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ariseur · 2 months

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Hii I would like to make a request of "🍰time check on pre-nibelheim Cloud" with 'stay with me til i fall asleep' and 'fake dating', I hope you are comfortable with this and congratulations (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

✧˖° time check!! 🍰 : currently 12am when i’m starting this!

✧˖° edit ; i just realized this said pre nibelheim cloud and i am so sorry i forgot that! i hope this is okay 😭

lazing in bed isn’t so bad, you think. looking up at the ceiling with only the distant ambience of sector 7’s slums outside your curtained window was almost a little soothing to you as you fell in and out of slumber. the lingering pain in your side hurt like hell though — considering you were practically thrown at a wall a day or two ago by one of shinra’s most frustrating creations: a sweeper.

the warm sheets pressed against your back wasn’t much help to the stinging sensation that burrowed into your midriff, only adding to the extensive warmth that was enveloping your body with cool waves of sweat periodically layering itself against your skin. your eyes flit along the darkness of the room, squiggly shapes appearing along your line of sight when you focus on them for too long.

you can’t bring yourself to shift any more along the mattress as you hear the familiar clicking of a doorknob. you assume it’s tifa from how gently the door is opened, maybe coming to bring you a fresh change of bandages or more water that you’d politely decline.

you’re grateful she had let you bunk in this odd room she keeps underneath the bar, a small room for sure, but nonetheless better than bleeding out in the street or in a stuffy medical hut.

but only when you hear the quiet call of your name do your eyes dart to the right, spotting a familiar silhouette of spiked hair and a large buster sword on their back. your ‘boyfriend’, cloud strife. seeing cloud was somehow both difficult and pleasing, an oxymoron in a world where everything felt too simplistic to function. you’re not quite sure why he proposed the idea of the title to you, especially when you guys weren’t technically . . dating.

perhaps another tactic that benefited him in this battle with both the assholes of society, shinra included. or perhaps he just somewhat liked the idea of calling you his girlfriend, although you decided to push that thought far down into the creases of your brain as he approaches you; heavy boots against wood as they made their way towards you.

“you’re still up?” he asks, a monotonous tone that almost sounds deafening against the quietude of the dark bedroom.

“mhm,” you hum, hands clasping as they place themselves on your stomach. he shuffles over to the edge of the bed, placing a small glass filled with water and a small plate of toast on the worn down circular night table next to the bed, the wood lowly creaking with the weight of the objects.

cloud presses his lips into a thin line as he tries to figure out what to say. surely, a ‘boyfriend’ wouldn’t leave his partner possibly writhing in pain while he just walks away and continues on with mindlessly patrolling around seventh heaven right? therefore his mouth opens for another question, perhaps it comes out a bit wary when he says, “how’re you.. feeling?”

you turn your head for what feels like the first time in ages, the side of your cheek pressing against a cool part of the pillow to which you revel in, the foreign fabric refreshing your senses as you look at cloud. “not very well,” you mumble, voice raspy from the lack of use.

“oh,” is all he responds with. it almost looks a little scary, the way he simply just stands there, face invisible due to the fact that the only light illuminating his figure was the sliver of the backlight emerging from the doorway. “do you want me to,” he pauses, “go?”

your eyes stay on him for a moment before eventually upturning to the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the script dimness you’re met with on the roof. the ringing in cloud’s ears become unbearable as you both stay silent for a beat, so thick. so quiet.

you suppose he takes it as a cue to leave as he says nothing more and instead goes to exit the room before you whisper a tiny, “cloud?”

it shouldn’t be surprising, considering with how much mako and how much training it takes to become a soldier much less a mercenary would cause his ears to still perk up. he turns back to look at you, this time giving you a glimpse of three quarters of his face with the deep yellow lighting past the door. you purse your lips, watching the way his eyebrows remain furrowed with his head cocked.

“can you stay?”

“stay?” he parrots.

“until,” you almost stop yourself, halting your words as if you debated with yourself inside of your little head, tugging at the words as you weave them inside your brain before ultimately; you end up just spitting it out. “until i fall asleep, maybe?”

cloud didn’t miss the way the last word fell off into a meek mutter, your face wholly turning to the other side, the darkness of the other side capturing your face as he stands in the doorway. he contemplates for a moment, and you almost regret even asking him to stay. it almost felt a little odd. maybe you were desperate for comfort; or maybe you just needed him.

“i mean, it’s alright if you don’t want to. i get that it’s late��“

“sure,” you’re met with his curt answer, whipping your head back around as you hear soft footsteps advance. “are you sure you don’t need anything?” he asks, navigating around the room blindly in search of a chair to pull.

you manage a meager, ‘mhm’ as you hear a cut off scrape against the floor and see cloud’s silhouette lifting it and walking over to your bedside. he places the object as gently as he can but you can’t help but snicker as it still makes enough noise anyway to which he huffs.

“thanks, cloud.”

“don’t mention it,” he mumbles, sitting down on the wooden seat as he leans back, scooting his hips ever so forward so as to get more comfortable. it’s a difficult view, he must admit, considering he can’t see your face at all and vice versa, but he can’t let your pleas go unheard.

he know he’ll wake up with a kink in his neck from ensuring you get a good night’s sleep even with your hinderance, and he knows that either tifa or marlene would end up running down to check on you in the morning and see the two of you — but for some reason, he doesn’t care.

even when it’s midnight, seeing your head nuzzle into the pillow as your legs shift to a foreign part of the bed in search for a cool spot rather than the sweat barren sheets you’ve already claimed, is merely so refreshing to him.

crap, he thinks. you really do have him wrapped around your finger.

𐙚 join my taglist !! ; @alieeelinn @ch3rryfiles

𐙚 dottie’s 500 event | 🍰 time check and 🍡 action prompt!!

𐙚 non-500 requests are closed — august fourth, 2024 [ 12:49 am ]

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everlasting-elegy · 1 year

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May I request something like your "let's go home" work (with Lucifer and mammon) but with beel belphie and leviathan instead? I would love to see how they'd react to you calling HOL your home. - ⛓️

I TOOK MY SWEET TIME I'M SO SORRY SKDFJSKD BUT IT'S DONE!! Thank you for requesting ⛓️anon!! Unfortunately I couldn't think up anything for Beel, my mind blanked but I hope you enjoy Belphie and Levi's parts!!

"Let's Go Home" | Belphegor, Leviathan

It was just a slip of the tongue by you, but he didn’t miss it. Despite being in an entirely different realm, you called the House of Lamentation your home. Genre: Fluff, slight angst Word Count: 1.1k Warning: Levi self-deprecation

Belphegor

Belphegor has long accepted that you will never truly be at ease around him. For all he’s done it was to be expected, but he tried. He did what he could to pick up the shattered pieces of what you two could have had, putting it together into some wonky form of a pleasant relationship for all to see. But he was sure that when it was just you and him, you will always have your wits about you. He just supposes that for now and forever he will have to be satiated with just you standing around him.

So imagine his surprise when you barge into his shared bedroom, bringing Belphie out of his slumber. He noticed your slumped posture, how your shoulder deflated in time to your hefty sigh. And then the two of you made eye contact. The grip on his pillow instinctively tightened.

“Looking for Beel?”

“Looking for some peace and quiet,” you muttered as you sent a wary glare to the closed door behind you. Even through the timber, you could hear the distant shouts and heavy footsteps on Leviathan chasing up Mammon on unpaid debts.

“Shouldn’t have come to the House of Lamentation, then,” Belphie murmured.

You offered a half hearted chuckle - you didn’t have the energy for anything more than that - before walking up to him. You did not notice how Belphie’s eyes were trained on you in confusion and curiosity as you wordlessly joined him on his bed (or if you did, you spoke nothing of it). It was a little awkward at first as you tried to make yourself comfortable beside a Belphie who was wondering if he was still dreaming. As you lightly pulled at his pillow, he wasted no time to obey, almost throwing it across the other side of the room. You slotted into his arms instead, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck. Instinctively one arm of his was around your waist, the other following your spine until his hand rested on the back of your head. To him, you were the perfect fit.

“Yeah, but I wanted to be home,” you whispered as you wriggled a little, trying to snuggle closer into him.

The seventh faltered. He dared to tighten his hold on you ever so slightly, just for a bit more reassurance that this was more than a lucid dream. This wouldn’t have been the first time his mind betrayed him like this, after all.

“... this is… home to you?”

“Yeah?” Your words had become a little slurred with fatigue, and Belphie had half the mind to tease you out of how adorable you sounded. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it when he realised his voice failed him. He wanted to question you, he knew he wasn’t exactly the most accommodating nor the most soothing. But then again, who was he to doubt your tastes? He was the dear, spoiled youngest brother, and if you were going to spoil him with your attention he'll simply eat it up. So instead, he let his lips settle into a comfortable grin that only widened when he heard your soft snores, and stayed on his face even when he fell asleep.

Leviathan

“That’s it, I’m going home,” you sighed in exasperation, rubbing your face for a bit before turning away. A pop up store providing exclusive merchandise was in Devildom for only three days and Levi just had to try it. Despite the two of you queuing for two hours, you caught wind of said products were already sold out. Walking away, Levi turned to you in a panic, eyes wide in disbelief at your announcement. Without a second thought he was holding you still with both of his hands clutching onto your wrist as he bowed down, shaking his head disapprovingly at himself.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

He didn’t even know what he was apologising for, but it felt like it was the right thing to do as cold sweat started to gather at his temples. He was apologising for everything with those few words. Sorry for making you wait, sorry for dragging you along with him, heck he should never have even brought up his stupid little otaku pop up shop! And now you’ve had one too many of his antics and now you want to leave the Devildom entirely, don’t you? He’s sorry his presence is such a detriment! He’s sorry that he himself doesn’t have the power to send you back to the human realm where you want to be, but he’s also sorry that he’s so selfish that he doesn’t want you to leave. And what will Lucifer and the rest of the brothers say when they realise he’s the one that made you want to leave them?

Upon feeling that you weren’t moving, Levi mustered all of his draining confidence to dare look up at you, and upon seeing your face a mix of concern and confusion, he ended up mirroring it.

“Levi it’s okay, let’s just go home,” your tone was soothing now as you squeezed his hand.

“B-but…” Levi froze as you watched him curiously, the gears visibly turning in his head. “I don’t know how to get you back… well, I do but I’m not powerful enough. I’m sorry for being such a useless-”

“Levi!” you pleaded, tugging him gently and he started to walk with you. “I’m sure you know the way back to the House of Lamentation.”

“... eh?”

“The House of Lamentation?” You repeated, a smile creeping up your face as Levi looked absolutely stupefied.

The House of Lamentation? Home?

There was once a time where he could never comprehend the House of Lamentation as home, all of Devildom was unfit for him. Perhaps that was the forgotten part of envy, the ego that believed he was too good for such a world. And now look at where it has taken him, he’s stooped down to the level of demons whether he liked it or not. And that voice hasn’t disappeared, it has only been pushed back to the corner of his mind, quiet but still there, chastising himself for letting himself go, descending to the depths.

Similarly, he always thought Devildom was unfit for you; you were far too good for anything here, including himself. But if you keep smiling at him like that and insist on staying here, perhaps your own brilliance will make this realm worth your while.

Your hand is in his and his grip tightens.

“Oh- um, home? Y-yeah! I can take you there, then.”

Obey Me! Masterlist

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #belphegor x reader #belphegor x mc #belphegor x y/n #belphegor x you #obey me belphegor #leviathan x reader #leviathan x mc #leviathan x you #leviathan x y/n #obey me leviathan #obey me fluff #obey me headcanons #everelegy writes #everelegy obey me #⛓️anon

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strwbrythoughts · 4 months

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the unseen lovers | alhaitham

prologue

Series masterlist | Word count: 749

On his days off, Alhaitham found that the silence in his home was a bit too heavy to endure alone.

He occupied the living area on his own. A pot of freshly brewed tea still piping hot sat on the coffee table, a thick book on quantum physics he was rereading for the seventh time in his right hand and the lack of noise filling his ears. That was what his usual Saturday morning would be like.

