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p1psqueaks · 20 days ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — WATCHING A THUNDERSTORM TOGETHER

ZAYNE

The clock reads 2:14 AM.

You're curled up in bed, warm and safe under the covers, but the soft rumble outside pulls you from the edge of sleep. You watch the flicker of lightning light up the darkened bedroom, shadows dancing across the walls like fleeting ghosts. Rain taps gently against the windowpane, rhythmic and soothing — yet your heart is restless.

You turn your head.

Zayne sleeps beside you, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady motions. His lashes flutter slightly with each breath, his usually sharp features softened by sleep and the faint glow of the storm outside.

You smile. Even in the quiet, he somehow takes your breath away.

Another low roll of thunder vibrates in the distance.

You hesitate. He’s peaceful. But the storm is beautiful, raw and electric. You want to share it with him.

So you reach out, gently brushing your fingers across his hair before leaning close.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice barely above the rain’s hush. “Wake up.”

He shifts slightly, groaning softly. “Mm… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, brushing a stray lock from his forehead. “But I want you to see the storm. It's… beautiful.”

His eyes open slowly — soft forest green meeting yours, still heavy with sleep. “You woke me up for a storm?”

You nod, sheepish. “I know it’s silly, but… I wanted to watch it with you.”

He’s silent for a moment, processing. Then a lazy, fond smile stretches across his face.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, sitting up and ruffling his hair. “Alright, let’s see this beautiful storm that couldn’t wait ‘til morning.”

You both pad quietly over to the window. The world beyond the glass is drenched in silver-blue light, thunderclouds shifting above like celestial beasts. A bolt of lightning cuts across the sky, illuminating everything for a split second.

Zayne wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against him, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. He’s warm, grounding.

“You were right,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “It’s beautiful. But not as much as you.”

You laugh, your heart fluttering like a moth in your chest. “You’re just saying that because you’re half-asleep.”

“I’m always honest with you,” he says, voice soft but certain. “Even when you wake me up in the middle of the night to stare at clouds.”

You lean back into him, letting yourself melt into the moment — the quiet, the lightning, the way his arms tighten just slightly when the thunder claps louder than expected.

And standing there, wrapped in each other’s warmth as the sky dances just for you, the world feels infinite and impossibly small all at once.

Like all that matters is here. Now. Him.

You smile, eyes never leaving the sky.

“Thanks for watching the storm with me.”

“Thanks for being my favorite kind of chaos,” he whispers back

XAVIER

The storm rolls in like a whispered promise, soft at first — then louder, insistent, as if the sky itself needs to be heard.

You’re wide awake, lying in bed while the wind sighs through the trees and lightning dances across the ceiling in quicksilver streaks. Your heart thrums gently, in time with the distant thunder, and for some reason… you want to share it.

You glance to your side.

Xavier is asleep, half-curled toward you, his hand loosely tucked beneath his cheek. There’s something unfair about how peaceful he looks, soft silver hair a little tousled. He’s always so composed during the day — but here, in the quiet night, he’s all vulnerability and warmth.

“Xavier,” you whisper gently, placing your hand on his shoulder.

He stirs slowly, brows drawing together faintly as he blinks up at you. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” you say softly, giving him a small smile. “I just… there’s a thunderstorm. I wanted to watch it with you.”

He stares for a beat, still caught in the fog between sleep and waking. Then his expression softens, and without a word, he sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

“You always find beauty in things other people sleep through,” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse.

You grab the spare blanket draped over the end of the bed and gesture toward the window. “Come on, sleepyhead.”

He chuckles under his breath, quiet and warm. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’m lucky you love me,” you tease, tossing the blanket over your shoulders and holding it open for him.

He steps into it without hesitation, settling beside you on the window seat as the storm rages gently outside. The glass fogs with your breath, and the lightning illuminates the contours of his face — a living painting in blue and gold. His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, tentative, but certain.

You sit together like that for a long moment. Silent. Close.

“It’s kind of beautiful,” Xavier says at last. “How something so chaotic can be… calm when you’re beside someone.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Exactly why I wanted to share it with you.”

He’s quiet for a second, then: “Do you remember the first time it stormed when we were apart?”

You do. It was the first time you realized how much you missed him in moments like this — quiet, intimate, unspoken moments.

“I do.”

“I couldn’t sleep that night,” he says softly. “Kept thinking of what it would feel like to sit beside you, just like this.”

You look up at him, and he turns to meet your gaze. His eyes are so full of affection it almost hurts.

“You have this way of making the world feel smaller,” he whispers. “In a good way. Like… the only thing that matters is what’s within reach. And right now, that’s you.”

You reach up and gently brush your fingers against his cheek, his skin warm beneath your touch. The next bolt of lightning flashes, illuminating the moment as if the universe itself wanted to take a photo.

You lean in, just a little.

He meets you halfway.

It’s not a rushed kiss. It’s the kind that makes time feel like it slows down, like thunder and heartbeat become the same thing.

When you pull away, your foreheads rest together, and you both smile.

“Thanks for watching the storm with me,” you murmur.

“Thanks for making it the best part of my night,” he replies softly.

And outside, the storm continues its dance — wild, beautiful, and cradled by the quiet warmth between your two hearts.

RAFAYEL

You’re already sitting at the windowsill when the first thunderclap echoes through the apartment—low, rolling, and a little theatrical. Fitting, considering who’s sleeping in your bed.

Or was sleeping.

You glance back.

Rafayel stirs, groaning softly like the world has personally offended him by being loud. The lightning flares, casting a brief silver glow across his face. He blinks once, twice, then groans again as he flops dramatically onto his back.

“You woke me up with weather?” His voice is rough from sleep but somehow still velvet-smooth, like he’s practicing a monologue even in half-consciousness.

“I didn’t wake you,” you say innocently. “The thunder did.”

He peeks one eye open, stares at you sitting wrapped in a blanket by the window. “Cutie, I’ve been dragged from dreams of velvet galaxies and your arms… for moisture in the sky?”

You bite your lip, suppressing a grin. “It’s not just rain. There’s lightning. I like storms.”

He groans again, even more theatrical this time. “Of course you do. You would fall in love with the sky in chaos. How very you.”

Despite his protests, he sits up, sweeping the covers off with a sigh worthy of center stage. His hair falls slightly into his face, and his eyes — still a little heavy with sleep — find yours. There's mischief in them already.

“Come sit with me?” you ask, softer now.

That softens him instantly. He crosses the room with exaggerated reluctance and a hidden smile, grabbing the throw blanket from the bed and sweeping it over your shoulders with a flourish before settling behind you, legs on either side of yours.

“I’m only here to protect you from getting stolen by rogue lightning bolts,” he murmurs near your ear. “And maybe to steal a kiss or two while I’m at it.”

You laugh as you lean back into his chest. “So noble of you.”

“I know. Tragic hero, really. Denied sleep by love and thunder.”

Outside, the sky flashes again — jagged light carving across the clouds. The thunder follows, louder this time, and you both flinch slightly in sync before bursting into quiet laughter.

You tilt your head to glance at him. “You scared?”

He scoffs. “Please. I cause storms, cutie.”

“Mm-hmm. And yet you jumped.”

“I was merely reacting in empathy. For you.” He wraps his arms around your waist dramatically. “What kind of lover would I be if I didn’t flinch in unison with you? Very romantic. Very poetic.”

You roll your eyes affectionately, resting your hands over his. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet… irresistibly charming,” he finishes for you, grinning as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

A comfortable silence falls between you for a moment. The storm paints the sky with streaks of light, thunder gently rumbling in the distance now. His fingers play lazily with yours beneath the blanket, the earlier teasing giving way to something softer.

“You really like storms?” he asks after a moment, quieter now.

You nod. “They remind me that even the sky doesn’t have to be calm all the time. It’s allowed to be loud, wild… beautiful in its own way.”

Rafayel hums thoughtfully. “No wonder I’m in love with you.”

You blink, surprised at the sudden honesty in his tone.

He smirks when you turn to look at him, though there’s a flicker of sincerity behind it. “What? You thought I only had dramatic declarations in daylight? Please. I have a storm to compete with now.”

You smile and turn back to the window, resting your head against his chest.

“Then I guess I’m lucky you’re always a little louder than the thunder.”

He chuckles softly, his lips brushing your temple. “Cutie, I live to be louder than the sky. But only for you.”

SYLUS

You’re not sure what woke you.

Maybe it was the rain, tapping lightly at the glass like a question. Or the soft rumble of thunder curling through the early hours. Or maybe it was just the way the night felt—heavy with something unspoken, like the quiet was trying to tell you something.

You sit up, slowly, careful not to disturb the man beside you.

But of course, you’re not careful enough.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sylus’ voice is low, calm, like a steady current beneath the storm outside. He doesn’t open his eyes, but there’s a small, knowing smile on his lips.

“I was trying not to wake you.”

“Mmm,” he hums, cracking one eye open now. “Sweetie, you do realize I’m literally trained to wake up at the sound of a pin dropping, right?”

You smile. “I forgot I live with a walking security system.”

He lets out a soft laugh, then shifts, sitting up and stretching. “So? What pulled you out of sleep this time? Bad dream? Or just following your nightly urge to be mysterious and broody by the window?”

You roll your eyes, already heading there. “It’s the storm.”

“Oh, so dramatic,” he teases gently, rising to follow you. “What’s next? Monologues about fate and destiny?”

You settle on the windowsill, watching raindrops streak down the glass. “You joke, but… doesn’t it feel like the world slows down when it rains like this?”

Sylus leans against the wall beside you, arms crossed, gaze following yours out into the night. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just one of those people who listens when the sky talks.”

You glance at him. “And what’s it saying tonight?”

He shrugs, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like it’s telling someone to come sit in their boyfriend’s lap instead of catching a cold by the window.”

You stifle a laugh. “Subtle.”

“Always,” he murmurs, and when you turn to look at him again, he’s already reaching out his hand.

You go to him, settling easily in his lap, his arms wrapping around you with practiced ease. His warmth is grounding — like the eye of the storm, all calm and sure. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, just beneath the collar of your shirt.

“You always get quiet on nights like this,” he says, his voice barely above the sound of the rain. “Thoughtful.”

“I like the stillness,” you whisper. “It makes things feel more… real.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, breath steady against your skin. “Everything’s real with you. Even the quiet.”

You fall into silence again, listening to the thunder roll gently in the distance.

Then he adds, more softly now:

“You know, for someone who sees so much of the universe, it’s storms like this that make me feel the most human.”

You blink, turning slightly toward him. “Why?”

“Because they’re flawed. Unpredictable. Loud one moment, soft the next. Beautiful in ways that don’t make sense.” He pauses, his hand finding yours beneath the blanket. “Kind of like love. Or you.”

You laugh, touched and amused all at once. “That was cheesy.”

“It was,” he agrees without shame. “But accurate.”

You lean your head against his, closing your eyes as the lightning flickers once more — just a pale glow now, soft and fading.

With him holding you, the thunder doesn't feel distant or threatening. Just part of the rhythm. Part of the night. Part of the life you’re building together, one quiet storm at a time

CALEB

It starts with the rain.

Not a dramatic thunderclap or a sudden downpour—just a slow, steady rhythm tapping at the windows like it’s asking to be let in. You sit up in bed, drawn to it, to the hush of the world being washed clean. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:07 AM.

You should sleep. But something inside feels too full. Or maybe too empty. You’re not sure which.

You slide out from beneath the covers quietly, careful not to wake him.

But you don't make it far.

“Can't sleep?” Caleb's voice is soft, still rough with sleep, but somehow clear in the silence.

You pause. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he says after a beat. “The rain did. Or maybe the quiet.”

You turn to find him already watching you from where he lies, his violet eyes soft in the faint glow of the streetlights outside. He sits up slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You okay?”

“I just… needed some air.” You gesture vaguely to the window. “It’s the kind of night that feels like it has something to say.”

He nods, then gets up without another word, crossing the room and standing beside you as you open the window just a crack. Cool air slips in, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant lightning.

You both stand there for a while, not touching, not talking. Just breathing the same quiet.

Then, softly, Caleb says, “Storms always remind me of endings.”

You glance at him.

He’s looking out into the rain, arms crossed loosely, his shoulders just slightly hunched. His expression is hard to read — like he’s not entirely here, like part of him is somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Somewhere painful.

You want to ask, but you don’t.

Instead, you whisper, “Sometimes they feel like beginnings to me.”

He looks at you now, really looks.

There's something like longing in his gaze. Not romantic, not exactly — not in this moment. It’s deeper. Like a part of him recognizes something broken in you that mirrors the cracks in himself.

You step closer, slipping your hand into his.

He squeezes gently.

“I used to be afraid of storms,” he says, voice low. “When I was a kid. The noise. The unpredictability. I hated not being able to control it.”

You cocked your head to the side, eyes widening slightly at the revelation. “You…never told me that before. I never noticed.”

Caleb’s sigh was soft with a hint of solemnity. “Because I didn’t want you too, Pips.”

“And now?” you ask, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“I still hate not being able to control things,” he says with a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I’ve learned to sit with the chaos.”

You lean your head against his shoulder.

The thunder rolls in the distance — long, low, and slow, like the sky is sighing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you murmur. “Even when it’s quiet. Especially then.”

He says nothing for a while. Just stands with you, hand in hand, breathing the night air like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Then, quietly: “You make the silence feel safe.”

You close your eyes.

There are no grand declarations, no stolen kisses or poetic metaphors. Just the kind of stillness that only comes from being understood without having to speak.

And in that small, shared space between the thunder and the rain, you realize something simple and profound:

He doesn't need to fix the storm. He just needs to stay with you through it.

#love and deepspace #lads #l&ds #zayne #xavier #rafayel #sylus #caleb #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #caleb x reader #lads zayne #lads xavier #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads caleb

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physics-of-one-piece · 5 months ago

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Merlot & Primroses (Doflamingo x Reader)

Chapter 1

(AO3 link)

Summary: Your husband’s brother finds you. Life with him and his sham of a family is as cold as the snow your husband was found buried in. You're going to wilt slowly living with Doflamingo, you’re sure. No flower can survive in such snow.

Tags: Doflamingo x Reader, Rosinante's Wife!Reader, Civilian!Reader, Female!Reader, Rosinante x Reader (mentioned through flashbacks), Murder, Mentions of Fratricide, Emotional Breakdown, Grief, Angst, Hurt, Post-Minion Island, North Blue Doflamingo, Red Suit Doflamingo, Doflamingo is His Own Warning, Celestial Dragon Traditions, Donquixote Brothers, Adult Themes, New Tags Added with Each Chapter

A/N: It's finally here. The Red Suit Doffy fic I've been working on since... (checks dates of the first chapter) September 2024. Damn. I've only got the first two chapters written, everything else is vibes, but I want it to be 8-10 chapters. I also wanted to explore Doflamingo's way (or lack thereof) with showing/wanting/offering physical affection. This post is great analysing it and is the one that inspired me to even start thinking of writing it deeper and Doflamingo's lack of offering touch, and his use of touch when he does choose it/want it. It just confirmed to me back then that Doflamingo is INCREDIBLY touch-starved and very very not aware of it which has the potential to be very dangerous. Especially North Blue Doflamingo. (shudders) Also... I'm not sorry about the GIF. If I had to suffer making it, you have to reward my suffering by suffering while watching it. It's only fair 🥺

Word Count: 11.7k words

Chapter Navigation: 1 (you are here), 2 , 3 , 4

Chapter 1

The moment you and Rosinante moved into your house in North Blue for Rosinante’s mission, you had no disagreements over furniture placements and colour configurations. You both adored white and blue, and light colours, so there weren’t a lot of disagreements. The one thing you and Rosinante immediately agreed upon was the colour of your bedroom’s walls, both the ceiling and the surrounding four walls — sky blue.

To Rosinante, it was his favourite colour, and to you, it reminded you of the sky and the sea. It reminded you of the sky blue dress shirt Rosinante wears under his white waistcoat when wearing his marine uniform as a Navy commander — the uniform he wore when you met him.

It’s the sky blue ceiling you wake up to.

You’re laying in the bedroom you share with your husband, no weight of your clumsy blond husband on the other side, drooling away and snoring — silently thanks to his Devil Fruit — in his sleep.

That’s the first thing you notice.

It’s silent. Unnervingly so.

You roll over, half-asleep, glancing toward the alarm clock on your desk beside the marine transponder snail.

It’s way past the time Rosinante should have contacted you to tell you of successfully healing Law by making him eat the Op-Op Fruit.

Aren’t they back yet?

They should’ve been back by now.

Rosi would have called you that they’re on their way by now. You could heat up the dinner leftovers, or… No, you’d start on another dinner! Minion Island is cold this time of year, and although you’d bought Law the warmest cloak you could find in the town, he would probably still feel an unpleasant chill. You’d make them warm soup easy on the stomach.

Or... or...

A cake! A cake to celebrate Law beating his disease for good, and Rosi’s official last self-given assignment as Corazón. He could finally remove that mantle for good.

You were definitely going to convince him to keep his black feather coat, though.

The weather must be bad. The North Blue Sea was infamous for its waves during the winter months. Or maybe they're laying low on Minion now that the marines have arrested the Donquixote Pirates.

But Rosi would have called you if they were staying low; he’d promised to call you.

The yellow transponder snail with the white and blue shell rings.

You lunge across the bed to reach it, lifting the receiver by the time the second ring sounds out, your heart leaping in relief — Rosi must be calling to tell you they’re okay, that Law is healthy now, that they will come home soon —

The voice that said your name wasn’t Rosinante’s.

“Vice Admiral Tsuru,” you said, eyes wide. You cleared your throat. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Your husband, marine commander Donquixote Rosinante…”

Why does Tsuru-san sound in pain?

“...is dead.”

The world stopped, turning completely silent.

All you could do was stare blankly.

What?

The last two words repeated in your head like a broken record.

Rosinante is dead. Rosinante is dead. Rosinante is dead.

Rosinante… is dead?

Those words didn’t belong with Rosinante’s name. Rosinante and the word dead didn’t belong in a sentence.

Shock left you mute, your head completely empty.

“We found him in the snow, with twenty bullet wounds. Sengoku confirmed his identity,” Tsuru’s voice sounded pained and hoarse. Then, the marine vice admiral abandoned her white coat, and said to you, woman to woman, “I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes filled with tears. It can’t be… it can’t be Rosi… not Rosi…

“He’s right here with me.” said Tsuru, while your hand around the receiver started to tremble. “We’re taking his body to Marineford. We’re sending a ship to escort you there tomorrow.”

Body. Body. Rosinante’s body.

Rosinante’s corpse. Your husband’s corpse.

“Understood.”

You put the receiver on the snail, its “Ga-chak.” filling the silence.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. The sound of it echoes in your head. Your sight blurs, and you lose sense in your legs. The next moment, you’re sitting numbly on the floor in the bedroom which you and Rosinante painted together, surrounded by the sky blue walls, tears running down your cheeks.

What just happened? What…

Seconds ago, you were thinking about what food to warm up if Rosinante and Law managed to come back at this time late at night.

Seconds ago, Rosinante was alive.

You shuddered, crying more tears.

Now, you'd just gotten a call he’s... dead? That they’re transporting his body to Marineford?

Shock numbed you. That didn’t make sense. Just three days ago, Rosinante slept beside you, his large body wrapped around you, keeping you tucked into his chest, keeping you warm. He’d been beside you, breathing, talking, smiling and alive.

In the snow? Twenty bullets in him? Twenty? Rosinante never got that many bullet wounds.

You grab at your throbbing head.

This can’t be real. It doesn’t make sense. Rosinante had been right here, which only felt like hours ago. He'd been right here with you, in this very room, his warm, soft lips kissing yours, his face snuggling in your neck, his blond curly hair between your fingers, his long arms wrapped snugly around you, his angelic laugh tickling your ear.

It’s not real. It’s not real, this is a nightmare, it’s not real. You’re having a nightmare. This isn’t real. It can’t be, it can’t —

“Rosi…” you whisper shakily, trembling. You choke on a breath. Your chest hurts.

Your mind struggled to catch up to your body, which was shaking, panting, tears streaming down your shocked face and open, wide eyes.

You realise your lungs are hurting, your breathing rapid — alarmingly, so.

You can’t breathe.

You’re going to suffocate in the wave of your grief.

You rush outside. The air is cold. You inhale it greedily, foggy clouds sifting out of your mouth. Your chest felt painful while you gasped in the air. Your ribcage was squeezing in on itself. The cold air made you realise how warm the tears on your cheeks were.

You couldn’t stand anymore. You fell to your knees, and the sounds burst out of you; you started crying openly, loud, uncontrollable sobs leaving your mouth.

You screamed, howling into the sky, crying uncontrollably. The sounds your body produced, your lungs released, were heart-wrenching, full of agony.

You wept and wept, sobbed and screamed, hiccuped and choked, looking up at the starry night sky without really seeing it, tears streaming down your face as you howled in agony into the sky you used to watch together with Rosinante, crying toward the far-away stars.

All you could see was Rosinante, smiling brightly at you, his voice saying, “I love you!” filling your ears.

And your heart was wrenched open and killed.

Dead with your husband.

All you could do with the unbearable agony inside you was weep and howl like a dying, mourning animal.

***

How does betrayal feel like?

It feels like silence.

Silence of four years, a gap battled with taps on the den-den mushi and ink on paper.

It feels like the silence being broken by a voice. A voice not as deep as Doflamingo’s but sounding godly all the same, confident and calm, a softness Doflamingo’s didn’t possess.

His little brother’s voice, which Doflamingo mourned the loss of, not knowing he was mourning an empty lie. So many nights he spent thinking how Rosinante's voice would sound like as an adult, how his laugh would sound like, hoping maybe with time, he would hear it - one day, one day, one day — not knowing it was there all along and Rosinante had denied him all of it, had given it to the marines, to Law, to strangers Doflamingo didn't know.

Doflamingo hated them all.

Why did they get to have it and he didn’t?

Rosinante was his little brother, his family, his only equal, the only one who understood, the one who’d been through the same hell as he had... And yet, Doflamingo never got Rosinante back, never truly met his brother as an adult, not really. All Doflamingo got from Rosinante was a mask and silence, while they got everything.

All Doflamingo was given was a scrap, and lies.

So many lies.

Rosi — the one who gave his nickname to him because he couldn’t pronounce Doflamingo’s full name when he was two, shortening it into a harmless nickname full of fondness — didn’t even call him Doffy.

The first words Rosi said to him after four years of silence, after eighteen years of nothing, was his fucking marine code.

Rosi talked to him like they were strangers.

“You just had to go and screw everything up! Why did you come back just to mess with me, Corazón?!”

What Doflamingo meant by those words was: Why? Why did you come back? You should’ve stayed away from me if you hated me. Then this wouldn’t be happening! I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d stayed away from me!

The pain of betrayal is sharp and agonising.

Like a bullet.

Like red blood on white snow.

Doflamingo wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding in the same places Rosinante had, too.

Vergo’s words rang out in his head.

“Corazón has a wife.”

Doflamingo stared at the picture of you on the file Vergo sent him, staring down at your face.

At the one Rosinante gave everything to…

Finding out something like this...

It felt like... Like the first inhale of the fresh, clear sea morning, like the first bite into a feast after starving for a week, like the most pure, fresh water after a long trek in the desert.

