had attacked him as soon as it had the chance, it was an act of such desperation he knew it wasn't there for a simple reconnaissance mission. He couldn't relax just yet, his blade was raised, warm still from his elemental energy coursing through it.

After a second of bated breath, a faint rustling sound came from deeper within the alley. Diluc immediately tensed, assuming the same fighting stance he had trained to perfection, ready to light up the whole street with his flames at the first hint of movement. But nothing came. He knew these creatures were intelligent, they wouldn't attack him head-on, not when it had the advantage.

There was no way to lure it out. Diluc breathed deeply as he took a step into the darkness. His intuition kept repeating a trap. Upon hearing a bottle shattered against stone, followed by others rolling on the ground, he immediately conjured the image of some stray cat chasing a mouse, and knocking empty bottles on its way. The thought entertained him for a moment, but the closer he got, the more he convinced himself it was something larger than that.

It took a few tense moments for his eyes to adapt to darkness, but as soon as they did, the hero froze, realizing he could discern a silhouette cut out against the dark. It stood there, swaying before it spun, and plummeted to the ground with a heavy thud, knocking more bottles. The sound was like a screech in the dead of night, over as soon as it started, leaving only pained groans behind.

It was a risk he fastly accepted as he lowered his blade and raised a hand, commanding a small flame to crackle to life in his open palm. The wavering red glow brought definition to the silhouette, and Diluc could now tell it was a person, or at least the form of one, tossed on the ground like a rag doll.

”By the archons…”, he murmured, his heart dropping to his stomach when he recognized the teal cape before anything else. “Venti!?”

The greatsword vanished before it even touched the ground. Diluc rushed to the fallen man's aid, stepped around the maze of empty bottles, and knelt. Bringing the flame closer, he looked over him for any injuries, anything to explain why he had collapsed right in front of him.

The bard was shivering violently, Diluc could tell just by looking at him. His shoulders hitched in one desperate attempt to fill his lungs. Then he went stiff, his back arching before a gurgle came from his throat. It sounded like he was drowning.

Diluc rolled the bard onto his back and reached out to brush his braids away, but the change of positions seemingly made the young bard spring back to life. He flinched as a long gasp left his lips, followed by whimpers that quickly turned garbled, desperate.

Carefully, as if he was approaching a feral wounded animal, Diluc pulled him closer, holding his head up as he laid his body over his lap. Venti was deathly pale. The faint blue of his eyelids turned almost purple under the flickering red glow of his element. The same color lingered in his lips, which parted now to reveal the deep red-stained inside of his mouth.

“Venti? Venti!” he called, keeping his voice hushed despite the panic brewing in his chest. He cupped his cheek, cold sweat soaking into the palm of his glove. The bard winced under the touch, his lips quivering as he let out a small whimper, or at least tried to.

The sound didn't quite make it out of his mouth. A lengthy gurgle traveled up his throat, turning graphically wet as it reached the back of his tongue. He pitched forward with a gag, and Diluc scrambled to catch him. His face was contorting and his lips puckering, then parting again when he couldn't hold back another gag.

Venti made a miserable sound, the only warning he could give before he let out a short belch and a surge of red liquid along with it. It spewed out the sides of his mouth, a weak spurt coming out of his nose, coating his chin, and neck.

Diluc had to bite back a yelp as he saw it, his mind conjured the worst of possibilities before the first logical one. Venti heaved in his lap, suffocating, and his hands were moving before he knew it. The flame fizzled out along with the shock, and he flipped the bard's hitching body onto his side.

He didn't let go, even as the acidic smell hit him, even as Venti lurched with a gurgly retch quickly drowned out by more watered-down red and purple vomit. Diluc felt the sickening warmth drip onto his knees, quickly seeping into the clothes and cooling, but everything was racing too fast for that to be a concern on his mind.

He could tell Venti was struggling to breathe still and tried to gently, albeit shakingly, make him lean forward. Holding him by the shoulder, the other hand brushing his braids away, not even realizing they were already soiled. He practically sprawled the small bard over his lap, unable to do anything except watch as he heaved painfully.

Venti gagged, squeezing his eyes even tighter as he let out a groan of pure misery. The way he was being moved only served to make him feel worse like his packed stomach was being tossed around, like a balloon about to burst. He went completely stiff, trying to brace himself, but he was far too weak for it.

Vomit spewed out of him in a lengthy gush, it sounded like an open faucet, then like a drowning animal when it tapered off and he kept gagging graphically. Everything hurt in a way he thought he had forgotten, his head was throbbing mercilessly and his stomach kept wringing itself out of his mouth.

It took a few long seconds for Venti to register the hands all over him, prodding at his face now, forcing his eye open. His movements were lethargic, but in what felt like an eternity, he was able to raise a hand, and merely graze the wrist of whoever was trying to wake him up.

“Venti, please. If you can hear me, respond”, he heard a familiar voice coming from a blur of disheveled red locks and recognized it quickly. The man carried an unfamiliar grief in his tone, one Venti had never heard before.

The windborne bard weakly lifted his head and looked up at the nobleman, squinting as he struggled to outline his feature in the pitch-black darkness.

“Master… Diluc…?”, he croaked, his speech heavily slurred, his voice barely coming through. He struggled to focus on the figure looming over him, his pupils were like glossy marbles threatening to roll to the back of his head.

“Yes, yes it's me. Venti, stay with me, please! Don't pass out!”, Diluc pulled the bard closer and held his head, but to no avail, he started going limp in his arms. “Venti, it's not safe here!”

In a desperate attempt to keep the bard awake, Diluc shook him and regretted that decision when he saw his cheeks bulge out. Venti bolted upright with a sounding heave and more watery vomit splashed onto his own lap, completely covering it. His green shorts and white buttoned-up were dyed a sickly shade of purple.

He fell back, deflated, his chest jumping as he tried to catch his breath, threads of vomit still clinging to his chin and nose. Diluc shuddered, feeling the warm liquid drip down to his thighs and quickly cool as it reached his skin. He didn't let go of the bard however, he held him even closer as he shivered violently, seemingly disappearing within his arms.

“It h-hurts…”, Venti stuttered, burying his face into the man's chest, trying to chase away that horrible cold burn that seemed to be coming from within him, anything to stop that nauseating pain in his whole body. “M-Make it stop…”

Diluc was completely lost. He didn't know what was wrong with him if anything was even wrong. He was an archon, he used to be one, archons couldn't die, could they? Not like this, not in his arms.

And the smell… The panic had been clogging all of his senses, making his vision tunnel around the small bard nestled within his hug, but now that he could actually, the smell of sick hit him full force. Diluc had to hold his breath, gasping through his mouth as he noticed how strongly it smelled of alcohol.

Venti tensed harshly within his arms, his small hand pawning at Diluc's cape, pulling on it as his face buried deeper in his chest. Diluc stiffened every muscle in him when he heard him groan, the noise was muffled and short-lived, sounding deeply pained.

It was the only warning Venti mustered, and in his state, it was even more than he could. He tried to hold it, pushing on Diluc to put distance between them before he lost it.

He couldn't even retch, it simply came up without a struggle, a torrent of sick covering the both of them. It cascaded down Venti's buttoned white shirt, dampening it and gluing the stained fabric to his skin. Diluc's clothes weren't safe either, the long-sleeved shirt he wore under the tattered cape wasn't spared and got completely covered in vomit.

He locked his breath, trying to not gag himself. It was sickening, he could feel his own stomach revolting against the feeling of warm puke coating his skin.

“Ugh—, eurgh”, Diluc gagged, and hurriedly pressed a fist to his mouth when he felt the taste of his dinner flood his tongue. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus on breathing, but even that assaulted his senses with the smell of stomach acid and alcohol.

He couldn't vomit, he wouldn't vomit. Taking a shaky breath, he gulped down and locked his throat, waiting for nausea to pass. His rush of adrenaline was passing, all he could feel now was his guts churning.

When he made sure he could take his hand off his mouth, he looked down at Venti, whose only signs of life were the occasional hiccups shaking his shoulders, and the vice-like grip he held on his cape.

“Venti?”, he called, his voice still loaded with nausea.

“I'm… sorry…”, he repeated, a pitiful sob cutting his sentence in half.

Diluc widened his eyes, taken aback. Was he crying? Venti never struck him as an emotional drunkard, but taking how much he had already vomited, and how much he seemed to be holding back, he didn't know what to think anymore.

“You… drank way too much again, didn't you”, he asked, his tone spreading confusion. Something told him that wasn't it, Venti had an ungodly tolerance he had witnessed before, for him to be vomiting this much, for him to complain about pain…

“S-Something was wrong…”, he muttered in between shaky breaths. “That drink…”

Diluc cocked his head. What drink? He hadn't served Venti these past few days, and he was sure Charles, the bartender at Angel's Share wouldn't hide it from him, considering Venti rarely paid in the first place. In fact, a few patrons had been wondering where their friendly bard had run off to. Who else was going to play such cryptic ballads? Something definitely was wrong.

”We need to go”, he informed Venti, and while his tone came off dry, his heart was at the back of his throat. “I'll take you to Jean—”

“No!” Venti cut him off, raising his eyes to Diluc, who felt his heart split into two when he finally saw the tears. “She can't h-help…”

“What happened to you?” Diluc finally asked, his eyes wide, in the heat of the moment, he had all but forgotten the conditions he had found Venti in. “A-Are you hurt?”

Venti shook his head weakly, but to betray his words he flinched, pain flashing across his face. He curled into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Diluc held his breath out of instinct.

“Is it your stomach?”, he asked, pulling the bard even closer as he tried to look at him, to find what exactly was wrong with him. He nodded, even weaker.

“I think I've been poisoned…”, he struggled to say.

The nobleman's mouth instantly filled with questions, but before he could utter any of them, Venti winced within his grasp and curled into himself.

“Hng, you have to take me to… Windrise.”

That gigantic oak tree, it would take a while to get there on foot, especially with the injuries Diluc had sustained, and the exhaustion settling in both of them. Still, he couldn't leave Venti here.

Diluc held the bard close and stood up, feeling the wounds on his side burn anew as he started to run.

His heart was trashing inside his chest, the wind was biting cold on his damp clothes. Venti's breath hitched as he continued to sob, no doubt the violent motions were only making everything worse, the pain and nausea threatened to put him under once again.