Alhaitham never knew he would grow to eventually disdain it.

Some Saturdays, his hatred was fierce enough to propel him to use other rooms. Sometimes he would read in the kitchen but not while eating a bowl of soup. He always told himself it was difficult to read while eating soup. Other times he would read in bed, only to find his eyes more prone to closing than staying open.

Perhaps that was why he found himself in the library now.

This house’s library was somewhat smaller than his late grandma’s, but it didn’t really matter. The shelves were still full of the books his grandmother would read to him — and eventually, he would read them himself when he was grown enough to do so — back when he was a wee little boy.

The light teal lounge chair in the room was his grandma’s favourite. It was never just an ordinary lounge chair; to him, it was grandma’s. Grandma’s chair. The one she sat in from when she was an energetic old lady until she was a sickly and frail one. Alhaitham did not know if he was having hallucinations, but sometimes he swore he could see her sitting there, even after her passing.

His footsteps were light and nimble on the wooden floors. He approached the chair, feeling the soft carpet beneath his feet as he sat down. His body leaned back; he was relaxed. A soft smile played on his lips as he basked in the glorious morning light seeping through his window.

The silence in his home may have been deafening, but right now, he was at peace and content.

— ᯓᡣ𐭩 —

Alhaitham’s eyes fluttered open, his eyelashes that were previously resting peacefully on his face now more energetic than before. He had fallen asleep. The grandfather clock’s needles on his right showed him the time; 1:43 pm.

While he was cradled in the sweet arms of slumber, his left hand had landed atop a thick, hard-cover book on the small table beside his grandma’s chair. His widened eyes scanned the title, how did he not see this book when he came in? He prided himself on being observant regarding things he cared about, which is why he felt this was a bit bizarre.

‘The Star I Aim to Reach’ was written in big, clunky letters on the cover. The design was relatively simple. There were small drawings of stars and planets surrounding the title in white with a black background. Simple it may be, yet it was enough to capture his interest.

Alhaitham flipped the cover carefully after putting the book onto his lap. The words that greeted him were the ones he least expected.

‘Grandma’s Favourite Book’ was written on the very first page with black marker. Beneath it was a message written with a green pen. Neither his eyes nor his mind could deceive him; this was grandma’s handwriting.

Alhaitham’s eyes immediately wanted to read the passage in green. Green was the colour his grandma would use when she wanted to highlight important things to him, as it was the ‘colour of my beloved grandchild’s eyes’, as she always said.

The passage read:

‘My beloved grandchild, Alhaitham.

If you are reading this passage, then I am happier than a man who won the lottery. This is my final wish for you that I could not convey when I was alive. Forgive me, you were too young back then. It would have been inappropriate to entrust this to you when all you wanted to do was read and learn.

Read this book and find the girl whose entire world lies behind the curtains. Find the girl who works tirelessly to ensure others would smile, and befriend her. Should you want to go beyond the boundaries of friendship, I shall not reject her; and if you do not find her suitable to even be a friend, I shall not reject you.

Many kisses,

Grandma’

Alhaitham shut the book close. What in the world was his grandma talking about?

Thank you for reading!

#berry writes #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #al haitham #female reader

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slowd1ving · 23 days

Text

✦ II. COME HITHER, CURSE WHERE HE LIES

"This was the tale of the seventh prince; an elegy hidden from the footnotes of history. Within the game Lament of Ouroboros, his sorrows were summarised thusly: A strangely warm vein of ore. Hero, come here when dusk kisses the edge of the Borderlands. As your palm brushes against the rock, you may be able to feel the pulse of a slumbering prince. Three sentences were all that was afforded to the disgraced prince, forgotten to all but the Moirai." • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is), depictions of gore, turning into stone wc: 4.2k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

It took all of one year for the warning to become prophecy. One year, approximately four hundred and eight days—give or take—for the two Suns to align themselves in the exact arrangement they had on the Day of Silence. And in that single year, the schemes of Veritas Ratio would germinate, blossom, and finally wither away irrelevantly.

He was born quietly, and thus his end would, too, be quiet.

The month of Hekatombaion had the seventh prince leave his tower: like a bird set free from its gilded cage. Though he was never caged, per se, the youth knew it was safest to stay in its stone walls: away from the all-consuming, bloody struggle for the throne, away from the greedy claws of his siblings and their power-hungry gazes. Yes, it was far easier being a shunned seventh prince than getting swept up in the tides of fatal politics.

Fatal, indeed—the internal strife had already claimed the lives of two of his siblings. He was the fifth prince, if one regarded the situation objectively—but it was better to lurk in the oblivion. Seven was a less significant number than five, after all.

Hekatombaion was the month of venture. The Day of Silence had occurred in its beginning; the day to mark the new year, where the blank canvas of muteness would sluggishly accumulate the sins and sorrows of the populace in the coming days and weeks. Like honey trickling over sweet basyniai, the seventh prince would begin to spread his own influence to achieve his saccharine conclusion.

So, the youth ventured forth—though not into the bloody palace, but the summer-worn streets and the agora. Past the stands selling their wares, and the philosophers sermonising on the achromatic cobblestones, were those conducting business and students of the various schools in Metis. The work and school day had shortly ended—the evening of debates and discourse had just begun.

Without the gilt laurels which suggested his status as one of Elation’s blood, he was no more prince than he was peasant. The drape of his clothes and their exceptional craftsmanship did, however, mark him as a wealthy man—perfect for infiltrating the symposium of a guileless young master.

Thus, the prince incognito began frequenting these conferences and gleaning precious information and gossip from the drunken fools who sought to boast of their knowledge and logos. Their fallacies were awful for entertainment, but Veritas was very grateful for how witless their lips were. All the news, rumours, and information passed around students and teachers alike were his for the taking: the rudimentary designs from which he would craft his weapon. From these anserine gatherings with peers a few years older than him he crafted a network of the politics of the kingdom: who sat behind and whispered to the magistrates; who supported the polemarch and just who was responsible for the military advancements of the archon in charge of armed forces; and finally, the influence of Aha and his siblings on the spread of the kingdom.

These were the preliminary preparations for investigating the ruling class of Metis.

Metageitnion was the month for thanksgiving. The seventh prince’s presence at the mess hall was nothing out of the ordinary, then, for the arid weather heralded festivities and games where his attendance was expected—if not mandated. As opportunistic as he was for information, he naturally assumed his place below his siblings: slightly sycophantic, yet assuredly not a threat.

Dried figs melted on his tongue—a mellifluous snack he’d consumed plenty of in his tower, but tasted especially cloying as praises flowed from his mouth like honeyed wine. His siblings, vain as they were, dangerous as they were, liked observing how their shunned brother cowed neatly before them. Though, the watered-down liquor they ingested was nowhere near enough to loosen their lips on matters of heresy; another span of days passed without gaining information. In its stead, he established himself as a vapid fool with no interest in scrabbling for the throne: a slippery, cowardly bastard who simply wasn’t worth the effort to kill off.

Had they paid attention to the glowing reports from his tutors, had they cared an iota for anyone but themselves, they might have noticed that his smarts didn’t just extend to backing off from the throne. Perhaps then, they would have surmised that the compliments and agreements uttered with his smiles were strategic more than anything.

But his tower was isolated from the main palace, and he was no more a danger than a caged bird.

A fool, just like the rest of them. Alas, his gormless act perhaps was a bit too convincing—the siblings in the know wouldn’t entrust state secrets to someone who appeared as imbecilic as he did. Nonetheless, they grew accustomed to seeing him, and his presence where they were no longer seemed unusual.

This was how Veritas tactically placed himself onto the petteia board as a piece that could no longer be overlooked.

Boedromion was a month of aid, so the prince decided to extend a hand to those seeking help in the assembly. From behind the scenes, he handpicked those he needed for his investigation: those who had the ear of the archon in charge of the military, those who worked in administrative wings of the palace, those who could be moulded into perfect aides for his siblings. He observed the strata unable to speak up, unable to assert themselves in the agora, unable to hold any sway of their own.

It was no altruism when he pulled them aside. Into their minds he painted himself as the benevolent saviour; the silver tongue who gave them their voice in the assembly back. In return, they turned themselves to pieces on his game board. Hence, he gained valuable information and more reliable rumours to investigate about the imperial family. Who to talk to, who to bribe, who to follow when the twin suns dipped below the horizon and the moon embraced the sky once more.

These were the new connections the seventh prince forged—a net far more sound than the ramshackle collection of drunken scholars and fools from the symposia.

Pyanopsion was the month of harvest, so his Highness watched his efforts fruit into an audience with Aha. The drunkard was shrewd—far too clever for someone rumoured to be an imbecile—therefore the seventh prince bowed before the sovereign and spoke no honeyed platitudes to THEM. When the king asked for his thoughts on the assembly, he answered honestly—and THEY guffawed with THEIR chalice in hand. When the king asked for his opinion of the people, he answered fraudulently—and THEY ruffled his amaranth locks with a hand that felt far too distant for a father.

What are people, if not tools for the Elation?

There is no greater joy for them than serving us on this grand stage.

Do you not agree, your Majesty?

Lie after lie dripped from his composed mouth. Even as he thought of the bright children running through sun-dappled streets, even as he thought of the beaming pedlars and their wares, even as he thought of the joy in the ordinary, mundane families he came across in the synoikiai—all these mentations came to a halt behind his expression. In those three sentences, his heart had hardened against THEM: as THEY smiled, as THEY affectionately broke bread with him, as THEY gestured for sweet wine to be poured into his cup.

The youngest prince was no longer a mere prince but Aha’s son; an acknowledgement that only served to disgust the youth further.

How vile.

And though his goal was reached, this was how the Elation successfully alienated itself to Veritas.

Maimakterion was the month of cold, and so the prince retreated to the stone palace for the first time since childhood. Past nightfall, he breached the lax security of the grand library and accessed its restricted section. All his manoeuvring, all his alliances and mind-numbing conversations—it was worth it to finally enter this place once more.

There, in a forgotten corner that seemed more sepulchral than even the mausoleum, the seventh prince found what he had searched for. Penned in faded ink that he could barely see even with the light enchantment, was proof of collusion between the imperial family and the so-called ‘heretics’.

This was the point in time where his Highness felt the most vindicated towards the venerable Sophos and THEIR mockery.

This was also the point in time where his Highness could no longer step off the path he had chosen.

“Do you think he can feel it?” The maiden idly twined threads past HER fingers, for it was far more entertaining to see a mortal walk towards his doom with a head held high. “Surely there must be some sense of ill portent.”

“The men most arrogant are least prepared for their end, Clotho,” the mother rebuked, but the syllables were about as harsh as spring butterflies—for SHE, too, anticipated the boy’s expression as he stared into the face of his own hamartia.

“Hubris!” the hag cackled, yet the tremble of HER deathly grin belied the ever-present tears that traced the weary lines of HER face. “What a terrible conclusion.”

For the Moirai, this fate was nothing more than a short-lived, tragic play.

And so, the month of Posideon passed quickly for both the three and the prince. The information inked into the yellowed scrolls was his proverbial labyrinthine thread, tugging his body to his salvation. Through the throngs of regular humans, his path was etched towards the harbingers of heresy: alchemists and their ilk.

Throughout these days, he hardly thought of Sophos Nous at all; yet the familiar sensation of exoneration remained. He would prove himself before THEM; he was ready to put Aha to trial in front of the assembly if need be.

The archontes were not infallible.

This fact applied to Aha especially.

When he probed those labelled as heretics, he was bitterly reminded that this wasn’t their fault. They were not the lawmakers, nor were they those with choice. Victims. Shackled to the Elation, their actions were akin to those of a puppet: pushed towards their day of reckoning by a force far superior to their own.

Thus, the seventh prince worked tirelessly. Through the short days, through the long nights—he toiled away in his tower. He compiled sets of arguments, practised endless logos, drafted out the evidence necessary to condemn those at fault within the upper echelons of Metis.

