#she was always rooting for them though. she would find secret places for them to be alone together lol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

revasserium · 7 months

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butterfly lovers opla zoro screaming crying throwing up

butterfly lovers

opla!zoro; 7,106 words; fluff, kind of childhood friends to lovers, slowburn af, nsfw, pron with TOO MUCH plot, opla!canon divergence, ships doctor!reader, fem!reader, riding, "good girl", emotional sex

summary: yours and zoro's story, from two different perspectives.

a/n: @halfvalid this is ur fault. take responsibility pls. also the smut is literally just one part of a larger story, but it does actually get explicit so. do with that info what u will u__u.

false start.

most good stories, scholars and storytellers would both agree, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. though, famously, not necessarily in that order. and this particular story — well, it has several places one might call the beginning. and one of them is here — in shimotsuki village, in a patch of rich green forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and earth.

it would be a lie to say that the story begins here, at a doujou where eight year old boys and nine year old girls swing wooden swords hundreds of thousands of times each day. where you’d seen zoro for the very first time.

the story could have started here, but alas, it did not.

because you see, you’d never been great, or even particularly good at swordsmanship. and zoro — zoro was one of the best. even from the beginning, his raw, unfettered talent was a force to be reckoned with. but the reckoning came in the form of the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, and you were no more part of zoro’s story then than a drop of ink in a midnight ocean — lost to the tumultuous waves of childhood tedium, of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

but you’d known him then, watched him as he grew, as he got better and better and better. bigger, stronger, quicker, sharper. and beside him was kuina, steady as the shifting tides, relentless in her efficacy, tireless in her craft. he was good, but she was better.

until one day, when very suddenly, she wasn’t.

the story, as it is, does not start here, because you’d made the solemn walk to kuina’s funeral altar with the rest of the students at the doujou in complete silence, had knelt there in equal silence and watched as sensei had bestowed the wadou ichimonji upon zoro, watched as he had gripped the sword with both hands, his knuckles going white as the sword’s moon-washed sheath, and bowed his head in acceptance.

it does not start here because later, instead of following the same, silent procession of kids back to the doujou’s main compound, you’d slipped away, silent as a shadow, and sprinted through the wide, cedar forest to a secret, open patch of grass where the sun bled from a stretch of endless sky blue enough to sting, and tiny little white-petaled flowers had sprung from the still-damp earth, turning their faces towards the coming spring.

you’d run, screaming through the field till you’d run out of breath to scream with, and collapsed among the tiny white flowers, panting and staring up at the endless blue sky, feeling the helplessness pulse through your veins. because even though kuina hadn’t been your friend — you’d exchanged perhaps a handful of words in all the years you’d spent here — she’d been a constant presence in your life. and now, she was gone. and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

you laid there for longer than you can remember, and then, as the sun finally dipped beyond the far horizon and the darkness grew longer than the sea was wide, you got up and trudged towards the clearing’s edge. only to find a small creature huddled against the trunk of a thin sapling tree — it looked like nothing more than a bundle of white-spotted fur, and it took you a long moment to realize that it was a fawn, curled into a pile of gnarled roots, shivering, eye wet and wide and terrified.

you blinked, staring at it for a few seconds before you’d noticed the gash on it’s hind leg, jutting out at an uncomfortable angle. your heart had stuttered inside your chest, and you’d dropped down to your hands and knees, cooing softly as you slowly approached the creature, trying to look as unmenacing as possible.

“hey there… are you hurt?” you’d said, crawling towards it, trying very hard to make your movements as slow and smooth as possible.

the fawn shivered as it stares at you, apparently caught between sheer terror and curiosity. you tried to smile, before digging into your pockets and pulling out a handful of peanuts, offering them to the fawn on an open palm.

“c’mon, i’m not gonna hurt you… i just wanna take a look… at that leg of yours, can i do that?” you’d asked, inching in closer and closer until the fawn’s warm, wet nose dug into your palm, it’s smooth-edged teeth grazing your skin as it crunched through the peanuts. you took the chance to glance down at it’s injured leg — it wasn’t a deep wound, but judging by the angle, it was a bit dislocated and would need to be set back right if the fawn was ever going to walk again.

slowly, you reached out a free hand to gently stroke at the fawns haunches, feeling it’s muscles tense up beneath you, even as it continues to snuffle against your palm, eager for any remnants of the peanut shells. you ran your hand along it’s leg and quick as a flash, you pressed against the odd jutting of bone, even as it snapped back into place with a satisfying crack.

the fawn made a shrill, screeching noise, jerking to its feet, but a moment later, it seemed to realize that it’s leg was no longer hurting. you held up both your hands in what you hoped was a calming gesture before tugging out a few more peanuts holding it out as an offering.

the fawn blinks it’s dark, watery eyes at you a few times before limping forward to dig its nose once more into your palm. you allowed yourself a smile then, and a soft relieved laugh as the fawn limped forward a few more steps, testing the weight of it’s body on its newly repaired leg. it looked more confident now, seemingly realizing that the wound was somewhat fixed, and it gave you one last, lingering look before it bounded off back into the sunset forest, leaving you with nothing more than a handful of peanut shells and a tightness in your chest you can’t quite seem to put your finger on.