Doflamingo thinks he understands now why Rosi didn’t stay away from him, why Rosi returned.

Because Rosi couldn’t stay away. If not for himself, then for his wife. Would Doflamingo be able to stay away, if he knew his brother was alive somewhere, with a wife, and hell, maybe planning to have a family? Would Doflamingo be the one considering a choice; stay away or meet? Cursed if you don’t, cursed if you do.

Would Doflamingo be able to do it?

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to stay away from Rosi, or from Rosi’s family. Because Doflamingo was family, too. Rosi’s family was Doflamingo’s family, too.

Just like now, Doflamingo couldn’t stay away from you. It was impossible. It felt like his own threads were pulling him toward you, urging themselves forth from his fingertips, reaching out to wrap around you, no matter how much he was sure you didn’t want them to.

Just like how Rosi couldn’t stay away from Doflamingo no matter how much he hated him, Doflamingo couldn’t stay away from you no matter how much he knew you hated him.

He just couldn’t. The thought was painful to bear, the mere image of staying away threatening to shred the last remaining piece of Doflamingo’s heart held together by strings.

“Doffy?” Vergo’s voice across the snail pulled Doflamingo out of his thoughts; he was still staring at your file, at the picture of you, at your name. “What do you want to do?”

Doflamingo got out of his chair, grabbing the pink feather coat that laid on it.

“I’m going to go get her,” he said, swinging the pink mantle over his shoulders. He grabbed a quill and parchment, writing down a note for Trebol and the others to find.

He looked outside. It was early in the morning; Vergo's call and documents he sent had woken him up. It was still dark out on the sea.

“Understood,” said Vergo without question. “Safe travels, Doffy.”

Doflamingo hummed in response, and put the receiver back down on the snail. He exited his cabin, walking to the balustrade of the ship, putting his right foot atop the rail. The wind was chilly, brushing at his face.

He still had a family. Rosinante had not only left Doflamingo behind.

He left a wife behind, too.

Doflamingo took to the sky.

***

Something burns on your skin. Your eyelids flutter open; the morning light sneaks in through the curtains, casting your eyes in the ray of gold. Your brows furrow in pain from the light hitting you.

You feel empty.

You woke in the puddle of your own misery. You've cried and howled yourself into sleep on the white carpet. You don’t know when you entered inside again after releasing the howl of agony into the night sky.

The house is empty.

Rosinante isn’t home yet.

That’s okay. You’ll wait. You’ve waited before. You can wait a bit more.

Rosi will come back.

He’ll come back.

It was just a bad dream.

You curl into yourself, tired.

Rosi always comes back, no matter what.

You’ll make pancakes… and you’ll wait for Rosi. You’ll make a lot of batter so you can make him and Law loads when they come back. They’ll be hungry after their trip.

Early dawn was outside, and the blue sky was painted with clouds.

A knock came at your door. You dragged yourself to it, and opened the doors.

A dark-skinned, handsome man dressed in marine uniform and coat towered above you, twice your height, nearly three meters tall. His dark, charcoal eyes were red-rimmed, revealing he’d been crying. His usually slicked-back, tidy white hair was rumpled and untidy, as though he’d wrestled with someone.

“Wulf,” you say, staring at the tall navy commander.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse and morbidly quiet. “Can I come in?”

You open the doors wider, letting him in. Wulf closes the doors behind himself, locking them with the key in the keyhole.

“I’ll go make you some tea,” you offered, hurrying to the light blue kitchen to place the kettle on the stove and grab a tea bag

“No,” he said. “I’m not here for…” He clenched his eyes shut. His large body shuddered.

“You can sit down while I —”

“I don’t want tea, dammit!” snapped Wulf.

His yell made you flinch, and you turned still.

“Fuck,” Wulf breathed, full of pain, tears glistening at his eyelashes. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, quieting his voice. “I’m sorry. Fuck.”

Wulf’s large body slumped down, landing on the large white couch. He lowered his head to the floor. His large, dark hands lifted up to his hair, grabbing at the thick strands tight. He closed his eyes, a look of pain on his face.

“It’s okay,” you offered quietly.

There was no emotion in your dull, lifeless eyes, empty of any spark. You could see how tired Wulf was. He probably didn’t sleep a wink. He looked an absolute mess. You weren’t ready to look in the mirror to see how much of a mess you were.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Wulf spoke up. “We need to send a search party out for Law. He wasn’t the boy the Minion marine patrol took into custody.”

Search party? For Law? But that would mean… that would mean Wulf would have to explain to Sengoku who Law was.

“No,” you breathed.

“Huh?”

“Don’t you dare tell them about Law!”

Wulf’s eyes widened at the sudden surge of life in your dull eyes. You were tightly gripping the collar of his white dress shirt with both your hands, staring at him with a numerous amount of emotions filling your eyes, your face.

“If Law’s alive, they’ll go after him because he’s got the powers of the Op-Op Fruit!” you yelled at him. “Don’t you dare make Rosi’s death be for nothing!”

You froze.

Oh.

You said it.

Death.

That’s right.

Your fingers let go of Wulf’s collar.

Rosinante…

Died.

A chill swept through your body, making you shiver.

“Law,” you whisper, trying to keep yourself together, keeping your sanity stitched with the thoughts of the little boy. “We need to find Law.”

“Minion -”

“Why aren’t you and your team setting sail for it already?!” you asked desparately. What if Doflamingo sent his agents to scour the island? What if Law was...

“If I’m to ask for a marine ship, I need to give them a good reason!”

“You never did shit by the book, Wulf! That was Rosi!”

“Yeah, and I always got sent flying across Marineford by Sengoku for it, or did you forget that part?”

“I’ll call the patrol on Minion and tell them to look for Law.”

“No!” you yelled. “Doflamingo’s got a spy in the Navy! He’ll find out Law’s still there and find him before you!”

You could see Wulf’s thoughts racing in his head. “Then, I’ll send Hibou -”

“Hibou doesn’t fly fast enough! You can’t send him there alone! Law doesn’t trust marines!”

Wulf hesitated. “It took me and Rosi longer than a day to activate our Devil Fruits… Law might not be…”

“Law is a genius!” you yelled. “He’s going to be the best doctor in the world! Some stupid disease won’t kill him!”

Law was not dead. Your husband believed in Law, and you believed in Law, too. That kid was strong. Stronger than you were.

Law had fallen asleep reading on your lap. You put a blanket over him, but anytime you tried to remove yourself from him, the boy would murmur disagreeably, clutching onto your pants with his tiny fingers in his sleep. Rosinante cooed over him, snapping a few pictures of Law — and some of the two of you — with the camera snail because you two were the most adorable sight on the planet, according to the younger Donquixote. But you could see it in his brown eyes. Rosinante was worried sick for Law.

“Don’t worry, Rosi,” you said, reaching out with your free hand — the other one was running gently down Law’s dark hair — to take your husband’s much larger one, settling it over his scarred, pale palm.

“Our boy is too strong to die,” you said firmly.

The touch and words appeared to break Rosinante out of the pit of his thoughts, the blond man sitting beside you turning to look at you, wide-eyed.

“Our?” asked Rosinante in a whisper.

“What?” you asked, blinking.

Rosinante sniffled. His eyes glazed over, his lips trembling. Before you could see what was wrong with him, the blond turned away from you shyly.

“Rosi, are you crying?” you asked, worried.

“N-No!” squeaked the big, blond man, hiding his face in the pillow of the white couch of the home you shared, wiping at his teary eyes. “No, what are you talking about? I’m not crying!”

You smiled softly, a swell of affection blooming within you, overwhelmed by love you felt for him. Rosinante was so kind and gentle, with a truly bleeding heart. It was one of the reasons you fell in love with him on first sight — his kindness and clumsiness won you over right away.

“Our, huh?” murmured Rosinante softly.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, making sure there was no question about it. You were willing to die for the boy sleeping on your lap. You were willing to fight the entire world for this boy, were willing to die for him. “He’s our boy now.”

“Yeah.” The smile lit up Rosinante’s face, casting him in heavenly light; he looked like an angel, his soft brown eyes staring gently down at the sleeping boy. “He is.”

“Our treasure.” whispered Rosinante, reaching down to caress Law’s cheek with his fingers.

Wulf took a breath.

“Okay. If there is a spy, as you say, I’ll call Sengoku-san directly to lock down Rosi’s file.” Wulf shuddered. He looked down at you, full of worry. “If Doflamingo finds out about you, he’ll come to kill you. I’ll put Nietzche and Hibou on patrol around this island, and the rest of us will head to Minion -”

“No,” you said, something burning inside you. The next words came out of your mouth on instinct. “Use me as a lure.”

Wulf’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Use me as a lure,” you said, meeting Wulf’s gaze. “It’ll keep Doflamingo’s attention off of Minion Island long enough for you to get Law away. If Doflamingo comes, he comes. I know how to shoot a gun.”

Wulf frowned, disliking the idea entirely. “You don’t know what he’s -”

“Doflamingo killed him.”

The words are out. Because both of you knew. You and Wulf knew Rosinante wouldn’t get killed so easily. Nobody could kill Rosinante except Doflamingo, because Rosinante would have fought them tooth and nail, and there was no way anyone on Minion Island could have given Rosinante trouble — not even those top executives — except Doflamingo.

If it came down to having to directly hurt Doflamingo, you knew Rosinante wouldn’t be able to do it. You never faulted him for it. In fact, you loved him for it. You would never ask Rosinante to do such a thing, even if your own life was on the line. You’d rather die than force him to make such a choice, to even think about it.

Rosinante loved his brother more than anything, no matter what.

But it seemed Doflamingo loved power more than he loved Rosinante.

It sickened you. It infuriated you. Rosinante could never hurt Doflamingo, not for duty, not for revenge, not for anything. So how could Doflamingo hurt Rosinante?

“His only family… And Rosi told me enough to get a glimpse of what his brother is like. So if he finds out, he finds out. He’ll come here, and you all - all six of you, will go to Minion Island while he wastes time coming here, and you’ll take Law away from there.”

For a moment, Wulf said nothing, simply staring at you with his dark, black eyes, momentarily surprised by your words.

“You… aren’t trying to follow Rosi, are you? Because you know… you know he’d want you to stay alive, to take care of that kid.”

Chills rose on your spine, but they weren’t of fear. You didn’t raise your head. You simply lifted your eyes to Wulf’s, and let him see what was within them.

It wasn’t sadness, or a wish for death. It was determination, burning and fierce, mixed with burning fury.

Wulf sighed in defeat. He could tell by your eyes you weren’t going to back down from this.

“I’ll call in some favours for a ship. I’ll call you when I have everything ready.”

Wulf said your name.

“He killed my brother in arms.” said Wulf darkly. “It’s not just you or me who wants him dead.”

Wulf turned his head over his shoulder to gaze at you, his eyes full of bloodlust. “The crows are hungry for Doflamingo’s blood.”

“Shut the door after me,” Wulf said, then left.

You did just that. You walked back to the kitchen, breathing in and out. Your stomach felt empty. You needed to eat something.

Pancakes.

If it’s going to be your last meal, you want it to be a good one. Therefore, the pancakes with chocolate syrup is the best decision for the last meal. An easy, simple meal.

Your fingers tremble.

You can’t believe Rosinante is gone.

Simply… gone.

How are you supposed to wake up tomorrow knowing Rosinante will never be lying beside you again?

Tears well in your eyes. You take a breath, swallowing them down. You’re not allowed to cry again. Not yet. Not until you know Law is safe.

You head up the stairs to change from your night dress, heading back to yours and your husband’s bedroom. You survey your wardrobe.

Before you know it, you’re opening Rosinante’s part of the wardrobe, taking one of his blue shirts from the hanger, hugging it tight to your chest.

You kept holding on to the calm you got with him. You hold onto the scent of him you’ve come to know; coal and citrus, woody smells that he always wore that felt like a hug around your shoulders.

For a while, you sit on the bed, holding your husband’s shirt, trying to pretend he was there when you knew he wasn’t. Eventually, you returned back to the terrible reality, and put his dress shirt back on the hanger.

Light blue. You decide if you are going to get killed by your brother-in-law today, you want to die in light blue. It was Rosi’s favourite colour, and you grew a love for it over the years. You need somewhere to conceal a weapon. You grab black pants, put the light blue blouse over yourself, and get dressed.

You open the drawer in your night table, staring down at the small, black revolver. You pick it up, check the safety hammer is on, then check the cylinder holding six sea stone prism bullets. Loaded, ready to be fired.

You holster it under your blouse, making sure you can reach it quickly.

It’s silent. So silent.

You’ve never heard silence quite this loud.

You head to the kitchen to make the pancakes. You wished you’d made them before Wulf arrived; he needed something to eat.

The day is sunny, the birds are chirping in the trees. But there is a somber, mourning silence in your house. You gather the bowl to crack the eggs in and make the batter.

Rosi would already be stumbling out of your bedroom by now, dressed in his blue striped pyjamas, his blue sleeping hat atop his head, his sleepy face endearing in a handsome way, his blond waves of bed head swept in all directions, his hands rubbing the sleep off his eyes before he stretched his arms out and yawned to the point tears edged at his lower eyelashes.

Then, he’d see you and smile like the sun before greeting you with a happy, sweet, “Good morning!”

You look out of the window. The scenery in front of you is so vibrant, green forest and blue river. Doesn’t it know all your life has died? The most colourful painting is worthless to you.

You make the batter without having to think too much about it, so used to the movements they became second nature to you, just as fighting was second nature to Rosinante. You start the stove, listen to the clicking sound of the fire, adjust it, and set the frying pain on it, spreading butter along it. Then, you pour the batter in. The smell of the pancakes soothes you, and once the side is fried well, you flip it, and wait for the bubbles again.

They remind you of gunshot wounds.

Twenty gunshot wounds. Were they all from Doflamingo’s flintlock? Did the fucking bastard put twenty bullets in your husband, treating your husband like he was swiss cheese?

You set the first pancake on the plate, and make twenty more. You take the chocolate syrup and spread it over each one thoroughly with a butter knife, then roll the pancakes. You sprinkle sugar over them, and serve them at the center of the table.

“Look, Law! Pancakes!” cheered Rosinante happily to the little boy with the spotted hat trailing after his long legs like a baby penguin after its father; you held back a giggle at the two sleepyheads, smiling gently at them.

Rosinante greeted you with a kiss, getting a “get a room!” from Law, and then he sat down at the table and inhaled the smell of the pancakes.

“Ah, they smell so good, dear!” said Rosinante, smiling brightly at you.

“Come on, Law! Don’t be shy!” said Rosinante, patting the chair next to his. “This is my wife’s masterpiece! After you taste her pancakes, you’ll never want to eat anything else for the rest of your life! You can live on pancakes!”

“You can’t live on pancakes,” grumbled Law.

“Well, if you do end up liking them and want more, I’ve got more batter in the bowl, so I’ll make you more if you want, okay, Law?” you asked.

Law blushed. “Thank… you…”

You glanced at Rosinante questioningly, speaking with your eyes to him. Did Law not have pancakes with the Donquixote Pirates? Rosinante shook his head sadly, in a way that told you Law didn’t let himself be a kid, so he never ate ‘kid stuff’ like pancakes.

Tentatively, Law took the rolled up pancake, and after glancing to Rosinante, who was eating his own with his hands — the pancake looked miniature in your husband’s fingers, almost like a toy — chomping down on the roll enthusiastically, Law did the same.

You nearly squealed from the cuteness as you watched the two eat.

Law’s eyes widened after the first bite, and then they lit up, filling with light. A small, tiny smile bloomed across his face, and he stared at the pancake with child-like joy.

There he was. A little boy, not a tough, pirate apprentice.

Law quickly devoured the pancake, the little smile on his face filling you with joy. You smiled happily.

Once Law realised he’d eaten the single pancake he took, he glanced from the plate, then toward you, and asked, “Can I have another?”

Rosinante cooed. “You can have my entire plate, you cute little pancake!”

To prove how much he meant it, Rosinante slid his plate of a pile of rolled-up pancakes to the little boy.

Law scowled, though to you it looked more like a cute, indignant pout with his cheeks puffed up that way.

“I’m not a pancake, Cora-san!” Law protested, for which he got a fond chuckle from Rosinante, who simply beamed down at him.

You giggled. They were so cute.

“Of course. You can have as much as you want, Law.” you said softly, smiling gently at the boy.

Law nodded, that little smile sneaking onto his face again.

You stared at the plate loaded with twenty rolled-up pancakes.

You made too much.

Tears started flowing down your eyes again, uncontrollable and wet. You wipe them from your cheeks, sniffling. But they keep coming out, so you let them cascade down your cheeks, letting them roll in silence as you sit down, murmur a sob-filled, “Thank you for the food.” and grab one pancake from the plate and force yourself to eat it.

The taste is great. But your taste buds can’t appreciate it. You start sobbing halfway, and your hands slide up to your face, covering your eyes. You rest your head on the dining room table and cry your eyes out into your forearms, hiccups and sobs shaking your body.

You can’t do this. You can’t do this. You can’t, you can’t...

It hurts too much. You're going to be sick —

Rosi... Rosi!

Your cries and sobs echo across the kitchen tiles, creating a tragic symphony.

After you’d cried yourself out to the point your chest hurts and your throat feels sore, you eat the pancake to the end.

Outside, the azure sky is impossibly clear. The cicadas are so loud. They make the loss of Rosinante’s silence more deafening. You’ve always had too sensitive and too precise of a hearing; you could hear droplets from a well ten meters away, and the slightest rustling of the leaves in the wind. You could pick up who was approaching you by the sound and weight of their footsteps — a thing that freaked some people out. It wasn’t any devil fruit; you stayed away from devil fruits because you had no need of them working as a translator for the marines, and you liked to swim.

Rosinante told you it could be a form of Observation Haki. Apparently, the advanced, one-in-a-million Observation Haki users are able to hear people’s inner voices. That sounded absolutely terrifying to you. How didn’t people go insane with that? It wasn’t an ability you wanted, and thankfully, your hearing didn’t seem to reach that crazy, abnormal level.

Rosinante was practically your sound therapy with his Devil Fruit. He made the world around you go silent, muted all the noises, be it the spinning of a washing machine, the shrieking of the birds, the insistent meowing of an alley cat, the barking dogs, the annoying cicadas that you thought about committing arson over by setting the entire forest on fire…

“Honey, that’s illegal. Also, I’m the one usually setting fire to stuff, it’s my whole thing!” Rosinante was genuinely distressed. He gave you a pleading look, pursing his lips, which started to quiver and tremble, his eyes filling with tears as he cried — his sad puppy look,which immediately melted your heart, making you coo internally. He was absolutely adorable. “You can’t do my thing!”

Rosinante snapped his fingers. “Silent!”

A purple sphere came alive, momentrily floating above his finger, and then enlarged, pulling the two of you into its space. All sound from outside vanished.

You launched yourself at him and hugged him, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his wide waist. “I love you, Rosi! I love your Devil Fruit!”

Rosinante’s face grew deeper shades of red by the passing second, until, quite literally, the gathered temperature exploded in a burst of steam out of his ears, and your husband combusted into flames.

“I love you!” he yelled, peppering you with kisses, pulling you onto his lap, making you giggle and laugh. You squeezed your tall husband’s back as much as the length of your arms allowed you to.

“I love you more,” you said, staring up at him lovingly.

“Nuh-uh,” said Rosinante, his face turning serious. “I love you mo —”

You shut him up with a kiss, burying your fingers in his soft, silky golden hair, pulling him down to you.

Rosinante smiled into the kiss, admitted defeat, and enveloped your lips in a deep, long kiss, his hands coming up to cradle your head, his fingers warm and sweet on your cheek.

In the end, with how breathless and flushed Rosinante left you, you thought you were the defeated one in the end.

You can’t take it anymore. You want out. Out of this house that is full of memories of the happiness you two had, of so much potential, now silent like a grave.

You get your bag, grab some cash to buy groceries to make for lunch. Rosinante wouldn’t want you to wallow in misery, much less not eat. He was always fussy about making sure you ate, always insisting on serving you seconds, and you knew why. It broke your heart.

You reach the small port town, passing by people, your eyes unfocused, lost in memories. Your feet are leading you somewhere, a familiar path which you and Rosinante took many times.

You remembered when he surprised you the first time he managed to sneak away after completing his first mission for Doflamingo ahead of schedule, bearing you gifts, unaware his presence was the greatest gift to you of all.

In the early morning, your husband dragged you out of bed for a “surprise”. It would have been a normal, endearing, funny wake-up call if your husband’s arm wasn’t nearly the length of your entire body. Being dragged out of bed by Rosinante’s excited arm felt like being launched by a slingshot from one point to another. And of course, the landing point ended up being Rosinante’s body, and because it was Donquixote Rosinante, he failed to consider his own pull strength — once again, slingshot fast — and that was how you ended up falling on his chest. He, of course, as the good marine he was, caught you so you don’t get hurt, and once more failed to take another of his natural skills into account.

His clumsiness.

With a shriek as panicked as your own — albeit for different reasons — Rosinante moved to catch you, tripped midway and fell forward at the same time as you impacted him, and you ended up crashing into him midway on his fall, and he fell on his back rather than his front, you atop his chest.

After you two looked at each other to check the other was okay, the two of you burst out into giggles on the floor.

Rosinante excitedly told you to get dressed (you chose a white summer dress), brought his backpack and led you through the island by the hand, still dressed in his pirate outfit of white trousers, pink shirt and black feather coat, smiling the entire way. You loved the feather coat, and you couldn’t help but comment how he and Doflamingo were now truly “bird brothers”. The look Rosinante gave you at that comment made you laugh for a minute straight, especially when he dramatically pulled off his purple sunglasses to blink at you repeatedly.

You two walked for a while. You told Rosinante about your days, how everyone was very helpful and welcoming, and let him know about the invitation for a barbeque party tomorrow, and Rosinante agreed — he did have to meet the other marines on the island, along with their families.

Rosinante came to a stop in front of a steep hill.

“It’s right up this way,” said Rosinante, smiling in that adorable way that made him even more handsome. “I’ll carry you up.”

You gulped.

“Are you sure you can trek this, Rosinante?” you asked, holding some doubts. You’d seen your husband fall down the entire fifty meter flight of stone stairs of Marineford like a bouncing ball many times when you met him, and this hill had plenty of rocky, dirt-covered terrain.

You could already imagine Rosinante rolling down it like a pancake covered in black feathers. Or... Like an ostrich.

This hill and forest looked like something for hikers, and no offense to Rosinante, but he and hiking don’t go hand in hand, so your hesitation was well-founded.

“Yup,” said Rosinante, beaming down at you. “Up you go, mi amor.”

Without much arguing from you — because you’d never refuse being carried bridal style by your favourite man in the world, falling to your death be damned — he perched down, bending his knees to be at your height, and picked you up carefully, one hand under your knees, the other on your back.

It’s comfortable. Rosinante is warm, his long, strong arms cradling you close to his chest like the most precious treasure, and you feel like a princess swathed in the black feathers of his feather coat and his embrace. You close your eyes, resting your head on his chest, on the soft fabric of his pink dress shirt scattered with hearts.

