#Personal Floating Dock | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nizhspo · 10 days ago

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pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader x sukuna ryomen

synopsis: you were just a village girl, stealing glances at your childhood friend by the nile, when the priests came. they said ra had chosen you—that you would speak for the sun god. now, you’re bound in gold and blood, cut open in the name of divinity, and praying to a god who never answers. until one does, and he looks like yuji. he calls himself apophis.

content: ancient egypt au, oracle!reader, apophis!sukuna, ra!gojo, smut, childhood crush on yuji itadori, hints at satosugu, divine possession, religious rituals, ambiguous morality, false comfort, god x mortal dynamics, non-explicit but heavy implications of grooming/manipulation

notes: i am a pjo fan. not a big fan of egyptian mythology but writing this taught me a lot! it’s very long, enjoy!

your village sat quiet along the nile’s shoulder—mud-brick homes crumbling soft at the corners, palm-frond mats curling in the sun, smoke curling thin from clay ovens as the day leaned into late afternoon. the river lapped gently against the bank, thick with reeds and fish and a few empty palm-woven baskets half-submerged at the edge.

yuji was beside you, splashing water onto his neck, shirt stuck damp to his back. his hair, soft and pink like sun-bleached hibiscus, clung in wet curls to his forehead. he had that kind of face that was always open, warm eyes, soft lips, a little scar on his cheek from when he fell trying to impress you with a flip last summer.

he smelled like salt and sunlight and river mud, and even though he was more annoying than helpful, he was the only reason you hadn’t lost your mind already, elbow-deep in fish, swatting flies and muttering to yourself.

“you’re seriously useless,” you muttered without looking up. “you begged to come with me and haven’t touched a single fish.”

“i’m providing moral support,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “besides, i’m pretty sure i dropped the knife back by the docks earlier. i’m gonna go check before some kid steps on it.”

you rolled your eyes as he jogged up the bank, barefoot, humming under his breath. always like this—warm, helpful in theory, more trouble than he was worth in practice. and still, he was your favorite person. always had been. you couldn’t remember a single summer where he hadn’t made you laugh, where you hadn’t fought and made up three times in one afternoon.

and lately, maybe it was more. maybe it wasn’t. you hadn’t figured it out yet, but you liked having him nearby. especially today, when the heat had been unbearable, the fish were slippery and sour-smelling, and the flies wouldn’t leave you alone.

you went back to gutting fish. the basket was nearly full. the sun pressed heavy against your back, and for a second, everything felt still.

then you heard the wheels.

you looked up just in time to see dust curling into the air at the edge of the road. a chariot, gleaming gold, polished so bright it nearly blinded you. the wheels spun slow, deliberate, sun catching on every curve of its carved panels. the sides were etched with symbols you didn’t recognize, winged things, celestial spirals, a burning eye at the center like it was watching you.

two horses pulled it, sleek and massive, coats the color of sand after rain, their manes braided with gold thread that shimmered every time they moved. their hooves barely made a sound against the earth.

your stomach twisted.

who brings a chariot to the edge of a fishing village? to the riverbanks where kids ran barefoot and women scrubbed laundry against smooth stones?

it slowed, stopped, and the horses didn’t snort or shake their heads like normal animals. they just stood, still and silent, as if they’d been carved from marble.

and from it, only one woman stepped down.

she was old. tall, slow-moving, dressed in linen and gold, with a veil wrapped tight around her head and her face mostly shadowed. she said nothing as she approached. just walked through the sand like she was floating.

you froze, hand hovering above the fish basket. she didn’t look dangerous. just strange. like someone important who had gotten lost.

she knelt beside you, movements slow, deliberate, and the smell of her hit you first—frankincense, sweat, and something metallic.

you stared at her, and she looked out toward the river.

“do you think the sun ever gets tired?” she asked suddenly.

you blinked. “uh… what?”

“all that rising. all that heat. day after day. no rest.”

you hesitated. “i mean, i guess i never thought about it.”

“but you believe in the gods, don’t you?” she asked. “you know their names?”

you shifted where you sat. her tone was calm, but her eyes were locked on you.

“i mean… yeah. i guess. i don’t really think about it much. i know what i’m supposed to. you know. offerings. prayers. but i’m not like—super religious.”

you tried to laugh, unsure. something about her made your skin crawl, but you didn’t want to be rude. she could be someone’s grandmother. someone important. a temple woman. a wandering preacher. some weird cult thing. you didn’t know. you just wanted her to finish whatever she was going to say and leave.

she didn’t. instead, she looked at you for a long time, then said, “what is your name?”

you blinked again. “me?”

she nodded.

“uh…” you hesitated, unsure why the question felt so loaded. it was just your name, but something about the way she looked at you made your chest tighten. still, it’s not like you’d ever have to see her again.

“y/n,” you said, cautiously.

the moment your name left your mouth, something shifted, and her entire expression changed. she stood. turned to the road behind her and called, loud and clear, “she’s the one.”

you froze. “what?”

you scrambled backward as her hands reached for you. she grabbed your wrist like it belonged to her.

you recoiled instinctively, heartbeat thudding. “don’t touch me.”

she ignored you. her fingers brushed your skin and her grip tightened. you twisted away, stumbling into the reeds. two more women came out of the chariot. one held something beneath her robes, something angular, rigid, gleaming faintly in the sun.

“get your fucking hands off me.” you yanked your hand back and your pulse shot to your throat. her grip was like iron. she didn’t say anything, just looked down at you, face calm and distant, like she already knew how this ended.

“you are the one,” the first one said, low, certain. “the voice of the sun god. he has spoken.”

you blinked at her like she’d spoken a foreign language.

“what?” your voice came out breathy. disbelieving. “what are you even talking about? ra? are you—what does that have to do with me?”

the other two moved towards you, closer, steady, too calm for how fast your heart was racing.

your stomach dropped. you thought for a brief second—oh my god, these people are going to kill me.

you twisted, screamed.

“yuji!”

your voice cracked.

“yuji!”

you heard footsteps pounding down the path, and he appeared at the top of the bank, wild-eyed, breathless, and shirtless, his chest rising fast with every gasp of air. his skin was flushed and sun-warmed, the tan glow of it made deeper by the heat and sweat clinging to his collarbones. his muscles were lean, carved in a way that looked accidental, like he got them from running too much and working too hard. his shendyt—a faded linen kilt, tied loose at his hips, clung to him damp with river water, twisted from the sprint, the hem stained slightly with mud.

a panicked fire in his eyes. he looked like he’d been ready to fight even before he knew what for. “what the hell is going on?”

you used the distraction from yuji to yank yourself free, stumbling back from the woman’s grip and scrambling behind him, clutching the back of his shoulder like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“they grabbed me,” you sobbed. “i don’t know, they just started saying weird things—”

one of the other women stepped forward, face calm, expression unreadable. “has she bled yet?”

yuji blinked, arm already out in front of you, body angled to shield yours. “what?”

“has she begun the red season?” the woman asked. “passed through the gate of womanhood?”

you froze. the words landed in your chest like a rock. your face flushed hot, a wave of something like shame or horror crawling up the back of your neck. yuji did not need to know that. not like this.

he turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you, but you didn’t meet his eyes.

then he looked back at them, and his gaze dropped—just for a second, to the glint of metal beneath the older woman’s robes.

his jaw clenched. “why the hell do you need to know that?” he said, voice low. cold. unfamiliar.

he shifted his stance, shoulder squared, foot braced in the sand. a shield now. something immovable.

the women didn’t answer, they only stepped closer, and yuji moved fully in front of you.

“y/n,” he said, his voice sharper this time. “run.”

you hesitated, just for a breath. and then you ran. your feet tore across the sand, breath catching, dress flying. behind you, the fish basket flipped, splashing its contents into the dirt.

you didn’t look back. you ran until your house appeared through the heat-haze, knees buckling as you hit the threshold.

your father looked up from the floor, startled.

“dad—” you gasped. “dad, there’s people—there’s women—i don’t know what’s happening, they grabbed me, and yuji told me to run—dad, i think they have weapons—”

your words tumbled too fast. you couldn’t catch your breath. your heart wouldn’t slow down.

he crossed the room in two steps and caught you in his arms.

“please,” you begged, clutching your father’s tunic, fists trembling in the fabric. “please don’t let them take me.”

his arms tightened around you. he didn’t speak, just held you, like he could hold the world back if he tried hard enough.

and then the light shifted.

the sun, already high, suddenly felt unbearable, gleaming brighter than ever through the slats in the window, cutting across the floor in hot, blinding streaks. it made the dust glow. it made your skin burn. it felt like a spotlight aimed straight at your body, like even the heavens were pointing you out.

you barely had time to breathe before the door crashed open, and hooves thundered outside. shouting erupted like fire. the heat rushed in first, followed by the heavy rhythm of boots on clay.

they stormed in without hesitation—guards, real guards this time. cloaked in gold and thick leather armor, their faces set, eyes forward. they carried scrolls stamped with wax, blades strapped across their backs, and emblems of the gods hanging from their belts like pendants of judgment.

your father tried to block the doorway. shouted something you couldn’t hear, and they shoved past him like he was nothing. they grabbed your arms and you screamed. thrashed, kicked.

“she is the girl,” one of them said. “the one the god has whispered of.”

your father’s voice broke behind you, and then they took you.

they dragged you down the narrow road, barefoot and sobbing. past the neighbors who stood frozen in doorways. past children clutching baskets. past the dock where yuji once tried to teach you to swim and nearly drowned instead.

and from that day on, the world knew your name.

but it was no longer yours.

you were carried to the capital in a litter draped with white linen and perfumed wood, the scent of crushed myrrh suffocating you the whole way. they called you pure. unblemished. a vessel of still water. they said ra had whispered your name into the ears of his priests—that he had seen you. chosen you. that your body was no longer yours. that it was his.

you remember crying your way through it.

the whole ride your eyes were puffy and red, vision blurred with tears that wouldn’t stop no matter how tightly you squeezed them shut. you kept sniffling, chest hitching with every breath, throat raw from sobbing their names.

yuji. your father.

the chariot rattled along the road like it didn’t hear your grief at all, and when the city gates swallowed you whole, the sun blazing down on stone walls too high to see over, it felt like the last part of your life had been scraped clean away.

you remember your arrival only in flashes.

hands scrubbing your limbs with milk and salt. girls in gold veils and hushed voices, pouring warm oil through your tangled hair. your fingers dipped in resin until they stiffened. your lips painted in crushed carmine, staining your mouth like you’d eaten something sacred.

they dressed you in white linen so sheer it felt like mist. layered you in necklaces too heavy for your collarbones. you were draped in gauze-fine linen the color of morning sun, eyes rimmed in kohl and turquoise. a collar of lapis hung heavy on your neck. ringed your arms in copper and gold. they called you chosen. divine. they said the god had waited centuries for an oracle like you.

but all you could think was how small your father had looked when they tore you from his arms. how fast yuji had run to save you.

how you hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

you remember pacing the temple for hours, its sandstone courtyards bright and humming, full of open doors and soft music, and yet you felt like an animal in a cage too pretty to complain about.

“when will the god speak to me?” you’d asked once, voice barely above a whisper, eyes darting to the guards posted outside your chamber. “what if he never does?”

your handmaiden had only smiled, tucking a loose braid behind your ear, fingers still slick with scented oil.

“he will,” she said gently, like it was fact. like it was promise.

but no one ever told you when, or how. or what it would cost.

…

your first vision happened on the sixth night, and it didn’t feel like prophecy—it felt like possession.

you’d been walking toward the temple, the heat baked into the stone beneath your bare feet, the towering statues of falcons and gods casting long, warped shadows over your path. the sky above was a dull, unblinking gold. incense curled from bronze dishes in the corners. your handmaiden was a few steps behind you, humming something low.

and then something shifted. cracked. split you open like a tomb.

your body went hot all at once, then cold, then numb. your fingers seized. your breath caught in your throat. your knees nearly buckled. your handmaiden called out, said something sharp to one of the guards, but it was already too late.

your eyes rolled back so far all you saw was black, thick, and endless. the inside of your skull stretching far too wide.

you smelled incense and myrrh. and then—

he was there.

ra.

he stood in the center of your mind like it was a throne room. everything around him shimmered, shifting with heat. the sky above was blinding gold, cracked like stained glass. beneath your feet, the ground pulsed with slow, molten light. it felt like standing on the crust of the sun.

and behind him, above him, watching you, were eyes, real, golden, and unblinking. they hovered in the air like stars that had forgotten to burn. some were huge, wide as gates, irises ringed in sunfire. others blinked into view and disappeared, slow and reptilian. they followed you wherever you moved, even if you didn’t move at all. even if you couldn’t.

“you noticed them,” he said, smiling.

his hair was white-gold and wind-blown, too soft to make sense of, like strands of moonlight layered over flame. his skin glowed the way polished stone does when it’s been held too long in the sun, bronze, radiant, alive. his robe shimmered with woven gold thread, sleeveless and split at the sides, falling off his shoulders like light couldn’t quite cling to him.

his mouth curved upward, amused. following your gaze to the eyes hanging in the gold-lit air.

“don’t worry about the eyes,” he said. “they help me… discern,” he said lightly, like it wasn’t meant to sound ominous.

then he smiled.

“truth tends to hide, you know.”

he took a single step forward and the floor cracked. “you’ll speak for me now,” he said, voice smooth and bright like sunlight off water. “lucky you.”

he tilted his head, grinning. “i don’t let just anyone talk on my behalf.”

his smile turned just a little wider. “and please,” he said. “call me satoru.”

he was beautiful in a way that hurt to process. hair white as salt, soft and glowing like silk dipped in moonlight. skin bronzed and radiant, every inch of it gleaming like he’d been carved from sunlight and polished with gold leaf. his lashes were thick and pale, his jaw sharp and regal, his smile lazy but knowing. and his eyes—

his eyes were impossible.

icy blue, bright like the sky over the desert at noon. but they weren’t soft. they were focused, like flames trapped in frozen glass, like lightning waiting to strike.

and just before everything went white—

he winked. casual. playful. like this was all just a little inside joke between you and god.

you gasped awake with a sharp jolt, body drenched in sweat, the smell of frankincense thick in your lungs. the chamber spun around you. the stone was cool beneath your back. your hands were trembling.

the others had already gathered. they wept, clapped and shouted, fell to their knees.

“the oracle has spoken!” they cried.

you were pulled upright, praised, paraded through the outer halls like something sacred. someone pressed a diadem into your hair of rubies, sunstone, plumes of red and white. they placed rings on your fingers, painted your lips again, called you chosen.

you didn’t remember what you’d said. you weren’t even sure you had spoken at all.

and then the silence settled, and life for them just went on.

you were the oracle now. not a girl. not a person. just another vessel carved out for a god to pour himself into. they called you chosen, divine, blessed.

but no one listened when you tried to talk about your dad, or yuji, or home. no one asked if you missed the sound of frogs chirping in the shallows at dusk. no one noticed the way your voice shook during prayers, or how your fingers twitched when the guards walked too close. no one cared that you woke up crying most nights, gasping like you’d surfaced from drowning.

that sometimes, after visions, you sat for hours in the far corner of the temple, staring at the way the candles flickered shadows onto the wall, hoping they’d dance into something familiar.

no one cared, except for your handmaiden, shoko.

she was older. sharp-eyed, quiet, always pulling you gently away when the priests grew too eager or when your legs buckled after a long vision. she smelled like cloves and always snuck you dates from the kitchens when she thought you needed something sweet. she never bowed to you like the others. never gasped when your eyes lit gold.

“does it hurt?” she asked once, brushing the hair from your cheek.

you hadn’t answered, but she still stayed.

and when ra came for the first time—or satoru, as he’d told you to call him, when his white-haired form stepped radiant and smiling into your chamber, all gleaming gold and easy charm, calling you his beloved mouthpiece, reaching out to cradle your cheek with hands you’d never invited—

shoko was the only one who saw you flinch.

the priests bowed. the guards dropped their gazes. the other girls pressed their foreheads to the stone.

but shoko didn’t move or kneel, she just watched. watched the way your shoulders tensed. watched the way you forced a smile. watched the way his thumb brushed beneath your eye—how your whole body resisted the urge to lean away.

and when satoru turned toward her, white brow raised, your breath hitched. he stepped forward, easy and amused, stopping just short of where she stood.

the room went still. the air grew warm as his eyes flicked over her, measured, curious, and then he chuckled.

“ah,” he said softly.

“you’ve already got a lioness whispering in your ear.” he smiled. “no wonder you don’t flinch.”

shoko didn’t answer, nor blink. just inclined her head the slightest bit. not in deference, just acknowledgment.

your heart pounded. lioness?

you glanced at her wrist. at the thin bronze cuff she always wore just beneath her palm, etched with what you’d always thought were decorative flames. but now, looking closer, you saw it: the carving of a lion’s eye.

piercing. watchful. burning.

you remembered the nights she sat beside your bed, palm warm against your spine as your fevers broke. how you never heard her footsteps, but she was always there when you needed her most.

a chill ran through you.

she’s protected by sekhmet, you thought. not like you. not owned. not caged. but chosen.

…

ra never aged. not the way humans did.

his body stayed frozen in perfection, skin bronzed like sun-baked clay, white lashes dusting the edges of eyes too bright to look at for long. his hair, white as moonlight, always fell just right across his brow. his smiles came easy. his laugh was like water hitting hot stone, quick, sharp, disappearing too fast. he carried light in his palms. wore it on his shoulders. sometimes, when he passed, the very air shimmered in his wake, and he knew it.

he was the god of the sun—of creation, kingship, order, rebirth. his eye burned away chaos. his name lit the sky each morning. whole cities were built in his honor, obelisks and temples rising from the sand like gold teeth in the earth. every harvest, every law, every heartbeat was offered up to him.

he visited you often.

sometimes in dreams. sometimes in person. sometimes just as a voice in your head, a rush of heat behind your eyes.

he liked to sit near the window where the sunlight pooled the brightest. he liked when you smiled. he liked to tease.

“so serious,” he’d say, crouching down beside you, tucking a finger beneath your chin to tilt your gaze up. “you’ll wrinkle before you’re twenty if you keep frowning like that.”

you always blushed when he said things like that. always looked down, hiding the way your lips curled despite yourself.

you’d never had a boyfriend before. never been kissed. never had someone press their mouth to yours like you mattered.

yuji was the closest thing—just a friend you liked a little too much, whose shoulder you’d sometimes lean against when you were tired, whose laughter made your heart jump funny in your chest. but this was different. ra said things no one else ever had. brought gifts no one else ever could. golden bangles that sparkled like stars. oils that smelled like citrus and sun. once, he’d floated a ball of light in his palm just to hear you laugh.

and the first time he kissed you—it wasn’t hurried. his hand slid around your jaw, warm and firm. his mouth brushed yours like a blessing, soft and sure, as if he were pressing light into your skin. he kissed you like you were precious. like you were his. like the whole world had been waiting for this.

and the first time ra touched you like that, it was quiet.

the temple was heavy with dusk, warm with amber light and the scent of myrrh. outside, the river moved slow and silver. inside, it felt like the world was holding its breath. he looked at you like he always did—like you were something sacred. something his.

his hair was white as always, soft like moonlight, tousled like he hadn’t bothered to be perfect. but his burned blue, blinding, endless, holy.

he touched your face like it was breakable. thumb at your cheek, fingers along your jaw when he kissed you. it was warm, soft, too gentle for what he was, but his presence was still overwhelming. he was tall, broad, built like someone who had never once been powerless—and now, that power was all focused on you.

“you’re ready,” he said quietly, voice like honey warmed on the fire. “you trust me, don’t you?”

you nodded, breath caught behind your ribs.

his hand slid down, steady. across your stomach, then lower. his fingers parted you gently, testing how soft you were, how much you could take. your thighs trembled, shame crawling up your spine—because it was new, and you were nervous, and he was a god.

and when he finally pressed into you, your breath hitched.

it hurt. not sharp, but deep, aching, a stretch your body didn’t know how to handle. your eyes stung, and your hands clenched the linen beneath you.

“shhh,” he murmured, mouth at your ear. “i know. i know it hurts. just breathe, little sun. you’re doing so well.”

he didn’t move right away. just held you, his hips flush against yours, his hand stroking your side.

“you’re so tight,” he whispered. “so warm. it’s perfect. you’re perfect.”

you tried to relax. you tried to stop shaking. he kissed your shoulder. your neck. whispered that you were beautiful, that he’d wait as long as you needed.

and when he moved, it hurt again, but there was something else, too. heat blooming behind the pain. your body opening for him, inch by inch, breath by trembling breath. he praised every sound you made.

“just like that,” he said, voice low and full of worship. “gods, you’re perfect. my beautiful girl. look at how well you take me.”

his body glowed where it touched yours. like fire under skin. like divinity poured into flesh. he touched you like you were his light. he moved like he never wanted to leave your body again.

and when you finally gasped his name, nails digging into his shoulders, tears in your eyes, he kissed you again. soft, and endless, like sunrise.

“mine,” he whispered. “my oracle. my light. no one else gets to see you like this.”

and when he held you after, hands still warm, breath steady, you realized you’d never really belonged to yourself.

not since he first looked at you like that. not since he first called you his.

but you’d grown to love him.

not in the way a lover loves, not at first. but in the way captives love the hand that feeds them. the way girls love gods when gods are the only things that see them.

he was the one who visited when you cried. the one who spoke in your mind when no one else listened. the one who made your heart flutter and your voice stammer when he called you things like his little sunbeam, his favorite voice, the only mortal worth hearing.

and when you asked if you’d ever go home—if you’d ever see your father or yuji again, he just looked at you, head tilted, lashes glowing white against the dusk.