you’d snuck back into the doujou that evening, smelling of mud and moss and cedar, and you’d lain in your futon, staring up at the high slatted ceilings, streaked with moonlight, wondering where on earth you truly belonged.

the next morning, everyone woke to neatly a folded futon and a wooden training katana, the hilt carved with your name, laid across your pillow.

so you see, the story could have started here. but it didn’t. and perhaps we should be thankful for that.

the cost of ambition.

the story, as we know it, starts then at the baratie, on the morning after a meal was eaten and not properly paid for, after an ill-fated duel between a boy with a mouthful of ambitions and a man who’d forgotten what it felt like to be truly surprised. well, he was surprised that morning, watching the boy fall back with a gash the size of the world spurting blood across the docks.

“grow strong,” he’d said, “and come find me.”

and it starts, when a pirate in a straw hat comes crashing into the baratie’s kitchen, shouting about a dying friend.

“help! help! zoro… zoro needs a doctor!”

“whoa, whoa, slow down, chore boy — i can’t understand a word you’re saying,” zeff holds up a hand to stem luffy’s panicked rambling.

“my friend is dying…”

“the nearest doctor’s on the conomi islands —”

“wait, no —” sanji frowns, cutting zeff off, “lemme look at the reservations from last night —” he hurries off to the front desk and returns with a thick leather bound volume, flipping it open to scan through the seating chart for the night before.

“i knew it!” he says, pointing at a name written in deep, ocean blue ink, “there — her! i’ve heard of her — she’s the best ship’s doctor in the east blue, and if i’m not much mistaken, her ride’s not due to leave till this afternoon.”

“great! c’mon — we haven’t got time to lose!” luffy says as he rushes out of the kitchens, leaving sanji and zeff to exchange an exasperated look before following after.

they find you on the loading docks, your nose buried in a notebook, your hand flying across the page, ink smudging your unrolling sleeve.

“please! we need a doctor! my friend — zoro — he’s dying!”

you jerk up from your notes, the name ringing in your ears like an alarm bell, rocking through your body like the base boom of a signal flare. zoro? here?

you look around even as luffy makes his way to you, pressing in too close, a hand on top of his head to keep his hat from flying away, the other curling around your upper arm.

“w-wait — what’s going on? did you say someone was dying?”

“yes! my friend! he got into a fight with this warlord guy and now he’s bleeding from everywhere —”

“show me,” you say, lurching to your feet and shouldering your leather knapsack, pursing your lips as your vision threatens to tunnel ahead of you. zoro. it’s been such a long time since you’d heard that name. sure, you’d heard of his exploits in the east blue. how could you not have?

demon, bounty, pirate hunter. hunter, hunter, hunter —

you take a deep breath as luffy leads you onto the deck of the going merry and ducks below, motioning for you to follow.

when you step into the room, you don’t notice the orange-haired girl or the long-nosed boy, instead, your eyes are drawn to the body on the kitchen table as a magnet would a compass rose. his shirt torn into barely more than ribbons, a large red gash oozing blood, bisecting his torso like some unbridgeable canyon in miniature, his skin paler than you’d ever remembered it being, sweat beading his flickering brow —

oh, zoro…

you resist the urge to press your hand to your mouth. so instead, you swallow back your heart and try to assess the damage. massive blood loss, possible head trauma, and who knows what else?

“you said a warlord with a giant sword did this?” you ask, hurrying to the table and frowning down at the gaping wound.

“y-yeah — he — he had a big hat with a white feather on it —” luffy starts.

“mihawk. his name was dracule mihawk,” the orange-haired girl cuts in, her voice sharp and a bit too forced to be steady, “he told zoro to get stronger, and that… it wasn’t his time to die yet.”

you grimace, chewing on your bottom lip as you dump your supplies unceremoniously onto the countertop next to him, digging out the necessities.

“well, he wasn’t lying — the cut’s clean and judging by the size… he could’ve cut much deeper. but he didn’t,” you sigh, absently rolling up your sleeves as you pull out a hooked suture needle and a length of thread.

they watch you work in silence, first cleaning the wound, and then slowly, painstakingly pinching and stitching him back together. by the end of it, you’re nearly dizzy with exhaustion, and the sky outside has already turned a deep, bruising purple.

you sigh, wiping down your hands.

“can someone go and ask the waiter for a fish? any fish’ll do, but the fresher, the better. oh, and a bottle of scotch.”

“got it!” the boy with the long nose bolts up and is gone in a flash.

you slump down into a nearby chair and let your head loll back. a moment later, you feel someone pressing a glass into your hand and open your eyes to find the orange-haired girl holding a glass of water.

“here… you looked like you could use it.”

“thanks,” you say, taking a grateful gulp.

“i’m nami, by the way… thanks for —” she waves at the shape of zoro still on the kitchen table, “and that one over there is luffy. the guy that just left is usopp and —” her breath catches as her eyes fall back onto zoro’s form.