Rosinante started uphill, trekking upon the soil with the confidence of a man who braved deep snow, heavy rain and thick mud many times throughout his life. Large, lush pine trees towered around you, the forest rich with fresh air that mixed with the soft coal scent of your husband. You pass by moss-covered rocks, glimpse squirrels curiously looking down at the giant, lanky blond man from their branches high above, chipping away at pine cones and walnuts in their tiny fingers. Their big brown eyes reminded you of Rosinante’s. After five minutes of Rosinante climbing uphill, the terrain turns flat, and he walks through the thicketed vegetation, the leaves of high bushes and branches brushing across his waist. Sunlight sneaks through the canopy of the trees, touching you and him occasionally, dappling you two in warm light.

“Okay,” said Rosinante. “I’ll put you down now.”

After he puts you down to the ground, Rosinante takes your hand, twining his long fingers between the spaces of yours, and leads you through the maze of greenery, further and further, deeper into the forest, where it becomes more quiet with every step. His long fingers, tucked between yours, holding your hand tight, chase away any anxiety or insecurity you might feel in the new, unknown surrounding.

A high, towering wall of leaves and shrubs conceals your view to whatever lies ahead.

“Close your eyes.”

You chuckle, but do so.

“Wait here,” Rosinante told you. “Don’t open your eyes!”

You laugh. “I won’t.”

You put your free hand over your closed eyes to reassure him of it.

Rosinante’s long fingers — calloused from training, falling and scarred from all the battles he won and survived — slide out of the embrace of yours.

You wait for a few minutes, wondering what sort of surprise he must have for you. You couldn’t hear anything. Rosinante must have used his Devil Fruit so you can’t hear what he’s doing. All you can hope for is that your sweet husband’s ‘surprise’ doesn’t involve anything flammable.

“Okay!” Rosinante chirped behind you, making you shriek and leap at the sudden revelation of his presence, which made him chuckle. “Ready?”

You peek through your fingers to look at him. Rosinante’s smile and excitement is infectious, making you smile to the point your cheeks hurt.

“Yup,” you said.

“Hey!" your husband scolds when he notices your eyes between the tiny space of your fingertips. “No peeking!”

You huff, but relent, covering your eyes fully again.

Rosinante takes your hand, and leads you forward. You keep your eyes closed. Leaves brush over your face, and you feel the warmth of the sunlight on your skin again.

“Okay... Three... Two...”

“One.”

You opened your eyes, gasping at the sight. In front of you and Rosinante was a blooming field of blue forget-me-nots, forming a large circle around the pine forest.

There, among the blue flowers, was a picnic blanket, a picnic basket filled with food atop it.

A giddy smile on his face, pleased with your joy at his successful surprise, Rosinante led you by the hand toward the picnic blanket where all the food awaited.

You two sit down beside each other. You can’t speak; you’re completely speechless.

Rosinante had made you an entire feast; there were rice balls, black bean soup, chocolate cream cakes, muffins with chocolate chips, grilled toast with melted cheese that made your mouth water at the mere sight of it, blackberries and black risotto with chopped cuttlefish meat.

Rosinante was by no means a lousy cook, in fact, he was quite good at cooking (you were surprised by it the first time, too, especially when he told you he spent a lot of time cooking with Sengoku when he was a kid) but he had to be monitored so he doesn’t set the entire house on fire.

When you opened the container holding the black risotto, hot steam surged out. The black risotto smelled absolutely heavenly. It tasted heavenly, too — it was the perfect amount of ingredients and flavours that you moaned aloud.

Dear gods, Rosinante’s black risotto was to die for. It was one of the meals both you and your husband enjoyed, eating it at a restaurant in Marineford every Friday on your lunch break together even before you’d started dating. The black colouring of the food was due to the squid ink used in the recipe. You both loved it so much that it became your go-to food to make.

Rosinante pulled out a champagne bottle from the basket, further impressing you.

“I snatched this one from Doffy’s liquor cabinet. 1480.” Rosinante smirked smugly, waving the bottle victoriously. “He should’ve drank it while he could.”

You laughed. Rosinante may not talk good things about his brother, but stealing liquor from his brother was a very sibling thing to do. It was clear Rosinante loved pulling pranks on Doflamingo.

While Rosinante said this, removing the golden foil, distractedly unwinding the cage, his eyes focused on you, he forgot to move the bottle away from himself.

The cork launched out of the seal with a loud pop. By some stroke of luck, the cork missed hitting Rosinante’s head, but the golden liquor bursting with bubbles did not. After you heard the satisfying pop, all you could do was stare in shock as champagne sprayed your husband in the face.

His golden waves of hair sogged like a wet dog’s, sparkling liquid running down his cheeks, trailing across his pale neck, sliding down his collarbone and over his chest, staining his wet shirt.

“Rosi!” you cried. “Are you okay?”

Rosinante laughed softly, rich and warm.

“I’m okay,” he replied, looking down at you in that tender, gentle way that filled your heart and made butterflies fly in your stomach.

His long tongue flicked out, licking along his lips, tasting the champagne he spilled. You feel your face flush when you realise you’d looked at his tongue attentively.

“Tastes good,” he said.

You chuckled fondly, watching champagne drip from his golden bangs. “I’m sure it does.”

“Does it smell good?” he asked as you reached for a towel in the basket. You sat between his sprawled, spread out, long legs, brushing off the liquid you could spot.

“Yeah,” you said, chuckling, continuing to pat his face and shirt. It smelled fresh. “It does.”

Rosinante smiled goofily. He gave you your glass, then poured the champagne, and next poured it to himself in his own.

“What do we toast to?” he asked.

“Love and health?” you suggested.

“Love and health!” agreed Rosinante. “Salud!”

“Salud!”

The two of you clinked your champagne glasses together, then drank a few sips of champagne. Rosinante took two large gulps of it instead of humble sips.

When the plastic plates were all cleaned up and the food was gone, stored away in your stomachs, you asked him the question you had since the start of this surprise date, “When did you cook all this?”

“After you fell asleep.” Rosinante’s long arms wrapped around you, a movement he started doing by instinct with how many times he’d done it. You leaned back into him, sinking into his embrace, comfortable between his legs. “The muffins and chocolate cakes are bought. I bought them first thing in the morning, while you were still sleeping.”

You smiled; your husband had always been sneaky, both literally and figuratively.

The blond hung his head sullenly, looking like a sad puppy. He puffed out smoke to the side, mindful not to blow it in your face. “Sorry, my love. I’m no good at baking…”

“It’s the thought that counts,” you said, leaning into his strong body and planting a kiss on his cheek, which made him perk up, a sweet blush painting his cheeks, soon followed by his goofy smile. “And what you did cook is delicious, as were the cakes and muffins you bought.”

“Thank you, Rosinante.” you said, full of joy. “This is beautiful.”

Rosinante chuckled, a charming, gentle, yet deep sound. It made your heart race in your chest. It still didn’t feel real that this wonderful man was yours. The knowledge of it rushed goosebumps up your spine.

To think you’d find a true prince charming in this world. He had come straight down from heaven and accidentally bumped right into you. He was straight out of a fairytale, brown eyes and golden locks of wavy hair tickling his earlobes.

Rosinante looks so pretty, like an angel.

“It’s nothing to thank me for.” Rosinante’s long fingers laced between the spaces of yours, his wedding ring pressing against yours. “You always take care of me. It's my job to take care of you, too, you know. It’s nice to be away from Marineford. I get you all to myself.”

Rosinante’s lips lifted into a sly, flirtatious smile, his eyes lowering to your lips, a hint of hunger flashing in his brown eyes. “And we’re all alone… this place is pretty well hidden.”

You picked up on his meaning and smiled brightly. Your hand slid up his chest, carefully tracing along the hearts on the pink fabric, along his strong, firm shoulder, brushing against his nape, sliding up into the blond, golden curls of his soft hair, running your fingers through it slowly. All the while, Rosinante’s body leaned closer and closer to yours like a magnet of north finding its south, his large hand settling on the middle of your back, pulling you flush to him, towering over you, until all you could see, smell and breathe was him.

“Is that so, commander…” you murmured, meeting his intense gaze with half-lidded eyes.

Rosinante cradled your chin between his thumb and index finger, brought your face up to his, his half-lidded eyes soft and hungry, a charming curve of his lips rendering you breathless. Your breath hitched, staring into his intense gaze — in that moment, you saw the heavenly, commanding intensity inside your husband’s seductive eyes, lighting a fire in your chest. You were being looked at by a real god.

Rosinante kissed you, soft and deep.

“I’m back,” you say to the empty field of blue flowers.

You lay down among the field of the blue forget-me-nots and close your eyes, hoping the flowers will swallow you. Hoping they will enter your lungs, suffocate you, and end you, give you your last, final, living breath. Your tears soak the blue petals of the flowers you and Rosinante used to lay among.

Rosinante used to lie right here beside you, the halo of his blond curly hair shining among the blue blossoms.

Now, there is only the gaping hole of sorrow, a void. An emptiness. You don’t feel anything.

You closed your eyes, clutching Rosinante’s picture tightly between your fingers. You lay there on your side, crying silently among the blue petals where you and your husband once laid together.

No one ever told you that grief feels like fear. You are not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same terrible sinking in the stomach, the same restlessness, the same yawning hole.

It sinks in.

Rosinante isn’t coming home to you.

***

“Excuse me?”

The owner of the flower shop jumped at the deep voice. She turned, and had to look up, and then had to look up more, and then some more, and stared at a handsome man with blond, spiked-up hair, dressed in a red suit with a red tie, sunglasses concealing his eyes.

“Do you know where the Donquixote residence is?” the man asked.

“If you’re looking for Commander Rosinante, he’s away on marine business.”

The stranged blinked - or at least, she assumed he did, by his expression.

“You don’t know?” the exceptionally tall man asked.

“Know what, sir?”

“Rosinante is dead,” the blond man in the red suit delivers the terrible news bluntly, calmly, without any deep emotion, as though he’s telling her about the weather; it reminds her of veteran marines who have seen too much death and have grown used to it. He is staring down at her, into her eyes, with a serious look.

“Oh goodness!” the florist cried, eyes wide. “That poor man... When did it happen?”

“Yesterday evening,” said the blond man blatantly, his voice still calm, his expression still serious. “The news coo hasn’t flown out yet, so only the marines and family know for now. He’ll be in the obituary today or tomorrow.”

“I see... So you’re looking for —”

“His wife,” said the man.

The florist pursed her lips. The man with the unnerving resemblance to Commander Rosinante, despite being devilishly handsome and appearing not to have a single evil bone in his body or hold any malicuious intent, was still a stranger to her.

“Please,” the man with the hair the colour of the yellow primroses says, a desperation in his face. “I’d like to surprise her. Cheer her up. We haven’t seen each other a long time. She shouldn’t be alone.”

The flower shop owner’s heart throbbed at the words and the look of raw pain on the tall man’s face. She had no idea Commander Rosinante had died… and yesterday evening, at that… That was why you’d been wandering around aimlessly, like you were a ghost not meant fo stay in the world. You must have gotten the news… you poor thing.

“Mrs Donquixote lives in a house near the river,” said the shop owner. She pointed to the right end of the cobblestone street. “You take a right there, then a left. It’s a bit farther in the richer district, but that’s the sort of accomodations a Commander and his wife deserve. I can’t believe he's gone… He was such a wonderful man. His son will be devastated.”

The tall man tensed up, flinching.

(In that moment, Donquixote Doflamingo experienced a small heart attack thinking he was an uncle and there was a baby with you — his brother’s baby.)

“...son?” he breathed; his entire tone of voice changing, he sounded shocked and hesitant.

“This little boy. Law, I think. ” The man’s body slumped, as though he was relieved. “He was the sweetest thing. Quiet, but what sick child wouldn’t be? He always clung to Commander Rosinante when I saw them in town. No doubt Commander took him from the battlefield. I suppose he took the boy to the marines to try to find his parents, or to ensign him into the force.”

The blond man’s lips twitched slightly. “I see… Thank you for the help.”

The man turned to leave.

“She likes primroses,” blurted the shop owner. She glanced to the man’s glazed-up hair, and then to the yellow primroses - Mrs Donquixote’s favourite flowers - and was struck dumb.

The sharply dressed man’s blond hair was the exact same colour as the flowers.

“Like your hair, sir.”

“My hair?” asked the man.

The florist nodded. “Yellow primroses.”

The man smiles, and once more, the woman is hit by how similar to Commander Rosinante he looks - so similar he could be his brother! What a strange resemblance!

“Then, a bouquet of yellow primroses, please,” says the man dressed in the merlot suit, handing over a bill of five thousand berri. “And keep the change.”

“Oh, no, no, dear.” she said with a shake of her head, arranging the bouquet of yellow flowers, not taking the offered bill. “You keep your money. Just get her these, all right?”

The man’s mouth opened in a slight ‘o’, and he stared at her in surprise. He looked goofy, and so similar to the same expression Commander Rosinante made when he was shocked or taken by surprise.

However, he nodded, accepting the flowers.

“And... stay by her side.” The florist said. “Don’t let her be alone.”

An emotion crossed the man’s tanned, handsome face; he looked like he was in pain.

The blond man pulls the bouquet of yellow flowers to his chest, his long, puppeteer-like fingers holding them protectively.

“I will,” he promised.

He turned and left in the direction of the Donquixote residence. The florist was unable to keep her eyes off of him. What a sharp-looking, well-dressed man…

And so handsome! Oh, if she was only thirty years younger, she would have definitely asked him for his transponder snail number, or whatever the youth use these days.

***

The moment he was out of the small town, Doflamingo used his strings and flew high into the air, using the same basic of given directions to locate your house.

It didn’t take him long to find the river, and as he approached the flatlands of the island, he saw many houses scattered around. Probably those of families of retired high-ranking marine officers and their families. likely from other high-ranked retired marines and their families.

Doflamingo landed in front of the wooden fence surrounding a garden. A white, two-story house stood down the garden.

Doflamingo saw rows of cabbages beside the dirt path, their green leaves shielding the plant’s head. There was a roofed porch leading to the entrance doors. The garden fence didn’t even reach to his knees. Doflamingo stepped over it.

It looked rather a lot like a farmhouse, but without the farm — Doflamingo would have heaved if there were farm animals around being used for sustenance — and with the garden and yard.

A crow gave a caw. Doflamingo turned to the sound, and nearly cut a human-like silhouette’s head off with his strings.

It was a scarecrow. Not any scarecrow. Doflamingo stood eye-level with it, staring at the shiny red sunglasses, white dress shirt and white capri pants with red flame patterns the scarecrow of hay wore.

Doflamingo’s lips twitched; he felt like laughing, and barely withheld it not to make any noise. It was certainly a likeness.

Corazón must have stolen one of his sunglasses for it.

Chuckling, Doflamingo prowled toward the porch, and stood in front of the entrance doors.

Should he knock?

Doflamingo smiled maliciously, full of menace.

No.

Donquixote Doflamingo, hands in the pockets of his merlot suit pants, kicked down the doors of his sister-in-law’s house.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called.

The only sound in the space lit by the windows letting the light in was the whoosh of the curtains.

“Huh…?”

She isn’t even home to be surprised!

Scoffing in annoyance at his entrance being ruined by not having you witness it, Doflamingo entered through the door frame into the living room lit by natural light coming from the curtains.

“Tch.”

Guess she’s still in town. Did she go to buy groceries for lunch?

“Hm?”

A large picture caught his attention.

Oh.

You’re beautiful.

It was a picture of you, Rosinante, and Law. All of you are smiling at the camera, showing the peace sign. Doflamingo stares at his little brother’s big smile, because it’s the first time he sees it on him, having never seen it on his brother as an adult.

Doflamingo’s mouth forms into a sneer.

Thinking you could have your cake and eat it too, huh, Corazón? You bastard. You liar. You traitor.

Doflamingo exhaled. It didn’t matter anymore. Your husband’s sins were not yours. His brother already paid for his betrayal, and Doflamingo had forgiven him for it. You were a Donquixote by marriage with his brother, therefore, you were under Doflamingo’s protection, and the only real family he had left. As the head of the Donquixote family, since your husband was gone, your care, happiness and health were Doflamingo’s responsibility now. In Mariejois, the head of the family is expected to care for the close family members such as this. Celestial Dragons leave no family behind. If you and Doflamingo were in Holy Land, he would do the same; do anything to provide for you, take you into his home, care for you.

By Celestial traditions and rules of the Holy Land, you belong to Doflamingo now.

Doflamingo frowns. It’s an entire life here, in these pictures. A life Doflamingo never knew about, never asked about. Because he’d trusted his little brother.

A life Doflamingo was completely left out of.

Reading about the Fleet Admiral adopting his brother was one thing, seeing his little brother, dressed in marine cadet garb, shyly looking at the camera with Sengoku’s hand on his shoulder was another. More people started appearing in the pictures as his brother grew, as he got leaner and stronger, as he cut his bangs not to cover his eyes anymore, and eventually, you were in the pictures with his brother, too — it was so unbearably obvious you two were going to be together by the way you two smiled, by the way you held each other, your body languages speaking with the way you leaned toward each other — that when he arrived to the single photo of the two of you in the living room in Water 7 (undoubtedly tyour honeymoon destination), it felt like you and his brother had been married way before he wore his wedding suit and you your wedding dress.

Doflamingo climbed up the stairs towards the bedrooms. He needed to know what sort of clothes you liked to wear.

The master bedroom was large, walls painted sky blue, with a large three meter long bed in the middle, and a large white wardrobe.

Doflamingo scoffed, unimpressed. What a dump of a master bedroom. Is this where the magic was supposed to happen? It wasn’t very magical to Doflamingo. It looked like any plain bedroom in the taverns he stayed in.

Doflamingo walked to the closet, and opened it. There was no walk-in closet here. What a disgrace. This isn't how their mother raised them to treat their spouses.

The clothes in your wardrobe were so ordinary... so plain...

Well, it didn’t matter. Doflamingo was going to buy proper clothes for a beautiful woman like you.

Curiousity got the better of him, and he opened his brother’s wardrobe.

Ten pristinely white marine coats hung from the clothing rack, paired with blue dress shirts.

That was a lot of coats.

Doflamingo let out a snort, shaking his head at his brother’s affliction to set his clothes on fire. Some things never change. Whoever thought giving his little brother a lighter was a good idea must have been a madman.

Donquixote Rosinante, commander of the most deadly assassination and spy unit of the marines, the Crow Corps. Doflamingo had heard about them, but never knew their identities - they were thought not to exist, really. For all his years in the underworld, Doflamingo never encountered them — or maybe he had, and was not aware of it.

The Crow Corps were a myth, a story to scare the sailors with, a marine legend pirates talked about when something went incredibly amiss in intelligence gathering and the underworld.

“Must’ve been the Crow Corps.”

“Beware the Crow Corps, they’re the marines’ eyes and ears; they can hear you through the thickest walls and see you in the darkest shadow.”

Doflamingo would have felt proud of his brother’s achievements if he didn’t see how dim-witted his baby brother really was, throwing all of his hard work away to save Law.

After checking your shirt, dress, skirts, pants and shoe sizes, he also pulled out a few bras to get an insight on your bra size — he needed to know it be able to buy you proper, nice undergarments, not this cotton, wire bullshit — he started scouring boxes in Rosinante’s wardrobe. Maybe he’d find some information on the marines there, a blueprint, a floor plan, sailing routes, anything really. Instead, all he found was Rosinante’s official documents, and the copy of the marriage contract. You two had even gotten a house in Marineford free of charge. He was surprised how well the marines took care of their families, but it wasn’t new. Better to encourage families and support them so they give you more little marines to train and send out to get killed in battle.

Doflamingo took your personal documents from your nightstand’s drawer. You’d need those with him. Registrating your identity again would be a risk — he didn’t plan on letting you off the ship the first two weeks, little less to risk taking you to a registration office for you to get your identity card again. Putting them into his pocket, he also folded the only single good file of clothing that fit his standards — a beautiful light blue silk dress — and put that into the pocket of his feather coat, too.

With that done, he left the master bedroom, and headed back downstairs into the open living room and kitchen, and started scouring through the drawers in the living room, too. He paused when he found a video snail, with writing on its shell.

Our Wedding

Footage. Of his little brother’s wedding.

Doflamingo took the snail from the shelf, pulled down the projector screen on the wall opposite of the large white couch, and set up the snail. He sat down on the couch and turned the snail on.

The first thing he saw was the man standing beside his brother as his brother’s best man.

That was the crazy zoan shithead that attacked him ten years ago.

Doflamingo clenched his teeth, his chest inflated as he inhaled in fury. The blood vessels on his forehead exposed themselves, throbbing along with his rage. He wanted to break something.

That one? That half-Lunarian scum was Rosi’s best man instead of Doflamingo?

It seemed Rosinante had abandoned him as a brother way before he tried to destroy his life.

But Doflamingo had never abandoned Rosinante. He’d trusted him. He’d loved him. Rosinante was his precious, sweet little brother, the one he trusted the most in the entire world, the one person nobody — nobody — was allowed to hurt. And what did Doflamingo get for trusting him, for protecting him, for loving him, because who else if not his brother by blood, who else if not his equal, his fellow god?

All his plans nearly ruined, Law fleeing after eating the Op-Op Fruit, and his little brother pointing a gun at him.

In the end, after all that, after screwing everything up, aware of what he’d done, how he’d betrayed him... Rosinante didn’t even have the guts to do it to the end and pull the fucking trigger.

Doflamingo returned his attention to the projection on the wall.

His brother was dressed in the usual wedding marine outfit; soft light blue suit, light blue waistcoat, white dress shirt and light blue tie with floral prints of small forget-me-not flowers.

However, Doflamingo found his eyes pasted to you, staring at you intensely, taking in your wedding dress. It complimented your figure, hugging your delicate curves, with an open back, off-shoulder, with flower-patterned lace sleeves. The off-shoulder dress revealed your delicate collarbone and shoulders, temptation in white lace.

What a beauty you were.

Doflamingo was impressed. His brother cleaned up well. No wonder you were all over him — his brother finally dressed as was proper for his godly status. If only his brother dressed like that all the time, and not like a clown…

“Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!” the cheering of the guests filled the room.

Doflamingo could tell by the way your eyes looked at his brother. You loved his brother deeply.

Rosinante leaned down, and you met him half-way, hugging him around the waist happily — oh yes, you very much loved his brother, thought Doflamingo, amused — and the two of you shared another kiss as newlyweds.

Applause and cheers erupted. More confetti rained down on Corazón and you, a few scraps of it landing on your heads, strewn over his brother’s golden hair.

It didn’t escape Doflamingo’s notice how close Corazón held you to himself, and kissed you again, more passionate and deeper this time, making the crowd cheer and whistle.

Doflamingo chuckled. Who knew his quiet, sweet little brother was so passionate and possessive with his wife… he sure liked playing the good marine boy, but he was certainly a greedy, selfish man.

Just like Doflamingo.

Doflamingo heard a whistle from behind the video snail, “Leave some for the honeymoon, Rosi!”

“Oh, shut up, Wulf. Gimme that!”

His brother’s face entered the frame, his light brown eyes looking at the recorder snail, blinking. Doflamingo blinked back, staring at his brother who was without his make-up and beanie.

Rosi.

“Why’re you taking pictures?”

“It’s a video snail, Rosi.”

“Oh!”