“what more could you possibly need than me?”

and it was terrifying how much you started to believe him.

he brought you gifts—jeweled anklets from across the sea, papyrus scrolls written in sacred script, dried figs packed in silver tins. once he even brought you a falcon, sleek and sharp-eyed, trained to sit on your arm. you named it zehuti, and it slept at the edge of your bed for months.

you began to thank him in ways you never meant to. you smiled more. laughed when he joked. leaned toward his warmth instead of away.

he made you feel full. chosen. cherished.

…

the sky was just beginning to bleed, and you sat beside the water garden, ankles tucked beneath your skirts, brushing lotus petals from the surface of the pool. the scent of milk and sunlight drifted through the temple’s outer court. frogs murmured softly in the reeds.

for once, it was quiet. no priests. no chanting. no guards watching from the colonnade. just stillness. and the fading hum of the day.

you didn’t hear them at first.

just the faint crunch of sandals against gravel, and when you looked up, three men stood a few steps away—two attendants flanking the high priest. the same one who’d crowned you with rubies on the sixth night. the same one who always called you child of the flame.

he bowed.

your brows knit. you didn’t rise.

“what’s going on?” you asked, brushing a damp petal from your wrist.

he smiled, faintly. “the sun god has made a request.”

you blinked. “what kind of request?”

he nodded to the men beside him. one stepped forward, holding a shallow bronze bowl. inside it sat folded linen, a vial of oil, and something that glinted.

“we must prepare your body,” the priest said.

your stomach tightened. “prepare it for what?”

his voice didn’t change. it was gentle. too gentle. “to strengthen the boundary. to protect the throne. to keep the great serpent asleep.”

you stared, and for a moment, your mind scrambled to make sense of it. maybe it was another ritual. another prayer. maybe—

“no,” you said slowly. “no, he wouldn’t need that. not from me.”

the priest’s gaze softened. he stepped closer. “you were chosen, oracle,” he said. “this is the role the sun god bestowed.”

“then let me speak to him.” you stood abruptly. your voice was too loud in the quiet. “he always speaks to me. let me ask him myself.”

you reached for the connection. tried to drop into that inner space, the pool in your mind where his voice used to surface—

nothing. not a flicker in your chest. not a whisper in your mind.

you tried again.

satoru?

still nothing.

…ra?

silence. the kind that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

“no,” you said, stepping back now, heart pounding. “this—this isn’t right. something’s wrong. i—he would never ask for this. he wouldn’t—”

you didn’t finish. the second attendant reached out, and took your wrist.

your body went cold. “don’t touch me,” you snapped, voice cracking. “what are you doing?”

“the oils will numb the skin,” one said. “you will be honored, praised—”

“stop!” you screamed, wrenching away. “you’re lying. he didn’t ask for this—he loves me, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t!” your lips trembled.

“he would never hurt me. he would never—”

please, you whispered, silently, desperately. please just talk to me. say something. please.

and yet, the silence held, and ra did not come.

you struggled. your body fought on instinct, wild, ungraceful, furious. arms swinging, legs kicking, breath coming fast and shallow. you screamed until your throat burned, tears streaking down your face as two guards seized you by the arms. you twisted, thrashed, dragged your feet across the floor. they didn’t care. they bound your wrists in silk—fine, ceremonial, fragrant with rose oil, and hauled you like you weighed nothing at all.

your voice echoed through the temple like a broken thing, unheard, unreturned, and in the silence, all you could hear was your own ragged breath—and the sound of their sandals against the stone.

they brought you to the altar.

white limestone, sun-bleached and smooth. flower petals scattered in rings around it. bowls of sacred oil warmed at its base, thick with myrrh and lotus, their scent cloying in your nose.

they laid you down.

not gently, either. your body hit the altar hard, wrists tugged taut above your head. silk looped again and again. a priest leaned over you with solemn hands, dipping his fingers into the oil, pressing it to your chest, your shoulders, your temples.

a prayer was spoken, one you barely heard. your ears rang. your stomach turned. the gold-threaded cloth beneath your back soaked up the sweat clinging to your skin.

and then you saw the blade, small, obsidian, and curved like the moon.

you stopped breathing. you flinched before it even touched you. your eyes squeezed shut, your head turned away, a cry catching in your throat—

and then came the sting, sharp, sudden, shallow, but real. blood welled up instantly along your thigh, hot, and slow.

“satoru,” you sobbed. “ra, please, it hurts, please, i’ll do anything, just tell them to stop—”

your blood ran hot. thick. wet down your leg and warm against the sandstone. you thought they were going to kill you, you truly did.

you gasped, not just from pain, but from the shock of it. the reality that they were doing this. he had ordered this. but the pain was so sharp it turned bright, and your vision narrowed, then eventually the world blinked out.

“satoru,” you whispered. the word cracked in your throat, and he still didn’t come.

when you came back to yourself, you were lying on a golden mat. someone was pressing cloth into the wound. your skin stung with crushed herbs and salt. the smell of resin and bitter fig choked you. your body was shaking, and you couldn’t stop crying. your fingers clenched in the fabric of your robe, soaked red. your voice broke on every prayer.

“please,” you whispered again. “just… please come back. please talk to me.”

and still, he said nothing. not a flicker of light. not a breath in your mind. not even warmth.

only cold. only pain. only the echo of your own sobbing in a chamber too golden to hold grief.

you drifted in and out of sleep. shoko came in quiet intervals to check your bandages, brushing a cool cloth over your forehead, replacing the linens beneath your thigh. others whispered prayers you couldn’t hear. their words washed over you like warm water, but never reached your skin.

by nightfall, the chamber of offerings was silent again. you sat alone, legs tucked beneath you, linen robe soaked with dried blood. the scent of copper clung to the air, and the floor beneath you felt too large, too hard, too still. your arms ached from fighting. your thigh throbbed beneath the salves. the flesh around your wrists pulsed, tight, swollen, raw where silk had once bound you.

the world felt tilted. wrong. your body knew it before your mind did. you shivered beneath the gauzy robe. your breath hitched. and then—

light.

soft at first. like dawn peeking through the temple’s slotted ceiling. a golden hum. a warmth that touched the inside of your eyelids before your skin. it pulsed gently. then brightened.

“my little sunbeam.”

your eyes fluttered open.

he was already kneeling beside you, crouched low, the folds of his radiant robes spilling across the stone like sunlight made fabric. the glow of him was almost too much to look at, white lashes catching the gleam, hair lit from within like alabaster glass. he smelled like warmth and myrrh and memory.

ra.

his hands were soft when they found your face. too soft. they cupped your cheeks like something cherished. his thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t realized was there. his eyes, icy blue, searing bright, searched yours with a careful stillness.

“why are you crying?” he asked, quiet. too quiet.

you didn’t answer. you only let yourself lean forward, into the hands that hadn’t come for you. into the comfort of the one who had let them take you.

he held you, and you hated how warm it felt.

“you’re so brave,” he murmured. “i’m so proud of you.”

you choked on a sob.

his voice was like honey poured over open wounds. it stuck to the raw parts of you. thick. sweet. suffocating.

“why didn’t you come?” you asked, voice shaking. “i screamed for you.”

he sighed gently. tilted your chin up, his touch unbearably light.

“i heard you,” he said, soft as sunbeams. “but you had to be strong.”

you stared at him. the shine of his hair. the lines of his face. perfect. timeless. unknowable.

“i don’t want to do this anymore,” you whispered. “it hurts, ra— satoru. it hurts so much.”

his expression shifted, briefly. something flickered behind his eyes. but it was gone in a blink, replaced with that same impossible smile.

“i know,” he said. “but you were chosen, my love. and chosen ones must carry the weight.”

he smooths your hair back from your face, presses his forehead gently to yours. “this pain… it’s the price of peace. your blood holds back the serpent. every drop keeps the sun rising. your people breathing. your father and yuji safe.”

his thumb moved over your cheek again.

“you’re not just anyone. you are my voice. my light. your blood, your pain—it fuels the sun. without you, it dims. don’t you see? the world needs you.”

you shake your head. your lips tremble.

“i didn’t ask for this,” you say, almost childishly. “i never—i never asked to be chosen.”

his arms wrap around you.

“and yet you were,” he murmurs. “you were always mine. and i’ve loved you, haven’t i?”

and you nod. because you have no other choice. because it’s true, you did love him. because you still do, somewhere. even now. even broken.

“you’ll get used to the pain,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “it’s a small thing… to help me save the world.”

and you try. you try so hard to be good.

you bite down on leather when they cut into your shoulder. you squeeze your eyes shut when the blade slips against your stomach. you let them drain you slowly, gently, like you’re something sacred being carved from the inside out.

but it never stops hurting, and satoru stops visiting so often.

he still smiles when he does. still calls you radiant. still places a glowing hand on your brow. but his gaze slides toward the horizon more often now. he speaks of apophis more than he speaks of you. his light feels thinner. colder.

and when you whisper for him now? he doesn’t always answer.

…

the voice begins as a hush.

not during sleep, not in dreams, but during the bloodletting.

you’re lying flat, breath shallow, thighs bound, arms trembling as another shallow cut opens along your side, when suddenly, it’s there.

a voice, coiling warm against the inside of your skull. smooth, deep, slow, like honey sliding along a blade. it curved around your thoughts, soft and deliberate, brushing the most vulnerable parts of your mind like it already knew them.

“you don’t have to let them do this,” the voice hissed. “you are not a well to be drained.”

your eyes flew open.

the ceiling above you swam in and out of focus, candles flickering high in their sconces, shadows curling like snakes across the sandstone. your wrists throbbed. your thigh ached. you could still feel the blade, even though the blood had dried.

but that voice—it wasn’t ra’s.

ra’s voice was golden, deafening, and euphoric. it rushed through your head like sunlight. this was different.

cooler, older, and quieter. obviously not human.

and you knew you should tell someone.

so you waited until that night, when the others had gone. when the guards changed. when shoko returned to your chamber with fresh linen and oil for your skin. you were sitting on the edge of the basin, water at your ankles, when you whispered her name.

she glanced at you once. “you’re bleeding again?”

“no,” you said. “i… i heard something.”

her hands slowed.

you hesitated. “it wasn’t ra.”

her face gave nothing away, but she stopped altogether, towel half-folded in her hands.

you told her about the voice. about the warmth. about the words whispered just before you lost consciousness. and the way it had curled inside you. not threatening. not painful. just… there.

she didn’t interrupt. only after a long silence did she finally speak. “there was another oracle before you,” she said, quiet. “a boy. he was younger than you, when he was chosen.”

“what happened to him?”

shoko’s eyes dropped to the basin. “his name was suguru. he served for seven years. he was… bright. clever. soft-spoken.” her voice turned faintly bitter. “like all good tragedies.”

you swallowed.

“he started dreaming of the serpent,” she said. “the same way you have.”

your mouth went dry.

“he thought he could control it. thought he could use it. thought he could take ra’s power and reshape it—reshape everything. but the thing about gods,” she said flatly, “is they don’t share.”

you stared at her.

“ra killed him,” she said. “on the altar. burned his name from the scrolls. they say the serpent grows stronger every time he claims a vessel meant for the sun.” her voice sharpened.

“so you do not speak of this again.”

you opened your mouth. “but if ra—”

“don’t be stupid,” she cut in. “you’re not protected like i am.”

you blinked. “protected?”

shoko raised her arm, tugged back her sleeve to the show the cuff you’d forgotten about, lion’s eye shining in the dimly lit room.

“i was born under sekhmet’s watch,” she said. “he can’t touch me without her knowing. but you?” she reached out and touched your cheek, gentle.

“you’re only his to use.”

she stood.

“so unless you want to end up like suguru,” she said, voice clipped, “do not mention the serpent again. not to anyone.”

and then she left you there, alone, ankles in water. hands trembling. head full of a voice you weren’t allowed to speak of.

…

every time they came to cut you, the voice returned.

it stirred in the silence before the blade touched your skin, warm and coiled at the base of your spine. it slipped beneath your thoughts like water through stone, slow and soothing.

sometimes it laughed. a low, curling sound, like silk sliding across wet clay.

other times, it stayed quiet—just lingered, brushing behind your ears, humming with a patience that scared you more than anything else.

and then the dreams began.

you didn’t notice it at first. they felt like static. heat. too many flickering candles.

but the third one, you remembered.

you were standing barefoot in an endless hall, black stone walls stretching up forever, carved with twisting shapes you couldn’t decipher. torches lined the sides but cast no warmth. the shadows didn’t move.

a boy stood at the end of the corridor, soft pink hair. honey-bronze skin. the curve of his jaw familiar.

“yuji?” you breathed, instinctive.

he looked up, and you stopped.

his eyes weren’t yuji’s. they held none of his softness—none of that open, earnest light that made you trust him even when you shouldn’t. no, these eyes were red. deep red. like crushed carnelian, like the sun caught in blood. they were sharp, slanted, knowing. they looked through you the way a knife studied skin before it split it open.

he had all of yuji’s beauty, but in a cruel, cut-glass way, like someone had taken something pure and carved it into something dangerous.

his body was bare from the waist up, skin bronzed and gleaming like polished amber. black markings coiled along his torso, tattoos like serpents and hieroglyphs, ancient spells inked in symbols you couldn’t read. a collar of gold wrapped his throat, shaped like a rearing cobra with ruby eyes. thick bands of obsidian and lapis circled his biceps, carved with scenes of chaos and fire, divine plagues, serpents devouring suns, figures kneeling before a great coiled beast.

and despite all that, the way he looked at you still mirrored yuji’s in one way:

like he already knew the softest parts of you.

but unlike yuji, it wasn��t kindness that stirred in his gaze—it was hunger.

something slithered behind you in the dark, and you turned just in time to hear it whisper—

apophis.

you looked back at the boy. “you— you’re—”

“yes,” he said easily. “but i think you already knew that.”

you backed away. “what do you want from me?”

his head tilted. “nothing.”

your breath hitched. “then why—”

“but i can help you,” he said, stepping closer. “that pain you carry… the part of you that trembles every time they bind your wrists. the ache in your bones. the fear you swallow for your god.”

you said nothing.

he smiled again. “i can take it. all of it. every last drop. you only have to ask.”

his voice was silk wrapped around a blade. slow, sweet, promising.

but he still looked like yuji, the boy who’d probably laid down his life to protect you.

that same curve to his jaw. that same messy, windswept hair, only pinker now, wild and tousled like he’d run through a sandstorm. the tilt of his head, the slight part to his lips, the familiar shape of his nose. it was him, and it wasn’t. he was carved crueler. he was heavier with meaning.

and when you stared at his torso, your gaze dropping to the gilded serpent bands coiled around his arms, the glinting stones and the black-inked sigils burned into his chest—you couldn’t look back up.

your body trembled, unable to meet those red, god-marked eyes.

he leaned in, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to smell the faint curl of smoke and myrrh on his breath. his voice curled low against your ear.

“it’s okay,” he murmured, almost gentle. “you can look at me.”

and then you woke up.

your mouth was dry. your chest was tight. there was a weight in the air, a thick, invisible coil that made the hairs rise on your arms. you couldn’t move at first, breath lodged in your throat. the room was wrong. too still. too dark. only one candle remained, its flame flickering low. the rest were blown out completely, wax still soft from the heat.

you sat up slowly. the sheets clung to your skin, damp with sweat. the wind outside had stilled. the air was silent.

and then you saw it.

curled beside the woven perch near your window—your falcon, zehuti.

still, and limp, throat mangled, neck bent. something had coiled around him. crushed him. his wings were sprawled awkwardly, his beak tilted open, eyes clouded. a thin trail of blood darkened the floor beneath his feathers, and coiled at his neck, was the unmistakable mark of something long and scaled.

you covered your mouth. a sob caught in your chest.

and behind you came quiet footsteps. shoko. she saw it and moved fast. pulled the drape closed. wrapped him in linen. wiped the blood before anyone else could see.

she didn’t say a word, but the look in her eyes said everything.

and when ra came the next day, all sunlight and honeyed lies, smiling, radiant, fingers warm beneath your chin—his smile faltered for the briefest moment.

“what happened to zehuti?” he asked, gaze flicking to the corner where the perch stood empty.

you swallowed, heart hammering at the memory of what shoko had told you about suguru geto and his fate.

“old age,” you said, voice trembling. “i think. i just found him lying there.”

satoru’s bright blue eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as if testing your answer. then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and offered a gentle, practiced smile.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured, voice soft as sunlight. “zehuti was a fine bird.”

you thought he was going to turn and leave. his robes had already begun to sway with the motion, his fingers lifting from your doorframe, his steps carrying that same glow they always did—but then, he hesitated.

just for a breath.

his head tilted, and his brows pulled together ever so slightly. a flicker of suspicion passed through those blinding blue eyes.

“but ah,” he said softly, almost idly, “has anything changed?”

your mouth dried. your fingers curled into the fabric of your robe.

he was still smiling, casual, disarming, but you felt it in your gut. the question wasn’t casual. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t innocent.

you bowed your head quickly. “no.”

and then, like warmth curling into your ear, “good girl,” the voice whispered. “you’re learning.”

…

you try to shut the voice out, you really do.

but you’re so tired.

your legs barely carry you from chamber to chamber now. your hands tremble when you pour the sacred water, your knees buckle during prayer. light stings your eyes like knives. you hear the priests whisper more openly now—about the color in your cheeks, or the lack of it. the way your steps falter. the way your breath sounds too thin for someone so young.

you haven’t seen shoko in days.

you wake to bleeding—your thighs, your palms, your arms, and you don’t know if it was a vision or a sacrifice. you don’t know what part of you is your own anymore. you lose time like it’s sand through a sieve. one minute you’re walking the outer corridor of the temple, and the next you’re kneeling at the basin, blood dried on your robe, hands shaking.

and satoru—he’s watching you.

he’s all smiles, still. all brightness and blue sky. but you feel it in the way he speaks to you now, lighter, but sharper. too knowing. like he sees something leaking from the corners of your spirit and is waiting for you to admit it. sometimes his eyes linger too long. sometimes he says nothing at all.

and you remember what he told you when you first met—about the eyes. how they help him discern truth.

you’ve been trying to hide yours ever since.

but one night, you can’t help it. you just can’t shut him out.

…

that night, the moon hung low and orange behind the clouds, veiled like an omen. the chamber was quiet. too quiet. the kind of silence that didn’t comfort—it smothered. no guards murmuring in the halls. no footsteps. not even the wind against the stone walls.

you sat alone on the woven mat that barely softened the cold beneath you. your knees were tucked to your chest, robe clinging to the dried blood on your thighs. your wrists still ached beneath the thin linen wrappings. everything hurt. but nothing more than your chest.

your heart was racing. too fast. thudding like it was trying to get out.

all you could see when you closed your eyes was satoru.

not the light of his smile, but the weight behind it. not the way he tilted your chin like he adored you, but the pressure in his fingers, the command in the gesture, like you were a puppet on gold-thread strings. you kept seeing his hands, yes. but not how they cupped your cheeks or caught the sunlight when he played with it for your amusement. no, now you were thinking about what they could do. what they were made to do. what power burned in his palms when he wasn’t playing at gentleness.

he hadn’t raised his voice at you. he hadn’t looked at you with hate. but the thought still throbbed behind your eyes—what if he did? what would it look like if that smile dropped? if the kindness curdled?

he was the sun. if he turned on you, there would be no shelter.

you pictured it—the fury behind his eyes, the rage he hadn’t shown. imagined your body burning to ash under his gaze. the temple collapsing. the sand turning to glass. it wasn’t a memory. it wasn’t a threat. but you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

and maybe that was the scariest part.

he hadn’t done it, but you believed he could.

you drew in a breath, quiet and sharp, pressing your forehead to your knees.

“are you listening?” you whispered into the dark, unsure if you were whispering for ra or apophis—maybe not even for a god at all. maybe just for someone. anyone. someone to answer. someone to care.

“can you hear me?”

your lips parted again. your voice trembled.

“please.”

your fingers curled in the linen beneath you, knuckles pale. the shadows didn’t move. the candles didn’t flicker. the stars outside stayed still and cold. you shut your eyes.

“i’m scared,” you admitted. barely a breath.

and then a rustle, like silk over stone. like something shifting closer. then—

“of course i can hear you.” the voice slid into your mind, low and rich and warm as molasses. not ra’s light, but something older, heavier, something that wrapped around your thoughts like water around a throat. “i’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“apophis,” you said. the name tasted strange in your mouth.

you didn’t know what would happen. you’d never said his name before, never quite called to him either. he always came on his own—slithering through dreams and whispers, curling inside your head like incense smoke.

the air shifted. thickened. your skin tingled like the hairs on your arms were lifting, like something enormous had just turned its gaze toward you from the shadows.

“yes?” came the voice, not spoken, not heard, but felt. it coiled through your ribs like heat. it slithered up the back of your spine. it smiled when it said your name, like it really had been waiting for you.

“is ra going to kill me?” your voice shook. “am i going to end up like suguru?”

silence. then—

laughter. not kind, but not cruel, either. something darker. amused. indulgent. like watching a storm from the safety of a throne.

“suguru,” the voice breathed. “was a brilliant mind, with a soft heart, and a foolish end.”

the shadows in the room thickened around you. you felt your mat tilt slightly under your body, like the world had gone uneven.

“he was a miscalculation,” the voice continued. “a lesson.”

you swallowed, fingers digging into your legs. your body was trembling now, but you couldn’t stop listening. you didn’t want to.

“you,” it said, slower now. lower. “you are the real thing.”

you closed your eyes tighter. pressed your palm against your chest, right over your heart. it was still beating. still trying.

“why me?” you whispered. “i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t even believe in any of this—why me?”