He was small within his arms, and it looked like he was turning even smaller, getting close to disappearing. Venti fisted the sleeve of Diluc's cape, bringing it to his mouth as he felt like he was going to vomit once more.

This time he only managed to bring up a mouthful of thin puke, it quickly seeped into the soiled fabric.

The nobleman glanced down as he felt that now all too familiar feeling of hot vomit covering his chest. His clothes were beyond saving at this point, he paid no mind to it. Mercifully, in the dim light, he couldn't see the wisps of red within the regurgitated wine, all he saw was poor Venti coughing wetly as the remnants of his spells seeped out of his nostrils.

“Shh… Breathe”, Diluc shushed him tenderly, briefly running a hand over his shoulder before he glanced up again. They were nearly out of the city.

The darknight hero quickly reached the front gates of Mondstadt. The ghostly empty streets brought him a visceral fear, he felt like several eyes astray were crawling on his back. It was a sickening feeling, his stomach winced violently, his breath stopping as he realized he couldn't let go of Venti, he couldn't defend him.

The wind howled, his footsteps echoed along the stone bridge, then the grass took its toll, severing the silence for only a moment. Not a soul was in sight, but Diluc could feel the abyss watching him, its eyes clinging to him. Refusing to let go.

“Hang in there… Venti”, he huffed, clinging to the bard in his arms. He responded with a wince, sinking even further into his chest, as if he could just disappear into it. Diluc prayed he wouldn't, that form was strong enough to withstand whatever they had done to him. “We're… almost there…”

He was nearly out of breath as he uttered those words, but as soon as the oak tree came into view, he rushed his pace, nearly tripping over himself. Almost there. The sense of security that vision brought left the darknight hero careless, and open. He didn't realize the figure encroaching on his peripheral, he only felt the sharp pain open a gash on his flank.

The darknight hero tumbled to the ground, sending two limp bodies rolling over the grass. They only stopped at the foot of the hill, the shadow of the oak tree looming over them, its spiraling roots reaching out for them.

Diluc sucked greedy gasps, one after another, his chest was jumping wildly, trying to recover the air stolen from his lungs. The biting wind on his open wound was like a sheet of paper being torn in two, the pain was making his vision wave, and he didn't know if he could trust his other senses. He raised a shivering hand over it and placed it over the gash, his searing hot blood poured over his glove.

He forced himself onto his elbows and raised his head, looking around for Venti. The sunken form of the windborne bard was only a few steps away from him, wrapped tightly in his green cape, still as a stone. Then he heard it, the abyss mage cackling, it was enough to make him ignore the screaming pain.

Diluc didn't think of what it would do to him, he was moving before he even realized it. His body begged him to lay down, but he stood up, hot blood flowing from his side, dangerously close to his innards. He didn't think, he assumed his fighting stance and called upon his blade.

Between the blur of exhaustion and the wavering dark shadows, he couldn't see the next attack, even if the wind carried it so gently toward him. He only felt it when the cold water engulfed him, then it was already too late.

Diluc grew desperate as he realized he couldn't breathe, the air had become water and his choices had become two: he allowed it in his lungs, or he held onto the little air he had in them until the bitter end. He clutched at his throat, the pressure was increasing, and his surroundings were growing darker.

There was a name in his mouth as it finally opened, he could taste his own blood tainting the water as it filled his throat.

The impact of his body hitting the ground was enough to drive Diluc awake. His eyes flew open, and he turned onto the grass, clutching it as he hacked violently. His lungs were on fire as he tried to take in a breath, but his efforts only brought out water, splashing onto the soil until it took a much denser consistency.

Diluc retched in between bouts of salted water until his stomach contents were piling onto the grass. When he could finally breathe, his sinus burned from the mixture of the scorching acid mixed with fresh blood in his mouth. The remnants of heavily digested day-old food clung to his chin and mouth, dense ropes of a sickly orange that smelled foul, far worse than what Venti had done.

He raised his eyes from the tainted grass at last, his ears still ringing from the pressure in his head, his soaked clothes weighed him down. Through matted hair and swimming vision, he caught it in time.

The windborne bard raised to his feet, a teal glow framing his face, anemo power oozed from the tips of his braid. One arm was raised graciously, one slender hand cupping the air, bending the element around it, pointing to the abyss mage hovering above the ground. It spat words at the former archon in a language long lost, but it earned no reaction out of him.

The wind currents gathered into a spiral, surrounding the abyss mage who looked down to see the glowing sigil form under it and suddenly suspend it. Like a bubble of soap being carried into the wind, it popped.

Diluc watched as the abyssal creature was torn from limb to limb before his eyes, a paper doll in the hands of a child. A gory mess plummeted with a sickening wet thud, its filthy blood oozing out of the pile, filling the air with a nauseating scent. He gagged, then dropped his head to the puke pile in front of him and gagged again, vomiting onto the grass once more. This time he couldn't tell if it was out of pain or relief.

He dared to glance at it again and found ghostly blue flame was consuming the corpse, soon there was no trace left of it. His vision blurred after that, he must've lost a few seconds, because when he realized, Venti was kneeling by his side, shakingly rubbing his shoulder.

The darknight hero struggled to sit up, holding his wounded side with one hand, the other went to wipe his mouth, which made little difference. Diluc was completely drenched in all kinds of filth.

“You are bleeding”, the windborne bard told him and something about the newfound glow in his aqua-green eyes told Diluc he wasn't talking to Venti, but to lord Barbatos.

“It-It's… nothing”, he rasped, surprised at how weak his own voice sounded.

A soft chuckle left the bard's lips and he shook his head, his braids following the movement.

“You said you would take me there, didn't you?”, he said, strangely calm. “Let me help you the rest of the way.”

Venti didn't wait for confirmation, hd crawled under Diluc's arm, unphased by the water and blood dripping from him. A deep groan left Diluc's lips, his wound oozed blood as he was forced upright, the pain spiraled throughout his whole body.

The couple of steps it took to the foot of the oak tree threatened his vision with darkness, but Venti's presence strangely was the only thing that held his conscious. He lowered him down, onto the grass, and leaned against the bark.

Diluc closed his eyes and breathed deeply, albeit carefully, it burn where his skin had been torn off, such was the power of an elemental attack taken head on. It was a deep cut, but one he had walked off before, getting hurt like was all in day's work. He would survive.

Then he heard it, the beautiful melody of his lyre. Diluc was willing to crawl, he would carry his suffering along with his sense of duty. Yet, when he saw Venti, radiant despite his dishelved appearance, strumming his fingers along the strings, it carried his pain off his shoulder and onto the wind.

“This will not cure you”, the windborne bard advised, opening one glowing aqua-green eye. “But it will give you strength to reach home, no matter how grave your injuries are.”

Diluc fell back and drew in a deep breath, staring into the luscious foliage of the oak tree above them. The moon peeked from the gaps.

“No, I'm not leaving you here”, the stubborn hero refused.

Venti let a smile take form on his lips, a chuckle rest within his chest, waiting until the song of his strings came into an end. The wooden instruments came undone within his hands, transformed into feathers, then lignt.

“You're in worse shape than me. I...'ve been poisoned”, the bard said, no urgency in his voice, only that playful innocence. “You already brought me here, there is nothing more you can do.”

Diluc wanted to protest, he wanted to say no, Venti would come with him to the Winery, he could arrange the finest room to him, luxurious clothes and the best doctor Teyvat had to offer, but both of them knew. He didn't need it.

“I'll be fine”, Venti said, and his smile was sincere, even if it hid a stained tongue. “Go now. Come see me in the morning if you wish. You'll find me.”

Diluc rose to his feet, clinging to tree as his body swayed. Despite everything in his body begging for him to give up, he found strength to stand. He looked down at the bard, at his dark blue head of hair and his teal cape, his rosy face and his aqua-green eyes, contemplating that form he had chosen.

“It is a promise, then.”

Venti waved him off, with a hand completely hidden inside his sleeve, he watched as the dark silhouette of the darknight hero staggered away, his tattered black coat dragged over the grass like a broken wing.

Once he had disappeared, Venti looked up at the oak tree, smiling weakly at that familiar view, letting the wind sweep his form away, until he was lighter than air itself.

#emeto #emetophilia #vomiting #tw vomit #tw emeto #gen/shin imp/act #genshin emeto #gen/shin imp/act di/luc #gen/shin imp/act ven/ti #sickfic #hurt and comfort #then hurt again #mentioned je/an #poisoning whump #stomach ache whump #requested #dana//emeto fic #my writing

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violettduchess · 2 years

Note

I’d like to request something for Leonardo and MC if possible - just something, anything! that shows him in a moment of pure happiness, no angst or moping for that sad man. No being depressed about immortality this time, that poor guy. It’s way too tempting to torture him so I’d love something sweet for him 💖 Thank you so much 😊

A/N: Here you go anon! I hope you enjoy!

Fluff and fluff

tw: descriptions of writer's block

There is nothing like the feeling of sitting down in front of a blank page and watching as something that existed only in your mind comes to life before you. When inspiration ignites the flame of creation, when creativity bursts forth and flows freely, coloring the world with your vision. Except when it just……..doesn’t.

Cross-legged on Leonardo’s bed, you stare pensively down at the leather-bound notebook in front of you, pencil in hand. His bedroom is awash in candlelight, Mozart’s late night composing floating faintly through the air. Hmph, at least someone’s inspired tonight.

You’re wrapped up in one of Leonardo’s soft, white linen shirts, your favorite thing to sleep in, his scent like a warm embrace. "Perfect writing conditions", you mutter, irritated as you shift, pushing yourself up against the pillows. Everything is set up for you to create and yet….nothing. All you have are the bullet points and notes you’ve scribbled, tiny dough-like drabbles, unformed and just….sitting there.

This is the state you are in when Leonardo returns from his card game with Comte, Arthur and Theo. You can tell by the way he’s grinning that he’s beaten them. Again.

“There she is, Luce della mia vita.” He’s in a good mood, his voice almost singsong as he closes the door behind him.

He throws his jacket over a chair already overrun by books in one fluid motion and kicks his boots off without having to bend down, expert levels of ease and laziness on display. With a yawn, he lowers himself onto the bed next to you, stretching out his long limbs, a lion coming to rest after a long day on the Savannah. One hand reaches down, his warm palm running over the exposed skin of your thigh, a gesture of familiar, casual possession.