Gamelion came and went. Under the guise of a serving boy and some forbidden enchantments, Veritas walked the long stretches of the palace with nothing but worn sandals on his feet. He traced its ancient mosaics: memorising the old walkways and floor plans gifted by one of his acquaintances. For preparation was the friend of success, and the prince was nothing if not successful in his endeavours.

It all led up to this night—stepping into the room sequestered from any official floor plan.

“Look at him,” the maiden cooed. The spindle in HER cruel hands stilled momentarily—for a brief while, none were born. Though, this was an insignificant deviance in the tapestry of humanity: far too quick for anyone to realise. “Has he realised he’s out of his depth yet?”

“Hardly,” the matron scoffed. “He’s ablaze with self-righteous anger, as it were. Surely he could not have been ignorant of the sins on his own blood-kin’s hands?”

“Lachesis,” the hag warned. “Keep silent and enjoy the act.”

“Don’t tell me you feel sympathetic, Atropos?” the mother sneered, for it was ludicrous that the Moirai felt any sort of attachment to humanity. To fairly allot, the reason for THEIR very existence, was no longer possible if any bias was introduced to any of them.

“Hardly,” the crone muttered. HER sentimentality would not affect HER role in this universe; just as it had been before, and as it would be after, HER shears would continue their severing of life from humans.

The three were rapt as the prince gazed around the hall. Every turbulent beat of his heart, every miniscule grit of his molars, every bitter fist his sinuous hands made—all of his reactions were carefully documented, since a tragic hero like him had not been observed for an age and then some.

It was by no means a modest room. The circumference of the marble spanned the equivalent of the large temple dedicated to the Elation, propped up by frieze-decorated columns. Stone reliefs etched into the walls depicted the rise of his lineage; they were intertwined with a sickening repertoire of mythos that they had no place against. Heroes of the old gleamed bright against his family’s wickedness—so utterly out of place he couldn’t help but gaze foully at the castings.

Turned yonder, and the door through which he came glinted with the tell-tale light of an enchantment: a rippling string of formulae that indicated the space warping which enveloped this place. Yes, although the archon had expressly forbidden use of enchantments, they clearly had no qualms about taking the knowledge for their own gain.

For the Elation is above the law.

Past the vast anteroom was another door; this one, too, distended and undulated under his piercing gaze. Or rather, the silent movement of his mouth as he shattered its illusions and breached its innermost chamber—and this one was the one which struck him still.

The seventh prince could only watch, horrified, as the expanse of terror unfolded before him. There was no escape from the sight, not unless his eyes were plucked out of his skull.

Aeons.

There was no space unblemished by golden cadavers. Cadavers, for statues surely wouldn’t possess faces distorted in crazed screams and bodies contorted in the most despicable of agonies. Cadavers, for surely their pain had ended—he prayed they were dead within their metallic shell, he prayed their souls had departed the material world, he prayed that his presence didn’t disturb their rest any further.

Bile rested bitter in his mouth, and he struggled not to let the acrid film swirl into vomit—for his stomach churned and his palms grew clammy at the sight.

These were the supposed threats to the Elation—innocents whose only crime had been to be against the tyranny of his family.

For their dissent, they’d been dipped in molten gold—either dying through the intense heat, or slowly withering away as the alchemy chipped away at their flesh.

Both options were equally horrifying. The seventh prince’s vision swam, and he barely made it back to his tower before his legs finally gave out.

Yes, the prince had gained the knowledge he finally needed to take down his family, but at what cost?

Deep inside, he already knew the heavy feeling in his heart was the price he was beginning to pay.

If only he knew the fate allotted to him at the end of this thorny path.

Anthesterion trickled by slow as a fat bee. Sluggish. Every second was prolonged, every moment was accompanied by his racing pulse and adrenaline-stricken brain. No longer did he need to act the cowed prince—for before his siblings, his mouth grew dry and his pupils constricted into mere pinpricks.

When he glanced at his sister, he saw the golden woman who’d wept with her body curled in on herself: shoulders hunched to her ears, hands sharpened into desperate claws (gouging at her flesh, since everyone knew pain nullified pain—and what greater anguish was there than losing your very body to aureate?). She’d writhed in her last moments; the harrowing movements had sent shockwaves all throughout the security enchantments.

He could taste her tears.

When he stared at his three brothers, he also stared at the man who had ripped off his own arm to escape his inescapable fate. He stared at the blood that had pooled like gilt on the marble floor, for not even his most ardent lifeblood could evade the disgusting talons of his kin. He stared at the expression of horror the man had: eyes bulging out of their sockets, mouth twisted to an excruciating scream, and a wretched gaze afflicting him.

He could feel the oily sanguine dripping from his own hands.

He could no longer escape his siblings either.

They relished in the iron grip they had over the city. They revelled in the generated fear. They savoured their long talks—talks which Veritas was now privy to, talks in which he did his best not to heave up the fruit in his stomach and the bilious film that now perpetually dwelled on his tongue. He was reviled, but they indulged in their craving for petrification with a particular sapidity that broke him down—over and over and over until he could no longer smell anything that didn’t carry the stench of copper.

That was perhaps the month in which the seventh prince grew the most ill.

Elaphebolion trailed its ghostly fingers around his neck like a noose. He grew careless in his haste to put his family before trial: left too many loose ends, made too many connections, and drew the attention of far too many eyes.

It didn’t take long for his tower to truly become the cage of his metaphor.

No, it took less than three days from his last meeting with an informant to find the door to his tower securely locked. Overnight, while the seventh prince restlessly slumbered, wrought bars enclosed his windows in one final trap.

Thus, the prince was prince no longer, but a bird with its wings clipped forevermore.

But that was not the end of it—for if it was, his life-thread would not have been seeped with the bloodiest of carmines.

Mounichion was when Aha finally came to visit THEIR wayward son.

Join me, THEY offered—though Veritas knew THEIR proffered hand was no salvation, but puppet strings that would attach to his own. For the ceaseless entertainment of the Elation, this was perhaps the greatest mercy Aha could extend: to become a dull marionette in this gilded cage until only his bones were strung up for all to ridicule.

And when THEIR son’s incensed gaze did not waver, THEY sighed.

Maddened with grief, boy? THEY mocked the look in his irises—once as bright and sweet as cherries, now dulled to the hue of dried blood.

Kill me, those numbed eyes seemed to respond—but futilely, the youth wanted to live.

“I’ve something much better, son.”

Mounichion was thus the month of confinement, where Aha planted a short-lived weed of hope that sprung up in the cracks of the prince’s heart—and withered just as quickly.

Thar-gelion was when Veritas avoided death, but lost many things in return.

It had started off small. His vision began to blur somewhat, but he chalked it to confinement in his tower. Even when he crafted himself ocular lenses and fitfully forced himself to sleep in the topmost room, there were moments in which the edges of his sight faded and greyed with a frequency that slowly increased.

He browsed anatomical manuscripts. When the light from the twin Suns was particularly dim, he struck the oil-lamps with crude enchantments and perused their words as though they held the key to his answers—yet the lack of solutions was not enough to alarm him.

It should’ve been.

His sense of smell was next to mute, though this was a far more subtle difference than his sight. Being confined to a particular area would obviously force one to grow accustomed to its ins and outs—including the odours and various scents of it. It wasn’t a problem, until one day Veritas Ratio noticed he could no longer quite smell the papery fragrance of his scrolls, nor the rich tang of his ink.

Yet still, he ignored the warning signs. After all, he was preparing for his eventual execution.

Naturally, his taste palate, too, had dulled due to his weakening olfactory sense. Although, this loss was far less profound than one might have anticipated—but it made all too much sense if one took into consideration his status as a prince awaiting judgement. Feed him enough so he survives. A few pieces of flatbread, some cheese, and one or two bruised handfuls of dried fruits were dropped through the bars daily—along with a skin of sour wine—much like feeding a wild bird when it had not yet been tamed enough for the door to open. These various foodstuffs were bland enough that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he could taste either way.

Thus, the prince simply did not notice this sense fading.

The next sense to take leave was his hearing, and this time he did feel the difference. His balance was affected, though he surmised that was due to the lack of nutrients his body received. But when the fragile rustle of paper against his fingers stopped registering; when the tell-tale thump of his heart in the silence of his room grew silent; when he could no longer hear his own neurotic waves of breathing—this was when the seventh prince realised something was dreadfully wrong.

He’d screamed himself hoarse, tearing at his skin with his nails to wake from this forsaken dream—only to no longer feel his crescent nails digging into flesh.

No. No.

Air came shallow to the prince as his fading eyes desperately fixated on the blood welled on his arms. He could not feel the wounds. He could not smell the metallic crimson dripping in rivulets. He could not hear the hasty, panicked breaths and his racing pulse. And finally, when he put his mouth to staunch the flow, he could not taste the acrid tang on his palate either.

And so, the prince spent the month of Thar-gelion slowly losing his mind.

Skirophorion was when it came to a bitter end.

In those days, His Highness barely left his bed. Sleep was now the only respite; he could no longer read his books, he could no longer pore over his beloved tools, and he could no longer support his weakening body. Any meals were now delivered far more sporadically; alas, the prince rarely ever ate.

Death was imminent.

His mind had long since given up, and his body was sure to follow.

Any day now. Veritas could only count the seconds, the minutes and the hours—no longer could the youth cross the days off, not when his joints and limbs had petrified.

Death was a mercy the prince would not receive.

It was when Aha next visited THEIR son at the tower that Veritas truly learnt of the state he was in.

No, he was no longer at his tower. That was a lie—a last comfort afforded to the prince.

Poor child, all of this suffering could have been avoided, Aha’s message burst bright in his dulled mind. He thought he felt his index finger twitch.

Would you like to see what you look like? The golden impression faded, as though Aha was waiting for the prince to answer. Well, I suppose you can’t answer either way.

A sort of horrified fascination lingered in the scholar’s mind. Had his flesh, too, been transmuted to an aureate statue?

Did you think you’d join your people as one of MY sculptures? The question shook sympathetically, or maybe it was a dry laugh as the king looked on at THEIR pitiful son.

No, child, you deserve a tragic end befitting MY line.

And thus, the youth blindly awaited his judgement.

Death shall never end thee, for madness will be thy salvation.

No longer did he sense Aha’s presence.

Rather, one last image was transmitted through the king’s enchantment—a cliffside, in which Veritas could faintly see his own features carved into the rock. Then, nothing.

The stone smoothed out, and his image was struck from history forevermore.

. 　⁺ ✦

When the next Day of Silence came and went, the prince was truly mute. He had no mouth, after all—so not a scream left him.

The only thing he had left were his thoughts: one last, final burden.

Is this the cost YOU foresaw, Nous?

Veritas Ratio’s arrogance was no more. And so, the prince’s story came to a swift, acrimonious end. No, not end, for that implied that he was not shackled to limbo. Bound to neither gold nor a statue, he would spend the rest of time waiting to be purified of his sins—for gold was finality. Gold was the most sacrosanct form of death he had not been afforded.

And as the prince continued to count away the seconds, the minutes, the hours and eventually the years which trickled past in the hourglass, only insanity awaited him.

This was the tale of the seventh prince; an elegy hidden from the footnotes of history.

Within the game Lament of Ouroboros, his sorrows were summarised thusly:

A strangely warm vein of ore.

Hero, come here when dusk kisses the edge of the Borderlands. As your palm brushes against the rock, you may be able to feel the pulse of a slumbering prince.

Three sentences were all that was afforded to the disgraced prince, forgotten to all but the Moirai.

Three sentences were how his tragedy was retold.

Three sentences, a final insult to the most pitiful of princes.