“because you are a fracture in the sun,” apophis said, voice curling sweet and venomous. “a crack in his golden mask. you were meant to fall through.”

you didn’t know what that meant, and you didn’t want to ask, and the voice hummed again, pleased. like it had burrowed deeper into your ribs and found something soft.

“you called for me,” it said. “even with his light still clinging to your skin.”

and you had. you had.

you don’t know when your allegiance blurred. when fear gave way to hunger. when the god who whispered to you in the dark started feeling more real than the one who bathed you in light.

you only knew that he came when you needed him, and that ra hadn’t.

…

it had been three days of silence. not just from ra, but from apophis, too.

the air itself felt different. too still. too thick. the temple halls echoed louder. your steps dragged heavier. the light didn’t warm you anymore. it only stung.

and then there was the eclipse. they cut you deeper than they ever had—so deep, you were sure they’d nicked something vital. you’d laid on the altar, gasping, blood soaking the linens beneath you, certain you would die right there.

but you didn’t. not yet.

you were curled on your cot now, alone in the dark. the stone was cold beneath your spine. the linen stuck to your thighs, stiff with dried blood. your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket tighter, but it didn’t help. nothing helped.

and then came his voice. sharper than before, closer. no longer content to whisper from the edge of your mind. it curled into you like smoke, like silk, like something sliding between the folds of your brain.

“they’re going to kill you.”

you froze. your breath hitched. your eyes fluttered open.

“tomorrow.”

your pulse kicked hard beneath your skin.

“they’ve seen the signs,” it continued, soft and slow. “the blood in your urine. the bruises that don’t fade. your body is failing, y/n.”

you tried to speak, tried to argue, but your voice cracked on the inhale. “they wouldn’t—”

“they will.” the voice was cold now. final. “you’ve served your purpose. you are no longer a vessel. they’ll call it mercy.”

you curled tighter on the cot, pressing your knees to your chest. your hip throbbed, deep purple, fever-warm. your hands shook as you clutched your stomach. every breath felt like a needle in your ribs. your vision swam with black spots.

“but i care,” the voice said again. lower now. warmer. “and i see you.”

tears slipped down your cheeks before you knew you were crying. they slid down your temples, pooling in your hairline.

“what do i do?” you whispered. it came out hoarse. fragile.

and he answered.

“give me what they take.” his tone was low, velvety, almost tender, like a secret passed between lovers in the dark. there was no urgency. no command. just quiet temptation. “offer it willingly. to me.”

you blinked once, and then you were moving. your body moved before your mind caught up. you pushed yourself upright. the world tilted. your legs gave a little beneath you, but your palms caught the floor.

you crawled.

the chamber was lit by one flickering oil lamp. the silver basin gleamed on the altar’s edge. the obsidian blade beside it seemed to pulse with shadow.

your fingers wrapped around the hilt. it was cool, heavier than you remembered, but you’d also been the one being cut and not the one doing the cutting. your robe slid from your wrist as you knelt.

“don’t be afraid,” the voice hummed, coiling warm and slow around your spine. “i’ll show you how.”

your breath caught as you lifted the blade and pressed it to your skin.

the first cut was shallow. slow. a line of warmth bloomed instantly, sliding down your forearm like a ribbon.

the voice purred.

“yes. just like that.”

you bit the inside of your cheek and did it again. and again.

three perfect lines. blood gathering in soft pools between your knees. your body swayed gently with the pain, head bowed, vision blurry with exhaustion and something else—something dense, something deep.

the chamber breathed. the lamp flame steadied. the air grew warmer. heavier. you felt it: the shift.

not divine, not celestial. this wasn’t holy. this was ancient. forgotten. hungry.

it coiled up your spine. licked at the edges of your mind. the scent of copper and resin swirled in the air. the shadows stretched too far, too long.

you weren’t alone anymore.

a figure unfolded from the darkness, towering, coiled, humming with pressure.

not monstrous, but beautiful.

apophis.

you’d only ever seen him in dreams—never like this. never in person. never standing before you, real as breath and fire.

your mind screamed yuji. pink hair. soft eyes. the curve of his mouth, the shape of his jaw. but your body knew better. this wasn’t yuji. his hair shimmered loose, pink and gleaming even in shadow. his eyes burned red, slit and glowing, framed by thick lashes and set in a face too ancient to be young. too cruel to be kind. carved from stone and myth, sharp with something unnamable. beautiful the way a blade is beautiful. his mouth was wide, smirking, cut like a wound made to kiss.

his body moved like something serpentine, loose, fluid, deadly. shirtless, tattooed in gold and onyx. his hands gleam with rings, nails clawed, stained with something black and dry.

he stepped into the space beside you, barefoot, slow, and the temperature dropped.

your breath hitched as he crouched down in front of you. he didn’t speak at first, just looked at you.

at your thighs. at your wrists. at the blood pooling at your knees. at your hands still holding the blade. his gaze dragged up to your face, unreadable, then he reached out. fingers beneath your chin.

he tilted your face toward his.

“what have they done to you?” he murmured. his voice was soft, slow, slicing. it slithered through your chest and wrapped around your ribs, slow and certain.

“so much beauty,” he said. “ruined. cracked open like an offering bowl.”

your mouth trembled. “are you going to hurt me?” you whispered.

he smiled. not wide. not threatening. just soft, almost tender.

“no,” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “not unless you beg me to.”

then he touched you, not roughly, not like a man claiming or owning or taking. just gentle touches. his fingers slid to your side, to the welt blooming purple and red beneath your ribs. warm fingers pressed to scars and bruises littering your body, and suddenly, the pain there would disappear. the ache in your thighs vanished. your and arms went light, weightless.

your wounds closed beneath his palms. your skin knit clean.

your body stilled, and when when you looked up at him—this impossible god, this beast, this thing of terror and promise, this thing the world called chaos—for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel whole.

his thumb lingered just beneath your collarbone, tracing the curve where blood had dried and cracked. his red eyes flicked upward, meeting yours—not sharp this time, but patient. waiting.

“you’re still shaking,” he murmured.

you tried to speak. couldn’t. your throat was tight. your chest too full.

his hand moved higher, settled lightly at your throat. not pressing. just resting. “you don’t have to thank me,” he said, voice lower now, almost amused. “he breaks things, and i fix them. it’s a cycle.”

“why?” your voice was hoarse. you hadn’t used it in hours. “why do you keep helping me?”

he smiled. not wide. not cruel. a different kind of smile that you couldn’t quite discern.

“because you asked,” he said simply. “because when you were alone, and afraid, and crying on the cold floor of your god’s temple, you called for me instead of him.”

your eyes burned again. “i didn’t mean to.”

“but you did.”

his hand slipped from your throat, down to your wrist. he turned it over, ran a finger along the place where the blood had been, now smooth. “they would’ve left you to rot.”

“he wouldn’t—” you stopped. bit your lip.

he didn’t press. just watched you. let you say it yourself.

“…he wouldn’t have let me die,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him.

“you really believe that?” his voice was so soft it hurt.

your lip quivered. your eyes dropped, and a silence stretched between you.

he reached for your chin again. tilted it up, slower this time. gentler.

“look at me.”

you did. slowly. breath caught in your chest. his face was too close now. eyes searching. mouth parted just slightly. he smelled like smoke and night and the faintest trace of honey.

“i could hurt you if i wanted to,” he murmured. “you know that.”

you nodded.

“but i won’t.”

your breath hitched as his hand slid up to your cheek. brushed a tear away with the back of his knuckle. “i know how to destroy,” he said. “but with you… i’d rather do something else.”

you blinked.

“can i?” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips.

he didn’t lean in yet. didn’t press. just waited.

and maybe that’s why you kissed him, soft and slow and trembling. because for one impossible second, it felt like you were talking to yuji.

like you hadn’t been dragged from your home, like there weren’t bruises blooming along your hips and ancient symbols carved into your skin. like your name hadn’t been stolen and rewritten in a language only gods could read.

it was just him. just you. just this.

your eyes fluttered shut, lips brushing his with the same reverence you used to fold into prayers. hesitant. aching. your fingers curled lightly at his shoulders.

his mouth was warm, there, present. answering you with a slowness that startled you.

and for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

pretend that maybe yuji had died trying to protect you, and this—this creature of dark and chaos, this impossible god with eyes like fire and hands like silk, had been sent in his place. sent to ease your pain. to honor the hurt that no one else saw. maybe a piece of yuji lived inside him. maybe that’s why he looked the way he did. why his voice never scared you.

his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as he kissed you deeper. still slow. still gentle. like he understood something about you no one else had bothered to learn.

his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. his thumb still cradled your jaw, gentle in a way that made your chest ache. you thought he might say something soft. something about you.

because his expression looked like awe.

because his red eyes burned like embers, staring at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

but that wasn’t what the fire was for.

“you don’t even know what you’ve given me,” he whispered, voice low, nearly trembling with restrained joy.

and when he touched you—hand rising to your throat, you tilted your head back. your body didn’t pull away.

“yu—” you stopped yourself before it left your lips.

but you knew he heard it. knew who you were thinking of. you were thinking of your best friend. of safety, of home, of sunlight skipping across the river. of the boy who laughed with fish guts on his hands and hid your letters beneath woven mats. the boy you might never see again.

and now here was this creature. this god. this echo of everything you’d lost, pressed against you with heat and stillness and a patience that was starting to feel unbearable.

you didn’t want love. you didn’t want light. you wanted release.

so you kissed him again, not soft, not shy, and your mouth pressed to his like you were trying to climb inside him, like you were asking him to ruin you from the inside out. his grip on your throat tightened just enough to drag a breathy moan out of you, soft and raw against his lips.

he made a sound low in his chest, dark, hungry, and before you could breathe again, he lifted you, effortless. he carried you to the low cot tucked in the corner of the chamber, and when your back hit the thin mattress, the shadows moved.

they rose from the stone like smoke made solid. cool and smooth. they slithered up the sides of the bed, curling around your wrists were snakes made of shadow, of him. they didn’t bind you harshly, just pinned you there like you were being presented. like this was ceremony.

“i’ve been waiting for you,” he said, voice low, glowing eyes soft like eclipse rings in the dark. “for centuries.”

your breath stuttered as he leaned down, pressed a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. he didn’t tear your robes off. he unwrapped you, like a gift, like something he really had waited centuries to touch.

your breath caught again when he kissed lower—your stomach, your hip, the curve of your thigh. his fingers brushed the raw mark you carved into your arm hours earlier, and when he pushed your legs apart, you didn’t resist.

his fingers moved with purpose. slow, deliberate circles. just enough to tease. to open. to make your spine arch and your voice catch. the snakes coiled tighter around your wrists as the pleasure in your stomach twisted sharper, tighter, hotter.

and when he slid inside you, your whole body seized.

he fit in a way nothing ever had. too deep. too much. too intimate.

your back arched. your wrists pulled. a whimper cracked from your throat, eyes fluttering closed. you were shaking, everywhere, but you still didn’t say no.

his hand smoothed over your stomach, grounding you. “you can take it,” he murmured.

and you tried. gods, you tried. but your breath was already stuttering, your body trembling beneath him. your lips parted, searching for something—anything, that would make this moment make sense.

“i wanna—” your voice caught on a whine as his hips rolled deeper, slower, more deliberate than before.

he filled you, thick, deep, a stretch that stole your breath and curled your toes and made your wrists pull helplessly at the snakes. it was like he was pushing darkness into you with every thrust. like he was rewriting you from the inside out.

ra had made you feel wanted, like a jewel on a pedestal, a thing to keep precious and controlled.

but apophis? apophis moved like he wanted to ruin you, and then rebuild you in his image. not just to claim, but to change.

you were gasping now, eyes fluttering, body arching off the cot like it might split open under the weight of it all. “i wanna forget,” you breathed.

you didn’t say what. you didn’t have to.

he knew. he knew it was satoru. he knew it was your name, your temple, your stolen life. he knew it was the girl you used to be—golden, obedient, aching for something no one could give her. he knew you wanted to forget that this wasn’t yuji. that this wasn’t a soft boy with a gentle laugh and sun-warm hands.

this was chaos. this was the serpent god who curled around your dreams and whispered that he could give you everything.

and still, you let him in.

because every inch felt like surrender. every thrust felt like a severing of light, like he was reaching places ra had never touched—not even in dreams. not even with all his glowing words and honeyed kisses.

apophis didn’t just want your body. he wanted your soul. to fill it, to flood it, to leave you so full of him that the sun no longer called to you.

and gods—you were already slipping.

his thrusts stayed slow, controlled, and cruel in how good they felt. he moved like he was rewriting you. like he could fuck every ounce of gold out of your skin, every holy word off your tongue.

you tried to be quiet. but you were spread out. bound, shaking. you didn’t notice you were crying until you felt the tears slip down your temples into your hair. your voice choked on every gasp, your body twitching beneath the weight of him, beneath the shadows holding you still.

you begged with how your hips lifted, how your thighs trembled. how your mouth fell open with no sound. and when he finally lost control, when his pace broke and his voice dropped ragged into your ear—you weren’t a priestess anymore. you weren’t even a girl.

you were his.

just like you’d been ra’s: a vessel, a voice, a body for the gods to move through. a tool dressed in gold or shadow, depending on who stood at the altar.

the illusion of choice had always been a kindness, and now it was gone.

you knew it the moment the candles went out. when the light outside the chamber flickered once… then died. when your body clenched, cried, and finally shattered beneath him.

because this, too, was a sacrifice.

not the kind they wrote on temple walls. not the kind sung over in hymns.

this was older, quieter. like the tales the scribes whispered but never inked—the ones about how sometimes, a thing too beautiful to be real would descend from the sky, soft-eyed and glowing, and call itself a god. a messenger. a savior.

and humans would kneel, and humans would offer themselves, and when they rose, they were never the same.

you wondered if that’s what you’d done. if, chasing release, chasing yuji, chasing the ache to feel normal again, you’d let something ancient slip inside your soul.

not because you wanted darkness, but because you were tired of bleeding in the light.

he kissed your shoulder. your throat. your lips again—softer now. slower. like he hadn’t just unmake you, body and breath and belief.

“mine,” he whispered. “mine, mine, mine.”

and when you came undone, mind blank, body burning, breath breaking, he followed.

a groan like thunder cracked through the chamber, the air vibrated, the snakes around your wrists loosened—but not fully. they didn’t vanish. they didn’t slither away. they just rested there, cool and curled like bracelets around your skin.

and in the silence that followed, apophis laid over you. his breath was cool at your throat. his forehead pressed to yours.

“he’ll never take you from me,” he said, voice like dusk folding over the river.

you nodded, too dazed to argue. but somewhere, in the hollow of your ribs, you tried to ignore how the snakes still held you. not like ties, but like cuffs.

…

you wake in the cot the next morning.

the room smells like cedar and blood. your robes have been changed. your body is whole. your wrists are wrapped in silk, now—not bandages, nor the snakes that bound you last night, but a gift. something ceremonial. something claiming.

you remember his voice. his hands. the darkness curling around you like water. apophis.

but now its morning, and for the first time in your life—there is no sunlight. not a glow. not a flicker. not a dawn. just… silence.

and then came the screaming.

the temple is chaos. acolytes running. guards shouting. offerings burning with no answer.

you stumble into the courtyard barefoot, wind whipping your robe around your legs.

and then—you hear him, and ra’s voice cracks like lightning overhead.

“what have you done?”

he doesn’t arrive in gold—not this time. he rips the sky apart. a burst of light explodes overhead, shattering the clouds, turning day into something that feels like judgment. the earth trembles beneath your feet. your hands rise instinctively, shielding your eyes.

and then he descends.

satoru, to you. ra, to most. the ancient, all-powerful deity of the sun, to his followers.

but not the one you knew—not the one who kissed your forehead and brought you peaches, not the god who laughed when you pouted or teased when you worried. no.

this is ra, in all his fury.

his robes blaze like wildfire. his hair whips on a wind that doesn’t exist. his eyes—icy blue, glow with something ancient and livid. power radiates off him in pulses, warping the space around his form. when his feet touch the ground, the stone beneath him fractures.

he steps forward.

“you were mine,” he says. his voice is thunder. “you were my chosen one—my mouth, my voice—”

he stops just short of you, and stares. sees the blood. sees the bruises. sees the mark of something older etched behind your eyes.

“and you gave yourself to my enemy? to him?”

your lips part, but no sound comes out. your knees buckle, fear coiling deep in your belly and rising, choking, unfamiliar. it isn’t sharp. it’s slow, creeping, like heat in a sealed chamber.

you’d seen this once before. in flashes. visions you thought were dreams—satoru’s smile splitting into something less kind, his light turning harsh, blinding. hands that once touched your face like you were precious curling instead into fists.

you thought they were warnings. you hoped they were lies. now, you wonder if they were prophecy.

because this isn’t the god who kissed your temple after the first vision left you sobbing. this isn’t the man who conjured sunlight between his palms and lit it across your skin like warmth.

this isn’t a god scorned. this is a god betrayed. and you wonder, in the static silence that follows, if this is your punishment for asking too many questions. for doubting. for choosing a voice that sounded like comfort instead of fire.

and then, behind you—

the shadows shift.

and apophis doesn’t walk. he doesn’t arrive the way ra does, either. instead, he unfurls from the darkness surrounding, he’s laughter in the bones of your spine, the prickle of a sixth sense, the ripple of wrong that feels more familiar than holy now.

he steps into place beside you, tall and fluid, shirtless and glinting in the moonlight, tattoos etched in onyx and gold.

satoru’s expression twists.

“seriously?” he snaps, voice bitter, the sky behind him still split in light. “you showed up as her dead best friend?”

and it hits you all at once, like some kind of cruel prank you’d been the butt of this whole time but never privy too. yuji was gone. and apophis—he’d worn his face like a cloak, because he knew you’d trust it. because he knew you’d follow it.

you were never a chosen one. you were never special. you were bait. a vessel. a crack in the light made just wide enough for darkness to crawl through.

apophis chuckles—low, indulgent. cruel in how calm it sounds.

“you’re just upset you didn’t think of it first. he steps forward slightly, gaze flicking to you, lingering, then back to ra.

“you always put too much trust in your mortal oracles,” he says, voice smooth and dark. “pretending they were more than tools. playing god and lover at the same time, like either role would ever suit you.”

his mouth curves, something like mockery blooming slow.

“and satoru, really?” a snort. “you even gave yourself a human name. the greatest and the oldest god, but always the most foolish, apparently.” his tongue clicks, like a disappointed parent.

“maybe next time,” he drawled, stepping closer, grin curling wider across his face, “take better care of your lovers, sun god.” he let the silence stretch, just for a moment. just long enough to twist the knife.

then, with a little hum, almost fond— “i mean, you did learn your lesson with suguru, didn’t you?”

something shifts in satoru’s expression. he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak at first, but the air around him tightens. sharpens. and behind his bright blue, searing eyes, something cracks—deeper, older, a wound never sealed.

“don’t talk about suguru.” the words are low, bitten off, and the light bleeding from his skin is no longer warm, but instead a raging fire blinding, blue, and alive with fury. the wind around him rises though nothing moves. sand lifts from the stone in waves. your breath catches.

this is ra. this is the god from the old stories, the one they said could flatten kingdoms with a blink, drown armies in sunlight. the one whose name made rivers change course and whose fury boiled the nile. the one who held apophis at bay for centuries with sheer power.

and now you see it. he could burn the world if he wanted to. burn you. and you believe he just might.

apophis smiles.

“why not?” he says, voice softer now, but still laced with mockery. “it’s the same thing every time, isn’t it? ra finds an oracle—some sweet little thing with a bleeding heart, and suddenly the oldest god in existence thinks he can play househusband with a teenager. like sunshine and figs and soft hands are gonna fix anything.”

he exhales a laugh, low and amused. “and then, oh no—here i come. the big bad serpent, right on schedule, ruining the dream.” he shrugs. “been like this for centuries.”

his gaze lands on you again.

“mortals are easy like that. so eager to be chosen. so easy to influence.”

you tremble beneath his gaze, the truth sinking in like cold water. you were never chosen—not in the way you thought. not for your worth. not for your faith. you were claimed, used. a vessel shaped by their power, not your own.

satoru’s fists clenched at his sides, light blooming in his palms like something divine and barely contained. your breath caught as you stood between them, caught in the rift of what they were, what you had become, and what the world would soon be. your hands trembled at your sides, useless, shaking.

apophis only looked at you, his expression calm, a little smug, but not entirely unkind. his voice was low when he finally spoke again, softer than before, smooth as polished obsidian.

“she was never yours,” he said, turning his gaze to ra. “you just got to her first.”

ra lunged, and light cracked the sky in half.

but apophis caught it in one hand, twisted it like it was nothing, and snapped it clean. his tattoos flared across his body like firelit scars. his form shifted and pulsed, serpent scales flickering along his skin like armor, his mouth curling as he stared down the sun god.

“you’d kill her too, wouldn’t you?” he murmured lazily. “you always knew she’d break. you just prayed it would be for you.”

ra roared, and the desert floor turned to molten glass. temples crumbled. the air stank of smoke and gods and the end of all things. apophis only laughed.

and you—you stood there. a girl emptied of purpose. a body with no god left to follow. a mouth that once carried prophecy, now shaped only silence. there was blood on your hands—your blood, their blood, the blood of a world slipping into ruin, and you didn’t know who you were anymore.

the battle that followed shook the desert down to its bones. light and shadow collided until neither resembled what it once was. ra’s fire fell from the sky like dying stars, brilliant and blinding, but apophis swallowed each burst whole, reshaping them into tendrils of darkness and teeth and rage. the temple collapsed behind you in slabs of stone and smoke. priests screamed. handmaidens wept. the river boiled. the sky cracked.

and still, you didn’t run.

you stood in the center of it all, watching as the god who had once kissed your forehead and tucked figs into your hands flickered and dimmed before your eyes. ra stumbled to one knee. his light faltered. his radiance, once eternal, faded into something thin, something small.

he looked at you, one last time, only sorrow in his gaze.