“Whatcha working on?” He continues to touch you as he lifts himself up onto one elbow, peering over at the notebook in your lap.

You sigh, frustration still poking at you like a thousand, red-hot needles.

“I’m trying to write a story. You know, for the Children’s Day celebration next week. I thought it might be nice to offer to read something original to the kids who need a break from the day’s festivities.”

Affection softens the smile on his lips and lights up the gold of his eyes.

“That’s a great idea, cara mia.”

The pencil falls from your fingers onto the notebook, defeat slinking ever closer.

“It would be if I could just come up with…..something.” You know you’re moping, but your mind feels stuffed with musty straw and you can’t seem to clear it.

His touch turns soothing as he runs his fingers over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaning down to press a kiss just above your bent knee, then laying his cheek against you. You reach down to touch him, tearing your gaze away from the mocking blank pages in front of you, focusing on the way your fingers look as they brush back his soft hair, the way they sink into it, disappearing for a moment and then emerge when you reach the pale ends. Another sigh, not of dismay but the moment of comfort, like the echo of satisfaction after a first sip of warm tea on a cold winter’s day. With him here, the disappointment you’ve been wrestling with for hours has a safe place to go, someone who will gather it in his hands and try to help you spin straw into gold.

“Alright then.”

He draws himself up, leaning back against the pillows of his bed. Once settled, he hums as he gathers you close, a sound that reverberates inside you in the most pleasant way. He picks up the pencil you dropped and holds it out to you, wiggling it until you take it from him with an indulgent roll of your eyes.

“Tell me what you have so far. I’m all ears, yeah?”

Tucked against him isn’t the most comfortable way to sit if you’re trying to read but you accept it if it means you can be close to him like this, his warmth a balm to your fraying nerves.

“Don’t laugh.”

Both brows shoot up, his expression the innocence of angels.

“Never, cara mia.”

Mm hm. Using your pencil, you tap the bullet points you’ve made with ideas.

“This is the story of Captain Lumiere, a fierce pirate who sails the seven seas in search of treasure.”

Leonardo grins slowly, stretching out his bare foot to tap the ball of black fur on the very far corner of the bed.

“Do you hear that, Lumi? You’re a pirate.”

Lumiere lifts his head for a moment, yellow eyes blinking sleepily, decides he isn’t interested in the slightest in whatever nonsense you two are up to and curls himself back into an even tighter ball, whiskers disappearing as he tucks his head away.

“Monello”, murmurs Leonardo, lips curved upwards. Brat. He turns his attention back to you, raising one long finger to run over the page as he reads your notes.

“Hmm…so Captain Lumiere decides to go after the treasure of La Sirena, a sea witch with a legendary treasure chest of gold and jewels.”

You nod, shifting on the bed. “On his way to find the treasure, he fights an evil sea monster, a giant squid with long, sticky tentacles that attacks his ship.”

“What is the monster’s name?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, contemplating. “Arthur?”

He laughs, golden sparks of sunshine raining down on you, covering you in warmth. “Perfetto. Go on.”

“And there is a big storm…..and….then I don’t know.” Again you feel like cotton is smothering the creative part of your mind, absorbing any ideas before they even have a chance to form.

He is quiet a moment, staring up at the ceiling as he thinks. You can almost see the wheels of his mind as they turn, the way the cogs and gears move effortlessly, processing any problem you throw at him.

“What if….Captain Lumiere, brave soul that he is, survives the storm only to be shipwrecked on an island…..which just so happens to be where La Sirena resides.”

His words dig into the cotton, begin slowly raking it away. You feel the smallest sparks of an idea starting to form.

“Oh! He could have an actual confrontation with her! A fight for her treasure.”

Leonardo’s hand travels absently down your shoulder to the ends of your hair where he slowly curls the ends around one finger. “Why fight? Lumiere is a lover.”

You glance at the black furball on the end of the bed who is ignoring the both of you like a champion.

“A lover.” You glance at Leonardo, skepticism showing itself in the arch of your brow.

“Yeah,” he says with a lazy grin. “Write that down.” He sounds excited and it is infectious. You give into it and to him with a shake of your head and a smile. Bubbles of creativity rise inside of you like prosecco, sparking excitement as you begin adding notes to the pages.

“He could fall in love with La Sirena!”

“Abelina.”

You turn your head. “What?”

Deadly serious, he nods. “Yeah, La Sirena’s name is Abelina.” He pokes at your notebook. “C’mon. Write that down too.”

Comte will be thrilled, you think with a grin as you add the note. Together, you and Leonardo work out the epic saga of Captain Lumiere, his quest for treasure, his battle with the tentacled Arthur, his passionate love for Abelina and their eventual settlement on the island where they decide to gift the treasure to the next brave soul that finds them because, as it turns out, they don’t need it. Lumiere and Abelina have found love, and that is the greatest treasure of all.

Some time later, when time is measured by yawns and sleepy smiles, you close the notebook and lay it on the nightstand as Leonardo snuffs out all the candles in the room except one. You hear the rustle of his clothing as it falls to the ground. Your love sleeps in the nude, a fact you’ll never lament. You pull back the covers for him as he slides into bed next you and roll into the waiting circle of his arms, relishing the feel of his long body against yours.

“Thank you for helping me tonight.” You speak softly now in the intimate darkness of night.

He turns his head, his lips touching your forehead in a gentle kiss.

“Certo, tesoro mio.” His voice is the soft night breeze over fields of sleeping lavender. “Now rest, my beautiful scribe. I’ll keep you safe from storms and sirens.”

“You better or else I’ll send the ferocious Captain after you.”

The sound of the ferocious Captain purring fiercely in his slumber reaches both of you at the same time, and the last sound you hear as you snuggle close to the man you love is his velveteen laughter sending you off to dream.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen leonardo #ikevamp leonardo #leonardo da vinci #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #fluff #comfort #tw: writers block #violettwrites

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evanox · 2 years

Text

I've never introduced Lee Maehwa (my LL oc) properly, mostly bc I can't draw too well, but I still wanted to post this fic for LegacyTober; kudos to @anonymousbeefriendfanfics for this wonderful idea!!

Day 2 Theme: MC + Cold (thought I'd combine the themes bc I wrote this many months ago to help me cope with the cold) m.list

Once Sage disappears into the bedroom—our bedroom, they remember with a skip in their heartbeat—Mae tugs one glove off and snaps their fingers at the air twice. The friction produces a spark of magic that floats in lazy spirals before sinking into the wood and setting the hearth alight. As rising flames breathe life into the cold, dark room, Mae sinks to their knees to bask in the warmth.

Sage shouldn't be able to see them from where he stands in the other room, yet they still hear him call out, “Don’t stick your face too close to the fire.”

But the flames have stretched out a pair of kind hands, offering to cradle Mae's face and gently rub off the icy air clinging to their numb, flushed cheeks. If there’s no other pair of hands to relieve them of the cold's sting, what can Mae do but succumb to these? After an hour spent outside, it's impossible to resist the temptation, so Mae elects to ignore Sage's warning and calls back, “Don’t drop your gauntlets on the floor!”

In the momentary silence that follows, Mae could imagine his hands hovering in the air, shed gauntlets pointed to the ground, and his brows furrowing as he considers. Then there's a heavy thud of metal against the floor—that Mae did not expect. "I heard that!"

"They’re in the corner behind the door; you can't trip on them there!"

"Oh, you—" Whatever they had to say dies at their lips when Sage turns up behind them, footsteps as soundless as a cat's despite his size, and unceremoniously throws his heavy cape over their head. Grateful for the extra layer of warmth, Mae backs away from the fireplace as the frustration growing in their chest melts into contentment. "Tulsi's gonna get mad if she knows you still mistreat your armor," they lazily drawl, craning their head back to flash Sage a sly smile.

"Who's gonna tell her; you?"

"Mmm. I might."

“You’re full of empty threats, Maehwa.”

“Oh, not this time, and that's a promise since you'd like to try me.”

Sage only grunts before crouching down to unlace Mae's boots; not that Mae would ever willingly step past the front door with their shoes still on—heaven knows they've given Sage enough grief about wearing his inside. It’s just that the task has gone completely forgotten in Mae's desperate pursuit of warmth.

"If you're gonna get this tired from the cold," he hums, easing one boot off their leg, "maybe you should leave the errands to me."

"And waste a perfect chance to go on a date with you?"

"S'just grocery shopping…" Sage’s hair casts long shadows over his downcast face as he slips off the second boot, but the prominence of his nose bridge and cheekbones shine golden before the dancing flames. It’s hard to see the flush of red painting his cheeks, but Mae knows it's there by the way his tail curls inward and the slight quirk of his lips.

"Oho! Weren't you once ready to settle for a hair-combing session as a date?"

It's not often that they would talk about the time before everything went to shit (as Tulsi so eloquently puts it). Sage has come to regard the man he was back then as an entirely different person—a better lover, probably; more human than monster, he’d whisper to Mae on late nights when they had to cradle his head to their chest, for only hearing their heartbeat could put his troubled mind at ease.

Mae leaves him no chance to go down that path tonight, however, leaning in so he can't escape their gaze as their voice drops into a soft purr, "Anything can be a date if I'm having a good time with you."

He shakes his head, and Mae can peep a fond smile before he turns away quickly, grabbing the pair of boots to put away. "This a date then?"

"Well, by definition, it should be," Mae hums thoughtfully, "but if any time I spend with you is a date, then there won't be any time that is not a date. Wouldn't 'date' lose its meaning then?" They frown at the hearth as if the answer would be buried within the burning embers, but the effort only makes their head hurt and their eyelids grow heavy. "Oh, does it matter? It's a date if I say so."

"Can't argue with that.” Sage kneels by their side to press a kiss on their temple. Mae waits for him to sit down so they may flop over his lap for a little nap, but he is already standing up and walking away.

“Where to?”

“You're not hungry?" he calls back from the open kitchenette. Prompted by the rustling of bags, Mae looks away from the fireplace to find Sage swiftly sorting out the groceries before he gathers the vegetables for washing. "Dinner's not making itself."

“But the fireplace is right here.”