“Hiiii!” said Rosinante, waving at the snail’s eyes, smiling wide and bright like the sun, golden and white, truly like a god. “We just got married!”

Doflamingo stared at the screen, watching his little brother smiling and waving at him.

You laughed, and Doflamingo felt his breath hitch at the sweet, gentle sound, staring at your smile; it was like an angel smiling.

“Well,” murmured Doflamingo, lounging back on the large white couch, staring at you; you looked beautiful in that wedding dress, like an angel. How on earth his brother held himself back from taking you and ripping your dress off your body was anyone’s guess. “You got something right.” The pirate smiled darkly. “What a pretty thing your wife is, fufufufu!”

“What are you doing, recording all the time? Hibou is stealing your ladies, you know.”

“Not that I mind!” came another man’s voice.

“I’m putting my flirty boy hat down for tonight!” announced Wulf determinantly. “I’m your best man, it’s my duty to record everything!”

“Isn’t that the photographer’s job?” asked Rosinante.

“Not when you promise the photographer a piece of this,” said Wulf with a grin, touching his body clad in the sky blue suit from the waist up to his white slicked-back hair, giving the snail a flirtatious wink, “in exchange for him giving you the video snail.”

“Wulf…”

“What? You two aren’t the only ones fucking at the end of the night!”

Rosinante’s face turned a deep pink, while you chuckled.

Doflamingo skipped forward, past the procession and the feast, and over the speeches. He stopped to watch the couple’s first dance.

Rosinante took you by the hand and led you onto the podium of leaves. The band started playing a slow, romantic song mainly focused on piano and violin. Rosinante pulled you close (with surprising elegance Doflamingo never thought him capable of, clumsy as his brother was) and pulled you into a slow waltz. For long minutes, you two danced, spinning and swaying, blue and white blending together perfectly, like the sky and the clouds.

The music continued, and Doflamingo watched you rest your head on his brother's shoulder when he bent down, resting his forehead against your temple, kissing your hair. You pulled your head up from his brother's shoulder, and that sweet look would have made Doflamingo bend down and kiss you. Instead of doing that, Rosinante laid his forehead against yours, and as you two swayed together to the slow music, staring into each other's eyes, your lips moved, forming words Doflamingo couldn't hear from the music. Rosinante smiled gently at you, his lips moving, making the same shape of words as yours did.

The music muted it, but Doflamingo could tell. He knew the shape Rosi’s lips formed, what words they whispered to you, pressed together with you as his brother was, the two of you like swans entangled in each other’s wings.

“I love you.”

Getting hungry — and wanting snacks to watch the show — Doflamingo headed to the kitchen to get some beer and chips.

Doflamingo paused in the dining room, his eyes catching onto the plate on the dinner table. It was a plate with a tower of pancakes, covered in chocolate syrup. Were you expecting someone? A marine guard to take you away from the island and to Marineford for the funeral?

Well…

Doflamingo grinned.

Finders keepers.

He snatched one and devoured it in one bite.

The chocolate syrup and chocolate filling inside created a wonderful flavour in his mouth.

Delicious.

Doflamingo grabbed the next pancake, feeling absolutely no shame in eating the pancakes you made for someone else.

As Doflamingo eats the full plate of pancakes, he walks around, surveying the pictures of you and his brother atop the fireplace. There is a large, binded book, and after cleaning his gloves from chocolate and sugar with a napkin, Doflamingo picks it up.

It’s a photo album. He grins. Bingo.

Doflamingo gets himself comfortable on the white couch, puts the flowers and the plate of pancakes on each thigh, opens up the photo album, grabs another pancake from the plate and looks through the pictures of you and his brother as he waits for you to come home.

***

Whenever you had nightmares, Rosinante used to say, “As long as I’m here, no one can hurt you.”

Those words feel empty and meaningless now. Rosi is gone. He can’t protect you anymore, no matter how much you wish he would.

You open the doors of the house, enter, and close them behind you, locking them from the inside.

It takes you a moment, but you notice it.

There is something in the darkness.

A tall, shadowy figure of a man, hunched over, long spine bent, his long, lanky legs crossed over each other, and…

The darkness outlined the silhouette of dark feathers of a massive coat upon his broad shoulders, covering his back.

Hope blooms within you.

“Rosi?”

A sinister, deep, wicked laugh resounded in the darkness, breaking through the silence. The malice within it sunk your gut, shivering your bones with fear; you felt like you were going to be sick. It sounded like evil incarnate.

That isn’t Rosi’s voice. That isn’t Rosi’s laugh. Rosi never laughed like that – ever.

You didn’t know how you managed to flick the light switch on to see which madman it was, but you did.

The first thing you saw when light illuminated the living room was…

Red — merlot red.

For a moment, the colour blinds you. Your focus returns, and you make out what the merlot red is. It’s a tailored, merlot double-breasted suit jacket with golden buttons with a black dress shirt tucked underneath it, a crimson tie tucked neatly in the collar, all of it paired with merlot suit pants.

A man was here. It wasn’t Rosinante.

Golden rings dangled from his tanned earlobes, their shiny reflection lost in the dark shadows of your home, their glitter extinguished. He had a long neck, similar to a flamingo’s, thick and muscular. White-framed sunglasses obscured his eyes. Their tinted, reflective lenses coloured like a bloody sunset stared right back at you, coated crimson in the darkness.

A wide, crescent-shaped, demonic smile bloomed on his face, stretching ear-to-ear, baring all of his white teeth.

That smile froze the blood in your veins.

Your husband’s older brother, Donquixote Doflamingo lounged on the white couch, legs spread wide on each side, grinning at you.

****

Let's say Doflamingo fixed the doors he kicked down, bcs... He wanted that element of surprise. This fic (this chapter particularly) has been in the works for a long time, I just wanted to share it already. If there are any missing scenes connecting between paragraphs - no there aren't. Actually, I appreciate if you guys say to me if there are. There are so many times I can proof read 11.7k words before my brain explodes. Some notes for the chapter and references.

Reader howling to the sky in mourning after finding out about Rosinante's death - for imagination purposes, it's literally Luffy screaming after Ace dies. It was a direct reference to it, and that's how I imagined Reader looking - same expression as Luffy.

The "Rosinante is dead." Doflamingo delivered the news the same way Luffy said "Ace is dead." to Tama in Wano.

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @moonbaby26 @daydreamer-in-training @queenmimi2817 @dummyduck44 @pinejayy @tellynojelly @capycapy-bara @dilf-destroyer-04 @yataidiot @orioncipher @isebauwolf @r-amenegg @skullfacedlady

#doflamingo x reader #doflamingo x you #doflamingo x y/n #x reader #one piece x reader #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo #doflamingo one piece #op doflamingo #one piece #merlot & primroses #fan fiction #doffy x reader #doffy x you

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glamourscat · 3 months ago

Text

CELESTIAL BODIES | POLY!JEGULUS X READER

as the title says | three fools in love | 7th year | fem reader |

I. The Moon

"I think I'm in love with two people," Regulus announced to his two best friends as he stared the ceiling of his dorm room, sprawled dramatically on his bed. While Barry was resting his head on Evan's thighs, pretending to read a book.

"Finally admitting it, then?" Evan didn't look up from where he was braiding tiny plaits into Barty’s hair. "Only took you half year."

Regulus shot up, side eyeing Evan. "What do you mean 'finally'?"

Barty snorted, abandoning any pretense of reading. "Reg, darling, you're about as subtle as an elephant. The way you look at Potter and Y/N..."

"I do not look at them in any particular way!"

"No? Shall I refresh your memory? You literally walked into a wall last week when we were our way to class, because Potter flew past the window during Quidditch practice," Evan pointed out.

"And you spent three hours in the library yesterday 'studying' while Y/N read poetry," Barty added, using air quotes.

Regulus buried his face in his hands. "It's impossible anyway. They're... they're together."

"And?" Barty raised an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Evan. "We're together, but that doesn't mean we wouldn't be open to—"

"That's different!" Regulus protested. "You two... it makes sense. But me? With both of them? It's complicated enough being a Black who's in love with a Potter, but adding another person..."

"Love's always complicated, petite étoile," Evan said softly, using the nickname that he gave Regulus as a joke during their first year but it stayed up to now. "But that doesn't mean it's impossible."

Regulus looked between his best friends and felt something in his chest. "I just... I want what you have. But I want it with them. Both of them. Is that selfish?"

"No more selfish than wanting the sun and stars," Barty smiled. "Which, coincidentally..."

"Oh, shut up."

But he was smiling now too, even as his heart raced with a new found possibility.

II. The Sun

James Potter had a problem.

Actually, he had two problems, both currently sitting under a tree by the lake – his girlfriend, you, reading poetry to his Quidditch rival (and frequent source of confusing feelings) Regulus Black.

"Prongs, mate," Sirius said from beside him, "you're staring again."

"Am' not," James muttered, definitely staring, as Regulus laughed at something you said. "Just... making sure they're not plotting anything."

"Right. Because my brother, who blushes every time you say his name and your girlfriend, who writes you love notes in Ancient Runes, are definitely plotting against you."

James turned to his best friend, surprised. "Regulus blushes when..."

Sirius groaned. "Merlin's pants, you're both so oblivious. Just go talk to them!"

"But what if—"

"James Potter," Sirius grabbed his shoulders, "my brother looks at you the same way I look at Remus. Trust me, I would like to say some.. a lot of things about this, but s'not the time. Nor the place. I see it in the way he looks at you, at her. In the way she looks at him the same way she looks at you. And you? You've been pining after both of them for months. So please, for the love of my sanity, go talk to them before I hex you."

James blinked. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh.' Now get your ass up, you absolute moron."

III. The Stars

You weren't blind.

You saw the way James watched Regulus during Quidditch matches, the way Regulus's grey eyes followed James across the Great Hall. You noticed how they both gravitated toward you, how their touches lingered, how they seemed to orbit around each other, despite claiming they cannot stand each other.

It was rather fitting, really. James with his bright energy, lighting up every room he entered. Regulus with his quiet grace, reflecting that light in his own beautiful way. And you, somewhere between them, trying to bridge the gap.

"Your boyfriend's staring again," Regulus murmured, eyes flicking between your book, the black lake and definetly not James.

"Is he now? Must be staring at you I suppose." you replied without missing a beat.

His head snapped up. "I- what?"

You smiled, closing the book before turning to face him. "Oh, come on, Reg. You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"The way James looks at you. The way you look at him. The way you both look at me. The way I look at the both of you"

Regulus went very still. "I... that's..."

"Complicated?" you suggested. "Maybe. But the best things usually are."

"But you and James..."

"Are very much in love," you agreed. "Just like we're both very much in love with you."

The confession hung in the air between you, as delicate as starlight.

"Oh," Regulus breathed.

And then James was there, dropping down beside you both with his usual grace (or lack thereof). "So," he said, running a hand through his perpetually messy curly hair, "Sirius threatened to hex me if I didn't come talk to you both."

"About?" Regulus asked, voice slightly higher than usual.

James looked between you both, golden in the afternoon sun. His eyes catched yours and you nod reassurning. You two haved talked about this before, and it seems it was finally time to let the cat out of the bag.

"About how... I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you. Well, the both of you. And how that should probably terrify me, but somehow doesn't."

"And maybe…" James continued while grinning, "we should continue this conversation somewhere more private? Like, say, a certain someone's dorm?" as his eyes flicked back to your figure.

"Subtle, Potter," Regulus rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

"You love it."

"Merlin help me, I do."

Later, tangled together in your satin bed sheets, you three fit perfectly together. James's warmth, Regulus's cool touch and your steady presence between them. Their kisses tasted different. James like sugar quills, Regulus like mint and the rich English black tea he always has in the afternoons, but they go together so beautifully.

"We should have done this ages ago," James murmured against your neck while Regulus kissed patterns across your collarbone.

"Better late than never," you gasped as Regulus nipped at your skin.

"Much better," Regulus agreed, reaching up to tangle his fingers in James's hair.

And really, what were a few months of pining compared to this? The sun, the moon and the stars, finally aligned just right.

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makeyuomine · 27 days ago

Text

written in the stars // part 1

Summary: (Y/N) was hoping for a quiet evening under the stars at the Griffith Observatory — a chance to clear her mind. But something shifts when she spots Harry, a graduate student in Planetary Science, during the planetarium show. What begins as a few curious glances soon turns into lingering conversations, shared stargazing, and a growing connection neither of them saw coming.

Tropes: Slow burn, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, academic/nerdy bf x grounded gf

Photo Credits: Pinterest

Author’s Note: Hi readers ⭐️ This is a work of fanfiction inspired by the public persona of Harry Styles. All characters, events, and scenarios are entirely fictional and are not intended to reflect real-life individuals, situations, or relationships. This story was written purely for entertainment and creative expression — nothing here is based on real events.

Also please note this is my first time writing a fanfic in literal years, so I’m a little rusty.

Thank you so so much for taking the time to read. I hope you all enjoy.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

(Y/N) had grown up with the Griffith Observatory practically in her backyard, but it felt brand new tonight. She had decided to attend a showing at the planetarium that evening.

Maybe it was the mist drifting in from the hills, softening the sharp lights of Los Angeles like a veil. Or perhaps it was how everything had started feeling a little off lately—like her life had tilted half a degree on its axis, except no one had noticed. She wasn’t looking for an answer tonight, just a reason to keep going.

The planetarium dome smelled the same as it always had—clean, slightly metallic, like old projectors and cool air. She chose a seat in the center row, her favorite spot since childhood. When the stars would swirl and expand across the ceiling, it felt like she was floating.

"I should’ve gotten high first," she muttered under her breath.

(Y/N) adjusts herself in her seat, getting comfortable. A few seconds later, someone slid into one of the seats beside her.

Not right beside her, but close enough to notice.

She glanced over, expecting some bored couple or a tourist with a camera.

The man beside her was quietly silencing his phone, settling in for the show. He sat alone, entirely absorbed in his own world—and looked absolutely, maddeningly gorgeous.

He wore black jeans, scuffed Vans, and a button-up shirt, with a navy blue cardigan draped casually over his shoulders.

His hair fell in loose, tousled waves near his collar—like he'd been running his fingers through it all day without realizing. A soft leather notebook rested on one knee, a pen poised in his hand, like he was treating the show more like a study session than a casual outing.

He noticed her looking.

"You don’t strike me as someone who’s here for an Instagram post," he whispered, a half-smile playing at his lips.

(Y/N) arched a brow. "And you don’t strike me as someone who’s here for fun."

"That's right," he laughed, offering a hand. "I'm Harry."

She shook it. "(Y/N)."

There was a pause, the kind that crackled with the promise of more.

“I'm a grad student at the university here,” he said, eyes flicking up to the domed ceiling. "I study Planetary Science."

Her brows lifted. "That's amazing. So you do this for a living?"

"Well," he said, shrugging modestly, "I try to make sense of celestial chaos. Planets colliding. Moons forming. Rings collapsing into dust. Romance, really."

(Y/N) smiled and raised her eyebrow. "That’s your idea of romance?"

"Well, what's yours?"

Her eyes met his, lingering a second too long.

"I... I don't know, actually."

She felt slightly flustered. (Y/N) didn't expect to be talking about romance, let alone being asked what she considered to be romantic.

"I'm sure you do. We’re alive in the blink of cosmic time, and somehow, here we are."

The lights dimmed.

The dome came alive with light—stars unfurling in spirals and flares above them. (Y/N) tilted her head back, chest rising and falling slowly. She found herself unable to focus on the show—despite having seen it more times than she could count. Her thoughts kept drifting to the handsome grad student beside her, and the way he managed to make astronomy feel like poetry.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe the universe had timing. That maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all chaos.

Next to her, Harry was silent. Still.

He watched the stars with quiet intensity, occasionally scribbling notes into his notebook. How he managed to write anything in the dim light, she had no idea—but she couldn’t look away. There was something about him that felt effortlessly poetic, like he belonged to the stars he was studying.

Sensing her watching him, Harry turned his head.

And when she turned—drawn by the same invisible thread that had pulled her to come here alone, he looked away, like he’d been caught in something intimate.

The narrator’s voice filled the dome again. Soft, reverent.

"Venus spins backwards, did you know that? Her sun rises in the west and sets in the east. No one knows exactly why, but she defied gravity and expectations."

She.

(Y/N) swallowed. She wasn’t sure if it was the narrator's words or the way Harry tensed, just a little, as if he felt them too.

When the show ended, the crowd shuffled out in a hush, like worshippers leaving a chapel. Outside, the night was velvet and full of echoes. The Observatory loomed behind them, glowing like a crown on the hillside.

She lingered at the edge of the terrace, arms crossed, watching the smog-shrouded city glitter below.

Harry joined her quietly.

"You didn’t ask why I came alone," she said.

"I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would."

(Y/N) turned to look at him and chuckled, "That’s surprisingly respectful for someone who called planetary destruction romantic."

He grinned, then grew more serious. "Why did you come?"

She hesitated. Then: "Everything’s changing lately. People, plans. It’s like…I don’t recognize anything I used to count on."

He nodded slowly. A few seconds passed before he spoke up, "Sometimes I look at Jupiter’s Great Red Spot and think about how it’s a storm that’s been raging for centuries. Longer than any of us will live. But even that’s starting to fade."

"Hm, is this your version of a pep talk?"

"I’m just saying," he smiled, his voice softer now, "even the most chaotic of things can’t last forever."

She didn’t mean to stare at him again. She didn’t mean to want more.

But she did.

He was brilliant and magnetic and too much for the moment she was in. But he’d made her feel something—for the first time in months.

They stood together in silence, the kind that felt less awkward and more like a pause the night was holding its breath through.

(Y/N) stared out at the city lights, scattered like fallen stars across the hills. Beside her, Harry did the same. When he wasn’t looking, she stole quiet glances—drawn to how composed he seemed, how effortlessly he carried himself, like he belonged in some other era.

After a long breath, Harry pulled out his notebook and jotted something down, his brow furrowed in thought.

“I should get going,” he said finally.

He tore a small slip of paper from the notebook and held it out to her—edges rough, his number written in a looping, deliberate hand.

“In case you ever want to talk stars again,” he said. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved with mischief. “Or chaos.”

(Y/N) took the paper, fingertips brushing his.

“It was really nice meeting you, (Y/N),” he added, extending his hand with that same steady warmth.

She shook it, and for a second, neither of them let go.

“Call me,” he said, his voice low as he took her hand, brushing a soft kiss against her palm.

He let her hand slip from his, the touch lingering just a little too long. She stood there, utterly speechless, only able to offer a small nod and a shy smile.

With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

She watched him go, lost in the sea of people, but something told her—he wouldn’t be gone for long.

And somehow, she knew she would stay with him, too.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

A/N: Thank you to everyone that took the time to read the first post of Written in the Stars! Please let me know your thoughts. Also make sure to drop any recommendations for other one shots, blurbs, etc.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

#harry edward styles #harry x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles slow burn #slow burn

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awesumsaus · 2 years ago

Text

pretty when I cry

wc: 6k

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: what was meant to be a slow relaxing morning after a night out with joel turns into something much more.

a/n: so I’ve been trying to work out the rest of my tlou series but couldn’t get this idea out of my head. it’s entirely self-indulgent, absolute filth, literally inspired by porn (but with feelings). pls skip if you’re not comfortable with anything outlined in the warnings/tags, otherwise hope y’all enjoy :] (and if anyone has any interest in a part two lmk bc I may or may not have some ideas lolol)

warnings/tags: explicit 18+ (minors dni), no outbreak au, softdom!joel, smut with a hint of plot, established relationship, age gap, reader is described as small/little but also curvy, hints of possessive!joel, daddy kink, almost dd/lg dynamics, subspace, oral (f receiving), slight somnophilia (very consensual), size kink, dirty talk, so many petnames (baby, honey, pretty girl, little girl), painful sex but Joel is a consent king, aftercare, fingering, *cough* butt stuff *cough*, unprotected pinv, squirting, barely proofread sorry

It wasn’t uncommon, for you to wake up like this, Joel’s head of salt and pepper curls dipped below the covers, his mouth eagerly pulling an orgasm from your pliant body. So it comes as no surprise when you’re roused awake by the sound of your own whines and whimpers, slipping through your lips like soft little pleas. Your tired eyes shift to the top of his head, the sheets bunched at his wide shoulders, leaving you bare and exposed to the cool morning breeze blowing through the open bedroom window.

He works in slow languid movements, yet he has you gushing around his tongue nonetheless, his mouth warm and wet against your dripping sex, still soft and swollen from the previous night’s activities. You’d fallen asleep, damp and sticky, only after he’d pounded you into his mattress until the early hours of the morning.

Upon waking, the feeling of his cum still dripping out of you, legs wrapped around one of his dense thighs, it drove him positively insane. It didn’t matter how peacefully asleep you were, how steadily you drew breaths between your plush lips, he had to have you the moment his eyes set on you.

He senses you’re awake when your fingers delicately twist through the curls at the crown of his head. He hums contentedly against you, the vibrations making your eyes fall closed once more as wanting sounds slip past your lips. You’d never been one for religion, but seeing Joel for the past several months has you questioning everything. The way his mouth moves against your pulsing core leaves you with no choice but to believe in some higher power, some celestial being that deemed you lucky enough to allow a man like Joel into your life.

He pulls away from your messy cunt and you whine at the loss. Your glossed over eyes meeting his with pupils blown wide. “Mornin’ pretty girl,” he says, his voice gruff and his lips shining with your slick. The sight sends another wave of warmth straight to your core.

“Hi,” you say, tone gentle and weary with sleep. A timid smile spreads across your lips as you run a hand through his scruff. No matter how many times you wake up next to him, how many times he fucks you senseless, you always manage to grow shy under his salacious stare.

He plants a fleeting kiss to your clit and you shudder, you can feel him smirk even as your gaze shifts to the ceiling above you. Your hand unknowingly grips his hair tighter and urges him towards where you need him most, not even noticing your own action until you hear Joel let out an amused chuckle.

“So needy for me, huh baby?” He runs a hand from your thigh over the curve of your hip, his touch featherlight over the certain spot by your hipbone that he knows drives you wild. His fingers end splayed across your lower belly, his thumb rubbing small circles into your skin.

“Always need you, daddy,” you say, only slightly above a whisper, a small buck of your hips to get your point across. The petname has his already half hard cock twitching against the sheets, his other hand instinctively squeezes the flesh of your hip.

With no warning, his lips are on you again, his pace now fast and increasingly sloppy. He eats at you like a man starved, his curved nose rubbing against your clit with each of his movements. The intensity of it all makes your head spin and your cunt clench around nothing. A ghosting pain lingers in your lower half, another reminder of the evening prior.

The two of you had gone out, like you often did on Friday nights, deciding on a new spot downtown. Joel was hesitant at first, having heard it was more popular with the younger crowd, more catered to people your age. But he’d learned early in your relationship that saying no to you was nearly impossible, with your big doe eyes and sweet pleading smiles, he rarely had it in him to deny anything your little heart desired.

But God, the little black dress you wore nearly had him throwing you over his shoulder and locking you away in his bedroom for only his eyes to ever behold. Joel would never admit to being the possessive type. He knew what other men saw in you, wide eyed and sweet, kind beyond reason, with a gorgeous smile and beautiful curves. He saw the way they’d look at you, saw the way their eyes followed your perfect form, like predators stalking their prey.