“why?” he asked, barely more than a breath.

and maybe, if you’d answered, if your voice hadn’t caught in your throat, if your heart hadn’t clenched so tightly in your chest—you would have said i was afraid. or i was tired. or maybe nothing at all.

but you didn’t get the chance. because that’s when apophis struck.

his shadow rose like a storm, towering, coiled, divine, and came down with all the weight of centuries behind it. it hit the earth with a soundless crack, and just like that—

the sun went out for good. not dimmed, not hidden, but gone completely.

light vanished from the sky, and heat drained from the air. the wind stilled. the rivers slowed. the temple collapsed behind you in a cloud of dust and grief. and when the silence settled, it stayed.

no flame could spark. no prayer could rise. no god could answer. and that was the end of it—or so they said.

because afterward, your story fractured. what little was left of it was passed from mouth to mouth, scroll to scroll. a hundred different versions told by people who had never seen you, who would never know the sound of your voice or the cut of your pain.

some called you a traitor. some called you the last oracle. others just called you the girl who let the dark in.

they said the serpent wore your blood like a crown. that your final breath was an offering, not a death. that you smiled when the sun died—whether out of love, madness, or relief, no one could agree, but what many said was that the world staggered in darkness for weeks, months, maybe longer. some said crops withered overnight. others claimed they saw fire fall from the heavens. no two stories agreed.

but this part remained the same:

the sun died, and the serpent won.

at least, for a time. because gods don’t die like mortals do. they fracture. they flicker. they fade—but only for a while. and when the world forgot how bright it once was, when its people no longer whispered ra’s name with hope but with desperation—he returned. as he always does.

and so did apophis, as he always does.

this was never about love. never about you. you were a vessel, a thread pulled tight across centuries, strung between gods older than war itself. your blood bought them a moment. a single turn of the cycle.

but it keeps turning.

temples were rebuilt. dynasties rose. crops grew again, eventually. but some say the sky was never quite as blue. the warmth never lasted. every eclipse sent people into fits of panic. every generation told the same tale again—

of ra, the sun god who gave too much of himself to mortal love.

of apophis, the serpent who devoured light not out of hunger, but out of vengeance.

ra rises. apophis swallows him. and somewhere in between, mortals worship, betray, die, and are forgotten.

they’ll forget you too.

not today. not tomorrow. but eventually. because you were human, and they are not.

but when the eclipse returns, and the stars vanish from the sky again, and the wind tastes like ash—they’ll remember the shape of this story.

the sun god, the serpent, and the girl who chose one over the other and learned too late that gods don’t love the way humans do. they only need. they only want.

they only endure.

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writingoddess1125 · 2 years ago

Text

Roger and Jessica Rabbit Effect

Buggy Headcanon. Buggy x Reader

Support me on Kofi

Prequel <<<

• This Goofy Motherfucker definitely has a hot wife no one knows about-

• As his personal seamstress you tailor his clothes and make his costumes for all his best costumes. However he adores you, You are his everything.

• Buggy never talks about you, for good reason since he doesn't want any eyes to fall onto you and put you in a dangerous spotlight. Many Pirates didn't talk about their S/O and it was always smart to not to.

• You however were fairly ignorant of the pirate food chain. So you did gush about your husband but no one knew exactly who he was- some mysterious drifter that seemed to appear and disapear like the wind.

• It being a total accident how you were discovered.

• The Strawhat Pirates of course were the ones to discover you by accident when they landed in a small island in need of fabric for the ship sails. The dock master telling them your shop most likely had the fabrics needed.

• Once in your shop you treated them kindly and ignored the obvious flirting from Sanji who was enamored by you.

• "I have just the fabric for your ships" You said cheerfully, not noticing Zoro who was staring hard at the gold necklace that hung around your neck.

• "You're associated with the Buggy Pirates-" Zoro stated as he pointed to the necklace seeing Buggy's Jolly Roger stamped on ots pendent.

• "Hm? Oh I suppose, I'm not apart of the crew or anything but my husband is" You say cheerfully as you pull out some bundles of fabric.

• "Your husband?" They all question now highly interested, Such a pretty person like you being married to anyone apart of Buggy's crew was surprising.

• You giggle at their curious faces finding it adorable. "Yes my Husband, The Captian himself Buggy"

• "..."

• "YOURE BUGGY'S WIFE!?!" They all scream in total terror at how You could be married to that juggling buffoon

• Sanji has an crisis in the corner of your shop as he tries to figure out how he is still single yet Buggy the Clown is married to a hottie!?

• "D-Did he brain wash you? Threaten you?" Nami begs, Holding your hand like you needed some form of comfort.

• "No?- of course not" You say confused and raising a brow at the young pirates all so confused.

• "But you're so pretty, and Nice?-" Usopp points out.

• "Well he's very romantic and sweet" You gush, the youthful pirates staring at you with a deadpan stare.

• "Buggy- Romantic and Sweet?" They all say in disbelief unison.

• "That and he makes me laugh"

• Blushing you go on to explain how loving your sweet husband was, how even though he was out to see most of the time at sea he would constantly send gifts, love letters and more. The crew in shock at this.

• You were such a sweet person, the Strawhats all couldn't help but adore you. Even offering them dinner which they didn't refuse and spending a night in the spare rooms of your home above the shop-

• Seeing the photos of you and Buggy together also adding as a confirmation of your stories. By morning you sent them on their way in new clothes some fabrics for the ships sails, and some leftovers you insisted they take.

• "You kids have a safe journey!" You chime out as the group leaves waving bye and even a few giving some hugs goodbye. Luffy smiling widely at you as you wave to him-

• "Oh before I forget. Would you mind giving this to Buggy next time you see him? You seem to run into him a lot" You say cheerfully as you hold out a blue wrapped box to the young Captian.

• Luffy smiled at this as he took the small box and pocketed it.

"Of course Mrs (Y/N)!" He said cheerfully skipping away with the rest of the crew to return to sea.

• It would be about a month before they crossed paths with Buggy-

• "Straw Hat!!" Buggy yelled as he saw them, his head floating from his body in normal flashy fashion.

• After a mild confrontation were as per usual Buggy got his ass handed to him, The Strawhats were about to leave when Luffy remembered something.

• "Oh- By the way Mrs (Y/N) told us to give you this and-" Luffy says calmly as he reached into his pockets remebering the gift box you handed him- Buggy's whole body going as stiff as a board as he turns to the strawhats with his pupils as small as possible and his body seeming to come apart at the seams.

• It was the first time Luffy or anyone felt a threatening Haki from Buggy starting to drip out like a dam about to burst, in seconds the Clown was holding Luffy by his shirt with a great force.

• Zoro hand started to rest on their weapons as for the first time in a long time Buggy looked- Threatening?

• "Who told you about (Y/N)" Buggy hissed dangerously- Luffy gearing up for another fight one far more serious but then he saw it-

• Buggy was angry/scared and thinking they were a threat to your safety. Luffy pulling out the gift box calmly and smiling.

"Don't worry your secret is safe"

• Buggy stared at Luffy before his free hand took the box and dropped the Strawhat pirate, quickly tearing open the blue box and looking inside. His eyes softening as he saw a new set of gloves inside and a bandana. Slipping off his worn white gloves for the brand new set you'd sown. As well as reading the scribbled note you'd left for him- A crooked smile on his lips at your handwriting and the terrible Nickname you gave him. 'Buggy Boo'

• He glares at the Strawhats his normal fashion. "GET OUT OF HERE STRAWHATS!' He yelled loudly stomping his food dramatically

• A thought crossing all their minds-

• 'Has he been just goofing off this whole time to keep you safe?-"

#x reader #one peice x reader #one piece #one peice live action #buggy one piece #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #buggy thoughts #buggy headcanons #buggy the clown #Buggy x wife reader

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acosmicbee · 2 months ago

Text

Dangerous Man

500 Follower Celebration - Day 5

(Castle In The Sky inspired! Is it obvious I love Studio Ghibli or what? TWS: Reader gets drugged, brief vomiting towards the end)

Working in the mines was hard, labor intensive work. Luckily, you weren't actually a miner, but you spent a lot of time keeping everything else up and running and helping wherever you were needed. It was a great way to pick up random skills.

It was the end of another long day. You had already waved your boss out, knowing he had a daughter to get home to who hadn't seen her dad all day. You had been the last one to leave, only half paying attention as you walked along the forest, heading towards town.

It was strange, completely random. You thought you were hallucinating for a when you saw a something stumble out of the woods in front of you. It was a girl, who then promptly collapsed, leaving you to rush to catch her before she hit the ground..

You were an orphan, your mother died in childbirth and your father had disappeared on an adventure when you were 8. Despite that, you were never alone. The townspeople looked after you and you always had enough to get by, they made sure you learned to never abandon a person in need if you could help. Because of this, you didn't hesitate to bring the girl home. You lay the girl down in your father's old room, making sure she was tucked in and safe before heading to bed yourself. Hopefully when she woke up she'd be able to answer your questions.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You yawned as you cooked breakfast, never truly used to waking up so early in the morning. The food was nothing fancy, just some eggs with a bit of sausage you had left over. You made two plates, one for yourself and one for the mysterious floating girl. You gently knocked on the door before entering, seeing her awake and sitting up.

"You're awake. I was worried after whatever it was that happened last night you might be out for longer." You handed her the plate.

"What happened? And where am I? Who are you?" She carefully took the plate but didn't touch anything. You sighed.

"I'm Y/N. You're currently in the town of Shipp's Ravine, a small mining town no ones ever heard of out by the coast in the middle of nowhere." You introduced lightly. It wasn't wrong, hardly anyone who wasn't from here or somewhere close by had ever heard of this place. "As for what happened, you kinda just stumbled out of the woods."

"I'm... Poppy. I come from... far away. The airship stopped to refuel and... I ran for it." Poppy answered, talking slow as she tried to remember what happened.

"An airship? We don't get much airship traffic around here. You must have walked really far, the nearest airship dock isn't for three towns over, and it's military run." You said. Poppy grimaced.

"The military can't help me." She eventually answered. "Not with why I ran."

"Why? Did you do something? Are you a criminal?" She shook her head before taking another small bite. That made you pout a little. Secretly harboring a criminal would've brought some much needed excitement to your life and she seemed nice enough.

"This man he kidnapped me. He's working with the military, or at least he has connections with them. I know he's probably using every contact he has to try and find me." She said. You perked back up, your interest and excitement piqued.

"Well if you're trying to hide, Shipp's Ravine is the perfect place. Trust me, very few people even know this place exists! You'll be safe here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You hummed as you skipped down the path, waving hello and greeting everyone you passed. You were heading out to buy some more food for dinner having taken a day off to talk to Poppy.

You were halfway to the market when you spotted him. A man with long blond hair in a clean white suit. Next to him were two armed guards. You cursed under your breath as you picked your way through the crowd, trying your best not to stand out.

Of course it didn't work as you were tapped on the shoulder. You turned around with a bright smile, tilting your head in mock curiosity at the outsiders trying to talk to you. "Excuse me, have you seen a young girl? Maybe around your age-?"

"Yeah! There's Lisa, Diana, Gianna, Lily, Winona..." You started to list off all the names of village girls you could think of who fit the description. The man shook his head.

"Her name is Poppy. She has fiery red hair and bright green eyes. Face covered in freckles." You shook your head.

"Nope! The only girls who fit that description would be Mrs. June's daughters but they're both under 7. Anything else I can do for you?" The man shook his head.

"No thank you. Good day."

"You too sir!" You answered, extra cheerily before continuing your shopping. You couldn't leave empty handed without drawing suspicion as to why.

The second you were done, and out of view of the main square, you booked it. You ran up the path, basket clutched in your hand. Poppy jumped when you slammed open the door, shutting it quickly behind you as you drew the curtains shut.

"The man who kidnapped you, does he have long blond hair? Gray eyes?" You asked, the second you dead bolted the door. Poppy froze.

"He's- he's here?" She whispered.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. I have an idea. I have a friend who works at the rail station. I'll get us tickets somewhere in countryside, somewhere even more rural and out of the way. But until then stay here. Avoid the windows and don't answer the door. If you're okay with it, I can cut your hair shorter so you pass as a boy."

Poppy agreed to let you cut her hair so you'd made sure to wash it out nicely before you started. You'd been cutting your own hair for a while, so you made it look as nice as possible. She didn't seem to mind too much and you even caught her smiling at herself in the mirror later.

"It's nice not having to worry about brushing it for hours and hours." She eventually told you. "I wish I had cut it sooner. Maybe you could get a new job as a hair dresser."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The day you left was the day you heard that the military had been getting warrants to search the villager's houses for Poppy. You'd already been dropping hints about taking a vacation so it wouldn't come as a surprise if you left for a little.

You ran around your house, gathering only the most important things. You burned Poppy's dress, shoving her into some clothing you'd bought that was clearly meant for a boy. Once you had those all packed away you handed one of the clothing bags to Poppy.

"It'll help you blend in if we're both carrying stuff. Until we're safely on the train I'll call you Pierre, okay?" She nodded, pulling down her cap more as you walked to the station. The train station was empty and you were able to get a private room for a discounted price for the two of you, all paid in cash. The energy was tense until the train had pulled out of the station.

It was a long trip, one that would stretch through the night and into the next day. You and Poppy entertained yourselves with card games and books and other random things until it had gotten dark out. You went to bed feeling safe, drifting off easily to the gentle rocking of the train.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It was late -- or was it early? -- when you heard the door to your cabin open. In your half asleep state, curled beneath one of your mother's quilted blankets that you'd brought, you assumed it was Poppy. Maybe she needed air or to go to the bathroom.

You could vaguely make out a silhouette of someone with long hair. Convinced it was Poppy you rolled back over, but the door never closed and the lantern light in the hallway made it difficult to fall back asleep. You yawned, finally deciding to get up and see what she needed when your blood ran cold.

Poppy didn't have long hair anymore because you had cut it. Poppy couldn't be standing in the doorway because you had seen her asleep on the other bench when you opened your eyes.

T h a t w a s n ' t P o p p y.

A sudden pinch at the base of your neck made you whine in pain. You rolled over, trying to stand, only for your legs to give out. You never hit the floor, silently being laid back down as you tried to force your body to work.

The man, the same one from the marketplace, shushed you gently as he watched you try to fight the drug. Your eyesight was blurring, your brain turning to mush and you couldn't move. You passed out right as he turned to Poppy, still blissfully asleep across from you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You woke up to a faint humming noise. Your stomach turned unpleasantly and you felt feverish and nauseous. Where you were laying was comfortable though. You were warm and it was soft. You wondered what had woken you up when you finally registered someone shaking you.

Opening your eyes to the dark room you saw Poppy, face covered in tears. She hugged you the second you awoke, crying into your chest. Looking around and letting your eyes adjust to the darkness you realized why. This wasn't your home, nor was it the train car. It looked like the fancy rooms advertised for rich people on airships.

"Poppy?" You whispered weakly. She held you tighter, still silently crying. You looked around noting anything that could be important. It was a large room with two beds, one of which you were laying on. There was a small heater in the middle of the room as well as a table and chairs. Your bags were placed on the table, including your mother's quilts which were neatly folded.

There was a small window in the room, barred from the outside, not that it would do anything seeing as the only view out the window was clouds and the night sky. You looked towards the door, ignoring the way your head spun. It must be a side affect of whatever he'd drugged you with, this lethargy and pseudo-sickness.

"It's locked. Everything is." Poppy whispered to you. "I'm so sorry Y/N. I never meant for you to get caught up in this."

Both of you turned at the sound of voices in the hallway outside the locked door. There was the sound of a key before the lock finally clicked open. It was the man, holding a small oil lamp. He was no longer in the white suit but in some kind of lounge wear, possibly some kind of rich person pajamas you'd never even heard of.

"You're both awake. I'm glad the drugs finally wore off, I was getting a bit worried. Then again, they were military grade sedatives." He smiled calmly, almost like he was trying to be comforting. He was dangerous, no amount of smiling would change that.

"Where are we? What did you do?" You asked. You cursed your voice for not only betraying your fear but also your compromised state.

"Y/N L/N, the beloved orphan of Shipp's Ravine. I asked around about you after our little interaction at the market. The townspeople really love you there, it's a shame you won't be going back. As for lying to me, we can discuss the repercussions of that later."

"Let them go! They never did anything to you! This has always been about me, you don't need to drag them into this as well!" Poppy yelled. The man just chuckled, approaching the both of you.

"My sweet, naïve, little Poppy. You trust so easily and you're lucky this time it turned out well for you. Imagine if you'd been found by some creep instead of some poor child playing adult who wanted nothing but companionship in return." He said, and you didn't even have the strength to be offended at his description of you.

"As for them not doing anything to me, they lied to me. Albeit, they did so to protect you, which is just so precious. It made he change my mind on what should happen to them. Rest assured, they will be cared for, just as you will be cared for. You'll finally have the sibling you always dreamed of."

"Just because you kidnapped us together doesn't make us siblings! This isn't some heartfelt family reunion!" The man smiled and tilted his head.

"Oh, but wouldn't it? I happen to have a letter from the commander of the royal military, which makes it more than just simple law. Would you like me to read it to you?" He held it out of reach when Poppy tried to snatch it from him, a satisfied smirk on his face. "It says, 'Seeing as Y/N L/N and Poppy Demonium lack legal guardians as both parents are either deceased or missing, I, General Kingston Grant hereby give all legal guardianship to one Caspian LaRue.'"

Those words proved to be the final straw for your stomach as you hunched over, gagging as you threw up on the floor beside you before slumping over onto Poppy.

"Oh dear. I suppose I should've guessed that such a large dose would've been too much for your body to handle." He murmured. You could only cry as you closed your eyes, trying to stabilize yourself.

You didn't even know when he'd called in cleaning staff, but they were already there when you opened your eyes again, leaving quickly once it had been dealt with. Poppy cradled your body close, protectively glaring at Caspian when he approached the bed and sat down beside you.

"You'll feel better in the morning. We can have a real talk then. Good night Y/N." He brushed some of your sweat stuck hair off your forehead before turning to Poppy. "Good night, Poppy. Sleep well."

He turned to leave, grabbing his oil lamp from where he'd set it, when a small smile crossed his face as he stood in the doorway. "Poppy, short hair suits you. Even if you did cut it for a silly reason." With that, the door closed and locked behind him and the two of you were left alone in the dark to ponder your new lives.

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #platonic #yandere ocs #parental yandere

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hometoursandotherstuff · 4 months ago

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I personally have never seen it in a movie, but they say that The Aqua Star floating home has been in several, and now it's for sale. 1985 build in Portland, OR, 2bds, 3ba, 2,737 sq ft, $1.35m + $2,060mo. HOA. Also, it comes fully furnished.

So, you couldn't call it a houseboat, it's like a novelty home on a dock in a river- The Columbia River, specifically. It looks brand new, so it's been completely renovated.

Very attractive guest powder room.

Windows all around let in lots of light and provide a panoramic view. Look at the shiny metal ceiling.

The ceiling curves here and features a high window with up-lighting over a bar. Love the little metal wood burning stove in the corner.

It's a wet bar with illuminated shelving. If you don't drink, you could display a collection here.

Open concept main living area is pretty spacious.

Dining area is in its own round space with a door to the deck.

Love the blue cabinets, but the upper half of the kitchen is too white. Nice illuminated shelving.

View from the kitchen.

Round bedroom has sliders to the deck.

Ensuite shower room.

Look at the little half-moon laundry room.

The primary suite is on the upper level. This is nice. I like the sculptural architecture. Love the lighted railing.

It's spacious up here, and kind of resembles a ship.

Looking down at the main floor.

Very nice.

Primary bedroom entrance.

It's smaller than I thought it would be. You can see the tub next to the bed.

There's also a shower with frosted glass windows.

Behind the bed wall there's a mini kitchen and some storage.

The toilet and sink are separate.

Plus a walk-in closet.

There's a roof-top deck for the 2nd level.

The large main deck accommodates sitting and dining areas with room to spare.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3307-NE-Marine-Dr-2-Portland-OR-97211/448207534_zpid/

#floating homes #river homes #unusual homes #modern architecture #houses #house tours #home tour

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zegrasdrysdale · 1 year ago

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[ lakeside kisses ] l. hughes

paring : Luke Hughes x fem!reader

summary : Luke finds his best friend out on the dock one night while Jack, Quinn, and all their friends are partying inside the lake house because she didn’t want to keep watching the guy she loves flirt and dance with other girls at the last party before the season begins

warning(s) : jealousy, mentions of alcohol, some use of alcohol, a heavy makeout (and a few lil ones but nothing too bad)

author’s note : friends to lovers w some jealousy ? i’m a suckerrr for combining the two

༺═──────────────═༻

One of the things she promised herself years ago was that she would never get jealous. Luke has had his fair share of girlfriends and casual flings over the last few years, and none of them made her as jealous as she is right now.

She doesn’t know if it’s because she’s had a handful of drinks or what but her entire body is shaking with jealousy.

Luke is in the living room with a red solo cup containing some kind of alcoholic drink. He has some rhythm as he dances to the music blaring from every corner of the house.

The thing is though — he’s dancing with some blonde girl that was invited. She stands in the doorway watching as Luke grinds his hips against the girl that was invited by one of the Michigan boys. She knows all of Luke’s friends, but this girl is nameless. She doesn’t recognize her.

She sips from her own red solo cup and feels her blood get hot when the girl says something to him and gives her a smile. The smile on Luke’s face is one she’s seen him give when he’s into a girl. He’s been giving it to girls since he was in high school.