“i know who he is,” you say, your voice quiet as you look down at the glass clutched in your hands.

“you know zoro?” luffy’s voice is loud, but not unpleasantly so.

you glance up and feel the truth pulsing against the back of your throat like a heartbeat. then, you shake your head with a soft smile.

“i mean, he’s got quite the reputation.”

luffy lets out a laugh, “yeah! he sure does — he’s a great fighter! probably one of the best i’ve ever seen!”

you nod, staring at the sloshing liquid in the bottom of your glass.

a few moments later, usopp returns with sanji in tow, holding a bottle of scotch in one hand and a dead fish in the other.

“you’d better have a good reason for this,” he says, his expression grim, “zeff’s not gonna be happy when he finds these gone.”

you force a smile, “well, i can promise that at least one of those things’ll be put to good use — can you just skin the fish for me, please?”

sanji frowns, “and the scotch?”

you glance around before shrugging, “i don’t know about you guys but… i think we could all use a drink.”

the cliche of the morning after.

when zoro wakes up the first time, it’s to a world-muffling quiet. he coughs, uncertain of where he is, his head throbbing, his chest feeling too light and too heavy all at once.

“oh! you’re awake — here… have some water. you’ll need it.”

he hears the voice, both familiar and foreign, and then, he feels the cool press of a glass against his lips.

he gulps down the water greedily before pain rockets through him and he lets out a loud groan.

“i… i had a dream…” he says, his head spinning, the words slurring from him, and for a second, he wonders if he’d just been fed alcohol instead of water, but the pain seizes him again and he can’t stop talking.

“yeah? what did you dream about?” the familiar, foreign voice asks, soothing, as a cold palm presses against his forehead.

“shimotsuki village… i — i made a promise. i told her — i’d be the greatest… swordsman…”

his voice is fading, and the world is fading with it.

“yeah… you did, huh? and i’m sure you’ll fulfill it, one day…”

zoro sighs, sinking gratefully into the warm, welcoming arms of darkness once more.

“but not today,” you say, reaching out to wipe the sweat from zoro’s brow, your voice so soft that you’re sure no one else can hear, “today… you just need to keep on living. and that’s the greatest promise you could ever make to me.”

smooth sailing.

when he wakes up proper, you aren’t there to greet him. but he doesn’t miss the shape of you as they all pile onto the merry to go looking for nami. he doesn’t miss sanji’s too-wide grin or the unpleasant, burning itch that shoots through his healing wound as he watches the cook ask you about your favorite foods.

he keeps quiet for the most part, but you find him still, and you ask him how he’s doing with a ship’s doctor’s professionalism and efficiency.

“how’re you healing?”

“fine.”

“any tenderness?” you ask, your brows knitting as he tugs open his shirt and lets you peel the bandages away.

“not really,” he lies, because the the tenderness is not skin deep. he feels it in the labyrinthine galleys of his soul and he can’t quite figure out why you, of all people, might make him feel this way.

you run a surgical hand along the stretch of puckered skin and he sucks in a long breath, feeling his cheeks flood with inexplicable heat.

you smell of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth and for the life of him, he can’t remember why it makes his entire body go soft with memory. it reminds him of… something.

something, something, something.

“i hear you, y’know,” you say, and he jerks back to the present, with you absently rolling up your shirtsleeves before tugging at a fresh piece of gauze to wrap him back up.

“don’t know what you mean.” he looks away, willing himself to stay still as you daub a pungent cream against his chest before applying the layers of bandage. he lifts his arm to give you more room even as you shoot him a disbelieving look.

“sword practice, in the middle of the night. i told you that you need to rest — you’ll only prolong your own healing if you keep on pushing yourself like this. rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro narrows his eyes. because he’d heard that from someone, somewhere before.

“your bodies need time to repair,” his sensei used to say as they all gathered after dinner at the doujou for evening meditation, “and a disciplined mind leads to a disciplined body. don’t forget that rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro had never been good at it, but over the years, he’d managed to endure.

“there. all done.”

you lean back to admire your handiwork, unaware of zoro’s eyes as they scan over the shape of you, taking in the length of your hair, the bright of your eyes, the limber, spider-quick thinness of your hands and fingers.

“thanks,” he says, slipping off the kitchen table, pausing as he notices how still you’ve gone, your eyes wide as you blink at the planes of his chest, inches from your nose. a second later, you stumble back, clearing your throat, a sweet dawning pink dusts the high of your cheeks as he cocks his head to watch you, fascinated by your reaction.

he almost grins, letting his stomach flex as he takes his time in doing up the buttons of his shirt, before grabbing his swords and slipping from the room, leaving you to clean up your medical supplies, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

zoro wonders, just briefly, how it might feel to catch your lips between his own teeth instead.

ink, skin, and bullets.

it’s you who bandages nami’s self-inflicted wounds, you who spends four meticulous hours tattooing over the sawfish curl with a pinwheel spiral that curves into a tangerine’s plumpness. you, who soothes eucalyptus balm over nami’s arm before wrapping it up in a fresh roll of gauze, waving away her hiccupped thanks.

and it’s you, who gets a shotgun pressed into your palms by a stony-faced nojiko as you all prepare to march on arlong park.