He would never admit to being the possessive type, but his incessant grip around your waist in every public space and the death glares he’d send any man that looked your way proved otherwise. And despite your attempts to dissuade his arrogance, there was a part of you that craved to be claimed, to be marked as his.

The week had been long and draining. Your overbearing boss forced you to work overtime into the late hours of the evening nearly every night, and with Joel’s days often starting as early as 5am, he was usually sound asleep by the time you’d managed to feed yourself and drag your exhausted corpse to bed.

To no fault of his own, Joel hadn’t paid much attention to you this week, leaving you feeling neglected and irritated despite his generally relentless attentiveness towards you. And so you decided to toy with him, always testing his limits and seeing how far you can go before he snaps. You wouldn’t admit it, but you kinda liked him a little angry.

And boy was it easy to get a rise out of him, especially dressed the way you were, your ass only just covered and your tits spilling over the tight corset-like top of your dress. You had his blood boiling before the two of you even left his house. When you finally walked through the bar entrance, Joel was like a guard dog, his arm wrapped tightly around your lower waist, a permanent scowl imprinted on his face towards the many male bar goers that ogled you. He had you tucked so close to his body you were nearly tripping over his feet with each of your steps.

After your first drink you were feeling antsy, and a bit too bold for you own good, and so you flirted with them, boys you had not a single shred of interest in, laughed at their jokes and accepted their offers to buy you drinks, all the while glancing back at Joel, biting your lip, trying not to giggle at his grimace and the way redness began spreading up his neck. You’d retreat back to your table, to Joel, prizes in hand, and feign innocence when he’d question what you were up to.

“What do y’ think you’re doin’,” he questioned after you had slipped away to the bar a second time under the guise of needing to use the restroom. You padded up to him, slotting yourself between his thighs, twirling the straw in your drink between your fingers. Even sitting on the barstool he towered over you.

“Nothin’, daddy.” You looked up at him through your lashes, knowing fully well what your words did to him. You brought the hand that wasn’t holding your drink to his upper thigh, you could feel the muscle tense as you slid your way up, up, up.

“Watch it, little girl.“ He grabbed your wrist, hard. You instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. He jerked you towards him, your chests nearly touching before bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly, a stark contrast to the death grip he still had on your wrist.

His voice was low, a sign of warning. “F’ you want somethin’ from me, all you gotta do is ask, darlin’.”

You huffed and pouted slightly when he released you, ignoring the fact that your actions resembled those of a petulant child. Despite knowing that he would give you anything you asked of him, having proved it to you countless times over the course of your relationship, the neglected feeling in your chest grew. You didn’t want to ask, sick of making decisions and telling others what to do after the week you’d had. You wanted him to take.

It was after your third disappearance, this time to actually use the restroom, that Joel snapped. Passing by the bar, one of the young men that bought you a drink attempted to stop you in your tracks. You didn’t pay him much attention, just smiled and nodded at his words, quietly trying to slip by. But then his hands were on you, grabbing your waist in a way that made your stomach turn. You hadn’t even had time to register a response, to push him away and run back to Joel, before his hands were leaving your body and being replaced by much larger ones, rough and calloused. Joel’s hands.

“We’re leaving, now,” he grunted, pulling you by the back of your arm towards the exit. It was only after he’d practically thrown you into the passenger’s seat of his truck that you knew you were in for it.

You’d barely made it to the front door before he was ripping the fabric of your little black dress from your body, letting the torn pieces fall to the floor. Immediately you’d attempted to scold him, it was one of your favorites, but couldn’t get a word in before he was throwing your bare body over his shoulder and carrying you to his bedroom, promising he’d buy you as many dresses as you wanted if you’d shut up and let him have his way with you, let him fuck you stupid, until the only thoughts going through your head were Joel, Joel, Joel.

He spent the following hours relentlessly pulling orgasm after orgasm from your pliable body, impaling you on his thick cock until hot tears streamed down your cheeks.

“I know, baby,” he said from his place behind you, your limp whimpering form draped across the edge of the bed. “Just needed to be reminded who you belong to, huh?” His voice was mocking, but with a certain sincerity that made your cunt clench even harder around him.

“Yours, daddy,” was all you could manage before you came around his cock for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Needless to say you were feeling extra sensitive this morning, Joel was hyper aware of this fact, yet the feeling of his tongue repeatedly diving into your abused hole had you begging for more. “Need you inside,” you say despite the hurt. Joel holds back a groan at your pleas, needy little thing. He pulls away just slightly to meet your gaze, his breath still hot against your core.

“Not gonna put my cock in you, honey.” The finality in his voice makes your heart drop and tears prick in the corners of your eyes. You were always like this in the mornings, he had come to notice, sensitive, soft, often emotionally even more so than physically. Joel had always been an assured man, never impulsive or reckless in his actions, always thoughtful and never selfish. But with you he’d learned patience. He’d learned to hold your emotions in the palm of his hand with a certain gentleness he never knew himself capable of. He’d learned you often needed more time than most to become placid, to settle, and so it became almost a sense of his, knowing when to take and when to give, even when you weren’t sure yourself.

“Please-“ you whine, tears in your voice. His big brown eyes soften when they meet yours, his resolve slipping only momentarily while he moves to kiss the inside of each of your thighs.

“Not gonna convince me, baby.” he tuts. “Can’t take me yet.” He moves higher, nuzzles into the soft skin above your clit. You let out a small gasp when he starts sucking harshly, surely leaving a bruise, a mark that only he will ever see.

“I can. I promise.” You wriggle in his hold, feel your wetness drip onto the sheets. He nips the spot and pulls away.

“Quit.” He pins your hips harder, his eyes meeting yours once more. “Maybe if you hadn’t been such a goddamn tease last night I wouldn’t’ve had to wreck this perfect little pussy.” He runs a finger through your folds as he says it and you tense slightly. He raises an eyebrow at you, an I told you so look, you huff in frustration, yet you relax in his hold.

“You ready to be good f’ me, baby?” His voice seeps through your ears like honey, your mind beginning to wander to that all too familiar headspace you often turned to in these moments. You nod your head, eyes hooded. Joel senses the shift. “You’re gonna take whatever daddy gives you yeah?”

“Yes,” you gasp as you feel just the tip of his index finger probe your dripping hole, Joel gauging your response.

“N’ then what d’ you say?” He twists his finger inside you and pushes in just to his first knuckle, the stretch already intense given your increased sensitivity.

“Thank you, daddy,” you sigh, not a single shred of fight left in you. A devilish smirk spreads across his face.

“Good girl.”

His hands are on the backs of both your thighs, hiking your legs up so that they’re pressed firmly against your chest, your glistening folds on full display. You shiver as the cool morning air hits where you’re most vulnerable. He then pushes your knees apart, situating himself so that his mouth is only inches from your core while still holding you in place, your legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders.

He spits directly on your clit and watches as it drips down your cunt, combining with the mess of wet already there. It’s entirely unnecessary, but it’s how Joel likes you, filthy with his cum and spit and your own slick. You tremble as he smooths his hand over your mound, his undivided attention on the mess he’s creating. When he’s satisfied, the pad of his thumb finds your clit, rubbing small circles into the bundle of nerves, making your hips buck once more.

He pauses his movements, his eyes dark and entirely void of any sense of leniency. “Not gonna tell you again.” A tear pools in your lower lashes at the loss of his touch, your breathing goes shaky.

“So pretty when you cry f’ me, honey,” his tone mocking. “Almost as pretty as when you come for me.”

His mouth is back on you, even more ravening and unrelenting than before. You have to bite down on your pillow to prevent yourself from screaming when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his warm mouth. Every cell in your body is screaming for his touch, needing more, more, more. You want to be enveloped by him by not just his mouth, but every part of him. You have the sudden desire to crawl under his skin, make a home for yourself there, where all you can ever feel is him, him, him.

The peaceful sound of birds chirping outside the window is drowned out by your cries and the pornographic squelches of your wet sex. Your vision blurs as his tongue plunges in and out of you.

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he pulls away for only a second, his eyes not leaving your center as he anchors his thick arms under your ass and thighs, bringing your cunt impossibly closer to his eager mouth.

Joel knows your body, knows what every twitch and minor shift means, how your breathing quickens when he’s brought you right to the edge, the sounds you make when you’ve completely given in, forfeited all control. And he senses it, when his thumb presses against the cleft of your ass, and a moan slips from deep within your throat, that he’s uncovered something, something that makes his cock twitch and drip onto the sheets below him.

He pulls away quick, too quick, and your face burns, the fleeting sensation prompting a new surge of desire in the pit of your stomach. The feeling was foreign, a bit startling, but in a way that left you longing for more. If you were to trust anyone to delve into this part of yourself, this uncharted territory, it would be Joel. It would always be Joel. He knew how to take care of you better than any man you’d ever known. With him you were safe, you were heard, cherished and adored. With him there was no emotion too big or too small, no desire left unsated.

“Joel-“ you breath. “Joel, baby. I want-“

He pulls away from you, a knowing look in his glassed over eyes. “What is it, honey? What d’ you want?”

He can’t help himself and licks a long strip from your asshole to your clit, moaning at the taste. “Fuck- Joel,” you cry out, a drop of sweat falling to your forehead. “Want- want your fingers.”

“Where d’ you want my fingers, baby.” He says it more like a command than a question, but you can’t respond, your head falling back as he starts lapping at your clit. “You want them in this sweet little cunt?” He prods one of his thick fingers at your opening, but quickly pulls away, leaving you clenching around nothing.

You bite your lip, eyes hooded. “Mm,” you shake your head. His eyes are nearly black now, something unhinged, sinful behind his gaze. He knows what you want, the seed already planted in his insatiable brain, but he wasn’t going to give in to your pleads that easily.

“Dirty girl.” His voice has dropped an octave. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please, daddy” you squirm, tears pooling at your waterline, threatening to fall at any second. His hardened grip on your hips softens for a moment before he’s turning his head and biting the inside of your thigh, hard. You gasp, a tear rolls down your cheek. “Use your words.”

“I wan- I-I don’t-,” you babble, the tears now flowing freely, leaving wet trails down your cheeks. He lets you choke on your words for a moment, not once tearing his eyes away from yours.

“Oh honey, I know s’ hard,” he soothes, sliding his hand along the curve of your ass. Your tears slow. “S’okay. Daddy’s gonna give you what you need. No more cryin’.”

You sniffle, a small smile spreading across your face at his words. You always had a way of making him cave.

His expression goes serious for a moment. “What’s your safe word?” Red. “And you’ll use it if you want me to stop?” Mhm. “Repeat it.” His commanding tone sends a chill down your spine. “If I want you to stop, I’ll say red,” you say softly and run a hand through his curls, wet with a mixture of your sweat and his own.

“Fuck, baby. Gonna make you feel so good,” he says more to himself than you. Your brain turns to absolute mush when his mouth meets your skin once again.

Even with his head between your legs, even when he’s on his knees for you, he’s the one in charge, the one that dictates your every move. How your body twists and bends to his will. He decides when you get to cum, decides when you’ve earned it. And there’s a certain feeling that comes with it, this loss of autonomy, a sense of ease and security created by a total loss of control. No other man you’ve been with has understood, most of them only seeking to fulfill their own selfish wants. But Joel knows, having understood this unfamiliar part of you almost as soon as the two of you met, knowing exactly how to satiate that little corner of your brain that craves submission.

You suck in a sharp breath when you feel his calloused thumb return to your tight hole, tensing a bit when he adds more pressure.

“Relax, baby.” And you do, your muscles go lax almost immediately and the furrow in your brow softens. You exhale a moan as he begins kissing your cunt, avoiding your most sensitive areas so that he can keep you focused on the feeling of his thumb pushing into you.

“Fu- fuck, Joel!” You basically shriek when the tip of his thumb breeches the ring of muscle, it’s already all consuming, already so full.

He retracts his thumb and you let out a choked sound before he brings his thick finger to your wetness, gathering slick on the pad of his thumb before resuming his unrushed stretching of your virgin hole.

“More ngh- please.” He prods you painfully slow, assessing your every reaction as his knuckle plunges into you.

“Uh-uh. Don’t care how nice n’ polite you ask, baby. Not gonna ruin this little hole.” He plants wet kisses along your seam. “Not yet,” he says almost inaudibly against your mound before devouring you once more. The promise of more makes something in your brain snap, all the shyness and trepidations from before gone in one fleeting moment.

He stretches you slowly, the speed of his mouth quickening and his thumb beginning to slide more easily in and out of you. You’re entirely lost in the feeling, completely overwhelmed by the pressure and the speed of his tongue on your clit. You cry out when he removes his thumb, replacing it with his middle finger, and dipping his freed digit into your cunt, completely overcome, overstimulated in the best way.

It’s too much, but not enough. But no, it’s too much. He’s everywhere, in your cunt, your ass, your head. All you can think is how anything in life could ever feel this good. How anyone can be this good, this knowing of your every want, every need. The thought makes tears pinch at the corner of your eyes.

His gaze is fixed on you, every twitch, every shift. He nearly comes at the sight of you grinding down on his fingers. That’s it baby, fuck yourself on my fingers. His movements slow, your orgasm begins to fade and you whine. You’re not even thinking when you bring your delicate fingers to your clit and trace small circles against the bundle of nerves. Joel immediately grabs your hand and pins it to your lower stomach, nearly growling against your skin. Any other time he’d have you bent over his knee for not asking permission, but he’s so drunk on you, so dead-set on making you come apart, he lets this one slide.

“Need t’ come so bad, huh baby?” You nod your head furiously, a few more tears slipping down your cheeks. “Go ‘head n’ ask for it then, baby. Nice n’ polite like I know you can.”

“Please daddy, please let me come.” You barely register the words falling from your mouth, but the proud look on Joel’s face tells you all you need to know.

It doesn’t take much to send you over the edge. He sucks harshly on your clit, pulling it into his mouth, while his thick fingers work each of your holes. His hand holding yours presses harder, harder, harder until the tension snaps and you’re screaming, sobbing out as you gush around him, soaking his scruff to the point that your slick drips from his chin and onto the already drenched sheets. He works you through it, curling his fingers into your cunt so that another warm stream of slick hits his tongue. And he takes, not letting a single drop go to waste as he laps at you.

Your head is still buzzing when he finally ceases his movements, the shockwaves of your orgasm still flowing through you making your whole body shake. Your muscles convulse as he slowly pulls his fingers from your core.

With blurred vision you watch him stand at the end of the bed, his cock painfully hard, red and leaking. You hadn’t even considered what all this was doing to him, so lost in your own pleasure from the moment your eyes opened. You have the sudden urge to fall to your knees and take him into your mouth until he comes deep down your throat, but your body is limp, sunk into the mattress below you. You merely watch with hooded eyes as he fists himself, his gaze fixed on your slicked core, the sight makes another pool of your arousal drip onto the sheets.

“Fuck-“ he sucks in a sharp breath, his hips stuttering against his own hold. “Need t’ be inside this tight cunt, baby.”

Your eyes go slightly wide at his confession, yet your lower half shakes with anticipation. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, this wrecked, desperate, this needy. He looks almost pained when your eyes meet his, and you feel as though you may just implode if he’s not inside you a moment longer.

“Will you let me, pretty girl?”

You nod.

“Yes or no, baby?” He squeezes the base of his shaft, staving off his impending release. You can’t help but smile a little, knowing he could come just like this, just from looking at you in your current state. But the need to feel him inside of you pulls you from the thought.

Yes, please, yes.

He grabs your hips and swiftly flips you, shoving a pillow under your lower belly and pushing down on you until you’re laid almost flat on your stomach. He grabs roughly at your hips, pulling you up so that his cock brushes up against your slick folds.

You bite down on your forearm when his wide tip notches at your entrance, basically drooling onto your own skin as you attempt to hold back your cries. He eases into you, still overly conscious of your sensitivity, ignoring the small part of his brain telling him to ram into you, make you feel every inch of him in one swift motion. He knows that you would take it, thank him for it, always such a good girl for him especially once he’s finally inside you, yet he knows the kind of control he has over you in these moments, knows it’s up to him to determine what you can and can’t take.

When he bottoms out you feel as though you may just split in two, something animalistic sounds from deep within Joel’s throat. Tears fall to your arm when your head lolls to the side, your breathing ragged and your whole body on fire from both pain and pleasure.

“Fuck- not gonna last, baby.” He starts moving in and out of you slowly, and god, it hurts, yet your tight cunt sucks him back in with each of his thrusts, a delicious burning sensation spreading along your slick walls. You open your mouth to respond, to tell him not to worry himself, to beg him to come inside your aching cunt. But all that escapes your lips is a choked sob in the sound of Joel’s name.

“Shh I know,” he coos. “You’re just so little, huh sweet thing? Little fucking cunt squeezing me so good honey.”

You keen at his praise, gushing around his massive girth. You’d never get used to it, the thickness of his cock, the weight of him deep inside your cunt. No matter how much he prepares you, it’s always a stretch, always just short of too much to bare.

His thumb presses into the cleft of your ass as his pace increases. “Gonna let me fuck you here, baby?”

“Yes daddy,” you say and he freezes for a moment, your words nearly sending him over the edge.

“Not today, little girl,” he growls and rocks back into you. A feeling of combined relief and disappointment washes over you. You’re not sure you could take it, not now, but part of you craves to be reduced to nothing but Joel’s fuck toy, fucked deep and full until you can’t even think, nothing but a few holes to be filled.

“You’d let me though, wouldn’t ya?” He pulls you from your thought. “Dirty fuckin’ thing.”

“Mhm, yes daddy.” Your vision goes black at the feeling of his cock pulsing against your cervix. He was close, you could feel it in the way his thrusts went erratic, sloppy and slightly hurried.

“Let me do whatever I want to ya, huh?”

“Yes daddy,” you say the only two words left in your brain.

“Fuck, so fucking perfect, baby-“ The feeling of his warm release shooting inside of you makes you twitch around him and your brain go fuzzy. You can barely hear Joel’s grunts and moans nor his incessant praises over the ringing in your ears. This is what you craved, beyond the physical gratification brought on by these moments, but the way the world around you disappeared and you were filled with nothing but the content of being his, being Joel’s. The safety you felt beneath his large form, it leaves no room for worry, no thoughts of the stress of everyday life, no decisions to be made. Just him, just Joel.

You’re not sure how long the two of you stay like this, long enough to feel your combined release dripping from Joel’s cock onto your trembling thighs, long enough that you feel yourself dipping in and out of sleep, in and out of consciousness.

When he finally pulls out of you, he lets your hips softly fall onto the bed, your body sprawled across the damp sheets. You feel the mattress shift behind you as he stands, immediately heading for the en suite bathroom. At the loss of his presence, you’re reminded of the open window, the now midmorning breeze dancing across your damp skin. You can’t help but wonder if the echoes of your morning endeavors made their way to the street below, if a neighbor passing by could make out the sounds of your shrieks and screams, if perhaps it’d been a cause for concern until it became apparent that your cries were derived from a place of pleasure and not pain nor fear.

Joel returns and takes quick notice of your shivering, immediately making his way to the window and shutting it. You smile to yourself at the sight of his bare backside, so strong and sturdy, the muscles in his shoulders sculpted from years of working on various job sites, tapering down to his waist, the dimples right above his ass. It’s truly a view you would never tire of.

“‘S impolite to stare, y’ know?” He catches your eye, a playful smirk spread across his face. You giggle at him, still laying on your belly, your head tucked into the crook of your elbow. He chuckles when you make grabby hands at him with your free hand, to which he quickly concedes, bending over at your side and planting a kiss on your lips. You sigh against him, carding your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer.

“Hey baby.” He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against your nose. He tucks fallen pieces of hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You nod your head tiredly, unable to muster any more of a response, and he doesn’t attempt to pull one out of you, kissing your nose and rising back to his feet.

He disappears once again, this time returning dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a damp washcloth in hand. He sits next to you on the bed, moving to clean between your legs, but your thighs clamp shut. It’s a purely physical reaction, your body on high alert due to the sensitivity.

“Hey hey-“ he runs a soothing hand up and down your spine then leans over to press a kiss to your shoulder. “Just want t’ clean you up sweet girl. I’ll be so gentle, promise.” His soothing makes your legs instinctively relax and he brings the washcloth to the apex of your thighs. He’s gentle just like he promised, yet you still hiss slightly when the warm material meets your sensitive skin.

When he’s finished, he grabs one of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts from the dresser, quickly returning to your side and urging you to turn onto your back. He dresses you, your body like putty in his hands, his touch gentle and warm. You can’t deny the aching feeling in your lower half when he slides your shorts on, but it’s a good kind of ache, an ache you’ll crave as soon as it dissipates.

You grab at him again when he moves to pull away, but he makes it easy for you, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours, careful not to bare any of his weight on you. The little whimpers that slip past your lips as your warm mouth moves across his make his spent cock twitch.

It scared him sometimes, the intensity with which he felt for you, the depth of his affections. It scared him, the thoughts he had, of what he would do to those who meant to hurt you, to those who have hurt you. It scared him, the thought of losing you, the lengths he would go to keep you safe, keep you here, here with him. But it was in these moments, when you’re laid beneath him, so soft and so lovely, that all those fears melted away.

Before things move any further, he hooks his arms under you and lifts you from the bed with ease. You don’t protest, not sure you could even if you wanted to, instead you latch onto him, curl your face into his neck and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you downstairs to the living room.

He attempts to set you on the couch, but you cling to him like a koala, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Let go,” he says firmly, a smile behind his words. “Don’t wanna,” you mumble against his skin, whining as he unfurls you from his torso and plops you on the couch. He places the TV remote in your hand, telling you to put somethin’ on, whatever you want.

He disappears into the kitchen and you attempt to sit up on the couch, your body going slack against the cushions. Your brain is still buzzing, it’s almost like you’re floating, not yet fully aware of your surroundings, but you can slowly feel yourself coming back to reality. You turn the TV on and set it to your latest recording.

Joel returns a few minutes later, your favorite water bottle and a plate of peanut butter toast in hand, a bottle of Advil in the other. He sits on the couch, immediately urging you onto his lap, and you don’t object.

“The Bachelor?” He says, a hint of judgement in his voice as he unscrews the cap of the Advil.

“You love it,” you respond, beginning to lose focus on the show as you squirm and slither against his body, making yourself comfortable as if he were part of the couch. Joel softly chuckles, wrapping an arm loosely around you.

He holds a few of the pills in front of you. “Joel I’m fine. I don’t-“

“Not asking, sweetheart.” You roll your eyes, but take the Advil from him nonetheless, swallowing them down when Joel holds the straw of your water bottle to your mouth, knowing your body would thank you for it later.

“Good girl,” he plants a quick kiss to your temple, before grabbing the toast from the coffee table, heat rises to your cheeks at his words.

He feeds you the toast, taking bites for himself while you chew. You hadn’t realized how depleted your body was, now feeling the haze lift with some food and water in your system. Every time it’s like coming back to earth, but fortunately you know that Joel will always be there to catch you.

y'all I’m not good at endings pls forgive me

but hope we enjoyed the rest :p

part two

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #pedro pascal characters #joel miller au #tlou au #joel miller fanfiction

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koiukiy-o · 3 months ago

Text

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 002. the assignment.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.9k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: chapter twooooo oh my god im so excited for this chapter AUGH IT FELT SO GOOD writing this !! this is when things get GOOOODDDD and im ao HUHUHUHUHU to hear yalls thoughts!! hehe. i hope you like it! <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

You don’t expect to see him here.