Never to her. She’s the last person he’d ever smile at like that.

The amount of things she would do for Luke to look at her just once like that is endless. She often wishes that she was the girl on the dance floor with him. She wishes she would get that smile.

Luke wouldn’t look at her like that though. They’ve been best friends for years and she’s positive that he’s never even thought of her as more than his friend.

Meanwhile, she found herself falling in love with him the summer before he went off to Michigan. Quinn tried to help her out that summer but she let Luke go without telling him how she felt.

Two more summers have passed and here she is. Jealous of yet another girl that will have his attention for the rest of the night. Smiling at her with plans of spending the rest of the night with her.

Her heart sinks to the bottom of her stomach at the thought of Luke abandoning her for another random girl from Michigan. It wouldn't be the first time and it appears as if it won't be the last either.

She downs the rest of her drink and leaves her spot. The room is getting too hot and stuffy while her head gets too full. She needs to cool off and clear her mind so she dodges everyone and ignores the looks she gets until she gets outside.

There are people crowding the deck so she heads down to the dock on the lake where the Hughes' boat floats so she can be completely alone. She pulls off her sandals and sits on the edge of the dock. Her feet up to her ankles are consumed by the water, but it helps her cool down a bit faster. She stares up at the moon and the stars that surround it and gets lost in her thoughts.

There is one thing she loves more than anything, and that's coming to Michigan every summer and spending the hot months with Luke, Jack, and Quinn. She's starting to think that next year, she'll stay in New Jersey because she isn't sure how much longer she can keep breaking her own heart by seeing Luke bring back girls all summer. She struggles with that enough during the season.

He should be hers every summer with no distractions, but Luke still goes out and finds a girl while he's with his brothers or he invites a previous girl out for a weekend. Sometimes, like tonight, one of his friends from Michigan will bring multiple girls to the house when there is a party.

Needless to say, she's sick of pretending like everything is okay when it's not. Maybe she and Luke aren't as close as they claim to be if he can't even see that.

Her phone buzzes a few times with a few texts about five minutes after she sits on the dock and she checks them to see if any of them are from Luke.

from: huggy bear - 10:38 pm you okay ? saw you walk out a lil bit ago. let me know if you need some company or anything, or if you need someone to vent to

from: lil jizzy - 10:40 pm you good ? or no ?

from: eddy - 10:45 pm are you bein a party pooper ? where did you run of to ? luke is gonna need his cup pong partner in a few mins

Nothing from Luke.

Disappointment floods her veins. She resists every urge to throw her phone into the lake and scream in frustration because why did she have to fall in love with her best friend? There are eight billion people in the world and she fell in love with Luke Hughes.

There's no way that she'll be able to come to Michigan next summer if this is the way she is feeling. She can't do this again. It hurts too much to keep doing this.

Footsteps sound on the dock behind her. They get louder as they approach her. There is movement beside her and looks to her left to see Luke sitting down next to her.

"Why are you down here?" he questions. "You usually love the last party of the summer so why did you leave?"

She sighs and looks out over the moonlit lake in front of her. "It got too warm," she lies. "I needed some air for a few minutes. You can go back. I'll be fine in a little bit."

Luke quiets down, but he doesn't make an attempt to get up. She tries her best not to look next to her at the man she loves.

It breaks her heart that she needs to start backing away from their friendship because of her feelings. She never wanted this to happen. The last thing she ever wanted was to ruin their friendship over her feelings. Another broken promise to herself.

Tears roll down her face and she quickly wipes them away. It's too late though when she does wipe them away because Luke notices.

"Okay, you're not out here because you got too warm," Luke says. "Do you want to tell me why you're really out here? Why are you crying?"

"It's nothing, Luke," she snaps. "Go back to the party. Please. I'm sure your guest is missing your presence." The word 'guest' rolls off her tongue like venom.

He remains quiet for a beat. "Why won't you look at me?" he asks. "Did I do something wrong? It sounds like you're mad at me and I don't know what I did."

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth before she finally turns her head to look at Luke. He's blurry with the tears in her eyes but she can clearly see in his eyes that he's worried that something is wrong.

"I'm angry at myself," she admits. "That's all. It doesn't have anything to do with you. It's literally me, not you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" he questions. "Because you're my best friend and I don't want you to carry this by yourself.

There are those words again. You're my best friend. That's all she will ever be to her.

With a heavy sigh, she looks back over the lake. "I feel like no one ever sees me as more than a friend," she begins to say. "I'm always looked at as a little sister to most of my friends, including most of the people here. No one finds me attractive. No one loves me romantically. Guys always describe me as 'cute', not 'beautiful' or 'sexy'. 'Cute', Luke. Sorry that I needed a second to come to terms with that."

Luke goes silent after that. He doesn't say anything when she's done talking. She presses her lips into a line and closes her eyes so she doesn't lose it.

"You are beautiful," Luke softly tells her. His voice is so soft that she barely hears him say it. Her head snaps in his direction when those words pass his lips. "I mean it. You're beautiful. You're probably the most beautiful woman I know. Your smile, your laugh. You're smarter than me in more ways than one. I don't think there is anything about you that isn't beautiful."

She raises her eyebrows. "You think I'm beautiful?" she questions.

Even in the dark, she can see how red his cheeks get as he nods in response. "Yeah," he sighs. "I can't believe no guys has snatched you up yet and made you his."

Words spill out of her mouth before she has the chance to think about them. "Because every guy I go out with can see that I already have feelings for someone," she admits. "But that guy has never seen me as more than his best friend."

His eyes widen at her confession. Her heart beats loudly in her chest. It's so loud that she thinks that Luke might be able to hear it.

"You should've told me," he eventually tells her. "I could've done this a long time ago."

Before she can ask what he means, Luke leans into her and captures her lips in a soft kiss. It's so gentle that she feels as if he's testing the waters between them. See how she reacts to the initial kiss.

She moves closer to him so her thigh is pressed against his. One of her hands comes down on his knee so she can turn toward him.

Luke pulls back from the closed-mouth kiss. She meets his eyes and asks, "Can you please kiss me like you mean it?"

With the smile she's always wanted to see, Luke brings his both of his hands up to cup her jaw. His fingers quickly find their way to the nape of her neck and he pulls her back in, kissing her deeply. It's a more confident kiss for both of them. There's passion behind his intentions, and she returns those same passions.

His parts her lips with his tongue and slides into her mouth with a soft hum when he gets his first taste of her. She wraps her free hand around one of his wrists to stay close to him.

The kiss leaves her breathless. She struggles to catch her breath the longer Luke kisses her, but she doesn't want to break the kiss. She's too afraid that this is a dream and she doesn't want to wake up.

When the opportunity arises, she slips her tongue past his lips. He tastes of beer and some kind of whiskey like he's been taking shots, but he tastes the way she thought he would. She smiles against his lips.

Luke drags out one final kiss before he breaks it so they can catch their breath. She can't get over how quickly his lips got swollen and red from the kisses they exchanged.

Giggles pass her lips and Luke smiles at her. She lightly sucks on her bottom lip with her own smile as she realizes he's giving her the smile she never thought she would get.

"How was that?" he questions. "Feel like I was kissing you like I meant it?" She nods. "Good, because I don't think I can stop now."

"I don't think I want you to stop." Her eyes fall back to his kiss-bruised lips. "Ever."

He starts to slowly lean back into her. "We should probably go back inside," he hesitantly says. "They're probably missing us in there."

She hums as her nose brushes his. "What would we do when we go back inside?" she questions with a soft voice. "Because I can't go back to how things were with us after this."

"I'd kiss you in front of everyone," Luke admits as his lips brush hers. "I want everyone to know you're mine."

"Even that girl that you were dancing with earlier?" she asks.

"I was just using her to make you jealous," he confesses. "Because I have been in love with you since we were in high school. I wanted you to finally notice me."

She pulls back a bit and meets his eyes. "I have always noticed you, Luke Hughes," she tells him. "Every time you would walk into a room, I noticed you. It's not because you're built like a tree either. You're always the first guy I find on the ice or coming out of the locker room. It's always been you and it'll always be you."

Luke smiles at her words. "Yeah, I think I wanna kiss you in front of all my friends," he explains. "I want everyone to know that I finally have the girl I've been in love with since we were 16."

With a gentle shove, she asks, "You've been in love with me since we were 16 and you're just now telling me? God, Luke. I've been in love with you for three years. You’re an asshole."

He laughs and stands up. “Well, I’m sure everyone has been waiting for us to get our heads out of our asses so let’s go show them we finally did,” he says. Luke holds out his hand for her to grab. She reaches up and grabs his hand so he can help her stand up.

Even once she’s on her feet, Luke doesn’t let go of her hand. Not that she wants him to. She grabs her sandals with her free hand before she walks back to the house with Luke. The wooden dock turns into grass then they reach the deck. That’s when she puts her sandals back on.

Together, they walk up the steps to the deck that looks out over the lake. They get a few looks as they walk into the house.

Luke guides her to the kitchen. The blonde girl that Luke was dancing with earlier intercepts them before they turn into the kitchen. “There you are, Lukey,” she giggles. “I was wondering where you ran off to. I’m happy you’re back though because we can start where we left off.”

He takes a step backward when she takes one toward him. “I’m good,” he replies. “Thanks for the dance though. I’d rather dance with my girlfriend now that I have one of those.”

The girl looks dumbfounded then looks between the two of them. “Whatever,” she snaps. “Eddy would never treat me like this.” Then she walks off with a flick of her blonde locks.

She looks up at Luke. “Girlfriend?” she questions.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies. “If you think for one second that I am going to look at you as a friend again, you’re wrong. I am always going to look at you like the girl I love. You’re my best friend and my girlfriend all in one person, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Without even thinking, she reaches up to drag him into a kiss. Luke steps forward until she steps back against the wall. He towers over her but she doesn’t even care at this point. She kinda loves that his entire body covers hers. He pins her waist to the wall behind her at the same time her fingers find his curls.

She plays with the curls on the back of his neck as Luke deepens the kiss. She presses into his mouth and he lets out a groan that only she can hear.

Luke wraps his arms around her waist but before he can do anything else, a voice comes from beside them.

“The fuck?” Jack questions. They break the kiss and look at the middle Hughes brother. “Oh my God. They finally did something. Quinn! Quinn, come here! Before you miss it!”

She leans back against the wall when Jack runs back into the kitchen, but Luke doesn’t let her go so she doesn’t get that far. Jack remerges with Quinn, Cole, Z, Ethan, and Seamus. “Well, holy shit,” Trevor laughs. “Baby Hughes finally grew a pair and did something.”

Quinn claps for them and Luke groans before burying his face into her shoulder. “Tell them to leave,” he mumbles. “I changed my mind. This is so embarrassing.”

With a smile, she plays with his curls while looking at his friends and brothers. Quinn winks at her before he walks off and suddenly it makes sense why it took so long for someone to go check on her. Quinn probably went and got Luke so they would talk.

She makes a mental note to thank him whenever she gets the chance. He tried helping her three summers ago, but they never ended the way this summer did. She got some lakeside kisses this summer and is bringing a boyfriend back to New Jersey in a week.

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MASTERLIST

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#hockey imagines #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey oneshot #hockey blurb #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl oneshot #nhl blurb #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fluff

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theshipsong · 1 month ago

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cross guild x fem reader x perona, cw: alcohol mentioned; crocodile and mihawk discuss perona and reader. reader is cross guild's navigator in an established relationship with crocodile, previously of the hawkins pirates. companion to this fic. wc 1.2k | est. 4.5 min read

Crocodile was lonely.

He never imagined he'd think something so pathetic, but these past few nights you only returned to your shared tent to grab clothes and toiletries, a few books and a tarot deck for your extended stay with the Ghost Princess of Thriller Bark. Of course you apologized—not that he needed it—and pecked him on the lips or his forehead, maybe more if he got his hook around you, but your excuse was, "The last woman she talked to regularly was a reanimated corpse."

Perona was a spoiled brat, in Crocodile's opinion, and she had you, Gecko Moria, and Dracule Mihawk wrapped around her finger, though only two of you would admit it. Yes, Crocodile would feel less neglected if his most constant companion of late wasn't Buggy. He'd sent Daz Bones off on business and sorely regretted it since Hawk-Eyes seemed to glower at a wine glass most nights, polishing off a bottle or two regularly since his former… roommate arrived at Karai Bari. If Crocodile knew anything about his other lover, it was that Mihawk savored wine for the taste, not the sensation.

So Perona had two strikes, in Crocodile's counting.

You were too conscious of looking like a kept woman to treat Buggy's Delivery like servants, always walking on your own two feet to eat your meals with the rest and often with Buggy; Perona had no such qualms. No one sighted either of you except for when you scurried on home to him for minutes at a time. Apparently the only other person allowed into the infernal woman's tent was Moria, who was too dense to realize his daughter in all but name was a grown adult and a menace.

"What do you want?"

Crocodile never needed to announce himself when he visited his fellow executive due to the man's eerie acuity, and it was early enough in the evening that Mihawk better not be in his cups already. He peeled back the tent flap with his hook and ducked under the entryway to see Mihawk set his book face-down, like you did, which stuck out as an odd habit for a man who was so careful of his other possessions.

"Dinner, here."

Mihawk exhaled. "Fine."

As with you, Crocodile could stay comfortably silent in the swordsman's company, though you were wont to silent gestures of affection while the two men kept their distance, still new to this dimension of their relationship. He accepted one glass of wine, if only to cut into Hawk-Eyes' supply.

"You trust that Ghost Girl." It wasn't a question.

"She's a better ally than enemy."

"That's what you said before." Before, when the Thriller Bark pirates docked at their shore, Perona floating ahead to plead her and her captain's case to the only person she knew: Mihawk. Their reunion was stilted and cold, Mihawk still as stone while Perona twitched as if she wanted to embrace him or sock him in the jaw, maybe both. When the executives broke away to discuss their possible addition, Mihawk only spoke to Perona's abilities, not Moria's, which left Crocodile to accept their fellow former warlord into Cross Guild.

"Is that not enough?"

Crocodile crossed his ankle over his knee. "Let me rephrase. Do you trust that Ghost Girl with her?" At that, Mihawk's golden eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond. "I'm indulging this because I trust my navigator, and I trust your word. But personally: what is Perona to you?"

They stared at each other, and the only indication that Mihawk was unsettled by the question was a slow blink, followed by a slow sip from his glass, and Crocodile followed the bob of his throat as the wine went down. Focus.

"A nuisance," Mihawk said at last. "A companion. Maybe a mistake, one I doubted I'd see again."

They were both proud men, so Crocodile knew such an admission was monumental. He wouldn't press. What he really wanted was you here, because you would. Mistake how? you'd say without hesitation. Or, Whose mistake? And you had a way of disarming, what some might call psychic, that Mihawk might just respond to.

"She isn't malicious," Hawk-Eyes continued. "Nor is she careless, despite appearances. I think," and it looked like it pained him to say it, "our girl could do her some good."

Our. Crocodile bristled at that, which Mihawk knew, given his minute smirk over the rim of his wine glass.

Perona wasn't his type, at all. Dainty as a knife's edge with poor manners, like a teenage boy, so he didn't understand how she enraptured two people he admired. You and Mihawk were quiet and wry, subtle and practical in all the ways Perona wasn't. Crocodile knew he was taken into your confidence, that you didn't wear your heart on your sleeve except to him, and the two of you were inching closer to that with Mihawk. On the other hand, Perona telegraphed her every emotion, often audibly, and you'd have to be an idiot not to know she was displeased with Hawk-Eyes.

"My turn," Mihawk said after some silence. "Is this jealousy disguised as concern?"

Jealousy?

When Crocodile said he was willing to share, he had two motives, the minimum for any move he made. He had your happiness in mind, borne of that rare, creeping insecurity he could usually ignore: that he wasn't suited to emotional intimacy and it was a mercy to give you options. Then there was the selfish animal of him who wanted to see you from all angles, knowing every inch of you was his no matter who gave you pleasure; and that appreciated the beauty of another man, and was serious about wanting to see someone of a more reasonable size kiss you like you deserved. Unfortunately, the most reasonable choice seemed to be a woman just an inch or so shorter than you who floated a foot of the ground anyway.

Crocodile wasn't jealous, no. He feared he could never begrudge you your needs or even your whims, how little you asked of him.

"What's different between me and Perona?" Mihawk continued. "Or is it that she's a woman? Many men have the opposite preference, who they'd see their partner fuck."

Crocodile huffed a laugh, more an exhale through his nose. "I'm not most men."

In truth, Crocodile saw how… soft your Magician was, his waves of hair and delicate features, and your odd affection for Buggy, the clown blushing as you absentmindedly twirled his blue locks in your slim fingers. Crocodile really was the outlier in your tastes, and however friendly you and Mihawk were, your bedroom escapades with the man were more for Crocodile than you.

Could he really stand you wandering like he claimed?

He'd have to. He'd said so.

But.

"What about you? Are you like most men?"

It might have been a trick of the light, or the alcohol in his veins, but Mihawk's cheeks were less-than-pallid.

That meant yes.

It was very humanizing for the Navy Hunter have such a pedestrian sexual interest as in seeing two women—both beautiful, Crocodile could concede—in each other's embrace, but it was a bit too intrusive even for him. Part of him was too annoyed by Perona's Devil Fruit, the humiliation of it all, but if Mihawk could find his way back into her good graces, she might just let him.

Crocodile grinned into his wine glass.

#tshagverse #crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x reader #perona x reader #cross guild x reader #one piece x reader #crockat #katrona #fic.md

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two-white-butterflies · 4 months ago

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would you fall in love with me?

Description: "I will fall in love with you. No matter how long it has been, no matter how far the past and the future collude to leave us behind. Your mine. Don’t tell me you’re not the same person; you’ll always be my husband, and I have been waiting six thousand years to be here by your side."

In which, your husband finally arrives in the sacred lands of Valinor.

Pairing: thranduil/reader

Words: 1.5k

Thranduil could not take his eyes off the shoreline. It has been six thousand years since he last saw you, six thousand years since you were taken by the darkness and forced to retreat into the Grey Havens. A feeling of tranquility enters his body as the boat floats closer to the holy land, the sense of tranquility made better by the thought of being able to wrap you in his arms and inhale your scent of vanilla.

“Six thousand years,” he hears Celeborn clear his thought from behind. “—you are not the only one who has been counting,” The older elf by a century smiles.

Thranduil jerks as he feels the halting motion of the boat, wood meeting sand.

They were the last boat to leave for the sacred lands, and there was a crowd of elves waiting for them at the docks. “Will she be able to recognize me still?” Thranduil, never the one to show his emotion, suddenly found himself asking. ‘It has been six thousand years,’ he tells himself. He has longed for your touch longer than he has felt it.

‘I am no longer the same man. No longer the King who would spend every night singing lullabies with a harp on his lap, singing with the Nightingales and the Adarnas. I no longer possess the softness that was the reason for her being besotted with me.’ He speaks to himself. He watches as a few of his people make their way down to the beaches; he is nervous to even take another step forward.

“Thranduil,” Celeborn says. “—are you ready?” He ignores the younger elf’s previous question. Aware that the answer should not come from him but rather from you. “If I wait until I am ready, then we shall we waiting forever.” Thranduil tries to lighten the mood. Do it scared, he remembers your favorite saying.

It takes all his strength to take another step forward, his feet wobbling, but he manages to convince himself that it only stems from the motion of the waves. He forces a smile on his lips – his heart rejoices, but he also fears rejection. Six thousand years of talking to himself, pretending that you were still around. Six thousand years of finding beautiful little orchid-themed trinkets, buying them, forgetting that you weren’t – and those same trinkets ending up in a locked closet inside of Legolas’ room.

Six thousand years and finally he’s home.

“Ada!” Legolas was the first to wrap the King of Eryn Lasgalen in a warm embrace.

“Leaf,” Thranduil smiles, following his son’s request of removing the ‘little’ from his moniker. A request that happened exactly three thousand years ago. Thranduil places a gentle kiss on his son’s forehead, and he hears your gentle footsteps on the sand. He turns around to look at you – to his absolute delight and ruin, you are as beautiful as the day you left. Your skin still shining in the sunlight, your face still gentle and kind, and everything that reminds him of home.

“Husband,” you give him the sweetest smile.

He places a hand on your arm, his tough palms feeling the softness of your skin. Your body still feels so soft after all these years. “Wife,” he responds. In his eyes, you are still the most beautiful creature in the world, and he cares little if the others think the same. “It’s you.” You stare at every part of his exposed body. Checking to see if the same freckles remained, if the same moles were in their rightful places – or if there are now parts of his body you needed to explore again.

“My husband,” you felt the need to repeat, having not uttered that word for thousands of years. “Meleth,” he smiles, his hands dancing down to your waist until your bodies were only mere inches apart. You stared off to the side – watching as Legolas greets his great-grandfather, Celeborn, as he enters the sacred shores. You take a deep breath, finally sinking deeper into your husband’s embrace, unable to break free for a second in fear that the Valar shall take you away again.

“It has been lonely without your presence.” You whispered, inhaling his scent of wine – which were previously chocolates, but you do not complain. You do not complain even when Thranduil has changed because he is your husband, and you would rather fall in love with all the different versions of him than not fall in love with him at all.

“I felt so empty that I contemplated returning. I was about to beg the gods to allow me a new form, perhaps one of those Nightingales that you adore singing beside – or a new form like Glorfindel, but then our little leaf arrived.” You narrated.

“He is perfect, and I am sorry for not being able to raise him by your side.” You apologized, still wrapping him in a warm embrace. His head resting on your own, your face already buried deep in his chest. “It is not your fault, my wife.” He comforts, rubbing sensual circles on your back – comforting you with his warmth. He already found himself reverting to his old demeanor, the old Elvenking before the sorrows.