. 　⁺ ✦

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preciouslandmermaid · 7 months

Text

of songbirds, swords, and spice (5)

pairing: Opla!Zoro x Opla!Sanji x Fem! Reader (no use of Y/N or L/N)

tw/cw: alcohol/drinking

🏴‍☠️ read on AO3 🏴‍☠️

(masterpost)

<- (previous chapter)

The Going Merry glittered beneath the night sky. A rich, flavorful aroma wafted across the cool breeze from the kitchen, but Sanji assured everyone that dinner wasn’t ready yet. Zoro downed his third—or was it his seventh?–cup of sake. Your skin buzzed. Your heart rate was erratic. You drank slower than everyone else and wondered idly if they’d start spilling all their secrets. Luffy seems too earnest for secrets, you thought with a measured glance at the captain of the Straw Hats. Nami on the other hand...Your eyes flickered to her while you refilled Usopp’s cup. Nami’s wary trust and frank pragmatism reminded you of yourself, which meant she couldn’t have had a childhood of kittens and roses. Sanji approached, carrying appetizers for you and her.

“Dinner is going to take a little longer than I expected,” he said smoothly, “but I couldn’t bear the thought of you starving on my account.”

Nami rolled her eyes as you reached for a flaky, triangular pastry. You had one more day of Sanji’s cooking and wouldn't waste it. If the winds stayed true, then the Straw Hats would leave Nightingale Island by tomorrow afternoon. They’d become a story you’d repeat to Clover, Aiden, and the other children at the orphanage. ‘Tell us again’, they’d cry, tell us about the Straw Hats!’. You bit into the pastry, and its crumbs caught your lower lip.

Luffy asked, “Where are my appetizers?!”

“Ah.” Sanji clicked his tongue. “They’re cooking. I wanted Nami and—” he looked at you, gaze dropping to your mouth momentarily, and a flush tinged his high cheekbones. “Well, let’s just say they’re better when they’re fresh.” He looked away and cleared his throat. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and flicked away the loose crumbs.

“Stop playing favorites, cook!” Zoro yelled from across the table.

“I’m not playing favorites.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Does anyone else feel like it’s unfair that the captain didn’t get to try them first?” said Luffy, holding one finger up. Before anyone could argue further, or make complaints, you grabbed one of the pastries and held it out to Luffy.

“He never said we couldn’t share,” you said.

“Oh.” Luffy smiled and plucked the pastry from your fingertips. “Thanks!”

You didn’t miss Sanji’s relieved, grateful smile. Nor did you miss the sudden, fluttery swoop of your stomach. You knocked your drink back, and let the harsh rice wine hit your throat with an uncomfortable, hot splash. You coughed, your eyes watering, and Zoro smirked at you. You sharpened your blurry gaze into a glare. The background conversation muddled and fell away. Zoro filled your vision, taking up too much space, his dark eyes awakening something slumbering inside your lower abdomen.

“What?” You weren’t going to let him mock you, the cocky bastard.

“Seems like someone can’t hold her liquor,” Zoro said. His index finger mindlessly trailed over the rim of his cup before drawing away and gripping the neck of the sake bottle. You swallowed your sore throat.

“I can hold my liquor just fine, thank you,” you replied and ignored the hoarse croak of your voice. You wiggled your fingers as you held out your hand for the bottle. Zoro’s dark eyes dropped from your face, and so did your stomach. His gaze lingered on your fingertips, the digits softly curled in supplication.

“Sure.” He scoffed. “We’ll see.” Despite his doubtful tone, he passed the sake bottle, and you were careful to ensure your fingers didn’t brush along his.

“I’m not rising to the bait, Zoro. I’d be an idiot to get drunk around strangers.”

He tilted his head and the orange-white bulbs hanging from the sailing rigging flashed his golden earring. “We’re strangers?”

You shrugged and didn’t drink. “Close enough, right?”

“We’ve fought together three times.” He refilled Luffy’s cup for him. “I fought alongside Luffy once before joining his crew.”

You couldn’t understand Zoro’s words. Was he seriously that drunk? Fighting together didn’t automatically equate to loyalty or friendship. Once, you saw Marines fighting alongside rebel fighters against a common enemy, but the Marines returned to arresting the rebels once the mutual thread was gone. You couldn’t imagine a world where Zoro of all people wanted you to join the Straw Hats. You blinked slowly.

“Are you trying to ask me to join you?”

“No,” Zoro said while crossing his arms.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re not strangers.”

“Because we fought together?”

He nodded. His eyes were cast toward the heavens and you frowned. If this was how Zoro made friends then it was no wonder he traveled with this motley crew. There was no friendship between you. Estella hired them. You were the babysitter for this job because she trusted you more than she trusted a handful of inexperienced pirates. Friendship and loyalty? No. No way.

“I could betray you,” you reminded him, “take the box and tell my grandmother that everyone died while we were collecting it.”

“You won’t.”

You cringed, and hot, prickly heat pooled within your cheeks and along your throat. How dare he presume to know you? Okay, he was right, you had no intention or desire to harm any of the Straw Hats. Still, he shouldn’t know. He shouldn’t. You drank and didn’t cough. Zoro’s mouth twitched. Your silence was proof for him. Proof of your loyalty, your compassion, and the tentative bond forged between you. You needed to clear this up.

“How do you know?” you snapped, “you were the one who threatened to chop me into little pieces if I betrayed you!”

Zoro’s lips thinned. Hah! I win! You thought, your shoulders lifted. You had overreacted – Zoro didn’t know you. He was spouting bullshit to try to get under your skin because he was drunk.

You reached for the last pastry, but Zoro snatched it before your fingers touched the thin, airy crust.

“The cave,” he said lowly with his eyes locked onto yours, “you wouldn’t have survived the drop.”

The heat returned and simmered. Your words had been impulsive, half-formed by your worries for the lack of treasure, and reeling from the adrenaline spent from the fight on the beach. Would you have let go of Luffy’s hand? You bit your lower lip. You didn’t want to die, but you also didn’t want any of them to die for Estella’s treasure hunt. If anyone had to be sacrificed for Estella’s sake, it had to be you, and no one else.

“So what?”

“Doesn’t sound like the action of someone willing to betray her allies.”

“You’re reading into it.” You shook your head. “I didn’t want Luffy to fall into the cavern with me, that’s it. I didn’t think he could keep holding onto me.” The Straw Hat captain was surprisingly strong.

“Whatever you say.”

Annoyed by Zoro’s nonchalant perception of your character, you stood, and grabbed the sake bottle, smirking.

“Hey!”

“Get your own,” you quipped before ascending the steps to join Nami at the upper deck. She knelt beneath the tangerine trees with a large map sprawled before her. Her head lifted at your quiet approach and your hand tightened around your small cup and you offered Nami a tight, awkward smile.

“Zoro,” you said, waving your hand vaguely by manner of explanation. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”

Nami smiled. “He’s not so bad.”

You huffed and sat cross-legged beside her. You weren’t inclined to agree with her. Zoro was strong, and a capable fighter, but his social skills needed work. Hell, even when fighting, he managed to annoy you. He bumped into you, pushing you out of the way of an attack without asking, and he made reckless attacks by jumping at vicious, deadly spider-women. You set the sake bottle between you and Nami.

“What’s that?”

“It’s the map to the Grand Line.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Isn’t it always?” She shrugged one shoulder. “You know, I heard what you said on the beach about your dream.” Her eyes turned to Luffy, standing on top of a barrel and laughing, and her smile softened. “I know what it feels like to have an impossible dream, but traveling with Luffy has taught me that some dreams...you can’t accomplish them on your own.”

Your heart pounded into your ribs. You knew Luffy’s dream—he never shut up about it and announced it to everyone, it was a point of pride for him. Sanji shared his dream with you, his thread of connection with his savior and mentor, Zeff. But, everyone else on the ship was a mystery. It’s my last night with them, you thought, I might as well learn all I can. It’ll be good for the stories.

You asked, “What’s your dream?”

The tangerine trees rustled overhead, the sharp citrus scent mingled with the mouth-watering scents coming from the kitchen below. Nami rubbed her hand over the tattoo on her shoulder.

“It started with Arlong,” she said. She shared her story, about Arlong’s deal, and how he betrayed her after she had collected enough berry. You listened, your heart twisting and tugging into strange shapes inside your chest. Usopp said the Straw Hats defeated Arlong, but he hadn’t told Nami’s side of the story, and you found yourself emphasizing with her. You knew what it was like to work for someone you despised, to be trapped, and you knew what it was like to be removed from your home. You angled your gaze downward, toward the map of the Grand Line, and blinked away the burning, sharp prickle behind your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said after her story was finished. “I’m glad you were able to escape from him.”

“Me too.” Her fingers smoothed across the map. “What’s your dream?” she asked quietly, “is it really so impossible?”

Nami’s bright orange hair brushed along her pale cheeks in the wind, her expression was thoughtful and kind, and you didn’t think she’d pressure you to say anything if you didn’t want to. Your eyes followed the swooping design of her tattoo. A symbol of her freedom, of reclaiming her destiny, and navigating her life without abuse and control. You closed your eyes. You saw the endless blue waters, stretching forever, and the shadows that loomed over the islands and pulling the invisible strings. But then you thought of Nami. Brave, determined Nami, a child willing to chain herself to Arlong to work for her home’s freedom. A hundred million berries – an impossible dream. Yet, she had collected the berry, and with the help of Luffy and the others, they removed Arlong’s influence from Cocoyasi village. And now Nami was free to chase her true dream of creating a map of the world.

You had always believed your dream was unattainable. However, this conversation with Nami set you off-kilter, and a tangerine-shaped seed of doubt took root in your stomach.

You said, “I don’t know.”

“Maybe,” Nami said carefully, “you just need friends to help you.”

For the second time, one of the Straw Hats implied friendship with you, and your heart skipped at the idea. How can we be friends, you thought bitterly, when you’re going to leave in a few hours? You'd never see them again once the Straw Hats passed into the Grand Line.

“Are we friends?” you asked.

“Don’t know.” She held up her glass to you. “I’d like to be.”

You lifted your cup and knocked the side against Nami’s. “Me too.”

After dinner, you returned to the upper deck to sit among the tangerine trees and clear your head. You laid on your back, arms crossed and pillowing your head, and watched the stars float aimlessly by as the Going Merry drifted through the calm, dark-gray waters. Your heart had fluctuated between heavy and light. You liked the Straw Hats, but you couldn’t stay with them. Estella needed you. How would the Golden Cupid survive without you? It couldn’t! Your devil-fruit powers allowed Estella’s business to rake in more berry than they ever could through regular performances. You trailed your fingers across your throat, ghosting along your collarbones, feeling the slight pebble of goosebumps beneath your fingertips. Your voice was your greatest weapon and your greatest asset. I can’t stay on a boat, either. The ocean sapped your strength. Estella needed you, the children needed you, and you couldn’t leave them to chase your dream.

Nami’s story, so similar to your own, was an outlier. Most people don’t get to achieve their dreams. You lifted Pandora's ivory box from your pocket and held it aloft in front of your nose, except Estella. Her dream is complete once we deliver this. The ivory surface absorbed the moonlight, turning the angles and divots along the carved surface into luminescent cracks. Estella never wanted to solve the puzzle boxes. She said there was no point. ‘Pandora wouldn’t hide berry in them,’ she said once, ‘they’re too small.’ You figured her desire to have the boxes wasn’t about berry but about the prestige of having something that once belonged to a famous, female pirate.

The wooden floorboards creaked. “There you are,” Sanji said, “care for company?”

You sat up. “Sure.” It’s our last night together.

“I have a personal question,” Sanji said, sitting next to you, though you noticed he was careful and gave you space. “If you don’t mind humoring me…”

Down below, Luffy shouted, “Guys! We have a cat!” He held Mimi from under her front paws, her lower body swaying as he twirled around, and you were surprised that she tolerated it. She never let you pick her up. Oh, Luffy. You chuckled under your breath and shook your head. I wonder if Mimi will stay with them.

“What’s your favorite dish?” Sanji asked, lifting one leg and resting his wrist on his knee. His lighter sparked and illuminated his profile in a brief, flickering glow, his pale eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks, and his lips pinching to hold the cigarette between them.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m a chef,” he said, exhaling smoke. “And I want to make you something special for tomorrow to celebrate.”