“if i can’t go with you… then at least, i can give you the tools,” nojiko says as she wraps your fingers around the butt of the gun.

zoro narrows his eyes as he watches the way your fingers shake as you weigh the shotgun in your palms.

“i don’t like it,” he says.

“yeah, you shouldn’t come with us — we’ll need you to patch us up after,” sanji agrees with a wink, much to zoro’s displeasure.

but you shake your head, a steely light in your eyes as you clutch the shotgun to your chest, “no, i — i want to come. i mean — like luffy said… it’s our fight, after all.”

arlong park.

the flurry of battle is as it always has been. you use the shotgun more as a blunt instrument than as a projectile carrier, but it seems to work just as well. you’re small, and quick, and your knowledge of anatomy (yes, even fishman anatomy) allows you to maneuver the head of the shotgun into the softest, most venerable places on a fishman’s body as you all fight your way through arlong park.

but zoro is never far off, keeping close to you as he fends off the worst of the snarling fishmen, his sword flashing like fish scales in the midday sun.

there comes a moment when he slices an oncoming fishman right through the jugular that you let out a long breath, wincing as the fishman’s body hits the ground with a dull thud, and zoro sighs, turning towards you. but a second later, he freezes as you grab the hilt of his sword and shove it backwards.

he feels it resting against thick, bullet-proof flesh and he hears the loud panting of something next to his ear as he sees in the reflection of your eyes — a fishman standing behind him, frozen against the tip of his blade, the hilt clutched in your shaking, shivering hands.

“d-don’t — i’ll kill you —” you say, your voice a forceful, fractured thing.

zoro searches your eyes before clasping his hands over yours and slowly tugging the sword from your gasp.

“hey…” he says, deliberately drawing your gaze away from the fishman before he jerks his sword back and feels, with a satisfying shink, the weight of the blade sinking into unforgiving flesh. he feels your fingers trembling beneath his as he pulls the sword away, and the fishman behind him sinks to his knees before falling sideways with the dull thunk of a no longer animate body.

you try to tug away, but zoro holds you steady, running his thumb in soothing circles along the backs of your hands.

“s-sorry — i — i couldn’t —”

zoro shakes his head, pulling you up by your elbow.

“it’s okay — don’t apologize.” he whips his swords around and catches another fishman in the stomach, dropping him with a flicker of silver and a splash of red.

“you never have to apologize…” he says, as he reaches for your hands and curls them in the warmth of his own, callused palms.

finding neverland.

you kiss for the first time after a brutal battle. after the deck has been washed of blood and the railings have been hung with the remnants of the tattered sails.

repairs are much needed, but zoro had saved you yet again. you pull him to you in the darkness of the midnight deck, the crow’s nest empty because, well, he’s supposed to be up there, keeping watch. but you’d caught him instead, curling your fingers into the soft linen of his shirt, your mouth seeking out his in the relative dark.

“mnph —”

he grunts as his hands find purchase against your shoulders, pressing you back and back and back, till you’re pushed flush against the thick totem of the main mast, and your panting breaths are all he can taste against his desperate lips.

“s-sorry…” you let out a helpless laugh as he pushes forward, his teeth clacking against yours.

“quit that,” he says, his voice nothing more than a panting breath on the open sea air.

“hm?” you blink, lashes fluttering in the moonless night, your lips kiss-swollen and delectable even as zoro forces himself to pull back, studying you with an accusatory eye.

“you’re always saying sorry,” he says as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. above you, the main sail whoomps, catching an evening wind.

“i’m not… i don’t…” you look away, embarrassed to be caught. zoro reaches down to grab your chin, forcing your head back towards him.

“yeah, you do,” he says, his voice gentle, even as he cups your cheek.

“you don’t ever, ever, have to apologize for just... being you. got it?” and there’s a burning ember in the spark of his voice as he twists your face up towards him, his lips hot and hungry as he brands you with this promise, and you’re powerless to do else but accept it.

you find your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, his breath cascading over your lips even as you press in close, close, closer. a helpless whine twists its way up the back of your throat as zoro hoists you up, his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.

“z-zoro… please,” there’s something broken in the tenor of your voice that breaks him more completely than he has the words to describe, so he settles for holding you tighter over his hips and carrying you to his room. it takes a bit of finagling to get you comfortably situated in his hanging bed, but once he does, he can’t help the soft sigh that escapes him as he looks over the length of your body.

from your pink-flushed cheeks to the loose, crumpled material of your button up shirt, all the way down to the hem of your skirt as it brushes up along the skin of your thighs. he leans own to press an indulgent kiss into the dip of your collarbone.

“'please' though… i like a little bit more,” he says, reaching down to pop the top button of your shirt, to revel in the way you hiccup as he teases a line down your chest, his lips following his fingers as he undoes your buttons one by one.

“i — ah —” your fingers curl into the soft moss of his hair and he groans, long and lush into the creamy expanse of skin above the waist of your miniskirt.