You break free from the embrace, turning to meet his gaze.

His eyebrows merge as he realizes that tears have been cascading from your eyes. “Meleth,” he wipes the tears away. “He looks so much like us that it feels terrible not having witnessed his first steps, his first words, him learning how to use a bow. I was not able to tell him the stories of my kin. I was not able to tell him the stories of my childhood.” You mourned. “We have eternity to give him what is rightfully his.” Thranduil cups your cheeks – pressing a kiss to your lips.

Those lips that he has not tasted in eternity.

“I love you.” You smile.

“I love you most,” he responds, “—but I am no longer the same elf.” He adds. Making it his duty to inform you of the changes that have taken place in both his mind and body. “What do you mean?” You inquired in curiosity and interest.

-----

Thranduil removes the glamour that previously concealed his face and body. “The serpents of the north,” Thranduil says, searching for any signs of disgust in your features. During the first years of having earned these scars, he found them disgusting, he found them to be a reason for you to hate him forever – but slowly as time progressed, and as the past left him behind. He grew to love the scars. A sign of bravery! Little Legolas used to scream from the tops of his lungs, pleading for his Ada to show him the scars in fascination.

“The sign of a warrior,” you whispered under your breath, slowly moving closer to inspect them until you were sitting on his lap. “They have healed in time,” Thranduil adjusts his grip, his hands firmly placed on the sides of your waist. There was a singular scar on his face, spanning from the top of his right forehead to the left of his chin. Which, in your eyes, only made him look more ethereal.

A god walking amongst elves. Your husband.

“—and I have decided not to get rid of them. They are part of me now.” He informs, his eyes solely painted on your face, tattooing your features in the back of his mind. ‘Never shall we part again,’ he makes a promise to himself. Six thousand years is already enough to convince him not to spend another day without your presence.

“I have wrestled with wraiths for thousands of years, all teasing and taunting. Thoughts of those serpents returning with the great darkness and sewing discord to our kin, ruining everything that you sought to protect.” He continued speaking as your hands danced against his clothed chest, unravelling the buttons of his robe to further reveal the deeper scars that were on his chest.

There were more scars on his body; his chest was covered in former bruises, a part of his shoulder was entirely smooth, and one of his nipples was burnt off. All of these things that he believes to be the ugliestparts of himself are parts of his body that amplify your desire for him. These scars are only proof of him being your husband. Your Thranduil has sacrificed his happiness for the sake of Middle Earth.

What a handsome man.

“I will fall in love with you. No matter how long it has been, no matter how far the past and the future collude to leave us behind. Your mine. Don’t tell me you’re not the same person; you’ll always be my husband, and I have been waiting six thousand years to be here by your side.”

You press a kiss to his neck, and he moans.

“Wife,” he looks down on you with a smile. “Husband,” you replied with a mischievous grin. He is glad to be back in your arms.

#thranduil x reader #thranduil fanfics #thranduil

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uknowcn · 10 months ago

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twistedwonderlandshenanigans · 5 months ago

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The Baby Assignment HCs

CW: Crude humour

-------------------------

The lifeskills and health professor tapped his pointer against the board.

"THAT concludes our unit on the development of children in their early years. Each species varies slightly, but each come with their unique set of challenges. You will learn that fairly quickly."

A few awkward chuckles circulated the room, but a random student at the back of the room swung his legs up on his desk, leaning back as he locked his hands behind his head, a smirk on his face.

"Whatchya implyin' there prof? It ain't like any of us are gettin' any action, at least. Not the kind that would pop out a crotch goblin." A few snickers from two other students soon died out as the rare, smug, grin grew on the profs face.

"Your lovelife and lack thereof is of nobody's interest. I was referring to your unit exam."

With a flick of his wrist, the utility closet at the side of the room opened, and out floated eerily realistic looking baby dolls, one setting in front of each student, along with a wad of tickets

The looks across his students faces only fueled his grin as he began pacing.

"You will be taking care of your baby for the span of one month. Upon powering it on, it will respond to your magical signature and resemble you in looks alone. The tickets are to be treated like thaumarks - that's all you get for the month, and you must ensure you have all the necessary supplies for your child. The ticket amounts vary according to the accommodations you may need for your doll. It cannot be turned back off unless I personally switch it off, unless you wish for the doll to begin throwing a tantrum. Your other professors already know of this assignment- the dolls are programmed to not go off while in classrooms besides this one. It is capable of everything a real child is. If it is abandoned or left crying without comfort for more than 20 minutes, it will send an alert to my phone and I will dock 5% from your mark every time it alerts, which is every five minutes. The doll also has a tamper proof magic seal- if you attempt to disable the baby, the same consequences are applied. If you return the doll with any damage, your mark will be deducted proportionately. If you have any questions - ask your parents, they've been through this already. You are encouraged to work together and be resourceful. The instructions, requirements and rubric are posted online. I'll be checking to make sure everyone's dolls are activated before they leave the room."

The home ec teacher turned his back, grinning slightly over his shoulder as the bell rang.

"Good luck."

Heartslaybul

Riddle

He's taking this assignment just as seriously as any other. After class, he beelines it to the library with his baby, planning on holding it while he creates a spreadsheet to budget his tickets accordingly for the month, but the doll starts fussing near immediately.

He's more embarrassed that he can't get it to be quiet while he's trying to work, and tries to bounce it gently like he'd seen his mother deal with fussy babies before, but to no avail. It's not until he takes off his jacket to use as a swaddle and gently bounce and burp the baby that it settles again. He decides that he'll be better off just going to Sam's and doing the math mentally than go through the embarrassment again.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt:

I found the most difficult part of this assignment to be the restless nights. I am a fairly light sleeper, so the issue wasn't struggling to wake up to calm the doll down; rather, the intermittent waking and rest impacted my ability to focus in class and while studying. I'm forever grateful that the programming of the doll did not interrupt lectures.

Mark Achieved: 100%

Trey

Oh lord. Can he not apply for advanced credit? He basically raised his siblings anyways. No? Okay. He takes this assignment in stride, almost a little disappointed that he won't get to try "babysitting" a beastman or fae, but at least the familiarity will make this assignment easy.

He stops by Sam's right away to pick up diapers and wipes and that's it.

He uses an old curtain to fashion a swaddle for doll and wears it as he prepares a month's worth of homemade, (tasty) baby food. He ends up finding he kind of forgets that the doll is...a doll and genuinely treats it like a child.

His grandpa had an old trick to keep kids asleep through the night, so for shits and giggles, he tries it on the doll too. To his surprise, it ends up working. All in all, the assignment is a walk in the park.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

This was one of the easiest A's I've gotten in this class. If you want to make it real challenging for the next set of students, you should update the programming to respond to textures the baby doesn't like.

Mark Achieved: 100%

Cater

Uuuuuugh does he have to? At least he has a doll to dress up now, right? That part must be fun.

It's not fun.

Being the baby himself, he never realized just how difficult dressing one was. Shoes and socks will never stay on. Onesies get sucked on and wet and gross and need to be changed so often. This man has never changed a diaper, what do you mean this doll is capable of all the same things as a real child. Oh thank god, it's just the diaper with an indicator of when it WOULD be soiled.

It only takes two days before Cater is OVER it. But he really needs a decent grade in this class, so he tries to keep himself motivated, but it's hard on the fake budget he's been given.

He ends up looking up how to make baby food himself so he can give himself more spending tickets for cute, more-easy-to-change outfits.

He did, however, end up taking the doll to PMC, sat down, and passed out for the duration of the club meet. Lilia and Kalim watched the baby for him, but that ended in a ransom note from them telling Cater that if he didn't show them his latest riff he had been working on, they would not return the baby. Lilia thought it was funny. Kalim thought it was a normal part of childhood. Cater almost walked away.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

If I have to redo this assignment to pass this class I think I'd rather fail.

Mark Achieved: 65%

Marks Docked:

Soiled diaper - left on for 15+ minutes x 3 = 15%

Diaper rash - untreated = 10%

Deuce

Doesn't even hesitate, he heads straight home. Like. Crowley's office to get a pass and then back to his mom. He's a little frazzled and overwhelmed, he had no idea this was what his unit exam was going to entail.

He feels substantially better after speaking to his mom, making a list of everything he needs, and a list of tips that she had to give for difficult to navigate situations with the baby - whom Deuce had already named Evangeline.

Deuce works himself into a very strict schedule with the baby, in order to make sure he'll get a mark an honours student would be proud of, and because he hates hearing the baby cry.

He has to admit, at one point when he couldn't get it to quiet down, he turned off his hearing aids (HC) just so that he could calm it without getting frustrated as quickly.

He sleeps with the baby next to him so he doesn't have to sleep with his "ears" in, and can feel when the baby is crying instead. Usually.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I tried really hard to make sure the baby was taken care of. I think the rubric should be updatd updated though. No parent ever is able to operate at 100% all the time and be a perfect parent. I'm not complaining about the assignment, but I think that maybe if we know we've done something wrong and we can explain what happened or take acountablitye accountability for our actions, maybe we should be able to get some points back or something.

Mark Achieved: 90% + 2% (bonus)

Marks Docked:

Unattended crying - 40 minutes = 10%

Bonus Marks:

Excellent suggestion, Spade. I will take your feedback into account for the future.

Ace

He wants to pawn this off SO BAD. Kids are gross. They're fine if they're not yours but by god the amount of birthday party horror stories his brother has told him as an entertainer leaves a pretty awful taste in his mouth.

If it was a real baby, he knows he could be like - the best dad there ever was to dad. He has a pretty good template in his brother, and an exact recipe of what NOT to be in his father! (HC) but like. This assignment is boring.

He has a decent grade in the class, so he's not too worried about flunking this "test", but he still kind of wants to pass still. Buuuut if word got out that he did poorly to Riddle, he may as well say goodbye to his precious free time.

He ends up falling into a pretty easy rhythm, though remembering to "buy" baby food before he's completely out is a little difficult and he ends up having to take on a few of Trey's chores so he'll show him how to just make enough to last til the end of the semester.

He doesn't sleep very well anyways, so if anything he comes off as more wired than tired by the end of the assignment. He will crash, and 17 hours of sleep later he will reach out to check on the baby and get an inexplicable wave of sadness when it's not around anymore. Maybe kids aren't as bad as he thought.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I actually found this easier than expected? Maybe I'm being a little over confident here. The learning curve is steep, but once you get the hang of it it's not...THAT bad.

Mark Achieved: 95%

Marks Docked:

Solid foods were introduced too soon = 5%

Savannaclaw

Leona

He didn't show up to class. He actually did do the assignment, last year, and got a decent mark but there was no way in hell he was going to do it again. When a classmate ended up bringing him the doll he IMMEDIATELY paid Ruggie off to do the assignment for him. When he was confronted by the teacher, he said that the tickets didn't account for childcare, like real parents have to account for when they're too busy to care for their kids. So he did what he had to do. The teacher should be thanking him for not making him reimburse him for the money spent.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

Refer to last year's entry you lazy bastard.

Mark Achieved: 95%

Marks Docked:

You made your point, but name calling is juvenile even for you. = 5%

Ruggie

Bah, he takes care of rugrats all the time back home! However, he knows that his community could likely benefit from these essentially, free childcare items. Even if he can't tamper with the magic on the doll, he can sure as hell find someone who can tamper with the magic on the items from Sam's. He exchanges most of his tickets right away for food, toiletries, and one umbrella stroller. Then he offers to "babysit" for free for someone who has more magical prowess than he does that can override the magic on the items. He then takes all that shit HOME and gives it to his community, all while having his baby in a baby wrap against him. Easy A, and came with benefits.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

Easier than a real kid, that's for sure! At least it wasn't teething. When beastmen cut teeth for the first time the poor kids have it rougher than their caregiver. Ain't nobody happy!

Mark Achieved: 100%

Notes:

While tampering with the magical items was not explicitly against the rules, it is advised you do not pursue that route to success again.

Jack

Oh dear lord. His real sister hates doing stuff with him because he always breaks everything, he is so scared of breaking the doll. He remembers when his siblings were little, he was scared of holding them too, because he didn't want to hurt him. On the other hand, the doll also absolutely reminds him of his siblings when they were babies, with floopy little ears and blue eyes and oh god the tiny tail? He's emotionally attached. The baby, however, is almost always a little uncomfortable, usually from being too warm because Jack keeps bundling it up to try and protect it from his own strength. But he also doesn't trust ANYBODY so he's constantly holding it, he refuses to put it down. His practices just happen to line up with Crewel's prep time, so he ends up leaving the doll in his classroom! Reason being that it won't go off if it's in the classroom, but in the chance that it did, Crewel would be able to override it.

Besides a simulated heat rash, the baby is otherwise okay, though Jack was VERY concerned for the dolls safety when he saw the rash flare up.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

Most people don't have to do this alone, but I'm glad that I was able to prove to myself I could if I had to. At least, some parts of it. I'm just glad my siblings never saw me with the doll, they'd have made it their mission to do better than me, and they're not even in their double digits yet.

Mark Achieved: 80%

Marks Docked:

Heat rash - untreated, not documented in journal = 10% Crying unattended x 2 = 10%

Octavinelle

Azul

There are not many things that can come between Azul and his grades. He works very hard to maintain them. But the chubby little octopus mer staring back at him in what was essentially a fishbowl (just for transport to the dorm) destroyed any sort of direct involvement he wanted to have with it. He had, briefly, considered pawning the thing off to Jade, but he couldn't bring himself to subject the doll to that - sevens knows what experiments Jade was running on his own doll anyways.

Azul, as ashamed as he is to do so, ends up paying off Ruggie to hide the doll somewhere in Trein's classroom, where he won't find it for the duration of the month.

As good of a plan as it may have sounded, after school hours the doll was left to cry and sob, and also as a mer, dried out. However, as prepared as Azul is, he got it back two days before hand in. He thought he could convince Idia to repair it for him, but then found out that Idia refused to do the repair because of a deal he had with the health teacher.

With his grades and reputation on the line, he ends up swallowing his pride and handing in the assignment a day early, after school ends, just to avoid the judgmental looks from other classmates. He also asks for another assignment to make up for this one in advance, knowing full well he failed.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

Exempt

Mark Achieved: N/A Notes: If you had spoken with me at the beginning of the month, we could have sorted this out sooner Ashengrotto. Your communication skills are not to the calibre I would have expected for a young businessman like yourself. Come see me next Tuesday at lunch.

Jade

He thinks it's funny. He has a little elver on his hands, but he knows it's not real. He holds no sentiments towards it. At first he found the assignment rather easy, but trying to work while taking care of the elver became rather. Annoying.

Needless to say, Jade lasted about 3 days. After it was deactivated, he let his curiousity get the better of him. Even though the head of the doll and voicebox of the doll were completely obliterated, he took pride in his near surgical precision when it came to dismantling the rest of the doll, sorting each part by size, colour and perceived importance.

He was rather proud to deliver his assortment of pieces and the "skin" that covered the entire thing in such an organized manner at the end of the assignment.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I wish the interior of the doll was more anatomically correct.

Mark Achieved: 25% Notes: You only achieved 25% to account for the consideration you took after breaking the doll. It was a rather unique approach to avoid complete and utter failure of the assignment.

Floyd (THIS IS A LITTLE ANGSTY IM SORRY IM SORRY)

AT FIRST it sounded great. He had a little elver to take swimming with him. It was a great excuse to get out of work, and if the thing got "hungry", he could just ask the kitchen for shrimp and he could grind it into paste for the little guy. Also, if he was always in the water, it meant NO diaper changes (sorry) but its true! He had it easy!

Wait no what do you mean he can't bring a glass bowl with a baby to it to the basketball court Jamil what's the worst thing that could happen.

Obviously, the bowl ends up getting hit and shattering. Floyd's eyes glaze over a bit as the kid starts crying for the first time and "gasping" for air. He has to remind himself it's just a doll, Jamil's reprimands going over his head. He picks the little thing up, holding it just tight enough it can't squirm out of his hands, debating whether it's worth the trouble to get it back into water, or just to fail the assignment. He figures it's a pretty big screw up, and his grade is already good in that class.

There's a loud pop and crack as Floyd decapitates the doll, shrugging slightly as he tosses both pieces onto the ground, tiny shards of hardware scattering among the broken glass and water.

"There, it ain't cryin'. You guys can handle the clean up."

Jamil ends up finding him crying in the locker room, but prevents anyone else from going in, not wanting to get involved. A few days later, Floyd gets the doll back, swaddled in a wet cloth and fully functional outside of his door. He will NEVER admit how much that impacted him.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I know you don't read this stuff, so the first and last paragraphs are coherent and the rest I'm bullshittin' to take up space. Im gonna get a hundred on the written portion I just know it.

Mark Achieved: 90%

Marks Docked: Significant Damage Detected - 10%

Notes: I only docked 10% instead of 20% as the doll returned in perfect working condition. Your conclusion was very well written, earning you a few bonus marks.

(Floyd breaks the fourth wall and looks knowingly at you with a smug ass grin /jjjjj)

Scarabia

Kalim

"Oh it's like taking care of my little siblings!" Yes well most of his little siblings can walk, all of them have moms to dote on them and servants to watch over them when he can't.

Kalim, however, is insistent on trying to do it on his own. Kind of.

He has his carpet follow him around everywhere, just because he knows he forgets a lot of things. But if he has ONE place to ALWAYS put the baby down and that ONE place can FOLLOW him how in the world can he forget anything! It's a win-win situation.

He's never changed a diaper before, and he's still not good at it, but he's got the right idea!

And he knows all the best foods to feed it, very familiar with the multiple milestones a kid should be at, but he got a little too excited to introduce it to ALL the types of food he could offer it (via Jamil).

Also, lets be real, a baby would love all the colours that Scarabia has to offer, so even just setting the doll down on the carpet helps calm it down sometimes!

It's not until the end of the month, when Kalim brings the doll to P.E and does a flip on the carpet with the baby on it that he realizes his mistake. Jamil spares him the visual of the doll shattering, saving it right before it hits the ground. Kalim spends the rest of the day being extra careful with the doll, and even going to "the doll doctor" (Idia) in tears, asking him to check and make sure nothing is damaged.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

It was really hard to take care of a kid alllll the time! But I had fun doing it. I'm going to make sure I thank my mom a lot when I go home again though.

Mark Achieved: 85%

Marks Docked:

Solid Food Introduced Too Soon - x 3 = 10%

Jamil

AW HELL NAH

His competitive spirit eats at him a bit, but he decides to be petty resourceful instead. For two days he takes care of the doll impeccably, before returning to the prof and being very blunt and honest about the skills he has and how he came to develop them.

He had to take care of his little sister, and now he has to take care of Kalim, and Kalim's doll, (despite Kalim's best efforts).

He ends up negotiating to write an essay instead that he can submit online regarding how he believes parenting has evolved over the years, and what methods he has found effective in his pseudo-guardian role. He ends up getting full marks, as it was technically not an assignment he had to compete against Kalim for.

Pomefiore

Vil

He wants to say he doesn't have time for this. To make up some excuse about his beauty sleep. But there's a small part of Vil that softens immediately when he sees the doll; a part of him that imagines that doll aging into a toddler and being thrown to the wolves of the filming industry like he was. Though he knows it's little more than delusion, his thoughts still worm their way into how he treats the doll.

He puts in the research to give the doll the best food he can, but also makes an effort to feed it "desserts" (usually mashed strawberries but yknow for a baby that's a big deal!)

He struggles to cope most with waking up often and the MESS a baby makes simply by existing. He hides it well enough, though his hair care regiment starts to slip a bit over the course of the month, a detail that does not go unnoticed by many students. Vil also indulges in coffee a little more often than he should, though nobody dares to point either change out out of fear. He also tends to opt for a more toned down make up look. But you will never catch the queen looking as tired as they feel.

The other difficult part was managing the sheer amount of people who wanted photos of the doll. Vil made a strict no photos policy to the point he put a curse on the doll so that if anyone took a photo of it, the SD card/gallery would be wiped on the device they used. Real or not, Vil does not want any photos of the child online.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

Seeing as our doll counterparts resemble us in appearance, it would have been nice if the same photo policy that was applied to us at the beginning of the year was applied to the dolls as well.

Mark Achieved: 95%

Marks Docked:

Minor Skin Irritation - 5%

Rook

:) If you know the way I HC'd his upbringing, you know that he won't know SHIT about babies.

Honestly having the little guy around is...it hurts a little. He has no idea how to handle kids, at least not ones this small. He ends up paying Ruggie off to take care of it and takes GREAT care to hide it from Vil and his other classmates.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I can only hope that one day, I will be a better father to a child than I was to this doll.

Mark Achieved: 100%

Epel

Oh god oh shit oh fuck oh lord godfuckingdamnit he is NOT READY. He is looking at his pseudo-flesh potato in disgust. It immediately bursts into tears.

He tries everything he can to make it stop crying, but it's not until he has to run to the washroom while he's at spelldrive that he finally catches a break, thanks to Leona. The doll ends up going into a sleep cycle as soon as Leona holds it and hums a bit, but he denies doing it (everyone saw him do it).

Epel gets the info from Ruggie and tries to do it himself later, but it doesn't work. Cue a VERY sleep deprived Epel with a VERY grumpy baby showing up at an EQUALLY grumpy lion's bedroom at 4 in the morning. Epel has a bluetooth speaker and death metal booted up if Leona doesn't take the doll for a couple hours, (thanks to Heartshackle and Jack's recounting of what happened in chapter 3), so Leona just takes the damn thing and Epel passes out in the beanbag chair in Leona's room.