A swarm of butterflies hatched inside your stomach. You quelled your desire to smile, at his thoughtfulness, and the sight of his longer fingers tucking his lighter into his pocket. You toyed with the puzzle box, passing it back and forth between your hands, and watched the dark, green tangerine leaves rather than continue to stare at Sanji.

“What if you’ve never heard of it?”

“Describe it to me in detail.”

You squinted at him. “And you’ll just – what? – figure it out?”

“More or less,” he said, then smiled.

You asked him to give you a few minutes to think. Your favorite dish? You had plenty of foods you liked, plenty of dishes you’ve tried from years of traveling and being on the run with Estella, from street food that dripped over your fingers to expensive cuisine that you could barely pronounce. Your thumb flicked over the puzzle box’s corner.

“Before I…” You stopped yourself, unable to complete the sentence with honesty, and licked your lips. “Before I worked for someone, we had this cake every year during the Festival of Limitless Water,” you said, “we had all these rivers that ran through the mountains.” You made a swooping gesture, following the memory of hills and streams, and your heart hardened to lead.

“Anyway.” You cleared your throat and were well aware of Sanji’s focused, blue eyes on you. “They’d make them in the shape of fish, and fill them with red bean paste, or custard, or…” You trailed off and realized you couldn’t remember what they tasted like.

The act of remembering your home, your past, felt like razors clawing up your throat. You were barely seven when you left the Yama Archipelago. You remembered it in pieces. The clouds that swelled and wrapped around the mountains like heavy blankets, the fish-shaped cake warm inside your hands, the yellow paint on your childhood door, your parents–

“Keep going,” Sanji said, breaking your trail of thought before you spiraled. “Was it flaky and layered? Or flat?”

“It wasn’t flaky. Sometimes, when it was warmer, we’d eat ice cream from inside of them.”

Sanji nodded. “If it could hold its’ shape, then they must’ve used molds.”

“Probably?” You shrugged. “But, if that’s the case, then I don’t know where you’d find the mold before everyone leaves tomorrow.”

“I’ll improvise.”

You sighed, twisting the puzzle box in your hands. Sanji wouldn’t be able to make the dessert before everyone left. You knew it. He knew it. But for now, beneath the starlight and swaying lights, you would pretend that he’d fulfill his promise—and that you’d see one another again. The smoke trailed out of Sanji’s lips, faint and blue-tinged.

“What’s yours?” You asked, watching the smoke curl into faint wisps before they dissolved.

“Spicy seafood pasta.”

“I should’ve made my paella spicier then,” you said. Who’s cooking for Estella if I’m not there? You hoped she wasn’t worried about you, or Mimi. You hoped she was looking after herself.

“It was perfect as is.”

The nape of your neck tingled, and a flush of hot and cold danced through your veins.

“Thanks.”

“But I’m always available for private lessons,” he said, “if you ever want to advance your culinary prowess.”

“Right.” You laughed. “I’ll just come find the Going Merry in the middle of the East Blue and take you up on the offer.”

“Or you could stay,” Sanji offered gently, his voice a whisper on the smoky, tangerine-scented wind.

“I can’t.” Your reply was quick and pointed. “Estella needs me.”

Sanji of all people should understand your predicament. You wouldn’t abandon her.

“I thought the same about Zeff, but then he reminded me that spending my life at the Baratie was foolish. I was meant to find the All Blue for the both of us.”

You held up the puzzle box, admiring the fine craftsmanship, and said, “What happens after you accomplish your dream?”

Will Estella be content to place this puzzle box among the others? Your dream wasn’t attainable, but hers, Luffy's, Nami's, and Sanji’s dreams were. Where did the passion go once the dream was fulfilled? Sanji held his long, dexterous fingers out to you in a silent request and you wordlessly passed the puzzle box to him. You watched as he attempted to open it, but nothing worked. A little furrow worked its way into Sanji’s brow before he gave up and held it back out to you.

“You find a new one,” he said quietly.

#fic: songbirds swords and spice #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #zoro x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #zoro x sanji #poly fic #zoro x sanji x reader #opla fanfic #one piece live action fanfic #zoro x you #sanji x you

74 notes · View notes

liveyun · 10 months

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 ; KSJ

title. white sand

pairing. kim seokjin x female oc/reader

genre. angst, exes au

warnings. mentions of broken marriage, arguments, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, missing communication in a relationship ; divorce ; non descriptive smut, allusions to miscarriage ; surprise ending?

wc. 3.3k+

listen to : playlist

masterlist | taglist

The sky is gloomy today.

Do you want to turn a river in its bed,

Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat?

Warm water ripples underneath your feet, giving you a feeling of you being still alive. That certain feeling of your stomach churning never leaves you, as you inhale a deep breath. This wasn't new to you, at least you knowing that wasn't. Your heart throbbing with pain each time whenever you see colors swirling around your life, but not you. Everything felt blank, everyday was an endless loop.

Your thoughts never ran twice before committing anything, resulting in indiscretion.

You didn't know why you'd visit the beach once in the year when the water felt bizzare to your skin; but at least this feeling of your feet sinking in the soft wet sand, the feeling of the cold breeze soothing your skin calms down your racing thoughts.

If you can meet with triumph and failure

And treat those two impostors just the same

Triumph. You weren't sure of when you met triumph, but failure, for sure was met by you. Failure is the secret ingredient to your success, they say, but when you actually fail, there aren't many who still stand by their quote.

The bubbling pot of jealousy inside, being compared to others, despised, accused of being a traitor, these all were some things which you craved to forget, but some things can't be just forgotten, can they really be?

If you can bear to hear the truth they've spoken

That you stepped right in trap for fools. But when?

They get buried inside your own self, in one such deep crests inside your heart that when even a glance is spared over, your whole self falls into an endless slumber of contriteness. Was it fair to lead on in this way? Pity for others, harassment for your own self. The truth is factual, you have heard it by your own self, and you are ready to accept it all. It itself might hurt but all these things, at least have an honesty within that you haven't been through unfair means to provide you a bittersweet nostalgia.

They say that success and failures are like the two faces of a coin. They're both an outcome of luck with a probable chance of 50-50 for each. Hard work does not always bring success, no matter how hard you put in your efforts.

But they also say that to keep a drowning relationship afloat, you have to put in effort.

It hit you hard when you’d realized that the risk of risking it all can also mean losing everything you've ever had in your life.

It hits you even harder when you remember how the decade old moon pendant still rests peacefully between your clavicles, against the resonating of your heart. You'd wanted to throw that away in the vast ocean, wanting the hues of the blues carry your pain, the memories to a place far, far away from you.

But you never had the heart to part away with something so close to your heart.

It's the seventh year you're seeing the imprints of your feet on the dunes of the damp sand on the same day, every year.

It's the seventh year you're walking alone on the beach with no sounds of squeaky giggles tingling your ears.

You wonder if the pendant still holds the tiny pieces of paper between its leaves which have both of your initials imprinted, or it's faded away like your footprints on the sand with each wave hitting the coast. Like how the castles you'd build together did.

4th December.

Your heart beats like crazy within your ribcage when your fingers feel the gentle surface of the white pendant, a relic which once was the reason for your smile blooming like lilies in a pond. But now, it only reminds you of your failure— your failure to keep your relationship afloat. Of your broken connection.

It's the seventh year you're reminded once again that it's truly over.

It's the seventh year you've realized that you're no longer together with your childhood friend whom you'd married.

It's the seventh year you've realized that maybe you've died. Maybe a part of you has, because till death do us part did not do any justice to you. To your best friend, your husband— ex husband.

It's the seventh year you're living without him, as many would say that you're doing completely fine, maybe only you know that a part of you never has ever stopped yearning.

Never stopped loving him.

You take off the pendant from your neck, gently unfolding the metallic celestial halves. The white paper in both of the tiny compartments unveiled bold, black scrawls with tiny hearts surrounding them.

KSJ ♡ YN

You feel the pain right in your chest, spiraling up your lungs to down your stomach till you could no longer breathe properly.

It's not a vague memory in your mind the day he gifted you the pendant. The event replays in your head like it's yesterday, when you were both young adults with warmth glowing in your faces, in your hearts, surrounding each other with the blanket of love. You still remember how young he looked with flushed cheeks and eyes twinkling under the moonlight, half squeaking, half laughing at some lame joke. His warm, big hand enveloped yours as you two walked to the waves in this same beach, feet sinking to the white sand glowing in the night.

You still remember how Seokjin had made a note of how warm the water was in comparison to the weather, and you'd make a note of how the tips of his ears were a shade of crimson.

You still remember when he had handed you the pendant, smiling so brightly, saying that he's forever grateful to the moon for blessing him, and you still remember the freshness of his breath as his lips touched yours for the first time ever.

You still remember how scared you two were. Having discovered your love for eachother after pining like idiots, you knew you had a lot of talking to do. You still remember how hot his lips felt on your skin, promising you words of affirmation that you both got this.

You still remember how delicate he was at that night of your first time together, how gently he made love to you, and how he coaxed releases after releases from you, gently kissing your heated flesh with each stroke to your skin. How he'd turned to mush after you'd touched him back with the same passion, with the same desire.

You still remember his teary face when you'd met him at the altar, when you'd exchanged your vows of eternal love and fidelity. You still remember how different the kiss you'd both shared felt to be, almost like a seal to your newfound journey.

You still remember how happy you two were. You two had promised that you'd got this together.

You feel your eyes stinging with tears amidst the bitter smile that hangs loosely on your lips, because you still remember the first time when things got hard. Really hard. You still remember the shaking of his dark pupils like an autumn leaf hanging on the tree, quivering with guilt suppressed anger when he saw you flinch. He had yelled at you, for the first time ever. He stroked your back with flurries of apologies as he kissed you to sleep that day.

You remember how any squabbles were silenced without any communication gradually and how any quarrel would be slept on without any apologies from either of you.

Despite the slowly forming gap between you two, he'd still make sure to have prepared breakfast for you when you'd wake up late. How he'd still prepare the vase every two days with your favorite flowers. How he'd pull you closer to his broad chest, lulling you to sleep, or occasionally telling you about his days.

You still remember how slowly the arguments turned to sleepless nights with a fidgeting heart and a choking stomach. How everything was so gradual that it took you time to realize that it was happening, and you'd taken it for granted.

How the loud voices of you both threatened to blow off the ceiling, and how your eyes hurt after crying yourself to sleep. How dark the bags under his eyes seemed every morning. How scared you were when you realized that he was no longer behind you, let alone stroking your back when you were bawling your eyes out as he used to do earlier.

How you'd wake up to an empty side of your bed, how your texts went unanswered most of the time. How every day after work you'd return to an empty home, flowers withered and dead on vases and everything picking up layers of dust.

How you'd fall asleep with untouched food on the table when he'd return back to home late from work. How you'd no longer smell the piping hot food everyday when you'd woken up. You would wake up to the same, empty place, knowing that he had been there, but he left without even sparing a glance.

You'd also miss how Seokjin would return to home with a throbbing guilt in his heart, never putting off the blame in his heart which accused him for everything which has been happening in your marriage.

How his heart would shatter to pieces each time after a quarrel, realizing the situation. How heartbreaking your sobs were behind the closed rooms or the running showers.

But he'd never got to apologize, because a part of him wanted that to come from you too. He'd wonder at times if you thought the same.

You still remember the lone happiness which bloomed inside you after so long when you'd seen two lines on the pregnancy stick after days of throwing up in the morning. How you'd thought that maybe, maybe this could fix everything between you two. Everything which you weren't ready for, but were thrown onto. Everything which you didn't know existed between you two, but was clearly visible day after day. You were positive that it definitely would.

How fucking selfish of you.

You still remember his absence and his ignorance when you were so excited to let him know about the happy news. You still remember the piercing fight which took place when he returned from his three month long business trip. You vaguely remember how you'd cry for him at nights to hold you, trashing beside the empty bed, how you'd throw up and clutch yourself to sleep. How the doctor had already warned you of your difficult pregnancy and to avoid mental stress as much as you can.