The subsequent stare-off lasts a mere few seconds before Sage scowls—not out of inconvenience, but because his stubborn fool knows too well just how tightly wrapped around their pretty finger he has become. No, it has never been an inconvenience for Sage, not when Mae’s triumphant smile as he gives in to their whims makes it worth it. He gathers the ingredients off the table into one arm, and what doesn't fit, he balances over the cutting board in his other hand along with a clay pot.

“Heaven forbid you make the arduous five-step journey between the kitchenette and the fireplace twice.”

“You’ll start wilting if I take too long. Like one of your dramatic plants, you know the one—the dotted leaves? Forget to water it once, and it’s already falling over itself.” He sits cross-legged by their side and kisses Mae’s affronted pout away, then pushes his hair behind his shoulder before grabbing the knife to make quick work of the vegetables.

Mae wordlessly crawls into the long shadow cast by his broad back and undoes the loose tie, threading through fiery gold hair that fades into dull silver as the silky strands slip out and twist around Mae's fingers. Too often did these stray strands end up in the food whenever Sage cooked, so the pair had agreed he shouldn’t touch the cooking until he pulled his hair back.

Once satisfied with their finger-combing, Mae pulls his hair into a neat bun but leaves some hair out to frame his face. All combing sessions must end with them pressing a kiss to Sage’s hair, a kiss to the nape of his neck, and a kiss between his shoulder blades, where Mae finally rests their cheek. Their hands slide over his bare, toned back, appreciating every curve of muscle before crossing around his waist. "So stiff… Let me rub your back before you sleep."

If Sage hums in assent, Mae can't hear it over his loud purring. He's so, so warm; they could just melt over his back and let the soothing vibrations lull them to sleep. Sage wouldn't complain much, but just because Mae offered to rub his back later doesn't mean they want him feeling as stiff as a plank before then. They slide off and curl up by his side, adjusting the fluffy cape into a cozy cocoon until their finger catches on one of its many holes.

Mae pulls the fraying hem for closer inspection. The red fabric has turned black with old stains of mud (or blood, they could no longer tell) that no amount of washing could help. “The weather's only gonna get worse. You can't keep using this cape.”

Sage only spares them a glance before going back to work. “This one does its job just fine.”

“It’s old and worn out. I can keep it at home for myself when you’re away. You should get a new one.”

"Was that your plan all along?" There's a small, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "If you want it all to yourself, just say so."

"How dare you!" Mae huffs, and they try to ignore the little tug at their heartstrings when his smile grows into a grin. "Well, yes. Maybe. But that's not the only reason! I still think you should get a new one."

“Sounds frivolous.”

"You say it like we splurge on the daily! Would you call it frivolous or a waste if I asked for a new coat?"

There's no response, save for the frustrated thumping of Sage's tail against their thigh, which usually means Mae has a point and he's upset about it, and that's answer enough for them.

Sometimes it is easy to put yourself in a loved one's shoes—to empathize with their struggles and pick out the words they need to hear—but when the world has been moving on without you for six months, the gap can often be too huge to bridge.

Still, Mae rises, one arm supporting them and the other reaching for Sage's knee. "I know the past year has been difficult… but we're safe here, right now. And there's more to life than just surviving. You deserve nice—even frivolous—things, Sage. I'll even pick it myself, then it'll be special, and you can't say no." Their hands move to his cheek, thumb caressing the darkened web of scars branching from his right eye before gently coaxing him into facing them. "Okay?"

Mae knows Sage can't help how his eyes glow brightly in the dark, one golden and the other fiery red, but the weight of his gaze feels too heavy as he silently studies them. Undeterred, they lock eyes with him, not backing down until he finally relents and presses his cheek into their palm with a sigh. “Whatever I say, you’ll still go through with it, wouldn’t you?”

“See? You know me so well.”

With a soft kiss on his lips, Mae lies back down, snuggling into Sage's cape. The silence that follows is comfortable, filled by the crackling fire and soon joined by the pitter-patter of rain against the rattling windows. As their heavy eyelids slowly succumb to sleep and the sweet melody of fading autumn, Mae is only vaguely aware of Sage's rough hand closing around theirs and the soft kiss he presses to their fingers.

#last legacy #fictif #fictif last legacy #legacytober #sage lesath #last legacy sage #fictif sage #last legacy mc #oc: maehwa #sage x mae

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ninhaoma-ya · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1065 — The six faces of Vegapunk

First of, what an amazing chapter title! It tells you all and yet reveals nothing.

Zoro can think! He’s good at battle strategy and protection — his role in the crew

So they agreed to let Caribou hitch a ride, but locked him in a barrel for the duration thereof? Nice people, these pirates.

Brook and Zoro enjoying a cuppa <3

Brook’s shirt is lit

The ominous robot in the background does not bode well for the Sunny

I wonder what “Punk Records” painted in the ceiling stands for? A record of ancient history? The WG’s indie record label? Vegapunk’s scientific archive?

I hope we get to see what’s in the floating cube-things!

The jaw-like perspective of the panel, with the egg shards on either side, gives ~ominous vibes~

First of, it’s so cute that Nami is as excited as Usopp by the cool techy stuff! Our science girl!

Second, nice little social commentary on our reliance on fossil fuels there, Oda. It’s like that “started as a fund pirate adventure, delves into the horrors of modern capitalism, globalism and slavery and I still enjoy the ride”-meme that makes rounds every now and then.

I do wonder about the eternal flame. Is it a dream or does it exist?

This is the best panel of the whole damn chapter and I will die on this hill. Might update with “..of arch” once we’re done, we’ll see.

The properties of that material are really interesting. Vegapunk obviously controls it from somewhere, but does it have to do with the clothes they are all now wearing or the material itself?

Nami is my fave. But I do agree with Usopp. And what kind of futuristic treasure do you see in antiques?

I wonder if they made seraphim of Crocodile, Doflamingo, Law and Buggy as well. So far they’ve looked a lot like Oda’s SBS drawing of the shichibukai as children. I can’t wait for some of those..

I don’t think the other seraphim have been quite so blatantly.. made? Constructed? as this one, with the liquid part of his arm on show like that.

And I do hope this exhibition of Nami’s ‘I can’t fight children’ will turn into a similar thing as Sanji’s ‘won’t kick a woman’ because that’s just lazy writing.

However, you will pay for that since the my apparently come equipped with sensors for sensing-the-weakest-link:

And that’s what I mean with the clothes.

Can he swim through the floor because Edison controls the materials in the room, or because Vegapunk has managed to synthesise Señor Pink’s swim-swim fruit, which would be a divergence from the ‘I can only make zoans’ that’s proven true so far? On the other hand, that would once again prove how much better of a scientist he is than, for a totally random example, Caesar.

But interesting info about the lineage factors storing information and even memories! How does that work with a seraphim who is used to fighting with a Devil Fruit, will they just be confused until they adapt?

What did you figure out, Edison?

Also, great characterisation for three Vegapunks in one tiny panel. Well done, Oda.

..sorry Franky, I don’t think logic-Vegapunk likes you very much..

Will we get a glimpse of the Void Century?

Really enjoying this arc so far, although the fan service is a bit too much. But the story is shaping up to be very interesting! And it’s nice with a breath of fresh air and comedy after the pressure of Wano.

Great chapter! I give it hope for the future and a pair of magnets to stick on your boots.

(Oh no, I just got the best idea for some art. Help.)

#one piece #ch 1065 #opspoilers #one piece spoilers #nin reads one piece #the best damn panel of the whole chapter #amazing art is amazing

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beevean · 2 years

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Surge doesn't look cool or appealing to me at all, she just looks like a combination of silly and ugly that made me feel like I shouldn't take her seriously

Her design is so ugly to me

That stupid ass black splotch clashes with the yellowish-green of her fur and the yellow of her clothes, it should have been made dark green

or better yet, no stupid black splotch, give her black eye markings! She's supposed to be punk, right?

Her teeth are so dumb, peak 3edgy5me, how did she get them? Was she born with shark teeth? Did Sonic's DNA give them? Did Starline decide to change her teeth to make her look more menacing? I only know that it's such a lazy way to say "yo she's evil", same for Scourge, it's as cliché as giving your villain horns, and my god Thomas Rothlisberger draws her mouth in such an unappealing way

Her clothes are a punch in the eye, you can't tell me that running around in those poofy pants is comfortable, also why poofy pants? Why one round element in her triangular, jagged, punk-inspired design? Why not shorts, or form fitting pants like in one of her concept designs?

What's the point in Riders-style gloves? What's the point in wings on her shoes? They do nothing but clutter her busy design

Her metallic accessories are also overkill but at least they have an in-universe explaination. I'd personally just limit myself to rings and those things under her shoes, since she mainly uses her powers through her hands and feet - unless you're telling me that her ponytail sticks up because she electrifies it through her band lol. But her earrings, bracelets and studs on her shoes are too much.

Her spines are nice. They give her an unique silhouette, and without her ponytail she'd have very long hair, which is uncommon in Sonic characters but wouldn't be as out of place as Sally's human hair. This is the only element of her design that I can fully praise. Oh, and her tail, it’s unique and cute.

You know a character with a good combination of silly and menacing? Infinite.

He has so many edgy design elements that it's hard to take him seriously, like the clawed gloves, the pointy boots with his own symbol under him, and of course the tragic one-eyed mask. And yet he also has big ears, long flowing hair and a fluffy tail. He's a canid like Tails. He's endearing to me.

And still his design isn't nearly as much of a clusterfuck as this one:

And this is an artist that can draw her well. Rothlisberg sure can't, and he was the main artist of IS. Bleh.

#sonic the hedgehog #fans don't look #the only fanarts of surge i liked were like of exceptional quality #and didn't show her teeth lmao #there was also one with purple clothes and her hair down #it was cute ngl

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sofiiel · 1 year

Text

There & Back Again | Ch.16

Enter Angel

↰ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ | ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛꜱ | ɴᴇxᴛ ↱

Myrtle stood in Chrissy's bedroom with her and Amy. Her hands gripping the sides of a royal blue dress. "Are you sure this dress was a good idea? They'll eat her alive." Amy whispered to Chrissy. "It looks so good on her, though," Chrissy whispered back.

Myrtle bit her lip, she wasn't displeased with what she had on, but she could never imagine herself in it. It seemed to really draw out the blue fleck in her eye. "Oh, wait, I have the perfect thing!" Chrissy called, dashing towards her closet.