“again…” zoro says, whispering the word against you, tugging on the elastic of your skirt, pulling them down the length of your legs.

“z-zoro, please!”

your head tips back as you feel his tongue flick over the hot button of your clit, his fingers digging into your hips, the pads of his forefingers tracing gentle circles around your hip bones as he holds you to his mouth and moans.

there’s a fumbling of fingers and a clashing of teeth as he wrenches himself up from between your legs to mouth at your lips. you taste yourself on his tongue and shiver at the indecency. still, the coals of desire burn in the pit of your stomach as his fingers press into your spit-slicked folds and you feel your whole body arch up in response.

he has always been quiet, but none more so than when he’s working three digits into your fluttering core, his eyes dark and fixed as they watch his own fingers pull out of you and push back in, slick and shiny with the evidence of your arousal.

“fuck…” he whispers the word like a prayer, slipping passed his lips like some holy thing. you can hear the near reverence in his voice as he slowly removes his hand and presses them to his lips for a taste. the lewdness of it makes the hot coil in the pit of your stomach twist all the tighter. and this time, when he drags himself up the length of your body to kiss you, you whine against his mouth, tasting your own tang on the heat of his tongue.

“ngh — fuck —!” you echo, as he flips onto his back and tugs you over his hips in one, fluid moment, his palms helping you grind your sodden folds over the length of his cock, the friction all-consuming and dizzying. a thin string of arousal connecting the tip of his cock to the seam of your cunt and zoro is helpless to do much else but moan thickly at the sight.

“shit.”

you whimper softly as he teases at your entrance, your palms splayed against his chest for support, your thighs shaking on either side of his hips as he eases you down inch by slow, excruciating inch, ontohis thick, throbbing cock. you toss your head back as he pushes into you, the fit of him fiery-tight and stretching you in ways you’d never thought was possible.

you feel him pulsing against your walls, and you wish briefly that you could’ve tasted him as he’d tasted you, before he sheathed himself inside you. how would he taste, you wondered, and you feel your mouth water at the thought of his heavy, salty weight on your tongue.

“n-ngh!” your voice cracks as he rocks his hips experimentally against yours, the drag of him inside you driving you to near incoherence.

“good girl,” he whispers, the words falling from him like second nature. you keen beneath his praise, bracing yourself as he plants his feet on the bed and jack hammers up into you, his stomach tensing in deep breaths of tight, sinewy muscle, his arms flexing as he helps you rock down above him.

“pretty… fucking… girl…” he intersperses his heavy groans of pleasure with soft exclamations, fucking you now to the light, rhythmic rocking of the ship, even though there’s nothing light about the way his cock bullies it’s way into your cunt again and again, forcing you to clamp down around him on each and every thrust.

there’s nothing gentle about the way he digs his nails into the flushed skin of your hips, how he leans up to latch his greedy mouth onto one of your pert nipples, moaning as he savors in the way you arch against him, pushing your chest more fully into his mouth.

“r-right — right there —”

“yeah?” he asks, half-smirking as he looks up at you, his warm gaze betraying the hard, teasing edge behind his voice, “where do you want me?”

you keen, whining as you drag your hands down your own body to press against your stomach, grabbing his hand to push it against you as well, his palm hot and flat as it lays along your tummy.

“r-right here —”

“fuck — that’s right —” he jerks up into you, burying his face in your chest with a clipped moan as he quickens his pace, his one hand pressing against your stomach as you feel him pushing up farther into you than you’d ever imagined possible.

the pleasure is intense, an other-worldly feeling as he finally pushes you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, your arms winding around his torso, to act as both tether and tide as he holds you to him, grounding you to this feeling while simultaneously casting you against the rough edges of this most selfless and selfish pleasure.

“h-holy… fuck me…” you breathe out, clutching at zoro’s back, digging ruddy red grooves into his shoulder blades as he rolls over to fucks down into you, relentless in his chase of his own climax, groaning deep and throaty as he finally spills into you.

you hiss as you feel the heat of him pooling inside. and it’s not till a few minutes later that he picks his head up from where his face had been buried in your neck to shoot you a wide, lopsided grin.

“yeah, pretty sure that’s what i just did,” he says, rolling onto his side and letting out a deep, soul-steadying breath.

you roll your eyes before turning to look at him, only to find him watching you with a gentle, anchoring softness. and like this, it’s hard to see him as the battle-hardened warrior. like this, it’s hard to imagine that he’d ever made such a promise as to become the greatest swordsman in the whole, entire world.

like this, he just looks like a lovestruck boy, forced to grow up much too soon, searching for any remnants of pleasure he might have left to hold on to.

an irony of hands.

it’s never easy, the night after enemy raids, the deck pooling with bodies and blood, the sea the color of a scabbing wound, flotsam and jetsam like bloated body parts floating on the dark, inky waves.

you’re helping usopp push some of the dead bodies overboard, but then you find one man with three deep gashes on his torso and blood bubbling on his lips.