You vaguely remember how he'd asked you why do you look so pale. You barely remember the panic, the pain when the conversation flowed to another fight, now you yelling at him. He'd screamed at you that you were a burden to him.

You faintly remember the agonizing pain at your lower abdomen, strong enough to blur your vision and strangle you down to the ground where he'd cried your name as you fell down, and everything had blacked out.

But you actually remember the look on the doctor's face when she told it out loud.

And even clearer, the look on Seokjin’s face.

You don't really want to remember everything else which happened after that. Your friends had taken you home, away from him, suggesting that it's for the best. Some of them had already warned you beforehand when things had started to fall gradually and they emphasized their surmise of the situation.

You don't want to remember anything else which happened after that. You don't want to remember how you'd know that his company had gone completely bankrupt, and how he'd tried his best to save it.

You don't want to remember the time when you'd sent him the divorce papers and the look on his face, ignoring his thin frame, dark bags underneath his eyes which seemed devoid of any light in them, at all.

You don't want to remember all the times he came back to you, called you, texted you endlessly and begged forgiveness for everything he'd done to you but not even once to come back to him.

Maybe he knew already that you wouldn't.

You don't want to remember the time when you'd gone to your once shared apartment to get back your stuff. It felt. . .empty and devoid of any life, your once warm home staring at your face with a cold air around it, partially suffocating you from all the memories you'd created together. Whether they were the happy ones, or the terrible ones.

You'd purposefully ignored the vase of fresh flowers greeting you or all the furniture being spotlessly free of any dust. You'd ignored how your heartstring tugged at you when you'd see that his clothes are still with your own in the closet and how the bed was changed into the bedsheets which you'd bought at the beginning of your honeymoon.

But you couldn't refrain yourself from stepping into his study. Maybe it was because you were sure that you wouldn't be seeing him anymore, and the court would be the last place and time when you'd see him. Maybe because there was a part inside of you which wanted you to hang on for him. Hang on for you, but you'd ignored that, suppressing the voice inside you.

You absolutely don't want to remember whatever you'd seen there anymore. Whether it was the unfinished yarn you'd knitted to a poorly made mass during those three months knitted to an almost finished sweater, or the photos of you both framed on the shelves where you'd previously seen trophies of his youth camping on.

From small kids grinning ear to ear to adolescent teens with awkward poses to full grown adults and your last photo you'd taken together at Ilsan a year ago then as a couple. Each of them rested one beside another and other memories which were caught in small handicrafts you'd thrifted during your small visits to nearby towns in your early teens.

Because that only makes you fall into the endless pit of guilt, again and again, realizing that you'd never heard his part of the story. Your initial anger had always refrained you from thinking that way, but you'd know that despite everything, every effort you two had put into your marriage, had been in vain. You remember how pale, dull, thin and silent he'd seemed at the day of your divorce. He'd just a thin jacket on his frame regardless of the freezing cold outside with heavy bags underneath his eyes. He'd acknowledged your presence with a slow, long stare of his dim, puffy eyes, a small single nod of his head. You'd ignored how much it hurt to see Seokjin like that, but you'd instead decided to move forward, no matter how painful it was.

You remember the silence from his side when the judge had asked him questions about the reasons why your marriage broke down to pieces. You'd held your breath in your chest which already hurt with the constant throbbing.

He'd answered with a voice that you couldn't recognise from the person you'd known for more than half of your life.

“I wasn't there for her when she needed me the most.”

The judge had asked again, why'd he give up. If he knows, shouldn't he be trying to make it up to you? His answer, perhaps, had shocked the judge, too.

“Once a knot gets tied between a thread, the knot forever remains, no matter how much you try to untangle it.”

The actual last time you saw Seokjin was after you two were divorced, sitting beside each other, having signed on the papers which officially meant that you two no longer were married to each other. Your heart felt numb with the pain and your eyes were devoid of any moisture, having exhausted them all within the painful months you'd spent alone with the memories haunting you.

You hadn't looked up at him, and you knew he didn't, too, and you didn't want to. You'd seen his fingers twitch on the paper where he held his pen, close to yours own, but made no further move. You'd itched to say something to him which you didn't know if you should've, but you'd kept quiet all the while.

You'd heard his tiny please forgive me,if you can the last time before you exited the court, but also from the place where you'd relished your memories, a souvenir to your old love.

You close the pendant with a snap.

It's the same day you divorced your ex husband.

4th December.

It's his thirty-first birthday, too.

As the waves crawl gently towards the white sand of the coast, you exhale in the breath you were holding in. You run your thumb on the craters like designs on the outside of the golden pendant, silently feeling the burden inside your chest now being a bit lighter.

You don't know if you've truly moved on, but the bitterness in the memories doesn't really feel bitter to you. At times they overwhelm you, but it's not intense.

You wonder if Seokjin is doing well.

We were taken from the ore-bed

And melted in the furnace pit—

We were cast and hammered to design,

We were cut and filed to fit.

You don't like nostalgia, but sometimes it reminds you that failure and struggle are the components who develop your character. If anything, it reminds you that mistakes were made and consequences were beared, but it also leaves you with a tingling curiosity inside. Is Seokjin living in the same city? Is he..is he celebrating his birthday today?

Birthdays for him were fun. Birthdays with him were fun.

You don't know. You guess it wasn't really within your imagination to imagine what it would be like for him. You just hope and wish he's doing okay. You hope he has healed well, or is healing well.

You stand up, your pendant still clutched in between your palms, no longer feeling the weight it carried for you, from you throughout the years of your life.

The weather begins to get chillier as the sun slowly makes its way away from the face of the world.

The low rustle of the waves and the slow whoosh of the wind tells you that it's time to leave.

Exhaling a breath you didn't know you were holding on, you turn to exit the beach. A simple smile spreads on your lips when you suddenly feel the pendant slip away from your slightly sweaty palms to the sand underneath.

You bend down to pick it up, and your hands brush against another hand which doesn't belong to you.

A warm one, and an oddly familiar,big one.

A pair of warm, curious pupils, twinkling within the dark pools of coffee hidden underneath tresses of dark hair greets you.

You look up.

“Seokjin?”

His eyes are wide and shaking slightly by the time you both stand up, your hands dangerously close to his which clasps the pendant within. He looks healthier, fuller and he's gained some much needed weight over the years. He's dressed in a white tee and black shorts, and you notice that he's let his hair grow. His cheeks have a flush which you'd notice was new to you. If anything, he looked handsomely young, as if he'd aged back.

Walk down the white sand just to watch his lonely footprints get washed away by the currents. He's trying not to fall back to the habits which tore himself away from him, but he's never been truly free from the guilt which pokes his chest in every aspect of his life.

When he saw you seated on the edge of the coast when he was out to visit the beach that meant the most to him, he couldn't believe his eyes. Every year on his birthday he'd visit the beach in the evening with a selfish hope in his heart, which he knew wasn't rational at any cost.

He used to sit on the coast the whole night, feeling the moon soothe away the burning memories of you. Hoping he'd ever find you, but always in vain. Hoping he could apologize for everything he's done except uttering a small sorry like a fucking coward.

The beach would always remind him of you.

Your hair is shorter than how he saw it the last time. Your cheeks are fuller, and your eyes have their light returned back to their places. You sat there in the same silence which he did at a distance, refusing the rational part of him which told him that it's wrong. He'd promised himself that he'd go away before you'd get up, and you seemed lost in thoughts as he took you in. Even if you two weren't together anymore, he was happy. Genuinely happy to see you okay. After everything you'd gone through. He knew, he was by no means rightful to ever look at you even, because he knew ever since then that you don't need him anymore.

Even if he tried, he could never stop loving you. Trying to be a better man everyday, wishing he could stop time and go back, knowing it's impossible. Everyday he'd wished he could. . . .

Now you're looking at him, and he doesn't know what to say. How to talk. You looked peaceful. You looked happy. You—

But when he'd seen the pendant he'd thought you wouldn't have it with you anymore, he lost it.

“Seokjin?” Fuck. This is the second time you've called him, but he doesn't find the crease in between your eyebrows as he'd expected to. You're rather smiling, a sight which he finds his heart racing miles at.

You don't wait for his response.

“Happy birthday.”

a/n : happy birthday to our silly moon prince~ hope you liked this one which i actually managed to finish in the brink of time ong

don't be sad, he's coming back soon home! :D as always, reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated 🌙🌹

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cegiel-athelia · 1 month

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Love in the Stars

(A Love and Deepspace x Qi Xi Tale)

This is a sequel to the Moonlit Orchid Day event on 10 August 2024.

I thought that it is important to educate the fans about the true nature of the event, that is, Qi Xi (七夕), commonly known to simply be the Chinese Valentine’s Day, but it is really more than just that. It is a love story. It is a story of broken hearts and eternal love all at once.

I have done my best to summarise the myth into an easier read for players, so please, enjoy.

Genre: Very Fluffy (and slight angst, only if you are able to catch the nuance.)

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The low, soft humming of the engine of the car as Zayne was driving us back from the festival was steady and consistent amidst the melodic chorus of the song, “Mountains in the Night”, which he said that he would play enroute our way home to Linkon.

I laid on my side in the reclined passenger seat, gazing tenderly at the stoic, yet magnanimously caring man before me - the same person I have known since my childhood, and I was grateful that fate had not only given us the chance to reconnect after years had passed, but that we now had something that is more than special.

His soft chuckle cut through the ambient noises when he noticed my staring, and he said in a voice that was gentle, “what is it?”, as he removed his grip from the steering wheel to take my hand in his, intertwining our fingers – a gesture confined to our private moments together.

I shook my head, a fond smile playing on my lips as I replied, “Dr Zayne, what did you wish for on your sky lantern?”

He let out another amused chuckle at my question, releasing my hand to shift the gear. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t come true.”

I smiled knowing that that was not exactly true, but I did not insist. Instead, I murmured, “I saw you peeking while I was writing my wish on my lantern. How much did you see?”

A blush formed on his cheeks which spread to the tips of ears, almost imperceptible by the dimness of the night and confines of the car. He cleared his throat as if to brace himself before he spoke. “I saw that you wrote ‘I wish to be with Dr Zayne forever’, and you punctuated it with five exclamation marks.”

I groaned an agonised sound, covering my face with my palms from the embarrassment, and his chuckle drifted to my ears again. In concession, he spoke in a gentle voice, “I wished for the same thing with you, but I excluded the exclamation marks.”

I lifted my head from my hands and for a fleeting moment, I saw the curve of a smirk on the sides of his lips before he returned his attention to the road ahead.

We stayed there in the comfortable silence for a while, until I soon found myself drowsy with sleep. In defiance against the lull of slumber, I asked, “Dr Zayne? Could you tell me more about the origins of the festival?”

The familiar chuckle came once more, one that was of tenderness and affection as he obliged. “Sure,” he muttered, collecting his thoughts before continuing. “Moonlit Orchid Day is really the ‘Qi Xi Festival’. It falls on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month.”

He paused, slowing the car at the corner to make a turn. “On Qi Xi, the stars align, such that, it allows the constellations, ‘Vega’, ‘Altair’ – the star-crossed lovers – and ‘Deneb’ to come together. Deneb forms a bridge over the Milky Way to enable Vega and Altair to meet once every lunar calendar year.”

He glanced over at me and a wistful smile graced his features as he spoke. “In the Chinese mythology, Altair is the man known as Niu Lang, and Vega, the girl named ‘Zhi Nu’. There are several versions of the story, and this is but one of them.”

Zayne’s eyes were on the road, but his gaze appeared distant, as if, deep in thought. “Zhi Nu, together with her sisters, are the daughters of the queen of heaven, the Queen Mother. One day, they came to earth and bathe in a river in the mountains. Niu Lang was smitten by Zhi Nu’s beauty and he stole her clothes, which prevented her from returning to heaven with her sisters. Zhi Nu eventually fell in love with Niu Lang and they married, and were blessed with two children.”