Myrtle watched her with worry, "do I Want to know?" she thought to herself. It took a mere second for Chrissy to return with a white leather vest with wild west tendrils hanging from the center of the back. "This is too much." Myrtle said with wide eyes. "No, it's perfect," Amy said.

"I look like the fourth of July!" Myrtle shot, "no, you don't have red on." Chrissy pointed out. "Thank you, but no, thank you." Myrtle said, finally laughing.

Chrissy's face eased into a gentle smile, "there, that's better it did the job." she said with a satisfied nod.

"You weren't actually serious?" Amy asked her.

Chrissy shook her head. "No, it was clear Myrtle was nervous. A good laugh can fix that." Chrissy explained. Myrtle gave her a grateful smile. "I didn't think popular Chrissy Cunningham would be so nice." she confessed. Chrissy's smile weakened, "I know what it feels like to be on the other side of people's actions." she said.

"I'll have Jason call your brother and tell him that you're spending the night with me and some of the girls. It'll buy you time tonight." Chrissy said. Amy whistled, "she's your regular ol' fairy godmother, isn't she?" she said.

Myrtle turned away from the mirror and faced Chrissy, "you really are, I can't ask you to do this." Myrtle said she side glanced uncomfortably, "My dad if he finds out...." she murmured. Chrissy rolled her eyes, "Oh, I know parents like yours...trust me. I'm ok. It's me living through you." Chrissy giggled. "One day you'll return the favor. Anyway, you'll be giving me ballet tips for cheer - we're perfectly even." said Chrissy.

Myrtle glanced between Chrissy and Amy, "don't look at us like that, it's time for you to head off." Amy said. "Um.....do you have a camera, Chrissy? Robin would kill me if she knew she missed this." Myrtle asked. Chrissy reached for the Polaroid on her dresser and held it up to her face, "smile!" Chrissy called taking a series of snaps.

Eddie and the band arrived at The Hideout, the same old faces were loitering about the small industrial building turned bar. He and his bandmate pulled their equipment from the back of his Van and lugged it backstage while greeting the usuals along the way. "Heads up, Eddie..." Called a girl with vivid eyes and bright red lips, "Pete's here, He's got a set sometime after eleven thirty." she warned.

Eddie's eyes dulled and irritation flashed in them, "Thanks for the warning Sam," Eddie said, trying his best to form a smile. "Nobody gives a damn what loser does, tonight I've got more important things to worry about," Eddie said. Looking over his shoulder, he gave a nod to his band, "come on guys, let's go set up." He said.

Sam stepped out of the boy's way and rose her brows in curiosity, "he usually rages at the mention of Pete." she thought, chewing on her bubblegum. A mischievous smirk lit up her face, "oooo do I smell something fun?" she murmured to herself, turning on the heel of her platform boots as she headed for the front of the bar.

"Hey, Petey!" Sam called, rushing to the bar and speaking to a mass of thick brown hair. Turning in his seat, blue eyes like glass looked her up and down with a lazy gaze and an easy smile. "I won't tell you one more fucking time not to call me that shit, Sam." He warned in a voice as easy as his smile, the threat within his words seemed false.

Sam rolled her eyes, "what is it?" Pete asked, taking a sip from a beer can. "I just spoke to Eddie," she said raising her head a little to peer at Pete from under her nose, "He wasn't very bothered that you decided to show up to play tonight." she said fighting an amused smile. Pete rolled his eyes, "like I'm supposed to care what that runt does?" Pete muttered, turning his back to Sam.

"He's taller than you." Sam corrected, Pete lowered his beer away from his mouth, "It's in spirit, Sam." He sighed, looking down into the can, Pete listened to the booze fizzle inside. While his gaze was calm, his jaw was slightly clenched.

"I think it still bothers you," Sam hummed. Pete said nothing as two of his bandmates watched him cautiously.

"And I think Eddie's about over it, or trying to be." Sam added. "Wind dies out as a season changes, Sam. He's meant to let go." said Pete, "and you are meant to get the fuck on. You're annoying me," he murmured, turning to look at her, "and a buzz kill." Pete whispered.

Eddie sighed as he peered around the wall behind the stage exit for the seventh time, his eyes scanning the lightly crowded room below. Not a single new face in a sea of regulars. He glanced down at his watch, "nine" he sighed, it was time for them to go on soon, and still no Myrtle. "Maybe she's just late," Jeff called to reassure him. "I know we're pretty new friends, but…she's not exactly the type to be late." Eddie muttered, his eyes darting over the room below, "and if she is...that gives me a cause to worry." Eddie whispered.

Shutting his eyes, he could imagine the monster dogs, and it made his heartbeat speed up. "Damn it." he sighed. Scott rested a hand on Eddie's shoulder, "She's also the nervous type, for all you know she's just outside too scared to enter." Scott reasoned.

"True, I mean, this place is pretty intimidating." Gareth said. "Some old industrial ruin full of loud people acting a fool outside tens of different radios blasting the loudest music on earth." Jeff chuckled. "And then there is little mousey Myrtle." he added.

Eddie smiled a bit, "then maybe I should have Sam keep an eye out for her." Eddie said. "I'll go find her, we're on in five." Gareth said before running off.

Myrtle sat in her car, her eyes scanning the small crowd outside the building. "That's the biggest mohawk I've ever seen." Myrtle thought, leaning forward as her eyes followed a tall girl with a towering black mohawk. Oddly enough, it wasn't at all like Myrtle had expected. All the angry scowls were nothing more than pleased and excited grins as metalheads, Rockers, goths and Nu Wave fans alike all chatted with each other.

The air outside felt relaxed, and Myrtle found herself hopeful. But as she looked down at herself, she really stood out. Reaching into the back seat, she pulled out Eddie's jacket. "He won't mind if I use this until I see him." she thought, quickly slipping it on. Her heart thumped as her nose got a faint whiff of his scent. Something like cigarette smoke, leather, and soap with an ever-so-faint hint of marijuana.

Myrtle looked at the clock, "damn it, nine twenty!" she gasped, in a hurry she hoped out of the car and locked it up rushing towards the doors of The Hideout, "thank you." she murmured quietly to the boy who held open the door for her, trying to ignore the odd stares she was getting.

Looking around her as she pushed into a crowded building, Myrtle could see the glances and feel the whispers. "Just find the stage." Myrtle told herself, pushing on, she could hear the music playing and followed the sound of the instruments deeper into the building.

Hidden in a lake of leather and denim, Myrtle stood near the tables standing on her tiptoes to see, a smile instantly popping onto her face as she looked up to the stage. The colorful lights fell on the boys as they played their hearts out. Myrtle could feel a fluttering in her stomach as Eddie started to sing, in the resonated A keys of a Lyric Barritone.

Listening to him made her awareness of the people around her fade, but only for a moment.

"This table is taken." someone growled, before Myrtle to register who had said it, she found herself shouldered to the side, lightly stumbling she tried her best to just create distance. "Find somewhere else to stand." she told herself, "you don't need to make anyone mad." she thought, making her way through the crowds once more.

A pair of blue eyes watched her move through the dancing and head-banging masses. A curious glint in the back of them, "and who are you little fairy." he whispered, downing the rest of his beer before quietly making chase.

Eddie stole a look deeper into the audience, still nothing. He could feel himself deflating as his eyes desperately searched. "Come on, come on..." He thought. Scott and Gareth shared a worried glance as they could feel the momentum fading slowly.

A soda fell across Myrtle's black mary-jane shoes, looking down at all the liquid and ice around her feet, she gasped. "Oops." a girl said dryly, "why don't you go home, richie." she snapped. "I..." Myrtle stammered, looking at the girl baffled. Briefly, her eyes flickered to the Stage, and with a light huff, Myrtle gave a nod.

"Sorry," she whispered, "she's not wrong. I don't fit in here at all." thought Myrtle, turning to leave.

Eddie's eyes grew wide, it was a brief moment, but he saw her face before she started to walk away. In the middle of the bridge, he couldn't very well stop singing to call out to her. "No, you don't Myrtle...come on." Eddie thought, walking closer to the front of the stage, he fell into a guitar solo, and an unprompted one at that.

Starting at the lowest cords he quickly and skillfully played higher and high, the crowds hooted and whooped in their hype.

Myrtle's ears perked as she turned looking at the stage from over her shoulder, Eddie grinned, "that's it." He thought, "now come back." his mind called to her, and he inched even closer to the edge of the stage. Myrtle waded through the crowd, slipping through as best she could.

Confident that he'd lured her back in, Eddie backed away. Tossing his head back as he played, falling into their original set once more, the band joined in and held their ground as each of them played with great enthusiasm. Myrtle giggled softly as she watched, the boys looked like their necks had been replaced with rubber, and Eddie's whole face had become lost somewhere between flying curls of hair.

Within her small space in the crowd, packed in like a sardine, Myrtle swayed and bopped to the music, resisting the urge her feet had to dance. Looking up and letting out a musical yowl that reverbed the air, Eddie smiled pleased at the grin that formed on Myrtle's face and a brand-new rush spread through his body.

But as a group of people tapped on Myrtle's shoulder, Eddie's smile fell. "Shit," Eddie thought.

"Can I help you?" Myrtle asked, "I don't want trouble I-I'm just here to listen, and I'll be gone. I'm just...here for a friend." she said quickly, backing away. The boy with the two girls eyed her up and down, "sure, spot me a couple of bucks, and we won't have a problem." he said with a smile. "How does that make s- nevermind sure.." Myrtle started to dig into her purse when she found it snatched from her.

Her pulse quickened as she backed away more, she could no longer see the stage clearly.

"Y-you know what, you can keep it. I swear I'll leave as soon as the band is done..." she tried to reason. "Go kick rocks, guys, She's here with Corroded." A voice called behind her. "It's none of your business, Samantha." one of the girls shot.

Myrtle looked at the girl at her side, she looked fierce with a spiked collar around her neck and a black leather jacket that at one time had sleeves years ago. She scowled at the trio before them. "The Hideout needs new business, stop fuckin it up or Doris will have your ass," Sam said.

"Of course, D's lapdog would say that. You'd have this place sell out to posers and richies." one of the girls snapped. "You don't even work here anymore, so what are you going to do?" The guy asked.