“… gonna… gonna report — never… escape…”

you nearly yell as you see the tiny den den mushi in his hands, his fingers quivering as he tries to dial the emergency line. you smack it from his hand and press your tiny, surgeon’s scalpel to his throat. it’s sweet, polished silver gleams wicked beneath the moonless night.

“don’t you fucking dare,” you say, even though your voice shakes, and there are perhaps a million other ways of taking care of him more easily. but you know that if you throw him overboard now, he’d bob, half-drowning and helpless, for a few hours, or maybe even days before he’d finally succumb to the terrible, patient drag of the ocean (and most likely, dehydration).

“no,” a voice says, steady and firm, as a long, rough-fingered hands enter your vision and carefully tug your hands way from the man’s throat.

you look up to find zoro, his hand still clutched around yours, an unspoken sweetness flickering behind his eyes.

“i — if we toss him over — he'll just —” you swallow thickly, tearing your gaze away from zoro’s face as his expression shifts into something of the unreadable and soft. you hate to let him see you like this, so hesitant, so incompetent.

“let me do it,” zoro says, giving your hands a light shove before, with one swift arc of his blade, he severs the man’s carotid, leaving him slumped and bleeding on the blood-stained deck.

“oh… oh god…” you press your shaking fingers to your lips, the silver scalpel falling with a loud clatter.

“c’mere,” zoro says, tugging you up and leading you down to the hallway below decks. he slows as the pair of you enter the darkest part of the hallway, and he turns to hold you at arms length, his fingers tight on your arms as you feel his eyes scanning you over, and over, and over.

“you’re not hurt?” he asks, voice quiet and clipped.

“no,” you shake your head.

“not even a little?”

you shake your head again, pursing your lips this time to keep the sob from pouring through.

still, he sees it, and he pulls you to him, cradling your head in his large, warm palm, the other arm wrapping around your middle.

“stupid girl,” he murmurs, light, into your cheek even as you let out a bitten off sob against his chest.

you hiccup, curling your fingers into the material of his shirt, "i — i couldn’t do it,” you say, squeezing your eyes as he holds you to him and lets you cry.

“i — i couldn’t kill him.”

zoro sighs, pulling back to smooth a hand over your hair, bringing it down to cup your now tear-stained cheek.

“yeah, i know. but that’s not what your hands are made for,” he says, letting his own hands trail down and down and down, till he’s got both of your palms cupped in his like a wishbone.

“don’t you get it?” he asks, staring down at your palms, upturned against his, “these hands were never made for taking lives…” he looks up, his eyes too bright in this borrowed darkness. and then, he smiles.

“they were made for saving lives instead.”

confessions, part i.

you stare at him for a full ten seconds before letting your body fall laxed into a soft, bubbling fit of champagne-colored laughter.

“i love you,” you say, the words tumbling from you, more truth than any story or poem or legend or myth either of you have ever heard.

“i love you, zoro,” you say again, tasting the words on your tongue like fireworks, like pop-rock candies, like the first, stinging breath of autumn after the hazy veil of summer has finally lifted. and slowly, in the clarity and truth of your declaration, you think you can see his lips as they lift up in an open-heart smile, as he too tastes the words you’ve just so recently mustered the courage to say.

confessions, part ii.

zoro stares back, and or a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. then, for too long. and you think you’d made a mistake, telling him how you feel. but then, he smiles — a true smile, a smile that lights up his face and erases all the grooves and lines that should’ve been worn there by the weathers and weights of hardship.

and still, listening to your words, he smiles — a smile that makes him nothing short of incandescent.

he nods, squeezing your hands in his.

“i love you too.”

false start (redux).

every story as a beginning, a middle, and an end. though not necessarily in that order. and, looking back, roronoa zoro knows that if he had to pick, his story probably begins here — at the ripe age of eight, in a doujou nestled next to a forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth.

it probably starts with an endless parade of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

its true — it could be said that his story starts with kuina, the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, who was better at swordcraft than zoro thought he ever might be. and to some, this is a good enough kind of beginning to latch on to.

but no, zoro knows, because he knows himself now, and he knows that stories, just like swordsmanship, is an art that requires a certain amount of tempering. a certain degree of trimming and tailoring. a certain kind of articulation.

so he’s certain that it starts here, when he’d seen you for the very first time. and it’s true, you’d seemed like nothing special then, just another quiet little girl who’d been forced into the doujou by some faceless set of rigid, expectant parents, and you’d worked just as hard as you could have, given your natural inclination for anything but sword play.

he’d known that you’d never be great shakes at swordsmanship, but still, he’d found himself drawn by and to you, as a magnet would a compass rose, as one might find their destiny, or their soulmate. he had found his eyes tracking you whenever you weren’t looking, found himself watching as you’d patter around after sparring practice to ask everyone how they were feeling, to dig your tiny fingers (strong and dexterous as they already were) into a knot here, an aching muscle there, a pinched nerve that might’ve been really bad if not found here, and left to fester in that vast, horrible elsewhere.