I continued to listen to Zayne, or at least, I attempted to. However, his voice, combined with the low droning of the engine and the occasional sound of crunching asphalt under the tires, created a harmonious lullaby and my eyelids grew heavy as the minutes passed us by.

Still, I strove to listen to his words in my subconscious as I felt myself succumbing to the lull of sleep. “When the Queen discovered the marriage – one that was forbidden – Zhi Nu was immediately seized and returned to heaven. Niu Lang finding that Zhi Nu was gone, searched for her with his two children, embarking on a journey to heaven, intent on reuniting with his wife.”

Zayne’s expression became pensive, although his eyes did not leave the road as he navigated towards home. “To thwart his advances, the Queen ‘drew’ a river with her golden hairpin - the Milky Way is symbolic of that river – making it impossible for Niu Lang to cross.”

“Niu Lang mourned for his wife by the river, unable to cross it, and soon, the news spread and a flock of magpies, having compassion for Niu Lang, formed a bridge for the lovers to meet. The Queen eventually allowed the lovers to meet only once a year on that magpie-bridge – the constellation, Deneb.”

“That one day a year, is Qi Xi.” Zayne’s voice trailed off as he concluded the story, turning to look at the figure beside him, now soundly asleep.

Her breathing was slow and even, the glow of the passing streetlamps faintly illuminated her features, and her eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheekbones. He felt a breath catch in his chest at how ethereal and fleeting she looked. He reached a hand to brush a lock of hair away from her face, careful not to rouse her in the process and he could not suppress the tender smile forming on his lips.

He leaned in to whisper ever so quietly, “I will love and find you in every lifetime,” and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “I promise.”

===============-END-=================

#love and deepspace #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace rei #zayne #loveanddeepspaceedit #reiloveanddeepspace #rei #zayne and reader #zayne and you #lnds zayne #love and deepspace fanfiction #loveandDeepspaceshowercard2

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lvsifer · 5 months

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the sweet & talented @cilil tagged me on WIP Wednesday, so have a lil snipped from the next chapter of my Paul x Feyd fic <3

Feyd-Rautha lies down on the bed, closes his eyes and thinks of the boy. Reflected red light slashes the tenebrous room in half, a laceration that cuts Feyd-Rautha off by the chest. He touches where the light warms his skin just above his seventh rib and dips his fingers between his costal arches. Here. He imagines Paul’s blade push inside. He moans. “Come to me, Atreides,” Feyd-Rautha murmurs into the empty room, then throws an arm over his face, bites at his own skin enough to bruise while his free hand sinks between his legs. What if the secret door opened and the boy came to him now? Feyd-Rautha imagines Paul’s lesser weight on top of him, spreading Feyd-Rautha’s thighs.

And ALSO, this super old angbang wip from...2016..........that I will finish...some day:

Yet in gloaming Melkor had once more returned, gargantuan and of-augury. A light had shone in his eyes, both fiery and frore. Naught of offering or promises foul, only this: his hand extended, and crackling along the whiteness of his skin, power. And Mairon had taken it. For what Mairon wants is not to serve. He wants to make. Suddenly he needs not pledge himself. Nil binds him, but his own will to power. Torn from slumber, he for the first time sees, and stares into the depths of the world. And deeper than woe or servitude, cradled in igneous rock, lie his own blackening desires, clamouring for eternity. And eternal shall they be.

tagging: @sauron-kraut (i know cilil also tagged you but still <3), @jamlocked, @liesmyth, @saintstars, @crackinthecup, @curufiin @theskeletonprior

#wip wednesday #feydpaul #paulfeyd #paul x feyd #paul atreides x feyd rautha #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #paul atreides #dune #dune fic #dune fanfic #angbang #melkor #mairon #seduction of mairon #silmarillion #silm #silm fanfic #also yes absolutely referencing Nietzsche in my angbang fic. what about it.

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bluexiao · 2 years

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—reverse comfort, fluff, short drabble | a studio ghibili valentine’s collab with @spiriteddreams | honestly this was supposedly posted on valentine’s but college said no, anyway, enjoy~

#“i asked the spring to bring you to me”

Another month has passed, it seems, XIAO could only think to himself, gaze stretching as far as it could, seemingly far away than where he ought them to be–so unconsciously, so irrationally. In silent days like these, when he had cleared the monsters and karma within the night, only then does he find himself lingering on his thoughts, only then does he seek the idea of the serenity of his solitary, the silence that hovers over the air.

“Twenty-sixth,” he mutters to himself, golden eyes now focused at the moon above, leaning back and continuing to stare at the bright, new moon.

He was still counting.

Of course, he would.

He releases a small breath as he then closes his eyes, clearing out the world around him while remaining vigilant. It has been a while since he had last closed his eyes and fallen into slumber–right. It was the same day that you left.

He finds himself staring at the moon once again, its bright reflection gazing back at him.

Just a little more, he says to himself.

He’ll just have to see until the twenty-seventh moon.

The days started growing longer and the warmth was beginning to slowly ebb away the cold that winter brought in the winds from the past few weeks, especially ones that have come from the snow of Dragonspine that found its way to Liyue. Winds that he wished were you instead.

And as if Celestia had heard his silent wishes, he soon finds himself face to face with you, and that beautiful gentle smile you wore whenever you-

“Xiao!” you exclaimed, your smile then brightening upon seeing him looking right at you. Xiao denied every thought of missing you–he had no right to, he thinks, not one to expect, as well. Human life is fragile, one that can be so fleeting and so painful to all those who were left behind. He did not want to acknowledge it–missing you; your voice when you call out his name, your eyes that lights up like the sun, your smile under the starry night and moonlight.

But he could not deny it now.

Not when your voice is calling out to him, when your eyes are looking right at his very own, and your smile was flashing his way. Just like they were thirty-four months ago.

You were giggling as you spread your arms wide for him, and almost as if on instinct, he stepped forward to your form, shoulders easing up in an instant once he embraced you and buried his head on your neck.

At that moment, he could finally breathe.

“I missed you too, Xiaoxiao,” you whisper right next to his ear, making him shudder. Oh, how he missed it—how he missed this. He could feel your arms all around him, enveloping him with your ever-pleasant warmth, thawing off the winter that had encased his heart and his soul, freeing him and letting him see the light once again.

“I asked the spring… to bring you back to me.”

His words came out slowly. If it was the Xiao you knew back then, you would’ve thought that he was embarrassed to say such a thing—but no. This is him. This is the real Xiao, and he was showing it to you.

Your hold on him tightens as your lips find the spot below his jaw.

“I’m sorry, my darling,” you say, followed by another peck under his ear, as if it was another apology, “I’m here. I’ll never leave you again. I promise.”

He found his eyelids closing, breathing in, and heaving out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for coming back to me.”

#genshin x reader #xiao x reader #yaepublishinghouse #genshin xiao #genshin fluff #xiao x you

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florianniss · 3 months

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Dungeons and Drag Queens

RatedE, Identityporn, Drag Queen Eddie

“Gah!”

Steve has a tight-knuckled grip on his ‘Oh shit’ bar and his brake pedal is pressed all the way to the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the crunch of metal, the crushing of glass, the impact that throws him into the windshield and puts him in the hospital in a full-body cast.

It never comes.

“Jeezus, Steve. Lighten up, will you?”

Somehow, miraculously, Dustin has managed to swerve and miss the parked delivery van and is tooling proudly down the street like he didn’t almost send Steve’s life flashing before his eyes.

“You’re not my Dad, you know.”

Dustin turns the wheel back and forth, like he’s in one of those grocery store ride-ons that you put quarters in to make it move. He comes up on a stop sign way too fast and slams on the brakes at the very last second. Steve has to throw his hands on the dash to stay in his seat.

“That’s right,” Steve says, pulse rapid and thready, and he’s sure his veins are popping out all over the place. “I’m your Mom. And you’re a menace.”

Dustin rolls his head dramatically and steps on the gas. The old fake-wood-grocery-getter he’s borrowed from his folks spits up gravel from its back tires. Steve wishes he’d ridden separately, taken his bike instead.

“Why are you such a chicken lately, anyway?” Dustin whines. “You used to be fun.”

Steve bristles. “I’m still fun.” It comes out as a growl, like a cantankerous old bear woken way too early from slumber.

Dustin laughs and lays down another screeching halt. Steve swears he can smell the brake pads burned and disintegrated into dust. He grins like he’s done it on purpose, takes a corner and heads out of town, and Steve forces himself to relax.

He would never admit it, but he has become rather — conservative — these past few weeks. Like, his body is still twenty-two but his brain is thirty years older.

“Do I need to run through any rules with you before we get there?”

Steve gives a long-suffering sigh. It’s Saturday, and it’s the first day he’s had off in two weeks. And, like the soft-serve (coward) he is, he’s agreed to stand in for Dustin’s girlfriend, Suzie, at their little gang’s weekly board game.

“I got it.”

It’s not true, of course. He has no idea what the hell he’s getting into. What he does know is the second he found out Dustin and Mike and Max and Lucas and Will were secretly meeting in some random guy’s garage, his Mother Hen transformed into Mother Lion.

“OK.” Dustin doesn’t sound convinced.

He picks up the other kids and they pile into the back two rows, punching the back of Steve’s seat playfully as they pass. They pair off naturally, Mike with Will and Lucas with Max. Steve’s chest twinges a bit when he thinks about how Suzie rounds out their little group nicely.

Meanwhile, he’s the third wheel. (Or rather, the sixth? Seventh?)

Dustin and the others have been trying to get Steve to come for weeks. He explains nicely that he’s an adult and he has responsibilities: job, rent, groceries. Recuperating from life. The kids try to make him feel guilty by telling him everyone they invite always says ‘no.’ So, of course, he’s got to prove them wrong.

He also wants to meet this guy whose garage they meet in. What if he’s a creep or a kidnapper? Or a killer. The kids don’t even know how old he is.

Steve intends to find out.

Dustin pulls into the trailer park and Steve definitely gets Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibes from the place. He kinda wishes he’d brought his Leatherman. Or his bat.

The kids spill out of the car and hurry down the dirt driveway toward the mandoor on a faded puke-green metal building. Behind it, there’s a trailer in the same color and condition. A rusted van is parked crooked near the garage, an old Chevy truck has been pulled right up to the front porch. Steve notes the plate numbers in case he needs to report a crime.

He opens the station wagon’s back door and lifts the cooler. He’s packed healthy stuff like string cheese and peanuts, a bag of grapes and a few apples. It’s not just for his wards; it’s for him too. Ain’t no way he’s eating some serial killer’s pork rinds. No sir.

Steve follows the rest into the garage and isn’t half surprised to find it smells exactly like a garage. Rubber and oil and musty rust and something sweet — radiator fluid? He takes in the large open space, scanning the boxes and tools and spare parts before settling on a large, heavy, claw-footed dining table that looks like it belonged to somebody’s dead grandmother.

The boys pull out folding chairs and begin to set them up around the table, all talking as loud as they possibly can to make sure they’re heard over the others. Max smiles and hangs her gray tote bag with the rainbow straps over the back of her chair. Steve is pretty sure she’s wearing a Care Bear shirt, and he loves her for it.

Steve sets the cooler on the floor next to the table and realizes he’s forgotten something.

“Oh, shit, guys! I forgot the pop!”

Groans circle the table and Steve feels horrible. He’s about to volunteer to take the wagon to the 7-11 and pick up Slushies to make up for it, when a voice behind him offers another solution.

“I got drinks in the trailer.”

Dustin cheers and Steve spins around, hair prickling on his arms because this guy sounds much older than seventeen. And when he lays eyes on a very adult face, his stomach does a very convincing leap off a highrise. It’s nothing like he expected.

Apparently, neither is Steve, because the guy drops the opened box of dice he’s carrying in the crook of one arm and they clatter onto the floor like hailstones and roll under the table. A stunned set of dark eyes pop out of a narrow, handsome face, and his mouth falls open. For a second, Steve feels embarrassed for the guy.