Leona ends up teasing Epel because the reason it didn't work was because his voice wasn't low enough to make the baby sleepy OTL Epel gave him a look so dirty he may as well have been a warthog in a mudbath.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt (hes just kidding guys)

If my kid is this fussy, it's gonna be the reason I start drinking the other kind of cider.

Mark Achieved: 70% 85%

Marks Docked:

Unattended Crying x 6 = 30%

Notes:

After having your doll reviewed, there was an error in the coding, thus the restoration of 15%. If you would like to further negotiate your mark, please come speak with me.

(SKIPPING IGNIHYDE FOR NOW IT'LL MAKE SENSE AT THE END DON'T KILL ME PLEASE /lh)

Diasomnia

Malleus

He held it for two seconds, then it sneezed fire in his face. Lilia is SO damn giddy. Welcome to hell parenthood Malleus, it's going to get bitey.

He actually has it easier than Lilia did, getting a non-royal fae baby means no dragonet, just a very fussy little dude. Malleus finds it rather entertaining, and a little unnerving at how far technomancy has come to develop such complex machines.

Despite it's realistic appearance, Malleus finds himself neglecting it often, simply because he cannot listen for its heartbeat or breathing like he does with his loved ones to make sure they're near. His time blindness also makes him susceptible to putting the doll down and leaving for far longer than he should.

Lilia ends up taking on the brunt of the assignment, purely for nostalgia's sake. Sebek would have taken on the responsibility, but his own inexperience hindered him.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I found the project rather unnerving. It was capable of nearly everything a living being was capable of, yet possessed no heart nor soul to speak of, unlike the younger Shroud brother. I look forward to the day I can more truly experience rearing a child of my own.

Mark Achieved: 55%

Marks Docked:

Unattended crying x 4 = 20%

Delayed Feeding by 15+ minutes x 2 = 20 %

Minor abrasion = 5%

Notes: Just because a child or assignment isn't how you expect it to be, doesn't mean you get to shirk responsibility, Draconia.

Lilia

He finds this situation hilarious AND the perfect opportunity to tease Silver. Caring for the doll is easy - it's nothing like real kids in his opinion. But whenever he cradles it, he can't help but think of Silver and the way he used to fit between his palm and the crook of his elbow.

It only takes a little bit of trial and error to figure out what his doll likes, and he knows allllll the warning signs for when it's about to cry or fall asleep or anything else.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

Doing this for a third time around was much easier than the first two times!

Mark Achieved: 100%

Silver

Narcolepsy is a beast for Silver to try and tame, and he's still training it! Adding on the responsibility of taking care of a child is daunting, especially since he knows even his own father can't wake him up.

However, Silver very quickly comes to learn he will wake up when someone sounds like they're in distress. It's not fun to wake up that way, and there's still about 1 in every 4 attacks that he can't wake up from, but he's somewhat conscious enough to know the kid is in trouble. He ends up dealing with chronic fatigue, as his body just is NOT used to the stress response that's induced from hearing the baby cry.

Silver also found out the hard way his baby was allergic to hay when he went to Equestrian Club. Riddle ends up feeling bad for his classmate, volunteering to look after the doll for a few hours in exchange for two of Trein's lectures, which Silver has permission to record. (Riddle didn't feel his notes were up to par). His reasoning being that balance is important! Even if Riddle is still learning that himself, he understands that Silver should have time to enjoy his extracirriculars just as much as anyone else. It's a small load to bear for someone he can recognize a strong work ethic and morals in.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I like to welcome challenges and face them head on, however I did not expect the magic on the doll to be able to simulate an immune system.

Mark Achieved: 75%

Unattended Crying x 5 = 25%

Sebek

This guy doesn't know how to hold a baby, and once he does, he's terrified of hurting it, even though its not real. He also becomes hypervigilant, taking into account every safety risk and trying to prevent it, at least until the kid bites HIM.

He then realizes in horror just how little he actually washes his hands and whatnot, and that this tiny being is ingesting every germ its mouth lands on, which, it aims its mouth indiscriminately at every person, place or thing.

Sebek ends up doing a DEEEEEEP clean of the entire dorm, all while trying to keep baby safe from the dust and whatnot while he cleans.

The dorm has never looked better, but Sebek definitely has. He is exhausted and dirty constantly, and due to his inability to prioritize certain tasks, the baby would sometimes be left in a soiled diaper longer than it was meant to.

Assignment Journal Entry Excerpt

I never realized how much dust cobwebs collect until I saw the top of Diasomnia's chandeliers.

Mark Achieved: 70%

Soiled diaper - 15 minutes + x 4 = 20% Unattended crying x 1 = 5% Minor Damage x 1 = 5%

----------------------------------

"Hello Professor." Idia spoke softly so as to announce his arrival, Ortho in tow, who waved animatedly at the instructor.

The Prof looked up from his marking, offering the Shroud brothers a small smile and waving them in as he got up from his desk.

"It's good to see you. Did you bring the wagon?"

Idia gave the prof a toothy grin as Ortho transformed, his torso region folding out so as to provide cargo room.

"Don't need some dingy wagon anymore. Ortho and I have been optimizing his hardware the whole month in prep for this lmao."

While his back was turned to them, the professor rolled his eyes, flinging the closet open. On the floor were about two boxes of various parts and pieces of dolls, the rest of the in tact ones placed neatly on the shelves above. He moved out of the way so as to allow Idia and Ortho to load up.

"I'm glad you've dedicated some time to preparing for transport. As you know, once you and any other Ignihyde students who opted out of this project have rebuilt, recalibrated and recorded any and all changes made to each doll, you can drop them off here again to be assessed."

Idia began filling the cavity Ortho had , removing some of the parts to compress the boxes better. The things technomancy was capable of was incredible, as every piece managed to fit into the robot's torso.

"Yeah, yeah. I've already updated the SOPs to streamline the whole process, so I should be able to get these back to you in like, three days? We'll say four cuz there are a few newbs joining in. I'd rather take the time to look over their work than get called during some other class to fix a stupid mistake I could have caught earlier on."

Idia shrugged a bit as Ortho closed up, before sparring the instructor a glance, making a conscious effort to look him in the eyes.

"....thank you, by the way. For the mods to the assignment. I really appreciate that you took my request seriously and actually y'know....followed through."

Idia fidgeted with the long sleeves of his sweater a bit before he finally broke eye contact.

The professor let out a small trill of self satisfaction. "Of course, Shroud. I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to reach out and ask for accommodations."

He made his way back to his desk as the boys went to the door.

"Have a good night."

------------------------------------------------

Bro this took so long and its lowkey ASS anyways

Here's an image of the prof, at least how he is in my head, he's based on a Great Horned Owl and this is a poorly edited picrew I did

ANYWAYS tag list:

@distant-velleity @lumdays @elenauaurs @nemisisnemi @theleechyskrunkly @starry-night-rose @my-cursed-brain @fluffle-writes

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accardi-x · 3 months ago

Text

ENA: Beggers Can't be Choosers

Intricate yourself upon the platter. Ravel and unravel before peering eyes. To seek and salvage what no use was done. To have and repent, give the choice to none but one.

Might have mentions of stalking, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, insinuation of addiction, unhealthy dependency, toxic dynamic, yandere themes, Murder, etc.

If you're uncomfortable with anything listed above, then I advise not to read further. If you wish to continue know that you've been warned.

—

The waters were cold you know.

Floating like a weightless body above the vast of many, as they drifted further from what they'd once known. Their eyes face towards the stars, as it's light becomes an illusion that there is still life in them.

Mouths that were once fed were now jarred open; having water contaminated with their own blood inside. Their bodies were sunken and hallowed, no longer plump and full.

Clothes torn and ripped apart, having their naked bodies exposed as vultures ate away their once-soft skin.

They never wanted to rot away, not like this. They had a life cut out for them to follow, but the sea wanted them young. They wanted to see life but a barrel was met instead.

Their hands ached for the feeling of warmth, wanting something to hold onto for they didn't want to die alone. But even the nurses who played as mothers couldn't tie that desire.

They begged for air to course through their lungs; as there was no desire for heaving. They wanted to keep their blood warm, to have their stomachs full, to have the ability to run away.

But God wanted a show.

So they drifted further into the waters, rotting away from a time that was evitable. Being stuck in a cycle. A cycle that they had no voice in.

And the waters will pull them deeper. To swallow their existence as if they never lived.

But even then, when their body couldn't move, their flesh and bones used to feed when they themselves were hungry, their eyes forced to look at the freedom the stars have they still hoped that God would change his mind.

They begged inside the husk of their body to live.

They hoped that God wasn't so cruel to leave them here. Alone.

Although the sea was ready to pull them in the dark they wished for a few more seconds with the light. For they were afraid.

When the vultures gnawed on their skin; Its beak, although sharp, was painless. As their minds thought that if the vultures found them, then maybe a person would, too.

So they begged and begged, and begged, and begged until their consciousness slipped into the sea.

But hope was condescending.

Until someone grabbed their hand and pulled them to the docks.

Word Count: 390

• Hasn't been checked for grammar, nor has it been proofread.

• I'll also like to mention that English isn't my first language so I apologize if there is any error in my writing.

- This may become a series if it receives positive feedback so do tell me if you like the direction it's going.

#dream bbq #yandere dream bbq #ena dream bbq #ena joel g #yandere ena #yandere ena dream bbq #yandere ena joel g #yandere #yandere x reader #sapphic #ena x reader

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bubbleddisasters · 5 months ago

Text

Guess whos back on their Che’nya theory shit again. Me.

Also some of this is just me going on about random and absolute far stretched shit, but hopefully the majority makes sense to y’all.

I’m about to sound batshit insane and this is going to be some MatPat sounding shit but here we go anyway.

WARNING‼️⚠️ MAJOR BOOK 7 SPOILERS AHEAD. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

———————

I just made the realization that Che’nyas UM and already natural abilities we’ve seen puts him in a position to be deadass playing the Floor is Lava with Malleus as the lava rn.

They wouldn’t have told us his UM in the main story if it didn’t matter somehow. They had the opportunity to show us Neiges in Rooks dream, yet didn’t, so it isn’t a heres RSA UMs for for shits and giggles thing, and we don’t know ANY of the teachers UMs, so it isn’t a “filling npc” thing either.

In EVENTS, we learn the UMs of only the very important and/or dangerous characters. Rollo, Skully, and Fellow. (Geez, Halloween trio now that I think of it).

Do we know Dylia Spades? No. Do we know Eric Schronheits? No. Do we know Ambrose the 3rds? No. Do we know Elizas? No, we get slapped. Do we know Najima Vipers? No. (She might not have one yet tho but still).

These characters are all confirmed as mages, or not directly said to be magicless, so it’s fair to assume they are mages.

So they told us Che’nyas UM for a reason. Why?

Like if his UM makes him invulnerable to magic/attack and invisible, and straight up on ANOTHER PLANE OF EXISTENCE, then if he’s not technically “all there”, Malleus wouldn’t be able to sense him.

Plus, this would explain how Orthos body was floating on the water when STYX found it, as when we know Orthos HEAVY AF, and would more than likely sink, since I doubt they had the time to build in something inflatable enough to balance that weight.

To boot, Ortho was at the docks, which from the map, is super close to RSA.

For reference:

(Both normally and under Mals spell)

The Cheshire Cat is the one who gets Alice out of Wonderland (In the movie, the tunnel Alice runs through matches the Cheshire cats color and stripes + He’s the only one not chasing her+ in the OG book, the Cheshire Cat is more of a Guide and the only one who really sticks with and helps Alice for the whole shabang), and if he’s in RSA, then I think the writers know that.

Aswell as the fact Che’nya appears in both Books with “Tyrant” in the name, and the Cheshire Cat is the only person completely immune to the Queen of Hearts control, as the second most powerful being in wonderland next to LITERALLY TIME ITSELF.

Look in most Disney Villain Line-Ups, and you’ll find the Cheshire Cat. Why? Marketing, the Cheshire Cats a popular character that isn’t directly portrayed as a hero, and more as a mysterious reoccurring character that isn’t necessarily seen as a helper unless you squint.

Additionally, we’ve seen Che’nya use flight, self gravity control, teleportation(unconfirmed but implied on that one) and use his UM for extremely long periods of time, and now that I think of it, we’ve never seen it wear him down, even while not having a magestone on him in his design.

And anyway, in the manga, he’s been doing such things since before we meet him for the first time at age 8-9 from Rids perspective.

Which means long enough that he basically has full control over it at that age, so probably either since birth or very, very young.

Which gives us the know that unlocked his UM way before meeting Riddle and mastered it, which means likely as a literal toddler woke up one day and went “Hey what if I just fucked off to another plane of existence and became both invisible and invulnerable, while capable of movement and communication on this plane the whole time.”

Now back to Book 7.

So heres what caught my attention, Silver mentions the only people he can pop into the dreams of are people he has connections with.

Seeing as we get Sebek first crack out of the box, and then Lilia, this makes sense.

However, it falls off when the next people start to be people Silver either doesn’t know, or very loosely knows.

Yes, I understand the commercial and writing point is meant to be a dorm countdown, but it would make far more sense to be a Russian Roulette, kind of upping the anticipation of whos next.

But to me, with what we know of Silvers connections, it would make far more sense to have the second years be first after Dia, then maybe the third years that he knows because of Lilia, and finally the first years, still leaving room for Ace to get his UM towards the very end.

Now if we drive this back to my Che’nya playing Yuu’s guardian angel theory, it would make more sense to start with Pomfieore after Igi, because not only is it recent connections, so probably easier to bring to the forefront of Silvers UM, it gives him time to get up to NRC right after pushing Ortho or simply getting him out safely.

Before you mention malleus’s barrier, Che’nya gets past NRCs barrier that took STYX heavy power shots to break like its every other tuesday, without Crowleys notice aswell, he stands a viable chance of slipping past Malleus’s.

If he can jump to another plane of existence in which he is invulnerable to magic, theres nothing stopping him from sliding past to get Ortho out and slipping back in under Malleus’s nose.

It also gives him a good “oh shit” moment and an idea of the root of whats happening.

And if I’m wrong and he can’t teleport, he can latch on to Malleus (possibly referencing the Cheshire Cat latching onto the Queens back after she gets a card solider executed I think) to teleport with him back to NRC.

With that, he could be preventing Silver OBing by basically shattering the shade/phantom before it can even do anything, while also hiding Idia being awake. That, or basically lending Silver magic enough to keep going while praying to god Mal doesn’t notice.

Lilia playing the worlds most dangerous game of tag with Mal in dreamland gives him the distraction he needs for this aswell, and it could be that everything went to shit around Trey-Riddles Dreams, and Che’nya popped in to speed up the process and or Dream Che’nyas revealing his UM kinda got his ass caught by Mal, or caused Mal to finally detect a disturbance in the force.

So if I’m right with the previously theorized Guardian Angel thing, Che’nya could be hotwiring Silvers UM to send Silver and co to the people he remembers helped Yuu and the rest recently without risking Malleus putting two and two together on who could be fucking with the dreams other than Silver, depending on how he was portrayed in Trey and Rids Dreams.

Though it would be hilarious if with the Floor is Lavaing it he was also Night at the Musueming it and just repeatedly moved each dreamer closer to Silver physically so they’d have a physical connection (like pinky to pinky or head to head) and basically had Malleus doing a eyebrow raise everytime he turned around trying to figure out if that person had been moved or he was seeing things until he realized there was an exponentially large group around Silver that definitely wasn’t there before.

Another thing: We know the Three Good Fairies weren’t affected by Maleficent’s curse and are the ones to untie Philip when he’s caught and give him the Sword and Shield, which his has, and loses all but the sword in the fight against Maleficent, the Sword and Shield which in the Og twst Trailer that scene is likely referenced by Silver as the Sword (duh) and Sebek as the Shield, with Lilia where Philip would be, although his arm is raised higher.

You kinda have to flip Sebek and Silvers positions but yea.

Sebek being Virtue is self explanatory. He strives to have the virtue of a knight worth of Malleus, and shows this in many ways, but his faults are his rudeness, arrogance, biased or generally rude assumptions, and overexaggertion, stemming from his own internilzed racism (or speciesism? I guess?) , which lead many others to not want to be around him, deflecting the truth of his heritage as to not focus on his own insecurities like a shield to an attack, no matter who its from, in a way.

Now that he has begun to bond and not be as rude to the rest of the non fae cast however, he ends up passing out? Like how a shield seemingly has no use if its not defending, unless you get real creative with it (Its Reyn time I mean who said that)

Silver balances this out as truth, as he is someone we see is honest to almost no fault. His UM also shows truth, in its own way, by showing the truth of the desires of those around him. However, a truth has also been held directly from him, aka the truth of his birth, and the undeniable truth that to break the curse upon him, Lilia did have to truly love him, even as the child of his friends killer.

So he is both benefited and harmed by truth, just like how the same sword can both protect and kill, it just depends on who wields it.

Anyway, back to the point at hand, Now that Malleus seemingly has the time to go and pull a FNAF 4 at Idias door, the odds are Lilia may have somehow gotten caught or restrained (like Phillip is) for enough time to have Malleus notice the Shrouds are pulling shenanigans on his private dream servers and feel the need to go confirm this.

The way in the movie the Three Good Fairies are caught hiding Aurora by Maleficent in the first place is by getting too cocky on the day before Aurora’s B-day and using magic like crazy, fixing up and making their “gifts” much better, as they didn’t know how to create them without magic.

These gifts? A Cake by the GREEN fairy, the calmest and most mature of the three: Fauna, and a Dress, which the RED AND BLUE FAIRIES Merryweather (the most rebellious yet sensical) and Flora (the leader, most work focused and overconfident) keep fighting over which color it should be, Pink or Blue.

(I rewatched their scenes and I forgot how much of a fucking MVP Merryweather was, everyone else turning things into rainbows, bubbles and flowers while my girl was out here burning chains, hunting down snitches, turning her mfking ops to stone and had to be physically held back from throwing hands with Maleficent by herself, god bless this tiny blue diva)

Fauna can obviously be placed as Trey here. Calmest, a Cake, Green. Done.

You can combine Flora and Merryweather into the two sides of Riddles Dream, the first being very punk yet sensical lifestyle, the blue, bringing in the sadness of what he desired yet cannot have, and the second half being Flora, the extremes of overconfident and tyrannical leadership, the red of rage, to say.

Red and Blue obv equal Purple, Che’nyas signature color, probably because purple isn’t actually a fucking color. I’m not going to explain the history of purple, but there is not such thing as purple in science, only shades of violet.

Speaking of Pomfieore, the first non dia dreamer group we see, is VIOLET. I said it. (Octavielle is Lavender, so no, not directly purple) Bright Red is Heartstabyl. (Scarabia is Maroon, which is a shade of red, but again, not directly bright red)

Now what I’m going on about here is this: If In the dreams, each dreamers NPC versions of their friends strictly abides by what the dreamer desires them to, how did dream Che’nya not only transfer to both parts of Riddles dream, but also go directly AGAINST the dream and the dreamer?

The dream versions of the others cannot, under any circumstances, break the character the dreamer creates without breaking the dream itself.

We see this in Lilias dream, in Treys, and Deuces. The Senate, Cater and Ace respectively breach the line of what is and isn’t in character for them in the dreamers memory to hold the dreamer within the dream, causing their respective dreamer to wake up sheerly due to the stark contrast.

These characters will go to lengths to keep the dreamer asleep, so how is it that this dream version of Che’nya can do the exact opposite?

And in Treys dream, Che’nya is the only one not practically turned into Eric Cartman variants, which given the fact Cater, certified sweets hater, has too, means that Che’nya, certified sweets stealer, somehow dodged that bullet in Treys subconscious, which breaks the rules set by the dream.

These rules are delicate, seemingly. It takes one too out of character word, one too out of character action to knock the dreamer awake.

So either Trey sees Che’nya as having the self control of a monk (a small scene in manga implies Che’nya steals from the Clovers fridge so often Treys own damn siblings hear the fridge open and assume its him and not their own damn brother, so I doubt that he’d think that) or Che’nya can bypass these rules.

Many of the dreams would have been so much easier if they could conveniently convince the dreamers friends to go up against them for their sake or just to simply help wake them up.

Of all people, the dream version of Ace fucking Trappola actually listening to and abiding by Riddles tyranny and not jumping at the opportunity to S.O.S to Leona, Yuu and co says enough about this as is.

Anyway, what I’m saying here is that Che’nya either got his ass caught, or finally managed to hotwire himself into Silvers UM conga line, which unfortunately left Idia now in Mals notice and Silver becoming more weary from excess UM use.

Just like how the good fairies thought they’d succeeded and jumped the gun with using magic a day early, Chen could have thought that since they made it this far, their clean until further notice, and is gonna feel the hit of it later.

As my phone is dying and I want a fucking nap, this has been Blues randomass rant about Che’nya again.

More at ???? Folks.

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eris-norwega · 6 months ago

Note

Human Alastor x reader, where they are in an established romantic relationship, and they are on a date taking a stroll through the woods. Alastor notices that they are being watched by someone who wants reader for themselves, and confronts them later on killing them.

Blood Will Make It Better

Notes: YIPPEE human al is my favorite. y’all idk why my one shots keep getting shorter but i thought i wrote a lot more than i did. apparently it’s hard to write extended gore scenes without it getting repetitive.

Synopsis: Reader has been dealing with a pest at work, and despite her partner, Alastor, telling him off, he just doesn’t get the message—so Alastor will just have to send a clearer, more permanent one.

CW: human alastor, reader has she/her pronouns, pov change, stalking, harassment, gore, murder, it’s the 1920s so reader works at a library

Word Count: 1268

It was always moments like these that I enjoyed the most. A joyful night in the warm woods with Alastor, laughing all our problems away as we watched the fireflies float through the trees. It was hot, and dreadfully humid, but I could easily ignore it when I saw his smile.