but he’d been a shy, quiet, kind of boy, absorbed by his sport. and kuina’s skill was more than enough for one growing, teenage boy to contend with without worrying about the strange attraction he had towards perhaps the least “swordsy” person in the entire class. and so, he’d never plucked up the courage to talk to you, never questioned when you’d kept away from his side of the classroom after sparring practice, when all the other girls would flutter around him like a flock of unwelcome pigeons, asking if he wanted to be their stretching partner.

then, the morning came when shimotsuki-sensei had informed him in not so many words that kuina was gone. and the funeral had slipped by in a hazy blur of bodies and incense, and the next thing he knew, he was holding the wadou ichimonji, and sensei was saying something about keeping kuina’s dream alive.

he’d seen you flit from the funeral march of black-clad children, shadow-dark and raven-quick, right off into the thicket of trees. and he’d followed you, because he couldn’t think of a place he’d like to be less than back in that suffocating practice room with all his fellow classmates, half of them casting him curious looks, the other half avoiding his gaze like the literal plague.

he’d followed you to the clearing, and watched as you’d sprinted, screaming around the field of tiny, white-petaled flowers until you slumped down, panting with your face upturned to a sea-breeze sky. he caught himself before he could burst out laughing (or crying, he wasn’t quite sure which he wanted to do more at that moment), and he’d forced himself to sit still behind the trunk of a large tree and watch as you pushed yourself up. the light of the dying sun washed your figure in a great, dream-like ream of orange and gold.

then, just as it seemed like you were going to head back, he spotted you spot the injured fawn, curled into the gnarled roots of a sapling cypress tree. and he’d watched still as you slowly approached the creature with a handful of peanuts before distracting it and crack — he’d heard it clear across the clearing — the sound of a bone being set back into place.

the fawn had screeched and bolted to it’s feet.

but you were just as fearless as you always were, holding out your palm with more peanuts, and zoro had watched, with a mounting fascination coiling in the base of his stomach, as the fawn dug its nose into the palm of your hand.

he’d seen the brilliance behind your eyes, heard the bell-toll sound of your soft, everlasting laughter.

and he vowed, then and there, to become the greatest swordsman he could be, the greatest swordsman in the world, if only to protect you from those who might hurt you. from those who might threaten to take away the light — the life — that thrummed, ever present, in the palms of your very own hands.

a/n: i know, i know, there was an authors note before. but i feel like i can explain this better now that you've read the fic -- to me, the story of "butterfly lovers" is and always has been as story of someone pretending to be someone they're not, right? so in that sense, you/reader was just trying to fit into a mold that wasn't quite made for her before discovering her true calling as a doctor. and the fluff and romance was that, unbeknownst to her, zoro's known that this entire fucking time. u__u anyways. i hope you enjoyed. bless up and simp zoro, fam.

opla!zoro requests are open!

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after-witch · 2 years

Text

Disintegration [Yandere Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Reader]

Title: Disintegration [Yandere Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Reader]

Synopsis: You were always meant to find this room. Always meant to see its secrets.

For Horrorfest Request: Fyodor (BSD) + “I believe death should be repulsive, so we don’t grow too fond of it.”

Word Count: 1333

notes: yandere, violence, descriptions of death and corpses

Fyodor would be lying to himself, and to you, if he said you were never meant to see this room. This awful room, this blackened room, where none but the dead and dying go. He would be lying if he said such sights were not for your eyes, that he hoped to hide it from you until the end of time.

He would be lying, because this night, this moment--you, standing a few feet into the room with your eyes widened in shock, tears making your pretty cheeks all glossy--is perfectly right. Beautiful. Music in action.

Because if he Bluebeard, and you are his wife, you were always meant to find this place. You were always meant to grow curiouser and curiouser. You were always meant to tiptoe down the hallway in your pure white cotton socks, a stolen key heavy in the pocket of your soft nightgown. You were always meant to slip it into the lock and turn, waiting for the loud satisfying thud inside the keyhole before you pushed the door open.

You were always meant to have that dark, slimy curiosity inside your gut satiated.

And what did you find?

What you were always meant to find.

The rotting corpses of his former lovers.

The ones who didn’t measure up. The ones who betrayed him. The ones he simply got bored of.

All in varying states of decay, all thrown in here without care. Haphazard bodies lying out where they will. A jaw open here, an arm folded under there. Some naked, some clothed. Some with insects still crawling over mummified flesh, desperate for the sustenance their corpses no longer provide.

This is no elegant tomb, no planned monument.

It’s simply a room where he leaves them to rot.

And rotting they are.

It’s the most recent corpse that your shining eyes have fixated on. Truth be told, Fyodor can no longer remember her name. It ceased to be important the moment that she ceased to be important, and at that moment, she was killed. And put here, with the others.

But she is the freshest, and therefore the most horrifying. There is perhaps still some sinking flesh to her, he thinks, though it could be a trick of the light. A family of insects has taken up nesting in one of her eye sockets, and the open-mouth scream of her jaw is not the abstractly human scream of a bone-white skeleton. Instead, her darkened mummified flesh clings to her teeth, making them look gaunt and garish. Was she screaming when she died? Or did her corpse simply fall that way, loose dead jaw muscles leaving her in a state of permanent verbal agony?

He can’t recall. It doesn’t matter.