The planetarium is dimly lit, the soft glow of projected constellations swirling lazily across the domed ceiling. You hadn’t planned on coming—it was a last-minute decision. Yet, the vastness of space, even simulated, has always steadied you.

But then—

"Of course."

The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement, is unmistakable.

You turn.

Anaxagoras is standing just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes reflecting the cosmic sprawl above. He isn’t wearing his usual academic robes—just a simple, well-fitted dark tunic beneath a long coat, the fabric settling neatly against his frame. He looks different like this. Less like a scholar. More like—

Well. More like a man.

"I didn’t take you for a stargazer," he says, voice measured, gaze still fixed on the cosmos above.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, professor."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I do prefer the certainties of physics over the whims of celestial bodies."

"Ah," you hum. "So no fate, no destiny. Just equations and probability."

"Precisely." His gaze flickers up, tracking the slow rotation of the star map. "Though I will admit, there’s a certain poetry to the illusion of it all."

You glance up as well. Orion looms overhead, his belt gleaming sharp and clear. "Illusion?"

"These constellations," Anaxagoras murmurs. "They don't exist as we see them. Stars scattered across thousands of light-years, their arrangement nothing but a trick of perspective. We only think they belong together because of our vantage point." He says, after a pause, “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.”

Your lips curl. "That’s kind of sad."

He tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Yeah," you say, watching the artificial night swirl overhead. "Thinking you're part of something greater, only to realize it's all a trick of perspective."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, thoughtful. Then—

"Perhaps," he concedes. "But perspective is all we have."

You glance at him again, but his expression is unreadable.

There’s always been a distance to him that he maintains… almost religiously.

The hush of the planetarium stretches between you, the weight of his regard heavy. You’re not sure what it is that makes your skin feel so warm, your breath so shallow.

So you do what you do best. You challenge him.

"If constellations are an illusion," you say, "then what of all the truths we believe to perceive?"

His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

You don’t look away.

"We only think things are connected because of our vantage point," you continue, your voice quieter now. "So how do we know if any of it actually means anything?"

Another beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he says—

"We don’t."

Your chest tightens, though you don’t know why.

For a moment, it feels like that’s the end of it. Like you’ll both turn away and let the conversation dissolve into the simulated cosmos above.

But then—

Anaxagoras steps closer.

Not much. Barely enough to notice. But enough that when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Measured.

"We don’t," he repeats, as if the weight of it matters. "But sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

You don’t know what to say to that.

You’re early to class.

Not by much, but enough to claim your usual seat and settle in before the lecture hall fills. Enough to shake off the strange tension that’s been humming beneath your skin since the planetarium.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor, just another verbal sparring match. Anaxagoras challenged you. That’s all.

But it lingers.

It lingers in the way your heartbeat picked up when he stepped closer. In the way his words—so measured, so precise—felt heavier than they should have. In the way his gaze held yours just a fraction too long, as if entertaining the illusion wasn’t just about the stars.

You exhale, flipping open your notebook. Focus.

The room fills, a murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then, just as the hour strikes, he enters.

Anaxagoras walks with the same deliberate grace he always does, his robes sweeping behind him. But today, as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly.

On you.

Something flickers across his expression—gone before you can name it. Then he looks away, moving towards the podium.

"Good morning," he says, voice smooth, effortlessly commanding. "Let’s begin."

You should be taking notes. You should be focused on the equations he’s sketching onto the board, the elegant arc of chalk gliding across the surface. Instead, you remember his voice in the dark, low and certain—

"Sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

Damn him.

You press your pen to the paper, forcing your attention forward.

"Consider the nature of causality," Anaxagoras continues, turning back to face the class. "An event—any event—can be traced backward through a series of causes. But the perception of these events is often subject to our vantage point."

A pause. Then his gaze flickers to you, deliberate.

"One might argue that meaning is an emergent property. That cause and effect are simply the mind’s way of drawing constellations between unrelated points."

Your fingers tighten around your pen.

Is he—?

No. No, you’re imagining things. He’s lecturing. That’s all.

And yet.

His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, continuing as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just lace the entire moment with subtext so thick it might as well be its own theorem.

Your pulse is ridiculous. You need to get a grip.

The lecture moves on, but now you’re watching him differently. Not just listening, but observing. The way he gestures, the way his mind moves faster than his words, the way his lips quirk slightly when a student offers an answer that surprises him.

You’ve spent weeks admiring Anaxagoras for his intellect. Respecting him as a professor. Arguing with him for the sake of curiosity.

And...

Well, there'a no point dwelling on it, is there?

By the time the lecture is nearing its end, you’ve barely written anything coherent.

Your notes are a scattered mess—half physics, half what the hell is going on? The worst part? Anaxagoras knows. He hasn’t called on you once today, which is unusual. He always prods, always challenges. But today, he’s let you stew in your thoughts, like he’s letting you chase your own tail.

Infuriating man.

"Before we conclude," he says, dusting chalk from his fingertips, "your next individual assignment."

The room collectively stiffens.

Anaxagoras turns from the board, his gaze sweeping over the lecture hall. Ilias straightens immediately, feigning deep intellectual engagement. You suppress a smile.

"As we’ve explored, physics attempts to model reality through observable forces," Anaxagoras continues. "But what of the forces we cannot measure? What of the unseen variables?"

Ilias perks up at that, intrigued. "Is he finally acknowledging my suffering?"

You elbow him. "Shut up, he’s setting up the assignment."

"Your task," he continues, "is to examine a concept often deemed metaphysical—fate, intuition, divine intervention—" He lifts his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle. "And construct a framework to explain its existence. Or—" his voice sharpens— "prove its impossibility."

A murmur ripples through the students. Anaxagoras doesn’t tolerate pseudo-science in his lectures, so the fact that he’s even entertaining this angle is unexpected.

It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense.

You listen, absorbed—until Ilias leans in again, whispering, "If I were to quantify the force that compels me to sleep in class instead of studying, do you think he’d accept it?"

You stifle a laugh. "I think he’d call it laziness and fail you on principle."

"Damn. Guess I’ll have to go with my second option."

"Which is?"

He grins. "Manifesting an equation that proves I am, in fact, always right."

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. "I’d pay to see you argue that with him."

As if on cue, Anaxagoras glances your way, sharp-eyed.

"Would either of you care to share your insights with the class?"

Ilias, ever the survivalist, doesn’t miss a beat. "We are discussing emergent properties of intelligence, professor."

Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."

The class chuckles. You shoot Ilias a look.

"Walked right into that one," you murmur.

Ilias sighs. "Yeah. That’s on me."

His gaze sweeps the class. "You may choose any concept, but your reasoning must be sound. Sentimentality will not be rewarded."

A collective groan. Someone mutters something about dropping the course.

You, however, are too focused on the way he’s looking at you.

He knows you’ll take this further than anyone else. He wants you to.

Then—

"Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing. "I need a word."

You feel the shift immediately. A few students glance between you and him, intrigued. You school your expression, pretending it doesn’t affect you.

"Yes, professor." you say.

He nods, then dismisses the class.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Students file out, some grumbling about the assignment, others already debating what concept they’ll choose. Someone lingers near the door for a second too long, clearly hoping to eavesdrop, before sighing and leaving.

Then it’s just you and him.

Anaxagoras exhales softly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders before turning to face you fully.

"I’m altering your assignment," he says.

You blink. "What? Why?"

His lips quirk slightly, but there’s something intent in his eyes. "Because the standard prompt is beneath your abilities."

You swallow. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s been paying attention.

"Your mind doesn’t just follow logic," he continues. "It challenges it. So I’m giving you something worthy of that."

You exhale, half-exasperated. "Fine. What’s the twist?"

Instead of answering right away, he steps past you, picks up a book from his desk, and flips it open. When he finds the page he’s looking for, he turns it toward you.

It’s a diagram. A branching structure of choices, converging and diverging like neural pathways.

"Your peers will be arguing for or against metaphysical forces." His voice is measured. "You, however, will go one step further."

He closes the book, meeting your gaze.

"Instead of proving or disproving their existence, I want you to model one."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

His smirk is subtle, but there. "You heard me."

"You want me to… what, exactly? Build a mathematical model for something physics doesn’t even acknowledge?"

"Why not?" he challenges. "If intuition exists, quantify its mechanism. If destiny is real, define its parameters. If the soul endures, find the equation that governs it."

Your fingers twitch at that.

That’s—

That’s significantly more difficult than the original prompt. You’d have to rethink everything from the ground up.

The soul?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You really don’t like making my life easy, do you?"

His smirk deepens. "Where’s the fun in easy?"

You hate that he’s right.

And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think.

Your pulse is an uneven rhythm as you meet his gaze. "Alright," you say.

He nods once, satisfied. "Good."

For a moment, neither of you move.

"You’re dismissed," he says, voice softer.

You hesitate. Then turn, heading toward the door.

Just as you step through the threshold, his voice reaches you, quiet but deliberate.

"Don’t disappoint me."

You don’t look back.

But you do smile.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom (send an ask or comment to be added!)

#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader

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mehiwilldoitlater · 9 months ago

Note

I literally grew up watching DBZ on Toonami reruns as a kid.. and it’s got me thinking…..

The Destined One (if you fight you know who to get the True Ending) receives Sun Wukong’s memories, but is clearly still his Own Self.. he gets to keep his individuality but now he has the knowledge and wisdom of Daddy OG Wukong’s previous experiences…

But what if….. it worked like a Namekian absorption fusion? Like with Piccolo and Nail?

like The Destined One literally Has OG Wukong chattering away in his head like a little subconscious Jiminy cricket.. but with more quips Less guidance and WAY more Shit talking.

((Oh God, this thing is so breaking funny?! Like WHAAAAAA?Okay, okay, let me spice it up a little. Beware, slighty suggestive at some point))

After the Memories of Sun Wukong were bestowed on him, he became the new Sage (to the dismay of the Celestial Court). Everything seemed pretty fine with Yuán Fèn. He was strong; everybody accepted him as the new Monkey King, and his wish was to live happily ever after with you.

At first, it was just a small thing—a small voice that he heard from time to time. Just like when you think that someone is calling you and then nothing! He blamed the successful events; he not even needed to let you worry about!

While he was stirring his own tea, sitting under the tree at your side, he heard it again.

"Young one!"

He stiffened his neck, looking around, but he came back to his tea. No one was calling him; it was the fifth time that day. How strange...

Then, things started to get REALLY strange. He started to hear full sentences, or after he had responded to them, he even received another remark!

"I can't believe you defeated my stone self with that stance."

"I can't believe that I'm turning into some kind of demented monkey with the old save powers."

"I HEARD THAT!!"

He suddenly loosed his own balance and started you and other young monkeys.

He thought he could handle it; he could handle a god as Erlang; he could handle this too!

He couldn't be more wrong.

"You look awfully tried. Are you sure you're sleeping well?"

He just nodded, just hoping that the Great Sage could spare him some sleep in the afternoon from his continuous blabbering.

At the end, he finally confessed everything to you. It was noble to know that he didn't want to obligate you to handle this thing with him, but instead you simply accepted it.

After all, you were soon to be King and Queen; you wanted to share his burden!

"Sooo...what does he say? About me, I mean..."

Yuán Fèn stayed silent, expecting something from the voice in his head.

"Umm...nice hips! She's going to bear a lot of kids, young one!"

"He said you're okay."

Things started to get strange when Yuán Fèn started to actually see him.

He almost had a heart attack the day that he saw him, and oh my, if he wished to get rid of him.

You believed that it wasn't such a big deal; Wukong must have been a rational creature to leave your privacy alone! ....Wrong.

The sound of your sigh and panting emitted in your small abode. The only source of light is a small candel, near the end of it.

His hands held your hips, while your lips kept on caressing his cheeks, leaving kisses and small bites. He tried to restrain a laugh, but the rumble in his chest took it away.

"Did you like it?"

He mewled, his tail moving restless around.

"I don't know him, but do I enjoy the view!"

Yuán Fèn suddenly screamed, making you fall from his hips, causing you to hit your head in the side of the bed, exposing in that motion your chest to the ceiling and to an invisible monkey that only the young one could see.

"W-WHAT THE -"

"DO YOU MIND?!"

"Uh, uh, uh, you should mind that boner in your thoughts! I think she would love to take care of that!"

And, while your lover tried to protect you from a pair of eyes that wasn't even there, you started to feel your desire and passion slowly fade away.

Things didn't get better, and now frustration started to get attached to you, like some kind of parasite. You were fed up, he was fed up, and Wukong... he couldn't find the situation more amusing.

"Am I in front of him?"

"Yes?"

"What does he do?"

"He's just...staring, just staring."

You clear your throat, while, only for Yuán Fèn, the old sage gave another bite to the peach, looking at the small human that was acting all big in front of him. You took enough control, and finally.

"Sun Wukong... I need to fuck, like for real. Leave us alone for... I don't know, 48 hours."

In his head, the poor monkey felt the great sage equal to Heaven laugh like never before.

@sleepingdramaqueen

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@masksandfeathers

@certifiedsimpinggalore

@cinnamonroll-anon

@justrandomlypassing

@cute-angi

@dressycobra7

@virtualexpertanchor

@szynkaaa

@sleepydang

#black myth wukong #destined one #destined one x reader #sun wukong #sunwukong #wukong #sun wukong x reader #sun wukong x oc #sun wukong x y/n #wukong x reader #wukong x oc #jttw #jttw sun wukong #journey to the west #fem reader #x reader #female

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jadeshifting · 6 months ago

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— THE OWLS ( YOUR GUIDE TO KEEPING SANE DURING EXAM SEASON )

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

OWLs—the stuff of sleepless nights, whispered complaints, and ink-stained hands—are coming for you whether you like it or not. here’s what’s in the tea leaves: preparation is key, panic is optional but heavily practiced, and your ability to survive depends on cleverness, caffeine, and a slightly (for some, VERY) unhinged sense of determination

★⋆. — THE EXAM SETUP.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

LOCATION … the Great Hall, stripped bare of all its usual charm—no enchanted ceiling, no fancy food, just rows of wooden desks, looming professors, and energy as stiff as a petrified mandrake

SUPERVISORS … professors plus a handful of Ministry examiners (who look like they were brewed in a cauldron labeled “evil.”) they’re watching you like hawks—no cheating, no spells up your sleeve, and Merlin help you if you sneeze

FORMAT … you get two parts for each subject:

no.1 — the written exam : essays, tricky multiple-choice, and fill-in-the-blanks about everything you’ve (hopefully) learned. expect brain busters that make you question your life choices and every single class you’ve ever dozed off in

no.2 — the practical exam : here’s where your wandwork is scrutinized. think Charms cast on demand, Defense Against the Dark Arts duels under examiner supervision, and Transfiguration spells that can’t afford a fumble

★⋆. — THE SUBJECTS YOU’LL FACE.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

TRANSFIGURATION.

— expect : turning porcupines into pincushions, teacups into toads, and zero room for error

— pro-tip : precision is the name of the game here. showoff moves will backfire, and no one wants to see a toad halfway stuck as a teacup (ew)

CHARMS.

— expect : summoning spells, levitation charms, and intricate wand movements that require a steady hand

— pro-tip : practice non-verbal spells—they’ll hand out bonus points like candy

POTIONS.

— expect : brew a tricky potion under timed pressure—one misstep and you’re cooking up a classroom evacuation

— pro-tip : read the instructions twice, prep your ingredients like you’re prepping for war, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t spill

DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS.

— expect : dueling simulations and counter-curse demonstrations

— pro-tip : quick reflexes and confidence sell it. a well-timed Protego will earn you a lot more than panicked flailing will

HERBOLOGY.

— expect : repotting aggressive plants, identifying magical herbs, and dodging venomous vines trying to choke the life out of you

— pro-tip : gloves. always gloves. and don’t scream—it riles the plants

CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES.

— expect : feeding, identifying, and handling creatures that may or may not want to eat you

— pro-tip : be gentle, know your creatures, and keep snacks handy—both for bribing beasts and calming your own nerves

HISTORY OF MAGIC.

— expect : essays about goblin rebellions, dates, names, and enough dull facts to knock a troll unconscious.

— pro-tip : memorize key events, and for the love of Merlin, don’t fall asleep during the exam

ASTRONOMY.

— expect : sketching star charts in the dead of night and pinpointing celestial bodies under pressure

— pro-tip : coffee beforehand, steady hands, and a cloak because midnight chills will be the thing that takes you out if you aren’t prepared

DIVINATION.

— expect : interpretations of tea leaves, crystal balls, or dreams (bonus if you actually predict something !!)

— pro-tip : make it sound convincing. a little flair in your “visions” goes a long way

ARITHMANCY.

— expect : complicated magical equations that make everyone want to die

— pro-tip : if numbers scare you, study harder. there’s no winging this one

★⋆. — THE PANIC TIMELINE.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

2 MONTHS OUT … the studious ones hit the books. everyone else starts to think about hitting the books

1 MONTH OUT … libraries turn into battlegrounds, textbooks become pillows, and caffeine dependence hits the damn roof

THE WEEK BEFORE … fears, existential crises, and the desperate hunt for last-minute tutors. study groups form out of thin air, and everyone’s all of a sudden best friends with the top students in their year

THE NIGHT BEFORE … cramsville. you’ll see students muttering incantations in their sleep, surrounded by half-eaten chocolate and ink stains. sleep is for the weak

★⋆. — TIPS FOR SURVIVAL.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

SNACKS ARE SACRED . chocolate frogs, pumpkin pasties, and licorice wands can fuel the studying like you wouldn’t believe. bring some to exams if you can, for the morale boost

STUDY SPOTS . the Hogwarts library is a blessing and a curse—full of knowledge and unrelenting Ravenclaws hogging every desk. stake your claim early or find an undiscovered nook—behind the Herbology section works wonders

TAKE BREAKS . when your brain feels like mashed mandrakes, step away (you’re not a house elf, you need to take five.) grab a butterbeer, take a walk on the grounds, or sit by the lake and yell existential questions at the giant squid—it’s weirdly therapeutic

FIDGETING . carry a worry stone enchanted with calming runes, or mess around with a stress-relief charm that makes sparks dance between your fingers

SELF-STUDY SPELLS . a mild Calming Draught or a Focus Charm won’t hurt, but don’t go overboard. no one likes a jittery potion accident

DON’T SKIP SLEEP . use a mild Dreamless Sleep Draught if you’re prone to anxiety-fueled nightmares about flunking Charms and accidentally turning yourself into a hedgehog

LUCKY CHARMS . wear something lucky—maybe your favorite socks, a brooch, or that enchanted bracelet that Auntie Freya swears boosts brainpower. confidence comes from the little things

KEEP PERSPECTIVE . keep the big picture in mind: your future career doesn’t rest solely on your Arithmancy grade, and life goes on even if you confuse aconite with asphodel (it happens)

★⋆. — THE AFTERMATH.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

once you’ve handed in that final exam parchment, it’s out of your hands, so don’t spiral. sleep for three days, binge chocolate, drink yourself half to death under a strobe light and celebrate with your friends—party like it’s a victory (whether you aced it or bombed.) when your results arrive, just remember: OWLs are a big deal, but they’re not everything. you’ve got magic, and magic finds a way :)

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

#hogwarts dr #shifting to hogwarts #shifting motivation #reality shifting #hogwarts scripting #shiftblr #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifting script #shifters #shiftinconsciousness #shift #shifting consciousness #shifting realities #shifting #shifting community #shifting to harry potter #shifting diary

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amarynthian-chronicles · 3 months ago

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(continuation under the cut)

The Celestial Library had appeared near your house seemingly out of nowhere, magnificent, walls speckled with stars of gold, windows made of finest painted glass, depicting the radiant sun, the mysterious moon and the formidable eclipse. The friendly solar-themed librarian would always try to lure you within as you passed by, sweet promises accompanied by words of honey.

"Star light, Star bright, gracing my sight with sweet delight, won't you come and see, if my humble halls hold any special books for thee? Certainly my shelves hold a treasure more divine than gold, stories and knowledge, prophecies foretold. Won't you come and see?"

You would smile politely, telling him maybe another day, you were in a hurry to get to work. Always working, always tired. Forever busy, dark circles had settled under your eyes. Perhaps one day a single hour may not hurt? Perhaps you could find a few special books to borrow and take home, maybe they would help you feel joy.

And so, you had entered the beautiful library, amazed with the myriad of books, endless and endless halls. Sun made an elegant bow and took your hand, showing you wonders yet uncovered, dazzling you with stories untold. Inexplicably, he conjured silhouettes of characters as he read each tale, summoned sounds and music, making the books come alive. Your reason told you it was technology. Your heart, aware of magical forces, kept warning you to run. Wishing to ignore such notions, you asked:

"How long must I wait for my library card to be made?"

"No need for a card nor membership fee, my Starlight. There is only one rule. Return the books on time, time, time!"

"And how much do I pay if I happen to be late?"

Sun's grin suddenly widens, sinister, his blue gaze becoming silver, pupils disappearing as he leans closer to you, whispering.

"Everything."

Before you could react, he giggled, patting you on the head.

"Silly Starlight! 'Tis but a jest, do pardon this poor librarian for scaring you so! Come, come, worry not that beautiful mind with such details!"

Sun kissed your hand in a gentlemanly manner, leading you towards the area containing comfortable reading rooms with ceilings adorned with crescent moons, stars twinkling, gentle classical music being played. One might even think of taking a nap after a reading session in such a location. Nevertheless, each time you wished to ask whether there was a lunar-themed counterpart, Sun would distract you with new wonders.

Curious and wishing to learn more, you had attempted to explore on your own, asking Sun to fetch certain novels for you. As he did so, you began to wander, disobeying his command ("just sit right here and don't move").

Meandering halls had become darker, sepulchral, distant echoes of the damned present in each corridor. You had gotten lost, there was no doubt of that. The penumbral corridors had become haunted, stairs disappearing, windows opening to distorted dimensions. Overcome by panic, you had bumped into a bookshelf, making several tomes fall, the pages having a mind of their own as they turned and turned, demonic entities reaching out with clawed hands, grabbing you by the ankles. Terror engulfed you as they began to drag you within the book.

"Help! Sun! Anyone!"

Closing your eyes, you did not see the grandiose guardian approaching, golden eyes glowing, intent to punish the demons that had dared to lay their hands upon you. A swift movement of his fingers and the tomes had turned to ash, the beings within sent to oblivion. Four arms cradled you, holding you close. A dark voice purred into your ear.

"Has Sunny not warned you not to wander on your own in these haunted halls, little moth? The archives are a forbidden and dangerous place. Was the warmth of the flame so irresistible? Tender are your wings, gentle is your soul, you have much to learn before you gain the power to tame monsters."

Clinging to your saviour, you looked upwards, entranced with his regal beauty. One might describe him as quite similar to Sun in appearance, yet his stature was imposing, rays sharper, numerous, akin to a crown adorning his dark features, eyes of gold, teeth reminiscent of razors. A cloak billowed around him, the fabric seemingly having a mind of its own. You struggled to form coherent thought.