He was a strange man. Snarky, distant, and incredibly outspoken—all things that drew me to him. Where others saw him as arrogant and guarded, I saw a man willing to do anything it takes to accomplish his goals, all while protecting himself fiercely.

Despite it all, I wanted to get to know him better. I saw past his flaws and went right for the center. Apparently, he admired that.

Alastor happily led me through the forest on his expansive property, his glasses shining in the moonlight. He hummed a soft tune as we settled on the small dock in the bayou where we loved to sit and talk.

We sat, feet dangling dangerously off the side of the ledge and the hands bracing ourselves backwards just barely brushing. He leaned his head at almost a right angle to set his head on my shoulder. I chuckled, using my arm to pull him closer. He laughed softly, wrapping his arm around my waist and placing a light kiss to my cheek.

We sat in silence, looking at the fireflies dance, listening to the chirping of crickets and the croaking of bullfrogs. Alastor snuggled into my shoulder, a gesture never seen by the outside world. But here, we were safe.

Or so we thought.

A snap of a twig is heard, making us jolt and my heart begin to race. I clutched onto Alastor, my eyes darting around in the moonlit forest.

There was a rustle of a bush, and then the night resumed its symphony. Alastor stared daggers at the bush as I clung to his arm.

“Let’s go,” he growled, getting up from the dock, his eyes never leaving the bush.

“What is it?” my voice wavered.

“I’m not sure,” he hissed. “Let’s just be safe.”

~Alastor~

He did, in fact, know what it was. And it made his blood boil.

Lance. A sleazy frequenter at his beloved’s library job. She had mentioned on multiple occasions just how crass and disrespectful he was to her and her personal space—always trying to flirt. She had indicated multiple times to him that she was seeing someone, but that only seemed to spur him on further.

Getting angrier at his behavior, Alastor decided to pay a visit to her day job, as Lance was beginning to appear every day now.

Alastor made it known to the man that she was, in fact, taken. He almost got himself kicked out of the establishment when he warned Lance—in a particularly loud voice—that he would not hesitate to press charges and get a restraining order on him on behalf of his partner if he showed his face again. Lance had sulked away with a frown on his face, and Alastor hoped that might be the end of it.

Seems he was wrong.

That very night, Alastor spotted Lance’s ratty eyes peaking through the bush. He bristled with rage. How did that pig even find them? On his property?

Alastor now only had one goal in mind. Keep her safe, and kill him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alastor kept track of him for long, agonizing weeks. His fingers itched to slice his throat, to gut him like the pig he was. He memorized his every move, where he was at every hour, particularly at night when it would be easiest to catch him.

Alastor knew now that Lance would leave the bar he was at soon enough. He twiddled his knife, the cool metal glinting in the dim light of the alley he leaned against. His heart raced, pumping with traces of adrenaline that would soon flood his brain.

His ears pricked when he heard the door open and close, poorly placed footsteps nearing his hiding spot. Alastor dared to peak around the corner, and his smile grew. Finally.

Alastor waited patiently behind the alley, listening closely to Lance’s footfalls. The man was clearly drunk, his steps wobbly and unsteady as he stumbled closer and closer to his death.

Alastor watched with glee as Lance stepped over the threshold into his line of sight. The man didn’t even see Alastor until he was being dragged backwards into the dark alley, his eyes wide and scream muffled by a large hand.

To Alastor’s luck—and great delight—no one else had stepped out with the man, and it was so late that nobody wandered the streets. He dragged Lance completely into the shadows, bashing his head against the brick wall to leave him disoriented. Lance groaned, slumping against the wall as Alastor let him go.

He quickly locked a hand around his neck, a choked sound gurgling from the man’s throat as he stared at his killer with wide, scared eyes.

“Do you know,” Alastor drawled, tracing the sharp end of the knife over Lance’s cheek, “just how long I’ve been waiting to do this?”

Another strangled scream escaped Lance as Alastor once again slammed his head into the wall, leaving a bit of blood on the brick.

“You think,” Alastor hissed, “that you can just harass her—stalk her—without any repercussions?”

A startled noise made its way past Lance’s lips, eyes wide and pleading.

“Please,” he choked.

Alastor laughed lowly. “Sorry, old pal. Didn’t hear you there.”

With a wild look in his eyes, Alastor slashed his knife across Lance’s mouth, his jaw falling open in a grotesque maw as Alastor cut his mouth wider.

Another gurgled scream tried to tear itself from Lance’s throat, but Alastor ensured no one could hear him as blood flooded his mouth.

Alastor cackled. “Repeat that for me, good sir. If you can.”

Another slash was made over Lance’s eye, blood gushing from the wound and pooling into his gaping mouth. The man whimpered in pain, surrendering to his fate.

“You don’t deserve to look at her,” Alastor growled, plunging the blade into his other eye socket, the eye popping out with an unnatural squelch. The drunken man tried to claw and kick at his assailant, but his intoxicated body and rapid blood loss made his efforts futile.

In a fit of impulsivity, Alastor took the eyeball and shoved it down the man’s throat with a gleeful laugh. His adrenaline completely taking over, Alastor shoved the knife into Lance’s ear repeatedly, smiling all the wider as blood sprayed on Alastor’s face.

“You’ll never hear her again,” he cackled, slicing his nose off next. “Never smell her intoxicating scent.” He yanked out his tongue, cutting it clean off. “Never taste her lips.”

Alastor continued to stab him in various places, blood pooling in ridiculous amounts on the floor, all while he laughed.

He felt insane and so, so good.

Alastor yanked Lance’s hair, and, although barely conscious, made one last promise to the man.

“You will never get to feel her like I do.”

And then he sunk the blade into his throat.

~Reader~

“Alastor!” I called happily as he picked me up from the library. “You’ll never guess who wasn’t here today!”

He chuckled softly as I buckled my seatbelt. “I have some ideas.”

I giggled. “Lance! For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t here!” I wiggled in my seat happily. “I think your little talk yesterday scared him off!”

Alastor laughed softly, taking my hand and placing a delicate kiss on my knuckles. “How wonderful.”

#alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #human alastor x reader #human alastor #blood will make it better

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kingkat12 · 6 months ago

Text

feeling (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, fingering, voyeurism, semi-public sexual activities, smoking, teasing, praises, Roman shouldn't be allowed on school grounds

summary: you've finally mastered the art of feeling nothing at all. emotions don't serve you, they're painful, and everything about them downright suck. however, what happens when you're suddenly faced with the fact that feeling can feel... good?

word count: 3,200

a/n: hey luvs!! I've always hated being someone that feels everything deeply and painfully, even the smallest things, so I wrote the start last night just to get it out of my head, but... you know me, it spiralled, SORRY!!! tihi oh well, enjoy!<33

Everything in life had to be a fight. Always.

Living could be so painful sometimes. Feeling was exhausting. Therefore, it was easier to shut down all my emotions instead of dealing with the overwhelming pain cramming itself down the veins of my forearms, ripping through the vessels of blood at the tips of my fingers with every bad thing that happened in my life.

If I could walk around with a sign saying 'I'm not trying to be mean, I just don't care enough', I would. People always assumed I was a piece of shit due to my inclination never to smile. However, the sign would make me more of a freak at school than I already was, and I had an inkling that I shouldn't dig myself a deeper hole than I already had. High school was hard as it was, why complicate it further?

My lack of social indulgence left me rather lonely. Not that I cared. It was easier this way-- I didn't have to pretend to be bearable to be around. I didn't have to smile, I didn't have to laugh, and I didn't have to fake anything in the world.

However, I wasn't allowed to live peacefully on my island of isolation. Every so often, a little boat would float by the shore and ask to park by the dock for a short break, to rest from its travels and seek momentary company, despite the fact that I hadn't sought this out whatsoever. And to make matters worse, the boat would do so every day, with its voice calling louder with every passing of the sun and moon-- eventually, I had to relent.

So here we sat, on my island of isolation, also known as the empty bleachers. Roman pulled two cigarettes out of his box and placed them between his plush lips, lighting both at the same time. It had become a ritual of sorts, where he'd approach whenever he saw me at school and sit with me in silence for a little cigarette break. When we first started running into each other like this, he would try to small-talk, but this died down when he pieced together that silence was the best for us both.

We needed the time away from everyone, Roman probably more than I. He handed me the cigarette, and we exchanged a short nod at the other with the exchange.

Someone wise once said that you learn something new every day. Because after all this time watching his extroverted social life from afar, wondering how he had the energy for all the people around him all the time, I realized there was only one other person in the world that understood the wish to surrender of a full-body shutdown as well as I did-- and that was Roman Godfrey.

And that was why he sat here with me, smoking in silence.

Still, after all this time, I never knew why he sought me out. Why he had approached at all the first time, and why he had chosen me. Was it maybe that he saw solace in my carefree rejection of everything and everyone? I wondered whether he wished to be like me.

And I wondered whether he knew that I wished to be like him.

I loved to watch the way Roman inhaled the first drag of his cigarette-- it was always with a small moan followed by his eyes closing, his legs spreading out on his seat, and a nod to himself. Like he had been waiting for a new hit for years. Because whenever I watched him and his ritualistic ways, I felt specks of something. The only something that didn't hurt, and didn't feel like my arms were about to rip themselves open and gush blood.

When he didn't look, I allowed myself to smile. I could give in to it. And today, after months of sitting in silence and barely exchanging more than a few sentences about ourselves, I wanted to tell him what was on my mind. "Roman?"

He slowly opened his eyes, surprised that I had spoken. "Shit," he breathed, exhaling a ring of smoke. "You broke your vow of silence for me? I'm flattered."

I would've laughed. His tone was dead serious, yet I could see him fighting a smile. Nonetheless, I went on, but in a different direction; "Do you think we're friends?" I asked, inhaling another drag of smoke.

Roman stilled, watching me. He was surely trying to calculate the way this conversation was going, or what I was trying to get at. Eventually, he spoke; "No,"

"No?"

"No," Roman shrugged-- "You sort of remind me of this guy I once knew, Tyler. He was at every party I was at, and he always had a stash of weed with him, so we ended up smoking it on the porch at, like, every occasion. I never knew anything about him, though, so I don't think we were friends."

"And... you don't think Tyler thought you were friends?"

It looked like Roman hadn't thought about that. "I don't think he ever cared," he mumbled. "And I didn't think you did either."

I nodded to myself as I exhaled the smoke, unsure whether to keep his gaze or look away. I was scared I'd start feeling again, with the way this convo was going. "Alright then," I said, rolling the cigarette between my fingers.

Perplexed, Roman's brows drew together. "Would you want to be friends?"

"No,"

"... Okay?" He let out a laugh which sounded an awful lot like a huff, and he shook his head as threw the cigarette down to the floor and stomped it. "Luckily for you, you've made it to the rapid round of today's quiz." Roman turned to me, nudging my shoulder. "And I'm allowing myself to be nosy, for once. So, tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you don't want to be friends,"

It spilled past my lips easier than I thought it would; "Because you make me feel,"

A pause. It was too long.

"Feel?" Roman looked more puzzled than before. "Feel what?"

"Just... feel. You make me feel stuff,"

"What stuff?"

"Just stuff!" I wasn't sure why it annoyed me to explain it to him. In my mind, he should've gotten it. Understood it. "It's not a particular feeling, it's just feeling in general."

Roman cleared his throat, and with his next breath, he took the cigarette between my fingers into his hand. "Ever heard of sociopaths?” he muttered, taking a drag. With the way his shoulders tensed, I couldn't make out whether he was nervous or excited.

"I'm not a sociopath,"

"Then what the fuck do you mean?" Roman leaned in closer, yet I didn't move. Up close, his eyes were much greener, much more vibrant-- I didn't want to think about it. It made my stomach flutter.

"You stole my cigarette..." What else was I supposed to say?

Roman stifled a laugh. "I didn't steal it. Ever heard of sharing? It stems from an emotion called caring,"

"Fuck you,"

Being so close to him was intoxicating. Stupid. Dangerous. My heart hadn't beat this fast in months-- why had I opened my mouth at all? My thoughts raced as Roman reached forward, gently placing his thumb on my bottom lip as he watched my eyes widen. A shaky breath escaped me, fanning the skin of his fingers. With a soft push that didn't meet much resistance, Roman pressed down on my lip, parting my mouth as he took a drag of my cigarette, maintaining just about the most intense eye contact I had ever had in my life.

There was nothing I could do to move away. Not that I wanted to, anyway. So when Roman's upper lip brushed up against mine as he leaned in close, exhaling the smoke into my mouth, I was sure my heart would jump out of my chest, up my throat, and leap right at him.

Even after I inhaled the substance, Roman didn't move away. My mind was buzzing, wondering what to do, whether to say something, whether to ask what was going on-- all I knew, was that I had enjoyed the first physical contact I'd had with another human in a while.

"I've always wondered what it must be like to be a sociopath," Roman whispered against my lips, his thumb leaving my skin. "Do tell."

The more flustered I became, the more my cheeks burned. "I'm not a sociopath,"

"What are you, then?"

"Exhausted," I breathed. "Do you know how tiring it is to feel?"

Roman let out a huff, a laugh, as he let the cigarette burn out between his fingers. "It can be exhausting if you're feeling all the wrong things, sure. But if the feelings are good..." His voice lowered as his nose nudged mine with a teasing touch, and I could feel him smile against me as he heard the small hitch of my breath. "If they're good, you'll suddenly find yourself wanting to feel everything all at once."

Everything indicated that he would kiss me. I couldn't believe it. My heart raced in my chest as air refused to leave me, and I could feel the drumming of my blood coursing through my veins in anticipation. This was a rush unlike any other. So I braced for it, stilled in my seat, made my mind accustomed to the thought--

Until I couldn't feel his breath falling against my cheek anymore. Until all I felt was the cold breeze of the air brushing a strand of hair away from my face. I opened my eyes only to find Roman was getting up from his seat next to me. He briefly turned to catch a glimpse of the stunned expression on my face before he gave in to a snicker. "There you go, there was my crash course," he joked. "Sorry for making you feel things again, I guess. It wasn't my intention. This was nice though." Roman motioned to the both of us-- I didn't like his tone. This felt like a goodbye. This felt like I had broken some holy contract I didn't know I had signed. "I'll leave you alone from now on, don't worry. I'll find out whether Tyler is available for cig breaks at school instead--"

I had no idea what came over me as my hand shot forward and clasped his wrist. "Don't do that,"

"Do what?" Roman was unreadable-- a part of me wondered whether he was dragging this reaction out of me on purpose. Had his skills with people brewed down to developing mastery of manipulation?

"Did I piss you off somehow?" I tried. "Did I say something wrong?"

Roman's brows raised in confusion. "You haven't done anything,"

"Then why are you leaving?"

He blinked. Once. Twice. "You said that you didn't want to feel anything. And since I make you feel stuff, I'm doing you a favor, no?"

Roman was a smart guy-- I had known it deep down. Still, I rose from my seat, only to be reminded of how tall he was. How handsome he was. "And what if I... want to feel?"

Silence laid itself like a thick duvet over us as we stood and stared at each other, none of us knowing when to speak or what to say.

Eventually, Roman let out a short hum as his eyes rounded out. There was an emptiness to his gaze. "I don't have any love to give," he breathed. "If that's what you're looking for, you've come to the wrong place."

That was almost nice to hear. Love would've been too grand of a start. I finally spoke; "Not that. I just... want to feel good again. I don't remember how that feels anymore,"

Roman's ears perked up. "Oh?" The corners of his mouth curved into a look I couldn't decipher. It was somewhere between intrigue and calculated success;

"Well... I could make you feel real good, that's for sure."

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈�� ｡ﾟ

So... I succumbed. Not everything had to be a fight, at the end of the day.

I succumbed in a secluded part of the school library, a section Roman said nobody ever came to. He had led me down a path of stairs, past the archeology section and the biographies of famous mathematicians, and into the far corner of the philosophy area.

It was there that he had finally kissed me, finally pulled me in by my waist, and led my back against the wall next to a whole row of books about Platon-- and it was there that he put his large hand beneath my skirt and pressed the heel of his palm into my clit through my underwear, making me gasp into his mouth.

I squirmed, my grip in his hair tightening as I pulled him closer. Roman tasted like cigarettes and smelled like expensive perfume you'd test out at an airport when you're bored at Duty Free. However, my thoughts dulled as my hips keened into his hand, against the sweet pressure, and my heart thumped harder in my chest with every brush of his lips against mine.

"So..." Roman whispered, his cocky smirk gracing his beautiful face. "Feeling anything yet?"

Bastard. He knew damn well. "Yeah-- Yes,"

"Good," With a rather patronizing laugh, Roman pressed kisses to the corners of my mouth. "I've waited to see you like this for so long, do you know that? Since the first time I sat next to you and you barely paid me any mind, I've wanted to see you squirm." My breath hitched as he pressed his finger into the wetness that had formed in my underwear, tapping it to test the slick. His lips brushed over my ear; "Should've done this earlier, hm? Relieved you a little, made you feel good?"

This was the most horrifying feeling of gratification ever. I never thought I'd be the type for this sort of behaviour, but I suppose life pushes you toward the direction you're destined to take, right?

"Who would've thought," Roman purred, a small chuckle building in his chest. "And here I thought you were one of those people that don't even get horny. Bet you're the type to lay in bed and get off when you're bored."

My cheeks burned. Burned. "N-No--"

"No? Aw, you're still fighting," And just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, Roman pulled my panties aside and eased a finger into me. I couldn't meet his eyes anymore as my hands gave into a tremble, and I clutched the fabric of his shirt as I hid my face in his chest.

"Tell me, then," Roman whispered, reaching his free hand into the hair at the nape of my neck to pull me away from him. He dragged my head back, forcing me to look up at him as he pressed himself further up against me, cornering me as he pushed my back harder into the wall. I was panting against his lips at this point, feeling him curl his finger into my sweet spot like he had done this a thousand times before-- he probably had, anyway. I hated the jealousy that coursed through my veins, one of the emotions I hadn't allowed myself to feel in ages. He spoke with a smug grin; "Tell me what you're feeling, you little psycho."

That would've earned him a snicker, had I not been in such a compromising position. "Good," I breathed, finding his green eyes. "Feels-- Feels n-nice."

"Nice? Only nice?" Roman tsked, shaking his head. "That's not enough." And with that, he eased another finger into me, which only had me gripping his shirt harder. Being filled by Roman's fingers like this, knowing we could be walked in on at any moment, made my whole body burn with adrenaline. "Ro--"

"How many times have you thought about this when we've been smoking, huh? Don't tell me you've been wishing I'd do this shit this whole time?" Roman pressed a kiss to my ear as his fingers stroked into me, pressing into my sweet spot with a gentle rubbing-motion.

I could only shake my head. That was the truth. I hadn't ever allowed myself to think about him like that to spare my feelings. I know I'd have been squirming in my seat, staring at the way his hair always fell over his eyes, and the way his broad shoulders sunk in pleasure with every inhale of nicotine, if I had allowed myself to think those thoughts.

"No?" he cooed, feigning disappointment with a pout. The way he was almost mocking me made my stomach flutter-- or was that his fingers? "Well, I have. Many times. I've always wondered if it'd make you talk or shut down more. Or mostly, I wondered how you'd look if I did--" Roman placed his thumb on my clit, and the added stimulation only made my eyes water with pleasure as my hips bucked into his hand once more. "This."

"Fuck--" I hissed, leaning forward to kiss his neck. If Roman wasn't going to make it easy for me, I had to shut myself up somehow. Now more than ever, his perfume was prevalent.

He let out a small sigh of pleasure as the thrusts of his fingers grew harder, not paying any mind to the way my knees gave into a slight tremble. "God, wouldn't it be bad if we were caught right now?" he said with a laugh. "You wouldn't be known as the quiet one anymore, that's for sure." Roman pulled me away from his neck with the hand he had in my hair and scanned the look on my face. My eyes glossed over as I drowned out my moans with heavy breaths; "Fuck-- Fuck you!"

"Is that how you talk to your friends?" Roman cooed, leaning down to press a short kiss to my lips, the soft pillows of his mouth pushing me into submission. "Cause wasn't it friends you wanted us to be, hm?"

I couldn't answer. Not when his tone made me clench around the stretch of his fingers, not when he looked this good, not when he talked to me this way. "N-No,"

"No?"

"No!"

"What, then? Best friends?"

If I could punch him, I would. Yet I only managed to gather the strength to suppress another moan, feeling my high creep up on me faster than ever before. It was almost embarrassing how fast I was about to cum on Roman's fingers in the fucking school library. He was making a wreck of me. "Wait, I-- no, fuck, I might--"

"Ulta-mega-best-friends?" Roman only giggled as his unrelenting pace continued. "Fuck-friends would probably serve us both the most, though, hm?"

"Okay, s-sure--"

"Don't you think?"

I let go of his shirt as my body keened against his fingers, sinking down a little against the wall as I squeezed my eyes shut. The pooling feeling of arousal in my stomach made me tense up, and I prayed I wouldn't collapse to my knees-- I hadn't had a standing orgasm before. How did that even work? "Yeah," I cried. "That-- That sounds good."

Roman kissed me again as a reward, smiling from ear to ear as my muffled moans filled the empty section of the library. I clamped down on his fingers, feeling my clit pulse against his thumb as I gave in to the strongest, most intense feeling I'd had in months.

"That's it, feel it all," he purred, rubbing me through my orgasm.

"Good girl."

#roman godfrey #hemlock grove #smut #x reader #roman godfrey x reader #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgård #fanfiction #oneshot #fanfic #drabble #oh I love Roman being a bit of a bully #like yes be mean to me #this turned a little philosophical #god reader can't catch a break

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