Dustin, however, flies in from the side and hugs him. “Thanks, Eddie! We’ll just run in and —“

This Eddie shakes himself like a wet dog, and a stern frown creases his forehead as he narrows his eyes “Not you, Henderson. Or you two.” He points at Will and Mike. “Max. You and Lucas grab some and haul them out.”

Lucas grins at Max, who returns the smile with something mischievous. Eddie catches it and shakes his head. “And no beer. I ain’t serving minors, here.”

Steve watches the whole exchange with a little jealousy. He’s supposed to be the only one who gets to boss these kids around. But he can’t possibly say anything; the guy’s logic is sound, and even if he’s just covering because Steve is here, it’s one less thing to worry about.

Because there’s definitely something about this Eddie that has sent Steve’s pulse racing.

He realizes he’s staring and quickly crouches to help the others collect the escaped dice. Down on hands and knees, he notes how sweaty his palms are, the nervous shimmy behind his navel.

What the hell is wrong with him lately?

When everything’s been collected and he crawls back from under the table, Eddie and Dustin are standing in the same spot. Except Dustin has a shit-eating grin on his face. And Eddie is looking like he’s been hit with a baseball bat.

His eyes are – well, they’re captivating.

“Uh,” Eddie says, and he folds both arms over his chest, hugs himself tightly. “I’ll go check on Max.”

He spins on his heel and high-tails it outside, like he’s seen a ghost or something.

Dustin continues to smile as he approaches the table and chooses a chair. He carefully spills out his little figurines and bag of matching dice, and Steve wants to throttle him for how smug he’s being.

The conversation returns to the volume levels from inside the car. Everyone is going on about what happened last time, all of them trying to fill Steve in. He tries to listen to each of them in turn, catches phrases like, ‘That demon was so sick, man!’ And ‘I can’t believe you tried to open the chest with a shovel!’ They were really getting into it, saying, ‘OK, then, next time you open the damn thing!’ and, ‘But nobody’s got lockpicking!’ when the door opens, and Eddie and Max and Lucas walk in.

Steve’s eyes flit over the Mountain Dew piled in both kids’ arms (they’re gonna be a handful on the ride home) and settle on the fact that Eddie has changed his shirt.

It’s long-sleeved, less wrinkled, and newer-looking. It’s like his hair has been combed; all the tight curls have separated and they seem softer somehow. He swaggers, yes, swaggers, across the floor right up to Steve and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. Jeans that hug his frame a little too well.

“I’m Eddie Munson. Hey.” It’s cocky.

Steve stands so quickly that he almost knocks his chair back. Someone at the table snickers.

He slips his hands in his own pockets. “Steve Harrington. Hey.”

They exchange hard-focused glares and brief nods, and then Eddie moves away to take a chair at what’s clearly the head of the table. It’s directly across from Steve.

Eddie sits, and Steve sits, and he tries not to think anything at all. Tries to clear his brain and make it an empty space. Because, if he doesn’t, he’s bound to think this guy is threatening him in some way. There are some pretty territorial vibes coming off him.

Chaos ensues. Everyone scrambles to spread things out on the table. They lean over it, sometimes standing on their chairs to reach. And they argue, of course, because they always argue.

“That’s not where the garden was! It was over there! Next to the rowboat!”

“No. That’s where the temple statue was, remember?”

Steve tears his gaze away from their host’s and finds the tablecloth he thought was a honeycomb-themed covering, is actually the mat they’re playing their game on.

He checks to see if Eddie is still watching him, and, he is. Looking over the top of a large manilla envelope as he slides white sheets of paper out, one at a time. It’s eerie, really. The way his eyes seem so deep. As if he’s some sort of —

Well, Steve doesn’t know.

Eddie passes out character sheets and Steve’s instructed to read his. He scans through it, reading about a man who’s a noble who worships some kind of dragon god. He doesn’t understand all the stuff on the front; it’s a lot of reading. More than he’s done since college. Even then, he needed a quiet room with no distractions to understand what he was reading.

Eddie’s garage is far from that.

Dustin leans over and hands him a velvet pouch. “You can use some of my dice.”

Steve leans into him. “You’re gonna have to help me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Dustin laughs, but he does help. All of them do, actually. More than enough. At one point, when his character “Rodrick” is standing on a half-sunken pirate ship, and it’s his turn to decide whether he should investigate a dark, dank, waterlogged room, even though apparently he can’t see into it, Max pats him reassuringly on the back and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll cover you.”

Steve isn’t worried about some fictional character in some fantasy game, who can’t die anyway because he’s got a biblical laying hands spell. He’s worried about making a fool of himself in front of –

Yeah.

Eddie’s murder stare eases eventually. He lords over the board, hunkered down behind a makeshift barrier he’s set up on his end. Steve catches on that he’s not playing, he’s leading the game. He’s sarcastic and loud, swears like a sailor, and it’s clear he knows his shit. It’s like he knows how everything is supposed to play out ahead of time, and he lures the other players into his trap.

It doesn’t go as he expects either, because Dustin challenges him on everything. He argues that in real play some character wouldn’t really do that. He corrects Eddie on how many hits someone gets, or whether spells can be used in certain instances. They bicker like a couple of old, long-married people, while the rest of the kids dive into notes they’ve taken, share each other’s sheets and basically work together to overcome and defeat monsters. And if Steve hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, hadn’t been there to watch the playful back and forth that was actually whimsical and light-hearted, he wouldn’t have believed it.

After Dustin throws a fit when an undead monster stays dead by Max a second time, when it should have resurrected once more to be killed a third, Eddie loses his cool. He picks up the suspect monster and hurls it across the garage, where it slides over the concrete floor and ends up in a pile of junk.

“He’s dead because I say so, got it?”

Steve watches fire dance in the guy’s eyes, but he’s not fooled. He understands, just like the kids do, that he’s not really angry. He’s enjoying this.

They’re a few hours in when Steve dies. And it’s not the fact that he’s dead, really. No. It’s the humiliating way it happens.

“Why the hell did you do it that way, you idiot?” Dustin shouts at Mike, who has made the decision to take a fancy bow-and-arrow shot between his legs, aiming for the space under Steve’s character’s arm where it sits on his hip. Unfortunately, it hits Roderick directly in the ass, and the following roll of the dice lands on the ‘twenty’ side. And the table erupts into shrieks and complaints in every direction.

“You killed him!”

Steve sits back in his chair, shocked and not quite understanding what happened, when Eddie begins to laugh.

It’s not your typical everyday ha-ha funny thing. This is a full-bodied, chair tipped on two legs, clutching your stomach because you’re about to piss your pants, raucously mirthful and fucking joyful laugh.

And it goes on. And on. And on. It continues for so long, in fact, that Steve finds himself grinning. Dustin has his head in his hands, Will is defending Mike, and Max and Lucas are looking over Steve’s shoulder at his sheet to see how they can bring him back to life (because apparently, nobody else has healing spells).

Eventually, Eddie sets his chair back on four legs and gets out of it. He steps away from the table and motions for Steve. He walks right out of the garage.

Steve follows, because how can he not?

The trailer house is filled to the gills with old-people stuff, trinkets and wall hangings and lots of Catholic mementos. It smells like cigarette smoke, but it’s basically clean. Small and cramped, well-lived in, but not the kidnapper’s lair Steve imagined.

Eddie is in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, just his backside showing. He slams it closed and comes out with two PBRs. Eyebrows raised in question, he waits for Steve to open receptive hands before he tosses it over.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

Eddie cracks his open and leans sideways against the counter, crossing one long leg over the other. He lifts his beer as acknowledgement and tips it back, watching Steve as he pops his open too. A grin lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you know Dustin?” he asks once Steve has had a chance for a swallow. “Believe it or not, he hasn’t told me that yet.”

Steve imagines the breakneck speed at which Dustin talks, especially with someone he’s just met. And he hadn’t even considered that Dustin would have told Eddie about him.

“His mom knows mine. We went to the same school.”

Eddie tips his head slightly, like he needs a different angle to be able to understand. “How old are you?”

Steve considers the beer the guy tossed him and figures he must have an idea. “Twenty-two.”

Eddie smirks, eyes glinting. “Seems kinda suspicious for two guys to live together. Especially when you’re so much older than him.”

And Steve gets it. Eddie is making sure Steve isn’t hurting Dustin, just like Steve’s been trying to do with Eddie.

He counters with, “Well, how old are you? People might get the wrong idea, seeing as you’re an adult, and all, and these kids keep coming over to your house.”

Eddie’s smile widens and he takes another sip instead of answering. Steve decides to push the envelope a little.

“How do I know you’re not giving them drugs?”

Eddie chokes on his beer, but catches himself before it spews all over the kitchen. He coughs as he’s smiling, wipes his mouth off with a towel that’s threaded through the oven door handle. And when he looks at Steve, there’s some self-preservation bleeding through.

“Why do you think I invite them to play DnD here, huh? All sorts of shit goes down in this community that no one even knows about. They’re good kids, Steve. I just wanna keep ‘em safe.”

It’s the first time he’s said Steve’s name, and it feels – well, it feels, strangely intimate.

“I just didn’t realize they already had a babysitter,” Eddie teases, and the tense atmosphere lifts.

They share a look and a smile and it goes on for far too long.

That’s when Lucas slams the screen door open and leaps into the hallway. “We figured out how to save you!”

Steve catches Eddie’s eye before giving in to Lucas’ incessant tugging on his elbow.

“I’ll be there in a sec. Gotta take a piss,” Eddie says, burping into the back of his hand and crushing the can against his thigh. It’s something that shouldn’t make Steve’s brain fizz out. But it does.

Steve is bombarded when he enters the garage with a plan the group of them worked out together. It seems Will is still mad at Dustin, scowling over Mike’s shoulder, but the rest of them are enthusiastically escorting Steve to the table while explaining their plot to resurrect him.

Eddie strolls in, not five minutes later, with more beer. This time, instead of tossing it, he sets it on the table at Steve’s elbow and smiles down at him. Steve smiles back because he’s honestly over his head here.

They continue on, successfully completing that quest and jumping headlong into another, until Steve’s ass is sore and he has to pee, and he steps out into the now-night air to piss behind the garage.

Two beers in and his thoughts are making connections he really doesn’t need at the moment. Like how twice now he’s become completely enamored with someone the first time they meet. Like how he’s a sucker for a big, wet, expressive pair of eyes and an intelligent mind. Like how it doesn’t matter that Eddie’s a guy, because he’s not picky. And he’s suddenly sinking into the horrifying feeling that he’s cheating on –

But that’s ridiculous. He’s not going steady with anyone to be feeling that way.

When he returns, Eddie is telling a gory story about some chick in space who’s encountered alien things with acid blood. The kids are ‘ewing’ and ‘grossing’ and Dustin is on the edge of his seat listening to the tale. Eddie eyes Steve and winks, then dives into a graphic description of something called a ‘chestburster.’

Eddie laughs at their disgusted groans. “Ellen Ripley is fucking badass, and I love her.”

Steve feels a strange swoop in his gut. He doesn’t know who this Ellen Ripley is, but he’s suddenly jealous of her.

“I have an idea!” Max shouts over the din, waving her hands to get everyone’s attention. “We should go see the movie. All of us. Together. Suzie too”

“What movie?” Steve asks, and everyone answers in unison.

“Aliens!”

Steve makes eye contact with Eddie, who is watching him with amusement. He’s heard of the movie, but isn’t sure it’s the type of thing the kids would enjoy. He doesn’t even know what it’s rated, and if they can even get in to see it.

But the kids are already making plans for the following weekend. Dustin rounds on Steve and says he absolutely has to go with them.

“Yeah, Steve,” Eddie says, teasing from across the table. “You just have to go.”

Steve knows a challenge when he sees one. “Fine. I’ll do it. But you have to go, too.”

And that’s how Steve Harrington drives a carload of kids home, hopped up on caffeine and sugar, wondering how he’s gotten himself a group date with a bunch of teenagers and Eddie, of all things.

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#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #alternate universe #drag queen eddie

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