"W-what? What was, what the-...you know what, I am honestly not even going to comment on the special effects budget this library has. Pardon me, sir, I did not mean to intrude in your department. I am Y/N. Mister Sun was giving me a tour, but I...well, I wandered off without his knowledge."

Sun's high-pitched voice was heard as he appeared in the corridor.

"Sly little minx! Disobedient little rulebreaker! What did I say? Hmmmm?"

You pouted. "Technically you only said there was only one rule."

Sun made a huff, before smiling kindly once more.

"I see you have already met the Archivist of this fine establishment, my dear Starlight. Eclipse is a true magician when it comes to dealing with unruly scripts and capricious ancient secrets. However, should you ever wish to discover that which is Forbidden, you will need a special Pass. Which you are definitely not ready for!"

As if taking back a beloved toy, Sun had stolen you from Eclipse's arms, much to the older brother's chagrin. Eclipse leaned over to speak, his voice low enough only for Sun to hear.

"Sunny, such haste, the precious starry moth belongs to all of us equally. Be gentle as you lure their divine soul into our clutches, the web of a spider must equally use the tricks of light and the cover of shadow. "

"All in due time, brother dearest, have faith."

Dazed from such an eventful day, and amazed at the achievements of modern "technology" that had allowed libraries to have such intensely realistic special effects for an immersive experience, you placed a pile of chosen books on Sun's desk, waiting for him to scan them.

"Remember, Starlight..."

"Yes, yes, I will return them on time."

You did not notice when Sun had secretly slipped a small book into your coat pocket. It would spell your doom and sing of your entrapment.

Days and weeks had passed. You had diligently returned all of the books you had taken from the Celestial Library, thinking you had no debt to be repaid, your record perfectly clean. Blissfully unaware of your time running out, the tiny book happily resting within your coat pocket. Each second that had passed whispered of what was to come. Shadows would move along the walls, sinister giggles of a dark jester present in the night, red eyes set upon you, desiring you, waiting, yearning.

On a dark and thunderous night, the final second had passed. You were all comfortable in bed, dreaming, delectable. The ominous lunar librarian grinning at you. Time was up.

"Naughty, naughty, you must be punished..."

Silken crimson ribbons were wrapped around your wrists, gentle, yet firm. You yawned cutely as you felt yourself being lifted as a new bride as Moon held you in his strong arms. Deeming it to be a mere dream and a product of insane stories, you merely nuzzled his chest, returning to sleep.

Moon purred, admiring you, adoring you, carrying you away, back to the Celestial Library where you had always belonged. His dark raspy voice was carried by the wind as he spoke softly:

"May your dreams provide a soft nest for your soul, beautiful comet, and I vow to make your waking reality ten times as magnificent."

#sundrop x reader #moondrop x reader #eclipse #fnaf eclipse #five nights at freddy's #the daycare attendant #daycare attendant x reader #daycare attendant #eclipse x reader #sun fnaf #moon fnaf #sun x y/n #sun x reader #moon x y/n #moon x reader #dca fandom #dca community #amary's chronicles

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underzemilkyway · 1 year ago

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Milky Way Over Lavaredo - by Luca Cruciani Macerata, Italy

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landscapesscenerypeopleplaces · 1 year ago

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Yukon, Canada - by Mark Adamus

The Incomparable Mountains of the Yukon with the Usual Night Skies Dancing Overhead. A long backpacking trip in the rain, snow & ice lead us to this location miles from any other people for over a week, whereupon it cleared off for a few nights and I was able to render the images needed for this shot. The image depicts a peak that I had always wanted to explore after flying near it a few times.

Hope you enjoy!

#landscape & scenery #nature #yukon #canada #under the starry skies #under the heavens #under the milkyway #under the milky way #milkyway #auroral enrichment #aurora #auroral odyssey #celestial odyssey #celestial enrichment #under the celestial ceiling #under starry skies #northern lights #the celestial ceiling #the celestial odyssey

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spitefulsatanfics · 8 days ago

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𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞...

— by little devil 🕯️

pairing: castiel x she/her reader

tone: angelic awkwardness, holy fluff, tragic beauty, tender devotion

genre: canon-compliant headcanon list told through mini fanfiction scenes

rating: pg-13 for themes of eternity, gentle touches, and celestial simping

synopsis: loving an angel isn’t like loving a person—it’s like being seen for the first time in your whole damn life.

🌌 Endless, Unwavering Staring

You’ve asked him why he does it. The staring.

He tilts his head, confused.

“You are… captivating,” he says. “I’m literally brushing my teeth, Cas.” “Yes. I am aware.”

No matter the time, the place, or the state of your bedhead, Castiel stares at you like you are the only thing keeping the universe from crumbling. And maybe—just maybe—you are.

📿 That Old Testament Flavor of Devotion

He doesn’t love like a man. He loves like a declaration.

“I would fall again,” he says, quiet, sure. “For you. If Heaven demanded otherwise—I would choose you.”

You freeze, soup spoon halfway to your mouth.

“Cas. I’m just sick. You don’t have to make it biblical.”

But that’s the thing. With Castiel, everything is.

☁️ Trying to Teach Him Pop Culture with Deeply Mixed Results

“That is… a SpongeBob.” “Correct!” “He lives in a fruit?” “Technically a sea sponge in a pineapple under the sea, yeah.” “This is absurd.” “…You love it.” “…I do.”

He once recited “the Krabby Patty secret formula is love” during a demon interrogation. Dean still hasn’t recovered.

🕰️ Being Gently Out of Step with Time but Always on Time for You

He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t really understand mortality.

But somehow, he always knows when your hands start shaking, when the nightmares hit, when the weight of everything becomes too much.

“You do not need to be strong tonight,” he murmurs, wrapping his coat around you. “Just rest. I will carry it for now.”

🕊️ Accidentally Saying the Most Romantic Things in the Universe

Like, he really doesn’t mean to go so hard. He’s just… built that way.

“I studied your soul once,” he tells you one night, voice low and reverent. “It’s brighter than anything I’ve seen in Heaven.”

You: 🧍‍♀️ Also you: dead on the floor, heart exploded, ascended to the astral plane

🔥 Moments of Terrifying, Blazing Power—But He’ll Never Hurt You

When Cas is angry, the air changes.

Demons scatter. Lights flicker. The Earth holds its breath.

But when he looks at you?

His hands shake, soft and unsure, wings tucked in like he’s afraid of brushing against your light.

“Even at my most powerful,” he whispers, “you make me feel… human.”

🥪 Trying Human Things Just Because You Like Them

He doesn’t need food. But when you offer him a bite of your sandwich, he takes it.

Chews.

Blushes.

“This is... pleasant.” “It’s grilled cheese, babe.” “Then I would like… more grilled cheese. With you.”

He eats it awkwardly, angelic hands too big for the plate, and you have never loved anyone more.

📖 Reading Scripture and Lore with You—and Occasionally Correcting It

He reads over your shoulder, brow furrowed.

“That’s… not accurate.” “What, this Latin exorcism?” “No, the depiction of Uriel. He wasn’t nearly that tall. Or kind.” “Cas, it’s fanfiction.” “It is… fanfiction of Heaven?” “Yeah. And apparently Gabriel's hot now.” “…He will be insufferable when he finds out.”

🌿 Flowers Left in Strange Places

He doesn’t buy bouquets. He materializes them.

Sometimes it’s a single daisy on your dashboard. Sometimes an entire garden blooms outside your motel room.

“I thought you needed… beauty.” “Cas. You made tulips grow in the carpet.” “Do you like them?” “…Yeah, actually.”

💬 Deep Conversations at Inconvenient Hours

You: half-asleep at 2am Cas: watching the ceiling

“Y/N, do you believe fate can be rewritten?” “Cas it is literally 2—” “If I was made for obedience… then why do I desire free will with you?” “…Okay hang on let me get tea.”

🕯️ Making You Feel Like a Living Prayer

When Castiel touches you—your hand, your cheek, your waist—it’s not just affection. It’s reverence.

“You are not just a person to me,” he confesses, voice low. “You are… a beacon. Something sacred.”

You’ve been many things. But never sacred. Until now.

🌟 Wings Unfurled Only for You

You ask him to show you once. He hesitates.

“They are… damaged.” “So am I,” you reply. “Doesn’t mean I’m not beautiful.”

He unfolds them in the dark—burned, broken, glorious.

You swear you can feel them against your skin like the warmth of a dying star.

𓆩☁️𓆪 Castiel loves like cathedral bells in the distance, like the hush after prayer, like starlight on skin.

He does not know how to love halfway. He only knows forever. And he chose you.

𓆩☁️𓆪

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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Tw: cussing, 1st time writing marvel, set just before the 1st avengers film.

Part 2

Gilded Façade - Part 1

You wake to the scent of lilacs and winter. Not snow, but the sharp, fresh coolness that clings to old stone halls and mountain air.

The bed beneath you is far too soft, draped in velvet and gold-threaded sheets, like something out of a dream—or a trap.

Your fingers tighten into the sheets.

The ceiling stretches high above, arched and inlaid with gold filigree, starlight flickering through panels of frosted glass.

Pillars line the room like ancient sentinels. This isn’t a hospital.

This isn’t Earth.

This… isn’t anywhere you’ve ever known.

Before you can begin to panic properly, the double doors—tall enough for giants—swing open with effortless grace.

A pair of guards flank a regal woman, soft-featured yet powerful, with gold-threaded hair and the scent of wild herbs clinging to her gown.

“I am Frigga,” she says warmly, hands folded in front of her. “You are safe in Asgard.”

Your heart skips, fear flickering. “I don’t know what that means.”

Her smile is patient, but her eyes betray something heavier. “Come. The Allfather waits.”

The golden halls glimmer like honey in sunlight, polished marble and carved gold catching every beam with celestial brilliance. The vaulted ceiling stretches high above, a tapestry of cosmic stories woven into the arching stonework.

Columns as wide as trees line the length of the throne room, and at the far end, Odin Allfather sits atop a gilded throne, one eye sharp with centuries of command.

You stand near the entrance, small and trembling in the vastness. Your feet press into the rich, dark red tapestry that runs the center of the hall like a vein. Two Einherjar flank the door, unmoving as statues.

You blink up at the ornate room, overwhelmed your body almost frozen with fear. Surely you where asleep. You had fallen asleep in your bed … and awoken here, beneath a sky filled with moons. Now here you are, standing in a hall from myth, surrounded by gods.

The only explanation is that you've surely lost your mind?

Sure you've heard of Thor, he worked with Tony Stark ... or was it for Tony Stark ?

Or do they both work for Captain America... since technically he was frozen so ... age before beauty—

Odin's septor comes down with a resounding metallic thump, jerking you out of your thoughts, his single eye like a storm about to break. Beside him stands Thor, all golden hair and a half-smile, and—

Your eyes catch on the man standing just behind them, arms folded, shoulders hunched in a way that says he'd rather be anywhere else, his emerald and gold robes make him look of importantance.

Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, green eyes narrowed not in hostility but in calculation. Like he’s assessing the situation and has already decided he doesn’t like it.

Odin’s voice booms, regal and final. “You have been chosen. As the realms shift, alliances must be sealed."

Your breath hitches. “Im sorry ... I—I don’t understand, I think you might have the wrong person”

Thor smiles awkwardly, and Loki rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in his head.

You clutch your arms, trying to shrink into yourself. “But I’m not—I mean, I don’t belong here. I don’t even know where here is... I’ve never even been out of my country.”

Odin nods, but there's no gentleness in it. “Gods do not make mistakes, and you will learn.”

Your voice sticks in your throat. “Wait hold on, chosen for… what?”

“To join our family,” Frigga says more gently, stepping forward. “You will wed our son.”

Your heart pounds, confusion rising like a tide. “Thor?” you breathe, eyes wide. “I—I know who Thor is…”

Odin looks over you solemnly. “Prepare yourself. The wedding will take place under the next moon.”

Your knees nearly give out. “I—wait—I don’t—I don’t understand—I’m not—”

Loki, breaks his silence, his voice is velvet over broken glass. “You expect me to marry a Midgardian waif ?”

Odin raises a hand as if to silence his son.

"Allfather you cannot be serious? A mortal ?” Loki is clearly as shocked as you are.

"Silence!" Odins voice booms through the throneroom.

You flinch, and he instantly sees it.

Loki's words sting, not cruelly—but perhaps truthfully.

You barely reach his shoulder. You look like a lost woodland creature thrown into a lion’s den. And though his instinct is to mock, to play the cold prince… something flickers behind his eyes. Guilt? Curiosity?

“I presume you are thrilled at the prospect of marrying into royalty?” he sneers, stepping closer, gaze appraising.

“I thought—I thought it was— I only know about Thor” you whisper, looking down, hands clenched in front of you.

That startles him.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters bitterly, running a hand through his raven-black hair. “Everyone does.”

He walks past you then—shoulder brushing yours a little too closely—and you catch the edge of tension in his frame, like a coiled serpent caught in a trap it didn't lay.

"I'm sorry— I don't even know him" you mumble to Frigga.

"Don't worry dear, you will" She gives you a motherly smile.

Later that day, Frigga finds you seated in a quiet Asgardian garden. The trees are silver-leafed and the flowers glow faintly under the dappled sunlight of a towering tree.

You sit stiffly on a stone bench, knees pulled up, arms aroubd your denim clad legs, trying not to cry.

Frigga joins you with a sigh and a graceful sweep of her gown. “You must be terribly overwhelmed.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” you whisper, tears shimmering. “I don’t belong here. I don’t even speak like you guys.”

She smiles gently, folding her hands in her lap. “Then let us begin there.”

She teaches you the basics to bow your head slightly when addressing Odin, never turn your back on the throne unless dismissed, and always refer to Loki as Your Highness in public, though she adds, “He’ll hate that. Which is why I insist you use it.”

When you look up, brows furrowed with confusion, Frigga’s eyes soften. “You fear him.”

You nod, cheeks warm. “He hates me, I don't know him, and he didn't look happy ... you saw him.”

Frigga gently brushes your hair behind your ear like a mother would. “My son's heart is guarded behind many walls. But he does not hate you. He fears this just as much as you do.”

You’re silent, unsure, but her words settle in your chest like a seed waiting to sprout.

The palace gardens open out into an expansive colonnaded courtyard, the sun pouring through arches carved with battle scenes.

Thor stands in the center, laughing—booming—his golden hair tousled, his hammer slung across his back like a casual afterthought.

He’s in light armor, relaxed, speaking with two Einherjar guards who clearly admire him.

You hesitate at the edge of the marble steps, your hands curled loosely in front of you. Thor spots you almost immediately and his face lights up.

“Ah! There she is!” he bellows, striding forward in wide, easy steps.

You’re not afraid of him.

You’ve seen him before—on television screens. Standing beside Iron Man, Captain America. A literal god who drinks coffee too fast. He’s familiar in the way famous people are.

Your awe is warm, not fearful.

Thor claps a hand on your shoulder, unintentionally making your knees wobble. “Loki’s bride-to-be! Have you come to train? Or perhaps watch me best three soldiers at once?”

You smile, shy but genuine. “I’ve just… heard about you. From Earth.”

Thor beams. “Midgard! Yes, yes! I’ve many admirers there! Stark once made me a playlist.”

You’re seated on a low bench beside Thor, the two of you laughing—really laughing—as he recounts an awkward Midgardian mishap involving an elevator, a burrito, and Tony Stark’s exasperated shouting.

“And then Stark shouted,” Thor booms, eyes alight with mirth, “‘You can summon lightning but can’t work a microwave?’”

You giggle behind your hand.

Thor leans back proudly, folding his arms. “The machine was insolent.”

You glance up at him, eyes bright. “You know, you’re nothing like I expected. I was kind of… intimidated. But you’re actually really lovely.”

Thor beams. “As are you, My Lady. You’ve a kindness to you. I don't see why Loki—” He doesn’t finish.

You blink, then glance over your shoulder—

Loki is watching as you tilt your head toward Thor, wide-eyed and curious. Loki can’t hear your words, but he's been reading the language of your body.

The unguarded trust.

The comfort.

When Thor slung an arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture, Loki’s hand had clenched at his side.

Then he’s there. Standing between two golden columns, still as a statue.

“Enjoying Thor’s company, are we?”

His tone is mild.

Too mild.

Like honey with a razor blade buried in it.

You freeze, hands fidgeting with your sleeves. “I was just talking to him… I’ve seen the Avengers before. On Earth.”

Loki tilts his head, mock-curious. “Ah. Of course. Midgardian heroes. I imagine Thor features prominently in those tales.”

You swallow. “He’s kind. He made me laugh.”

The silence that follows is icy.

Loki steps forward, slow, deliberate. “Yes, Thor is very good at… inspiring affection. Especially from those unaccustomed to Asgardian ways.”

You finally meet his eyes, uncertain. “Are you upset?”

He gives a soft, humorless laugh. “Why would I be?”

But his eyes are sharp, flicking over your face like he’s searching for something you don’t understand.

He steps around you, his shoulder brushing yours—not harsh, not cruel, but cold enough to make your skin prickle.

Frigga leads you to a chamber that is large enough to be a ballroom by your standards. The ceilings arch like cathedral spires, and warm afternoon light pours in through tall, crystal-paned windows. Everything smells faintly of lavender and old parchment.

You stand frozen near the center, surrounded by soft sighs of silk as a dozen gowns are unveiled across golden racks and cushioned benches.

Greens as deep as forests, golds like melted sunlight, rich velvets, gauzy satins, and brocade embroidery that shimmers with every movement.

A wardrobe attendant, thin and quiet as a shadow, bows and lifts one dress toward you—a floor-length, emerald green creation with golden vine-like embroidery and sleeves that pool like liquid down your arms.

You shake your head almost immediately. “I—I can’t wear that. It’s too much. I’m not…”

Your voice trembles, overwhelmed, as you hug your arms around yourself.

Frigga, who had been behind you, steps forward and places a calming hand on your back.

“It is not too much,” she says gently. “You are to be wed to a prince. You are part of this family now.”

You turn toward her, eyes wide. “But they’re so— I’ll ruin them. I don’t know how to move in something like this.”

“You will learn. And you’ll wear his colors,” she says softly. “Green, and gold. They are not just his—they are yours now.”

She squeezes your shoulder. “Let them know whose house you belong to.”

Later, you’re dressed in one of the simpler gowns—a forest green number with gold beading across the bodice, fitted at the waist and flowing in a soft waterfall to the floor.

You feel like a child wearing a queen’s costume. You try to adjust the sleeves nervously, unsure if you’re allowed to breathe in something this fine.

You catch your reflection in a tall mirror framed in silver. Your hair’s been brushed and loosely pinned with delicate filigree combs.

You look like a stranger.

Frigga steps in behind you. “You look beautiful.”

You fidget. “I look… like I’m pretending to be someone else.”

She tilts her head, voice light but firm. “Pretend until its no longer pretense.”

She brings you to a smaller chamber—your own, apparently—and introduces a young woman in slate-gray robes with hair pinned so tightly it looks painful.

“This is Liva,” Frigga says. “She will help you dress, bathe, and manage your schedule. She answers to you now.”

You panic immediately. “Oh—oh no, I don’t need someone to— I can— I mean, I can wash my own hair—”

Liva’s eyes go wide. She glances sharply at Frigga, as if terrified of what she just heard.

“My lady,” she blurts quickly, bowing lower, “please allow me. It would dishonor the household if I—”

You wave your hands. “No, no, it’s fine! I mean—thank you! Sorry! I didn’t mean—sorry, I’m just not used to this. I’m not… I’m not anyone.”

Frigga’s eyes are soft with patience.

“You are someone,” she says, “because you are Loki’s betrothed. That carries weight child.”

You glance at Liva again, cheeks burning. She still hasn’t straightened fully.

You reach out, awkwardly patting her arm. “You don’t have to bow. Really.”

Liva looks horrified.

“I—I must. He would notice.”

You still, chest tightening. “Who?”

Liva swallows and nods. “Prince Loki”

The days that follow bring more lessons. Which fork to use at formal dinners. How to curtsy properly before the Allfather.

How to walk without tripping on a train of fabric that trails like a river behind you. Frigga corrects you gently, never cruel, but always with eyes that hold decades of unspoken truth.

But it’s the servants’ fear that gnaws at you most.

They go silent when Loki enters a room.

Backs straighten.

Hands still.

Conversations drop off mid-sentence.

You catch it one morning when he visits your chamber. He strides in unannounced, robes fluttering behind him like ink in water.

The servants freeze.

Loki barely glances at them, but his presence wraps around the space like a storm cloud—elegant, biting, sharp.

He looks you over once, noting the green silk at your waist, and raises an eyebrow. “They’ve made a doll of you.”

You flush.

“I—I picked it,” you whisper. “Well. Frigga helped.”

He pauses.

"Your Highness" You hurriedly add, with a wobbly curtsy.

His voice, lower now, still cool “You wear the dress as if it where a costume.”

Behind you, one of the maids drops a cup. You both flinch. The porcelain shatters.

Loki turns his head slightly, gaze flicking toward the servant. She goes pale, then drops to her knees, stammering apologies.

You rush to kneel beside her. “It’s okay—really—it was an accident—”

She won’t meet your eyes.

Loki sighs. "They are servants, your not suppose to coddle them,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. Before exhaling sharply and leaving.

The air relaxes like held breath being released. The maid bows to you shakily and rushes off.

#loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson #loki laufesyon x reader #marvel x y/n #marvel x you #marvel x reader #lokis lovelies #loki #loki fanfic #loki fandom #loki fanfction

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minoulapin · 3 months ago

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Chapter Two: Of Tactics and Tension - Between Giving & Taking - Y. JW

Pairing: Demon!Jungwon x Angel!Reader

Genre: Forbidden Love, Fantasy, Romance, Mystery

Wc: 5k

Synopsis: A love unspoken, a fate unwritten, An angel and demon, forever forbidden. Bound by the laws of heaven and hell, A story of longing they dare not tell. At the Academy of the Occult, angels and demons coexist under a fragile truce. But when a celestial heir is assassinated, war looms, secrets unravel, and forbidden desires ignite. In a world where their love is a crime, will they defy fate or be consumed by it?

A/N: Coucou! I hadn’t planned for anyone to read this, but the fact that a few of you actually took the time to do so is honestly astonishing to me. I still don’t know exactly how many chapters this story will have, but I expect it to be around 20, so we’ve still got a long way to go. But for now, here’s Chapter 2! Hope you enjoy! -Joe

Tag list: open!! @whateveridontcaresheesh @iifrui @stormy1408 @indigoez @riribelle (Comment to be added)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | MASTERLIST I NEXT CHAPTER

They called it The First War. The war that shaped everything.

Long ago, before the war, there was balance. Angels and demons were not enemies. They were two halves of a whole light and shadow, order and chaos. Opposites, yet necessary.

But harmony was an illusion.

The angels, divinely made and righteous in their purpose, believed they were meant to lead. They were the protectors, the guides, the rightful rulers of the world. The demons, untamed and lawless, were expected to follow.

But demons were not made to follow.

What began as defiance turned into rebellion.

They rejected celestial rule, tore down the structures that bound them, shattered the dominion the angels had built and in the process, they razed entire celestial cities.

The angels, unwilling to stand aside, responded in kind.

What began as a conflict of control became a war of survival.