Myrtle's eyes flew between everyone involved as she opted to remain silent. Her whole body shivered as the surrounding air became heavy and cold. A looming feeling made it hard to fill her lungs, and she could feel a presence standing very close behind her.

The trio before them fell silent, and the guy slightly shrunk back.

"A-Angel...." He stammered, the two girls with him slinking back.

Myrtle and Sam were lightly pushed behind a boy with thick brown hair and a dark plaid shirt. Angel glared up at the guy before him. "I don't need to work here to throw you out on your ass, do I?" he asked calmly. It was an unnerving kind of calm, his voice was almost metallic and hollow.

"She's with me now too. Fuck off." Angel stated closing the distance between him and the troublemaker, he looked the guy up and down as if he were small and snatched Myrtle's purse back. "Now." Angel whispered, passing the bag back to its owner. The guy backed away and left with a scoff, leaving the two girls behind baffled.

Angel turned his gaze to the two of them and raised his brows high, "hard of hearing?" he asked.

"Scatter" Sam called to them, and they did just that.

Myrtle exhaled and relaxed, "thank you." she said, looking between Sam and Angel. "Huh, Petey got involved, that's a first in a long time." Sam laughed, a wide grin on her face. "You're ok, Eddie sent me to look for you." she added.

"He did?" Myrtle asked, she couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Yeah, Gareth said the boy was sulking about you not showing up." Sam laughed lightly. "He should have warned you not to come dressed like that." she teased.

"Why? Beauty can light up the shadows of this place," Angel said, stepping forward. He held out his hand as if asking to dance, and Myrtle reluctantly placed her hand in his. He gave a small smile and brought her hand to his lips. "Pete Angel. It's nice to meet you-" Angel lingered on his words awaiting Myrtle to finish them, "ah, M-myrtle McKinney." she stammered lost in eyes that held her gaze like a trap.

Angel made a sound like a scoff, but less disgusted and more amused. "A name fitting of a fairy." he hummed. Angel nodded towards the bar, "come sit with us, I'll run the ghosts away." he said playfully. Myrtle glanced back towards the stage. "Don't worry, he'll come running." Sam snickered. Angel gave a scowl, "I'm sure he will." he murmured.

"Huh?" Myrtle asked. "Nothing, let's find a seat, shall we? Sorry your first time here had to be like this." Angel said, leading the way through the crowd. At the bar, Myrtle looked around skeptically, "she's thinking to herself, none of these people look old enough to drink." Angel said, looking at Myrtle from the corner of his eye as he popped open his beer.

"And she's completely right, they aren't. The owner here doesn't give a damn." Angel said with a chuckle. "Why not?" She asked. Angel shrugged, "does it matter? You can't stop them from drinking, if not here they'll do it somewhere else, at least here. The bartender can cut them off." Angel stated, "and the police had bigger problems than a few teens drinking out here." He added.

"Really? They found the missing boy, what else could be going on?" Myrtle asked, her eyes kept wandering back to the stage. "It's kinda hard to ignore him when he's up there like that. He looks so at home." Myrtle thought. Angel followed her gaze, turning around in his chair so that he might look towards the stage too.

"Well, aren't you smitten?" Sam sang amused. Myrtle could feel herself blushing in the dark room. "Hardly, but he's pretty impressive up there like that. Eddie's usually a big old goofball. He's different up there somehow." Myrtle said, still unable to take her eyes away.

"It's the guitar, you know. He wouldn't be anything without it." Angel hummed. "A real artist doesn't let his tools define him, a knight should not be his sword." he muttered. "The...guitar?" Myrtle questioned.

"Some say she's got a soul." Angel whispered in Myrtle's ear. "I say, she steals them." He added.

"Stop trying to scare her, Petey." Sam barked. "What did I tell you about calling me by that fucking name, Sam?" Angel growled. Myrtle gave a weak smile at Angel's clear irritation.

"I think I'll be ok now, thank you both." Myrtle announced hopping down from her seat she reached into her purse and pulled out ten, laying it on the counter, "here I'll buy you both a drink." she said with a smile. "Be careful little fairy," Angel called after her, he could see she was itching to get close to the stage, and he wasn't going to stop her.

"Petey...don't" Sam lulled cautiously. "Don't what, Sam?" Angel questioned absently, his eyes following Myrtle through the crowd. "I know that look, leave her be - she's a good girl." Sam warned. Slowly a smirk formed on Angel's face, "what's that supposed to mean, Sam?" He asked darkness hidden in the playful tone of his.

"She's cute, and I like her already...and Eddie likes her. You guys can't do this again, you can't make me be Switzerland forever." Sam pushed. Angel tossed Sam a wicked smile, "you think too little of me." He said, sliding the ten over to her, "here, get yourself two drinks. I need to go get ready." said Angel, vanishing into the crowd.

Myrtle made her way back towards the stage, seeing her wade through the crowd caused Eddie to smile, as they fell into the last song of their set. She stood about fifteen bodies away from the stage, swaying with the music, and Eddie put on a show for her, turning her smile into a grin. Their gaze stayed on each other like spotlights in the dark building.

As Eddie played he walked closer to the edge of the stage, kneeling low he played his guitar, eyes locked to Myrtle he smirked as she too made her way forward. Myrtle wouldn't go any closer than she currently was, she had no desire to stand boldly at the bottom of the stage. Eddie gladly resigned, that would be close enough, returning to the mike Eddie finished up the song with one last high scream.

"Thank you, for coming out and showing us your support again, it's a bit of a shithole, but we love our little corner of Hawkins!" Eddie shouted, "We will reject the status quo as they have condemned us! Stay metal, my friends!" Eddie called out the grin of a jester on his face as he bowed deeply and dramatically, causing a few out in the crowd to laugh. "Oh, get off the stage!" someone called in good fun.

Myrtle looked around her, they might have been wary of her. But the people here were hardly bad. She could even spot the ones who gave her a hard time, laughing happily with each other in the distance. "They're just protecting each other and this place." Myrtle thought. "Come to think of it... it's probably only the judgment-free zone they have here." she pondered.

Eddie unhooked his guitar from the amp, and swung it onto his back before hopping off the stage. He strolled up to Myrtle with a grin so wide it threatened to swallow the bottom of his face. "Sooo" he sang closing in on her, "You finally sho-"

"That was amazing!" Myrle nearly shouted. Eddie laughed as he could feel the light blush on his face. "That, was kind of a bit much...sorry, but still..." Myrtle said, covering her mouth as she realized how loud she'd been. Eddie's gaze on her softened as he cupped his hand around his ear and leaned towards her, "Hardly loud enough, scream it at me. Top of your lungs." He teased.

"You play too much, Eddie, I'm not yelling." Myrtle laughed. "I'm sorry what?" Eddie pretended not to hear. Myrtle walked closer and moved her face close to his ear, "You were amazing up there." she whispered. Eddie shivered, and his smirk slipped into a melting smile. "That was mean, Myrtle." he said. Myrtle gave a slightly impish smile of her own, "serves you right." she said, lightly pushing his arm.

Eddie placed an arm around her shoulders, "I'll take it, I'm just glad to see you here." He said, he glanced around, "It looked like someone was giving you trouble." He said. "Yeah for a while, but um Samantha came to help me." Myrtle said. "She found you then, at least she can make herself useful sometimes." Eddie murmured.

Myrtle noticed how he had quickly become distracted. "Eddie?" Myrtle asked, His eyes lingered on something in the distance resting on the bar top. Grasping Myrtle's hand, he led her through the crowd.

"Eddie, where are we going?" Myrtle asked.

Reaching the Bar, Eddie snatched up a scarlet, shimmering guitar pick on a simple necklace chain. For a moment Eddie's face paled, clenching the pick in his fist, his hand started to shake. "Eddie?" Myrtle called to him quietly, she watched him in silence after. Peering at the side of his face, Myrtle could see a mixture of pain and anger.

She rested her hand gently on his upper arm to let him know she was there before hugging his arm. "It seems I'm not the only one with something I can't share." she thought. While she hated the look that was on his face, something about knowing the secrecy wasn't one-sided was oddly comforting. Eddie leaned his head to the side to rest briefly on Myrtle's.

The sound of an electric guitar hissing softly cause Eddie to turn towards the stage, there above them in the distance Angel stood with his band, a pleased glint in his eyes as he otherwise stared Eddie down with a blank expression.

"You can have it back when you have something worth trading for." the words from years ago echoed in the back of Eddie's mind. He glanced down at Myrtle who focused on the stage as Angel started to sing, a deep voice that sounded nothing like his speaking tone, lulled with shadowy anger. His song was nothing upbeat or fast, but slow and heavy. Reverbing through one's mind, leaving the feeling of being haunted.

"Wow" Myrtle murmured quietly, it wasn't a horrible sound, but it was one that made her restless. Eddie scowled, "damned show off." Eddie thought, slipping the pick into his pocket. Through the crowd came Jeff, Gareth and Scott. They looked between the stage and Eddie.

Myrtle looked their way with a question in her eyes, Scott followed her gaze as it slowly shifted to a silver chain dangling out of Eddie's fist. Scott gave Jeff's arm a swat and pointed down. "Shit." Jeff sighed.

Eddie stood with his eyes locked onto Angel who held a smile so faint it was hardly there at all, even still it was a callous one. Eddie's eyes were nearly snarling as his fist shook.

↰ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ | ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛꜱ | ɴᴇxᴛ ↱

#eddie munson x original character #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x oc #This story is not Arachnophobia friendly #longfic #EpicLength #Eddie Munson/Original Female Character(s)#eddie munson x black!oc #eddie munson x fem!oc #eddie munson tolkien fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #18+ minors dni #stranger things 010

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zoskas · 4 years

Photo

finally drawing........motherfucker

#i think the last time i properly ACTUALLY drew him was like december??? lmao #tf #wip #look i draw #starscream #g1 #you can tell i have way too much fun every time i draw his boots #theres so much wrong here but im too lazy to fix it and plug in my tablet rn zzzzzzzzz

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tteokdoroki · 3 years

Text

had it | k.bakugou.

♡ pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader.

♡ word count: 4.5K

♡ rating: everyone.

♡ genre: pro hero!au, married!au, fluff, comfort.

♡ summary: your pro hero husband is a show off, always has and always will be... but when his big ego gets in the way of you doing your job, you give him little piece of your mind..

♡ warning(s): please read ! mentions of violence, i gave reader a quirk?? bakugou with a daughter ok literally nothing. oh and angst if you squint.

♡ author’s note(s): hi besties!! happy birthday to meee!! today i’m dropping a fic that’s been a long time coming, its a short and fluffy little piece with domestic baku bc i love him with babies n kids ok ok!! i hope you all have a lovely day <3

♡ masterlist | requests | kofi

some say that working for a pro hero is an honour, no matter what the position is. some may work behind the scenes— creating gear and suits that support the pros protecting their cities or livelihoods. others are in charge of things like reports, PR and even physical health. everyone plays an important role in a hero's career. there’s never a dull moment working in a team supporting the pros, especially if that pro was dynamight.

the offices for katsuki bakugou’s hero agency were always buzzing; usually because the clean up team were rushing through with stacks upon stacks of receipts and paperwork from the damage done during bakugou’s patrols— other times it would be his secretaries gossiping about how good he looks in his winter costume because damn did that tight black shirt do his arms justice but usually it was just because of the PR team contacting media outlets with excuses for bakugou’s potty mouth.

working for the hot headed blonde was more laid back than it seemed however, the man himself was rarely ever in the office as the number two hero but out on missions instead, the pay was pretty decent and no one ever really faced his angry wrath nor his sailor like mouth unless they had royally fucked up on their job. katsuki bakugou was someone to admire, he never gave a damn about what people had to say about him— he only cared about getting the job done and maybe that’s why most people enjoyed their time under the dynamight agency.

particularly this time, right around noon.

the doors to the floor of the secretary offices fly open, crashing loudly against the walls and drawing the staff from their daily work. this office space is around ten floors up and somehow you’ve made it in record time today. “where is he?” your voice crawls through the entrance of the room, settling over the workers like a thick fog— commanding, menacing and soft all at the same time. newbies cower in their boots, confused at what’s going on and it’s safe to presume those who have been working here for years have yet to give them the run down. “don’t make me ask again.” you add, eyes darkening as you cast your gaze across the room.

an intern approaches you, visibly shaking with fear which makes you loosen your stance and raise an eyebrow toward them. “he-uh... he just went for his lunch break—“ the stutter, gulping under the stare of another highly ranked pro hero. “in his...office— ma’am!” they stumble through their words, hiding behind the ungodly amount of paperwork that's been dumped into their hands. you make a mental note to chew bakugou out on the load his interns have been getting as well as your prior reasons for coming to his agency.

nonetheless you shake your head and drop the frown, a sweet smile quickly replacing the look that could put anyone six feet under if you really tried. with a tap to the side of your head, the visor to your hero costume rises above your eyes— allowing you to give the poor little intern a cheeky wink as thanks. “‘ppreciate it darling, have a good one!” you thank them properly with a ruffle to their hair, resuming your previous stance as you march the rest of the way through the office and kick open the door at the end of the room.

the intern sags, a whimper of relief passing from tired lips while they wipe at the sweat forming on their brow. they’d not even encountered their boss yet and they’d already come face to face with a top pro hero. “w-what’s her deal?”

a chuckle to the left of the poor kid startles them out of their mind; but they relax upon realising it’s just another one of dynamight’s secretaries— haruto, who’d apparently been working at the agency since it started up. “that’s nightsky, her quirk is lullaby, which allows her to control certain people if she hits the right note. she can also put them to sleep, if she really wants to,” the intern now perks up, remembering you from countless interviews on tv. you ranked pretty highly too, managing to the reach the top five this year along with others like shoto and deku. “she owns the hero agency across the street, herself and dynamight have been going at it ever since. it’s like they’re elderly lovers or somethin‘.”

“d-do you think they are? lovers like you say?” the intern asks a little too excitedly, touching at their messy hair from where you’d ruffled it. a crimson blush warms their cheeks, the idea of two pros playing enemies to the public eye but being lovers in secret seemed like something right out of a romance novel. how romantic.

haruto only chuckles at the newbie, standing to ruffle their hair as well before heading over to the coffee stand to fix himself a cup. “beats me,” he mumbles cheerily as he walks away, arms crossed behind his head. “but with the way yn bursts in here at the same time everyday to scold bakugou, and leaves with a huge smile on her face— i wouldn’t put it past them. they probably have a whole life together.” he taps his nose once as if he’s given away too much information, turning away without a word.

the intern hums, seemingly happy with their superior’s answer and easily heads back to work from there.

katsuki bakugou was bored out of his mind.

being a successful pro hero was all he’d ever wanted— being the number two pro hero just came with that. bakugou wanted to get to the top and show everyone he was the best of the best and with him being blessed with a powerful quirk there was no way he couldn’t be where he was today. yet, now that he’d finally achieved his dream all he wanted was a fucking break. the blonde stares down at his microwaveable bowl of home cooked stew, a frown cutting deep into his cheeks. it was his lunch break for crying out loud, but instead of scarfing down the delicious meal before him, the hero was forced to watch it cool as some dumb fuck reporter asked him questions over the phone.

the telephone interview ( or a waste of his fucking time, as katsuki had called it ) , had been set up by his PR team right after he’d taken down a couple low level villains downtown earlier this morning. katsuki had called it nothing but apparently the whole world and their mother had been on his ass, watching as he took the criminals down with ease and raving about how glorious dynamight was during that fight. the reporter drones on about said event, asking the same old questions and it takes everything within the hot headed pro not to blow a casket— he’d been promised a few extra days off from his manager if he could finish the interview without blowing something up and only god knew how much katsuki needed a break from dumb paps and some overly obsessive fans.

‘so, final question, how does it feel to be the number two?’

bakugou grunts, buying himself time to formulate an answer. what he really wants to do is kindly tell the reporter to fuck off and ask more original questions; but with the prize of a longer weekend hanging in the balance he bites his tongue for the sake of freedom. “well i—“

“katsuki bakugou.” your voice cuts through his sentence before he can finish, vermillion eyes land on your hero costume clad form as you burst into his office. a lazy smirk now decorates the hero’s lips, brow quirked with piqued interest. “i have a bone to pick with you, you motherfucker.”

the reporter on the other end falls silent as katsuki watches you, leaning back in his plush leather chair. you look slightly disheveled, costume torn in a few places, scrapes littering your skin as you pant heavily from exertion— chest rising and falling with every breath, it seems ragged and bakugou makes a mental note to remind you to get your ribs checked out later. “you’re late, shitty woman.” the number two sits up a little straighter as you enter the room, leaning up to look at you while you slam your hands down on the smooth marble desk— the force rattling the items he has neatly placed on it.

‘uh-? mister...dynamight-? sir?’

your eyes sweep the room while the pro before you deals with the reporter, mentioning to her that they’ll have to continue their call later. in the meantime, you note that katsuki’s office is meticulously clean, not a single book, folder or pen out of place— it’s high up with a perfect view of the city and the large windows allow golden beams of the sun to light up the room. the sound of a phone being placed back on its hook brings you from your thoughts; annoyance settling deep in your veins as you turn to face bakugou again.

“i had it,” you growl lowly, jumping the gun before he can even register what you’ve said. “i’m a grown woman, katsuki, i can handle a couple of criminals myself, you know.”

the blasting hero does nothing but smirk even wider at the irked tone that litters your voice, standing up as well to tower over you. bakugou still wears his own hero costume, considerably in less damage than yours— not a single tear had formed in his suit, mind the small scratches on his face no doubt from his stupid explosions creating some debris. leaning over the desk between you, bakugou uses a forefinger and thumb to tilt your head up, bringing you even closer than before. “clearly y’didn’t sweetheart, or otherwise that icyhot bastard wouldn’t have needed to back you up ‘fore i got there...” his timbre voice sends sparks of electricity through the air in the room, it’s low and gravelly which is enough to send shivers down your spine but you’re not about to let katsuki bakugou know that he makes you flustered— it’d go straight to his head, the cocky bastard.

nonetheless; you roll your eyes at the mention of your old classmate and fellow pro hero— shoto todoroki. yourself and shoto got along fairly well, even back in high school, so it was normal for you to work together from time to time; you both made a great team and your skill set complimented each other’s well. katsuki was just jealous. he never really got along with todoroki like that. “he didn’t back me up, we were working together,” you snap back at the blonde, shaking yourself from bakugou’s grasp and flicking him right between those alluring vermillion eyes. “something you might not be familiar with, mister number two.” bakugou backs away from you completely ( only wincing slightly ), making you smirk in victory. you’ve struck a nerve. deciding to leave the conversation at that, you turn to make your exit as he collapses back into his seat with a deathly scowl and a quiet ‘tch’. “like i said, i had it, dynamight. next time, don’t jump in uninvited.”

happy that you got the last laugh, you open the door to leave his office but pause when a wave of heat hits your back. you should have known, katsuki bakugou was never one to back down from a challenge and you certainly weren’t an exception. well shit. when you turn around to face the blonde, small explosions spark from his right hand and he has some what of a look of a feral pomeranian, blood red eyes full of rage.

you visibly gulp and katsuki growls out his next words with the upmost venom, designed to hurt and cut at your feelings. “well maybe y’sudda let the actual pros handle shit like this,” bakugou begins, voice rising in volume with every syllable that passes his lips. “we both know you’re no good at short distance attacks with your quirk, shitty woman, you couldn’t have taken those villains down without me.” the blonde finishes with a short ‘tsk’, settling the explosions that spark in his palms. now it’s your turn to be pissed. you could handle katsuki’s jealousy, his petty reasoning for joining you on your patrol and taking the credit but bashing you and your quirk? no way in hell would he get away with that.

“bakugou?”

“what? the fuck y’still here for?”

you roll your shoulders, gracing the blonde with a devilish smile as your eyes light up mischievously. “why are you hitting yourself, bakugou?” you sing, hitting just the right notes that will have him under your spell, the tone in your voice as smooth as chocolate. katsuki’s eyes widen in horror and before he can stop himself, his free hand comes up to slap him across the face. that was your quirk, lullaby. you had the ability to sing your way out of any situation— adjusting the tune of your song to control the actions of certain individuals or groups of people. it was near impossible to resist but the more people you used your quirk on, the weaker your control over them was. that doesn’t mean you weren’t going to use it on bakugou from time to time. the blonde tries to fight it, he really does, but he’s no use up against your ability— losing all control of his own body. he grunts on impact, looking bewildered for a moment as he moves to grab his own wrist to stop any impending blows. “not so cocky now, are we dynamight?”