For a century, angels and demons clashed, their battles setting fire to the skies, their hatred carving rifts into the earth itself. Cities burned. Skies darkened. The world trembled under the weight of war.

The Celestial Heir, chosen by divinity itself, led the angels into battle. It was his leadership that turned the tide. His strategies forced the demons to retreat, his armies cut through their rebellion, and with a final, decisive victory.

The demons were cast into the abyss. Their forces broken, their rule dismantled, their rebellion crushed.

The Rift between realms was sealed.

The war had ended. The angels had prevailed. Balance was restored.

But the cost had been great.

To prevent another war, the Academy of the Occult was founded a place where the two sides could learn, negotiate, and coexist. A fragile peace was built from the ruins, upheld by rules that neither side could break.

For centuries, the system held.

Until now.

Peace was never real.

It was only tolerated.

And now, it was crumbling.

The Grand Hall was suffocating in its silence. The air felt too still, as if the Academy itself was holding its breath. Light filtered in through the towering stained-glass windows, casting fractured beams of gold and crimson across the stone floors, celestial and infernal colors, intertwined but separate, like everything else in this place.

Y/n sat among the celestial students, but she felt the divide more than ever.

The infernals occupied the opposite side of the hall, draped in shadows where the light didn't quite reach. The celestial students remained poised and composed, their faces unreadable, while the infernals lounged in forced nonchalance, their tension masked by grins that didn't reach their eyes.

Two storms, sitting on opposite ends of the same battlefield.

At the front of the hall, Headmaster Solmora stood before them, his presence commanding, his robes flowing like liquid night. His face was calm, too calm. His voice, smooth and measured, echoed through the high ceilings like a sermon.

"As of today, new restrictions will be put in place to ensure the stability of our institution."

Y/n's fingers drummed against her knee. Here we go.

Beside her, Jake shifted, arms crossed over his chest. He hated this. She could tell by the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders held an edge of restrained frustration. He had seen this before the slow tightening of control, the careful manipulation of words that didn't sound like threats but were.

"These measures are not meant to punish," Solmora continued, his voice even, too even. "But to preserve. Until the investigation into recent events is complete, celestial and infernal students will be monitored more closely. There will be stricter curfews, and shared activities will be regulated to prevent further... disputes."

Jake let out a soft, dry laugh under his breath. "So, separation until we all behave like good little soldiers. Great."

She smirked. "We should start taking bets on how long it takes for someone to break the rules."

Jake arched a brow. "You mean for you to break the rules?"

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. "You wound me."

Jake just gave her a look.

She grinned. "Fine. I give it two days."

Jake pretended to consider. "Three, if you're trying to be subtle."

"I'm never subtle."

"That's what worries me."

Despite the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Y/n could see it, the shadow in his expression. The tension in his shoulders. This wasn't just another round of Academy politics. It was something worse.

Jake had spent his whole life being careful. Y/n had spent hers pushing the line.

And now, the line was being redrawn.

Solmora continued, his tone light but his words heavy.

"There will be no further warnings," he said simply. "Any student caught violating these regulations will face the consequences."

Consequences.

She didn't roll her eyes, but she wanted to.

No one had actually explained what that meant. Would students be expelled? Detained? Were they going to start dragging people out of their dorms in the middle of the night?

Because that's what this felt like.

Not a safety measure.

A warning.

Jake exhaled sharply. "This isn't about keeping the peace."

She glanced at him. "I know."

This wasn't about rules. It was about control. It was about tightening the leash just enough that no one noticed they were being strangled.

And worse?

It was working.

Because no one in the Grand Hall was speaking.

Because they all knew things were only going to get worse.

Y/n wasn't supposed to care.

That's what she told herself. That's what they were all supposed to believe.

The Celestial Heir had been murdered. A demon had done it. End of story.

Except, it wasn't.

Not to her.

And the more she thought about it, the less any of it made sense.

The dining hall was loud, but it wasn't the kind of noise that came from casual conversation.

It was charged.

Laughter that carried a little too sharp, hushed murmurs that died the moment someone walked past. The new restrictions had already shifted the Academy's atmosphere, less like a school, more like a war camp.

Y/n felt it. The way students sat in clusters, celestial and infernal tables pulled further apart than before. The way angels muttered about retribution while demons leaned into their usual indifference, except now, it wasn't just for show.

And Y/n?

She was somewhere in between.

She didn't have many good options.

Most of the celestial tables were already full.

Not that she'd sit there anyway.

She had burned too many bridges to be welcomed among the devout, the ones who recited rules like scripture and followed orders without blinking.

The feeling was mutual.

She could already hear the whispers.

"She got written up last month for sneaking into the restricted archives."

"She made Daeon cry during sparring."

"She told Instructor Ren that his strategy lessons were outdated."

(Which—they were.)

She had argued with most of them at least once. Fought with a few. Gotten some in trouble just for existing nearby.

They weren't especially fond of her.

She wasn't particularly fond of them either.

She stuck out her tongue at one of them as she walked past, watching as their face twisted in irritation.

Jake sighed beside her. "Really?"

She shrugged. "If they're going to stare, I might as well give them something to look at."

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose but said nothing. He had long since given up on trying to force her to be likable.

Her gaze flicked across the room, searching.

Great.

The only open table was Sunoo's.

Sunoo had never been a loner before.

He used to command a room, not because he wanted to, but because he didn't know how to exist any other way. He had a way of pulling attention, of standing just a little too tall, speaking just a little too loud. People followed him, even when they didn't want to.

But now?

They avoided him.

It wasn't just grief.

It was the black cloud around him, the weight of something heavier than mourning.

She didn't mind Sunoo.

He was sharp, prideful, too much of an open wound to be handled delicately, but he was also different. And if there was one thing Y/n could respect, it was someone who didn't fit neatly into the mold they were given.

So without hesitating, she sat.

Jake followed, though his disapproval was loud, even in silence.

They settled at the far edge of the table, just enough distance to make it clear they weren't trying to intrude.

Sunoo didn't look up.

Didn't acknowledge them.

Jake exhaled through his nose, picking up his utensils without a word.

Y/n, however, didn't wait.

She grabbed an apple and leaned into her chair. "So," she said, breaking the silence, "what exactly did they find at the crime scene?"

Jake didn't react at first.

Sunoo did.

His gaze flicked toward her, sharp and suspicious.

"Why?" he asked flatly.

She shrugged, spearing a piece of fruit with her fork. "Just wondering."

Sunoo's stare lingered. Unimpressed. Unamused.

"You don't just wonder about things like that."

He wasn't wrong.

Jake set his glass down, slow and deliberate.

She knew that move, controlled. Guarded.

He had stiffened but not too much. He was watching, waiting, trying to figure out where she was going with this.

She exhaled through her nose. "It just seems... convenient."

Jake blinked. "Convenient?"

Y/n leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice.

"A demon blade," she said. "Infernal energy, scattered across the room like a warning sign. Doesn't it seem a little... obvious?"

Sunoo's expression hardened.

"You think it wasn't a demon?"

"I think," she said carefully, "that it's strange how quickly the Council decided the case was closed."

That hit a nerve.

Sunoo scoffed, shaking his head. "What does it matter?"

Y/n glanced at Jake. He wasn't stopping her. Not yet.

So she kept going.

"The Council never makes decisions this fast," she pressed. "And it's not just that, it's the way they're acting."

Jake's jaw tightened. "They're acting like they already know the answer."

Sunoo leaned back, crossing his arms. "Because they do. A demon did it. Why are you making this more complicated than it needs to be?"

She tapped her fingers against the table. Slow. Rhythmic. Calculated.

"The Celestial Heir wasn't just anyone," she said. "He was supposed to rule. If a demon really did assassinate him, don't you think they'd want a bigger show of force?"

Sunoo frowned. "What?"

Y/n met his gaze.

"Think about it. If demons really wanted to start a war, they wouldn't do it in secret. They'd send a message. They'd send a battalion. Not a single assassin in the middle of the night."

That gave Sunoo pause.

She saw it in the way his fingers twitched, in the way he tilted his head slightly, just enough to tell her he was thinking about it.

For a moment, she thought she had him.

Then, his expression closed off.

"Even if it was suspicious," he muttered, "what does it change?"

She hesitated.

What does it change?

Everything.

But she didn't say that.

Instead, she sighed, pushing her plate away. "Nothing, I guess."

Jake nudged her knee under the table.

A warning.

She wasn't done, but for now, she would let it rest.

Y/n didn't get her answer.

But someone knew she was asking.

Later that evening, when she opened her books to review war theory notes, something slipped out, a small folded scrap of parchment, wedged between the pages.

She almost dismissed it as another forgotten note.

Until she read the words.

Stop asking questions about the Heir.

That was it.

No name. No signature. No indication of who had written it.

But it wasn't an outright threat.

It was worse.

It was a reminder that she was being watched.

Y/n's breath was steady, but her fingers weren't.

She stared at the message, replaying the conversation at lunch. Who had overheard?

A chair scraped the floor behind her.

She crumpled the note into her palm just as Jake sat across from her.

He frowned slightly. "You okay?"

She forced a smirk, slipping the note into her sleeve. "Never better."

Jake didn't look convinced. But he didn't push, either.

He already worried too much.

And now?

Now, she was sure.

The murder wasn't random. The Heir knew something. And someone was trying to bury it.

Y/n made a choice.

She was going to find out the truth.

No matter what it took.

War wasn't coming. It was already here.

Not with swords, not yet, but with legislation, orders, and education.

The Academy had introduced a mandatory battle strategy course under the guise of "historical study." Officially, it was meant to analyze the tactics of the First War, breaking down celestial and infernal military strategies for the sake of understanding.

But no one was naïve enough to believe that was all it was.

This class wasn't about history. It was about preparing for the war to come.

The lecture hall was buzzing with low chatter when Y/n walked in, scanning the room for an empty seat.

Her first mistake was assuming she had a choice.

"Find your assigned seat," the professor's voice rang out, deep and authoritative. "Your partners have already been chosen."

She suppressed a sigh.

Professor Aldric wasn't someone who tolerated nonsense. An older celestial, but one of the few who claimed to be neutral. Whether or not that was true was another matter. His graying hair was cropped short, and his piercing gaze had a way of rooting students in place. He wasn't as strict as some of the instructors, but he had a reputation for calculated discipline.

And unfortunately, he wasn't finished talking.

"This course will function as a means of analysis," Aldric continued. "You will be partnered with someone from the opposing side. Your task is to evaluate past war strategies, what worked, what failed, and what should never be repeated. You are expected to learn from each other, not argue pointlessly about whose nation is superior."

Y/n doubted that last part was possible.

She exhaled through her nose, already bracing herself for whoever she was about to be stuck with.

She scanned the list of assigned seats on the board.

Her stomach dropped.

Paired with: Jungwon.

Perfect.

She spotted him at their table before he saw her.

Jungwon sat with the same calculated ease he always did, posture deliberately relaxed, arms draped over the desk like nothing around him was worth his attention. It was effortless, practiced, the kind of unbothered composure that made people second-guess themselves. Like this class, this assignment, and the fact that she was walking toward him were equally unworthy of his time.

Y/n, on the other hand, gripped her pen a little too tightly.

She slid into the seat beside him, her movements clipped, controlled. The moment she did, the air between them changed, tightened, sharpened into something tense and unspoken.

Jungwon barely acknowledged her.

Y/n didn't speak.

But even in silence, they drew attention.

At first, it was just passing glances, curious flickers of interest from their classmates. But curiosity turned into something else. Something heavier. Because this wasn't just any celestial paired with any demon.

Y/n and Jungwon were both outliers.

She had never fit the celestial mold, too outspoken, too reckless, too quick to challenge authority when she should have followed it. She wasn't soft-spoken, she wasn't poised, and she certainly wasn't the type to stand aside when someone told her to. She had a sharp tongue, a restless mind, and a way of making people either respect her or avoid her entirely.

Jungwon, on the other hand, was something demons didn't understand.

Demons thrived on impulse, chaos, the thrill of provocation. They fought to prove their strength, to leave a mark, to claim something as theirs. Jungwon never did.

He didn't stir chaos for the sake of it. He didn't waste his energy on mindless fights or cheap power plays. He was still, composed, controlled. He didn't raise his voice when he was angry, he simply spoke, and people listened.

And that was why demons feared him.

They avoided him because they couldn't predict him. Because they could fight recklessness, match arrogance with arrogance, but Jungwon?

Jungwon was something else entirely.

People didn't just look because it was unusual. They looked because it didn't make sense.

A celestial who didn't act like one.

A demon who didn't need to prove himself.

And the space between them, thin as a blade's edge, humming with an unspoken challenge neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

She could feel it.

And she hated that she could.

Jungwon didn't look at her right away.

For a while, he just sat there, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the edge of the desk. Not impatient. Not distracted. Just waiting.

Y/n ignored him.

Or at least, she tried to.

But she could feel it, the weight of their last encounter still lingering in the space between them. The moment in the courtyard. The way he had intervened. The way he had looked at her afterward.

Like he had seen something he hadn't expected.

Like he hadn't quite figured out what to do with her yet.

She exhaled slowly, drumming her fingers against the desk before tilting her head toward him.

"So..." she drawled, keeping her voice light. "Did the guy you sent flying into the wall forgave you?"

Jungwon finally glanced at her, unbothered. "I wouldn't know."

Y/n raised a brow. "You didn't ask?"

Jungwon shrugged. "Why would I?"

She huffed. "You're seriously not even a little regretful?"

"No." Jungwon leaned back in his chair, completely unconcerned. "It's not like I apologized."

Y/n blinked. "Not even a fake apology?"

"Why would I fake something I don't mean?"

She scoffed, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

Jungwon smirked. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

Y/n exhaled sharply. "Unfortunately."

Jungwon hummed, but didn't argue.

For a second, the conversation felt like something else, like a game. Like neither of them was actually trying to win, just waiting to see how long the other would keep playing.

But then,

The assignment.

She cleared her throat, opening her notebook. "The celestial strategy was justified," she started, keeping her voice neutral. "The war was inevitable, but our methods ensured survival. We took calculated action. We didn't fight just to fight."

Jungwon let out a short, almost silent laugh. "That's what you tell yourselves?"

Y/n frowned. "It's the truth."

Jungwon finally turned toward her, his expression shifting just slightly, enough to make her sit up straighter.

"You think your side was righteous?" he mused, voice smooth, controlled. "Tell me, does righteous war include burning entire cities?"

She inhaled sharply.

She knew that. She knew what had been done.

But hearing it from him, so blunt, so matter-of-fact, sent a strange weight settling in her chest.

Her fingers curled around her pen. "You're one to talk. Your kind—"

Jungwon's expression flickered. Not in anger, but something else. Something quiet.

His voice dropped, the teasing edge vanishing. Now, it was something different.

"My kind?"

He leaned in slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the space shrink between them.

"Say it."

Y/n held his gaze.

The class had gone still. Conversations slowed. People were watching, listening, waiting for what would happen next.

For the first time, she wondered how much Jungwon actually hated her.

And why, somehow, it didn't feel like hatred at all.

She straightened her shoulders, refusing to look away. "You know what I meant."

Jungwon tilted his head. "Do I?"

She exhaled, forcing herself to push forward. "The infernal strategy was reckless. You destroyed celestial cities just to prove a point. It wasn't defense, it was chaos. There was no structure, no discipline. That's why you lost."

Jungwon's gaze sharpened. "You think we lost?"

Y/n blinked. "You didn't win."

Jungwon leaned back, studying her. "Winning and losing are concepts celestials care about. For us, it wasn't about that."

She scoffed. "Right. Because it's so much more noble to burn everything down without thinking of the consequences."

Jungwon's lips curled slightly. "You think your side thought about the consequences? You think they hesitated before sending fire down on those cities?"

Y/n's jaw clenched.

Jungwon continued. "Maybe we never wanted to win. Maybe it was about something else entirely."

She frowned. "Like what?"

Jungwon was quiet for a moment. Then—

"Like proving that no one should rule."

She stilled.

That—

That wasn't what she had expected him to say.

His voice was quieter now, less sharp, but somehow heavier. "Celestials fight for control. Demons fight to break it. We weren't trying to take the throne from you." He exhaled slowly. "We were trying to burn it."

Y/n didn't answer right away.

Because—

Because maybe there was something in that.

Something she had never thought about before.

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time, she wasn't just arguing with a demon.

She was arguing with someone who might understand something she didn't.

The air between them shifted. Not softer. Not lighter.

Just different.

And maybe, just for a moment

She wasn't sure who was winning anymore.

Then—

Laughter.

Slow, amused, deliberate.

The moment snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

Y/n turned her head toward the source, already knowing who it was before she saw him.

Heeseung.

The one person at the Academy who never played by the rules, not the celestial ones, not the infernal ones, not even his own.

A trickster. A wild card. A demon who found joy in chaos, not because he craved destruction, but because he liked watching how people unraveled.

And right now?

He was watching them.

"You know," Heeseung mused, lazily propping his chin on his hand, "I think you two should argue more often. It's kind of thrilling."

She exhaled sharply. "Oh, shut up."

Jungwon didn't acknowledge him, his gaze still set ahead, posture as still as ever. But Y/n saw it, the slow exhale through his nose, the slight shift in his fingers against the desk.

It wasn't much. Barely noticeable.

But Heeseung noticed.

He always noticed.

And worse? He enjoyed it.

Heeseung was an expert in tension. He could feel it crackling in the air, something sharp, something raw, something unresolved.

Most would step away from it.

Heeseung stepped toward it.

And so, before she could even think to react, Heeseung was there, close, too close, his body language lazy but deliberate, his presence an interruption as much as an invitation.

"You know," he murmured, reaching out with casual ease, plucking a stray lock of her hair between his fingers, twirling it idly. "You'd make an excellent strategist."

She raised a brow, unimpressed. "And why's that?"

"Because you're sharp," Heeseung said smoothly, voice like silk threaded with something sharper beneath it. "Quick. You think on your feet. You know how to get under people's skin."

His lips curled at the edges, and his fingers brushed lightly against her strands before letting them slip away.

"A little reckless, maybe," he added, tilting his head, "but that just makes you more fun to watch."

Y/n scoffed. "Glad to know I'm entertaining."

"Oh, very," Heeseung grinned.

Then—

"In fact," he mused, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "maybe you should come by my dorm sometime. We can study strategy together."

His tone was too casual.

She blinked. Oh.

There it was. The shift.

She knew exactly what he meant.

Jungwon didn't react.

Not in any way that mattered. Not in any way anyone else would notice.

But Heeseung wasn't just anyone else.

His gaze flicked toward Jungwon, just for a second.

And he saw it.

The smallest, most imperceptible change.

Jungwon's fingers curled subtly into the fabric of his sleeve.

Not much. Barely anything at all.

But it was there.

And to Heeseung? That was everything.

His smirk deepened, his attention drifting back to her with renewed interest.

"You want to study strategy?" Y/n deadpanned.

"Of course," Heeseung said innocently, but his smirk betrayed him. "I'll even let you pick the battlefield."

She narrowed her eyes. "You mean the desk or the bed?"

Heeseung grinned, teeth sharp, eyes darker than before. "See? You catch on fast."

His gaze dipped, not subtle, not shy. He let his eyes trail from her face, down, then back up, taking his time in a way that was meant to be noticed.

She shoved him away with a scoff, warmth creeping up her neck despite herself.

Jungwon still didn't react.

But his grip on his sleeve was tight.

Heeseung saw.

Heeseung always saw.

And now?

He had confirmation.

His gaze flicked sideways toward Jungwon, a glint of something dangerous and amused in his expression.

"Jealous?"

Jungwon didn't answer.

Didn't blink.

Didn't give him anything.

But—

The air shifted.

Heeseung felt it.

And that was enough.

His grin widened. "Not talking? That's fine." His voice was teasing, but his eyes were sharp. "I think I already have my answer."

Jungwon remained silent.

But Heeseung knew.

And that?

That was fun.

Jungwon and Heeseung weren't friends.

Not really.

They had known each other for years, but knowing someone and understanding them were two different things.

Heeseung was chaos incarnate, a force of unpredictability who enjoyed life the most when it was on the edge of unraveling.

Jungwon? He was control, calculation, someone who could read a battlefield in seconds and bend it to his will.

That's why they didn't work.

And that's why Heeseung loved messing with him.

Most demons knew better than to poke at Jungwon.

He was respected. Feared. Avoided. Not because he was the loudest, but because he was the quietest.

Because his silence wasn't weakness.

It was unreadable.

Demons were reckless by nature. They played, they fought, they acted without thought. But Jungwon?

Jungwon didn't act. He waited.

Heeseung found that fascinating.

Heeseung, who never knew when to stop. Who never met a rule he didn't want to break. Who thrived in the art of making people unravel.

Jungwon never unraveled.

That was until Y/n.

Heeseung had known Jungwon for a long time. Long enough to know when something got to him.

And Y/n, she got to him.

Heeseung wasn't stupid. He saw the way Jungwon watched her, the way his indifference sharpened whenever she spoke. The way he went from dismissive to intrigued.

So, of course, Heeseung took his chance.

And he wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.

The professor's dismissal rang through the room, but the tension lingered.

She was the first to stand.

Not because she was in a hurry, but because she needed distance.

She refused to be the one to break eye contact first, but she also wasn't about to sit there any longer than necessary.

She could still feel it.

The weight of Jungwon's gaze. The sharp edges of their conversation, the words still echoing in her head like an unfinished battle.

She didn't look at him.

She wouldn't.

But she felt him there, unmoving, unreadable, watching.

She exhaled through her nose, gripping her notebook a little too tightly as she turned on her heel. She didn't need to look to know he wasn't following.

But he was still watching.

And that was worse.

Jungwon didn't move.

Didn't glance away.

Didn't let the conversation leave his mind as easily as he let Y/n leave the room.

She was still bristling. He could tell.

She had been too controlled when she stood up, too stiff.

Not because she had lost.

Because she hated that she hadn't won.

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, watching the way she walked away, purposeful, but not rushed. She didn't run from things.

That was what made her different.

And different?

Was dangerous.

A low chuckle broke the silence beside him.

Jungwon exhaled through his nose before he even turned his head.

Heeseung.

The other demon leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms lazily behind his head, grinning like he had just been thoroughly entertained.

"Well," Heeseung mused, "that was fun."

Jungwon didn't respond.

Didn't acknowledge him.

Which, of course, only encouraged him.

Heeseung sighed dramatically, standing up, letting his movements be deliberately slow.

"Come on," he drawled, shaking his head. "I know you love me, but staring at Y/n like that is going to make me jealous."

Jungwon shot him a flat look. "I don't stare."

Heeseung's grin widened.

"You don't blink when she's in the room," he countered. "It's basically the same thing."

Jungwon said nothing.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't react.

And that was enough of an answer.

Heeseung hummed under his breath, watching Jungwon's carefully maintained silence with too much amusement.

"See, this is why I like you," Heeseung said, voice light but knowing. "You pretend you don't care, and yet..."

Jungwon ignored him.

Grabbed his things. Moved toward the door without a word.

Heeseung just watched him go, his smirk deepening, eyes flashing with something far too entertained.

The class was over.

But this?

This was just getting started.

Y/n knew it.

Jungwon knew it.

And Heeseung?

He was just looking forward to watching it all unfold.

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