“h-hey!” he stammers, refusing to accept defeat against you. “shitty woman, no fuckin’ fair. you know i can’t use my quirk against you in here.” he was right, while your quirk was poor against short distance attacks ( meaning you had to result to hand to hand combat ), bakugou couldn’t use his own in enclosed spaces without hurting anyone he didn’t want to. especially you, he would never hurt you intentionally unless you were sparring.

“shoulda thought about that before you decided to taunt me, you know better than to piss off your wife, katsu.” you chide, still smiling just as brightly as you were earlier, before taking a seat on his desk and folding one leg over the other. it was quite amusing to watch your husband of four years fight against himself— everyone knew katsuki had an unbelievable amount of strength even without his quirk so he was definitely beating himself up ( literally and figuratively ).

bakugou looks up at you through gritted teeth while he struggles to keep the wrist you have control of down and you almost feel bad for the guy. “turn it off, dammit!” he curses at you, said hand rising above his free one to tug at his own sun kissed locks.

feigning interest in the objects on your lover's desk, you ignore his pleas for you to release him from the holds of your quirk and hum “apologise.”

“f-fuck... fuck y-you.”

you sigh knowingly, picking up a hand crafted paperweight, covered in glitter and sequin stars, inspecting it carefully. bakugou could hardly ever say the word ‘sorry’, it was just in his nature and he’d been that way since you were young. part of you knows it’s because of how he was treated as a child where people praised him for his quirk. that meant he became prideful yes, thought highly of himself too and struggled to admit when others were right...but he had his own way of apologising— through actions instead of words.

like when you first moved in together and he had broken your favourite mug, instead of saying he was sorry, he spent all night super glueing it back together for you to use in the morning. to him, actions were louder than words but you right now; you were being mean and just wanted to hear him say it.

“fuck fuck, fine. alright. ‘m sorry.” bakugou lets out a strained growl as the hand you control gives a particularly hard yank to his hair. “i’m sorry for lying about your quirk. it’s not shitty…’n ‘m sorry for... barging in on your patrol. again.” you grin, satisfied with his answer and grab the hand he keeps down with his wrist. you press a simple kiss to the skin, making your husband blush as you release your hold over the limb. katsuki shyly yanks it from your grip, rubbing over the area that you’d kissed, shooting his gaze to the side in the process. “jesus shitty woman, if i don’t die from being a hero or of old fucking age, i know for a fact you’ll be the one to kill me first.” he mutters harshly under his breath, but you know he’s only kidding from the way his hands now fall to your thighs and his fingers rub small circles into the exposed skin.

“pro hero nightsky murders number two pro hero dynamight in cold blood!” you joke as if you’re reading a headline in a news article, katsuki only glares up at you— making no effort to curse you out because of your shitty joke, which causes you to frown while leaning forward to brush some of his hair away from his face. “you know i’m only kidding right? is something wrong? did i come at a bad time?”

it’s only now that you notice the exhausted expression that paints your lover’s face. he’s always up to playing this game with you, at the same time every day— you come to bother him about some trivial matter, tease him a bit and leave with a kiss. but today, you can tell he’s trying to hide something from you. something that bothers him.

bakugou shakes his head, leaning into your touch as you play with his hair— a habit he’d picked up from even before you started dating back in high school, although he’d never admit that to you if you’d asked. “nothin’, just this stupid fuckin’ interview the PR team want me to do about the fight today. the one i took from you,” your husband smirks slightly at the thought and you roll your eyes for what seems like the nine hundredth time that afternoon. “didn’t get to finish my fuckin’ lunch but they promised me a couple days off if i got the interview done.”

“better the number two than me, eh? but don’t worry, i’ll order us some take out tonight,” your suggest, voice coming out as soft and mingling with your slight giggle— a quiet melody to katsuki’s ears. your only reply from him is a grunt, so you stop your fingers in his hair and watch as he scowls up at you. you quickly press a kiss to the explosive hero’s lips, pulling away to reveal his blushing face. you smile, knowing that you’re the only one who can make him flush red like that. “there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?”

if there’s one thing katsuki bakugou hates, it’s how you read him like an open book. one look at him and it’s like you know exactly how he’s feeling. he can never hide anything from you— sometimes that both pisses him off and reminds him of how much he is loved by you. he hesitates with his words at first but decides to confide in you anyway, knowing that you’ll get it out of him in one way or another. “‘m worried about you, dumbass.” he mumbles, nudging your hand with his head as if to ask you to continue your earlier actions. “i know you had it, yer fuckin’ powerful but you looked so tired in that fight today ‘n i thought something bad was gonna happen to you, y’fuckin’ shitty woman.”

he toys with the tears in your costume now, smoothing over scars from your bumps and scratches as a result of combat. “oh lovebug,” you mumble, cupping his cheeks to make him look up at you. “you know i can handle my own, they just took a lot out of me today. i promise i’ll—“

“that’s not it, fuck,” katsuki cuts you off, brows furrowing deeply as he grabs your wrists— pulling your from his desk and into his lap. he holds you close, burying his nose into your neck as if you’re going to disappear. you sit still, a little shocked by his actions and his quick change of mood, but wrap your arms around him anyway and slowly fall silent. “it's just that...we’re both pros now and at the top of our ranks ‘n we both have a lot to lose.” you instinctively cling tighter to katsuki, mind flickering to the homemade paperweight you’d spotted on his desk earlier... causing your heart clench.

your daughter had made that for him during her time at preschool for fathers day; something your husband cherished with his whole heart, even if the thing was still sticky with glue when he’d gotten it.

katsuki loved taiga more than anything in the world and if something had happened to her because of your line of work, you don’t know what either of you would do. “what if something were to happen to you? or to me? or shit...both of us? who would look after taiga? you know what happens to kids who end up in the fucking system.” bakugou pauses, the same tired expression from earlier now sitting heavily on his face. “i just want you to be careful, stop pushing yourself so much, y’fuckin’ dumbasss. we have a family take care of. it’s not just you and i anymore.”

you nod, grasping onto your lover’s clothes tightly. the air is flooded with a comfortable silence, the pair of you holding one another right the way through it. you treasure moments like this, where the world stops and katsuki shows you another, more vulnerable side to him.

he would never admit or show this to anyone; but he cares , more than he lets on... especially for you and especially for your daughter. he was attentive, paid attention to you and your weaknesses and helped you overcome them. it was something you couldn’t stop loving about him. “i promise to be more careful, for you and for taiga,” you say quietly after he’s done scolding you, brushing your lips against the side of his head in a soft peck. “that must’ve been why jumped in earlier, you were worried about me?”

“somethin’ like that, you crazy woman,,” bakugou whispers, there’s a tinge of fondness to his ruby eyes as you pull away to look at him, his hands settling on your hips while he moves up to press a soft kiss to your awaiting lips. “didn’t want you getting yourself killed.”

you stay with katsuki in the office for a little longer than usual, laying on his chest as he prattles away about everything and anything even though he should be working. you make sure he eats his lunch, despite how cold it is and promise him a boat load of take out when he comes home later— your sweet cuddling session only being cut short by a call from your assistant to tell you that your daughter is ready to be picked up from school. “better finish that interview katsu, taiga’ll be happy to know her daddy’s getting some time off to spend with her soon,” you remind him as you gather yourself together, your husband pouting ( he swears on his life he wasn’t ) from the loss of your warmth in his lap. “she has a lot to tell you.”

the blonde quirks a brow, watching you as you head for the door. “yeah? like what?” a hand comes up to cover your mouth as you giggle at his curious face. sometimes, when you look at katsuki, you could see how much your daughter resembles him, right down to his mannerisms. she had somehow inherited the shape of your nose and the brightness of your smile ( the only reason barely anyone realised bakugou had a kid, he never fucking smiled. ) but the bakugou genes were incredibly strong so there was no way she’d miss out on those crimson eyes and uncontrollable, untameable messy blonde hair.

she even acted like him. a very brazen little girl who knew what she wanted and how to get it, so she had her daddy wrapped around her stubby little fingers.

you grin, eyes sparkling with the same mischief as before. “oh y’know, just her little crush on midoriya’s boy.”

“yer fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“i would never joke about such a thing, just make sure you’re home in time for dinner, number two!” you squeal, dashing out of the office before your husband has time to demand more answers from you. slamming the door shut, you chuckle at the melody of curses that leave your husbands mouth before heading off to pick up your daughter.

on your way, you admit to yourself , that maybe you didn’t have this fight in the bag. but what you did have; was a loving husband, a beautiful daughter and the best life you could have ever imagined.

extended ending:

“so, taiga... daddy hears you have a little... crush on someone.”

you’re in the kitchen, washing the dishes from tonight’s dinner as bakugou wipes tentatively at your little girl’s messy face— she was a poor eater but it’s something you didn’t mind, not when your husband was so soft with cleaning her up. you can see them from where you stand, watching katsuki knowingly.

taiga looks up from the colouring you’d set out for her when she finished up her meal, crimson eyes shining brightly as she fixes her gaze on her father. “mhm mhm!! he’s mister deku’s son! and i’m gonna marry him!”

“no yer not.” bakugou answers simply, looking close to popping a vein.

“why not?”

your husband scoffs, throwing away the tissue he’d used to clean his little girl up before joining her in her colouring. “‘cause daddy says so ‘n boys are gross, especially ones who’s dad’s look like broccoli.” the older ash blonde seems satisfied with his answer, grinning to himself as you dry the dishes with an amused smile.

but taiga isn’t finished, swapping her green crayon for a red one to finish up her drawing. “but you’re a boy...and mommy still married you!”

bakugou pauses, lost for words as taiga continues to colour— humming the theme song from a commercial for some of deku’s merch. you can tell it’s taking everything katsuki’s got not to combust right there on the spot, but he can’t stay mad at taiga for too long, not when she’s describing her wedding and how her daddy is going to walk her down the isle.

setting the dishes to dry and towelling your hands; you smile to yourself as you admire your family. some would say you had it all, and looking at the pair of bakugou’s now, who were you to deny the truth.

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