You take a step back, but that’s as far as your legs will take you. He can see, even from his vantage point in the doorway, how your limbs tremble. How your energy seems to sap out through your legs, rooting you to the floor like some sticky residue. You turn, perhaps hoping to flee, but you can’t. Not with how weak you are. Not with Fyodor standing in the doorway.

He holds out his hand towards you, and it takes you a moment to realize what he wants.

When you do, you comply, slowly lifting your hand and dropping the large black key into his palms.

“Did you find what you were looking for, my little sneak?” His tone is light, but he knows--and he knows you know--that the situation is anything but. Yes, he expected you to find this place, knew you were always meant to find it… that doesn’t mean you weren’t going to be punished later for taking what didn’t belong to you.

“What… what is this?”

Feebleness and weakness exudes from every pore of your face, seeking some answer that might undue what you’ve seen. As if he has some words that will make a room full of corpses seem simple--make sense.

It makes something in his stomach turn over in delight, that you think some words from him could do that. Why yes, dear, this room full of dead women is as ordinary as our kitchen. Now come along.

He doesn’t say that, of course. Instead, he gestures decisively towards the bodies in the room. Towards the women he shared a bed with, a life with, however briefly. However inconsequentially.

“They used to be mine.” He pauses, to give his words more weight. To let them sink into your fear-addled brain, as you glance, nervous, brief little looks, at the bodies. “Now they are not.”

He hopes he’ll never be tired on the way horror seems to visibly sink into your face . He’s seen it before, and he knows this won’t be the last time. But it still feels fresh and beautiful.

“Did you kill them?” Your voice is a hoarse whisper, and your words cliche and expected. Your eyes widen almost comically as you ask, shining with tears. It’s delightful, he thinks, the way you make him feel like he’s in an actor on a stage.

“Of course.” Well, he thinks, to be fair sometimes he couldn’t be bothered himself and had a lackey do it. But for the most part, the job was done by his hands. A bullet. A knife. His fingers, holding their neck down as water bubbled and bubbled and stopped in the tub.

You glance down at the nearest body, and her permanent scream. Your hands clasped together, ringing, anxious and scared and hopeful in one complicated gesture. When you look back up at him, your eyes are pleading.

“Are… are you going to kill me?”

Your voice is so quiet, so timid. You really are a little mouse, he thinks, and part of him hates you for it.

Only part of him, though.

He steps forward and draws you closer to him, the putrid-sweet smell that sticks to the walls surrounding the both of you. He regards the tears in your eyes, the soft pout of your lips. The way the white nightdress he’s put you in contrasts so beautifully with the corpses behind you.

“Do you want me to kill you?”

Your lips quiver, and you shake your head.

“No,” you say, and in your voice there’s almost a shocked tone, as if you’ve just discovered this answer yourself. “No, I don’t.”

His hand grips your chin, and you offer no resistance when he turns your head this way and that, making you glance back at some of the bodies behind you.

“Then remember what you see here, hm?”

You nod, so quickly, and it makes his heartbeat quicken with it.

“Good. Now let’s go back to bed, milaya.” He gives you a push towards the open doorway, watching you stumble, noting the goosebumps coating the backs of your arms. “I’ll join you shortly. Wait for me.”

You nod, obedient, and he hears your feet padding fast down the hallway. No longer sneaking, no longer curious, all of that bled out on the floor of this room--as it should be.

He takes another look around. If he was sentimental, and he is not, he might try to remember whether or not he ever loved these women. But if he did, then he would not have killed them, no?

The thought roots him to the floor for a moment. And then he pulls away, letting it leave its sticky trail behind him.

Perhaps he is lying after all. For the room isn’t just meant for you--a warning, should you ever step out of line, should you ever be so foolish as to betray him, should you ever break and become a boring, ordinary shell, this is what you will be.

It’s meant for him, too.

To remind him of what he would hate to see you become someday.

Is that love?

He locks the door with the big black key as slowly as he can, relishing the thud of it.

You’re waiting in the bedroom.

#yandere fyodor dostoyevsky #yandere fyodor #yandere bsd #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrorfest

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jihyocentric · 9 months

Note

3mix as professors who their students argue every year about if they are dating and if they are, which two would be dating, but in reality they are a throuple. It’s entertaining for them to watch their students fight about them though, but sometimes one of them may get insecure when the students clearly favour the other two as an otp. That leads to a pampering session where they are reminded the other two still love them just as much.

as much as they tried to hide their relationship, from time to time they’d give their students a few clues that could enhance their imagination.

they’ve been together for longer than any of their students could imagine, and with that, they have created habits that served as proof that they were indeed in a relationship. like the way nayeon would fix jeongyeon’s bangs and intertwine her hand with jihyo’s while they’re walking, way too close for someone who was only their friend.

nayeon was certainly the biggest threat to their secret coming out, but the other two weren’t completely innocent either. they worked in different buildings, but jeongyeon couldn’t resist the urge to spoil the both of them. during lunch time, sometimes she’d sneak out to give them sweets or merely steal a kiss where nobody could see them.

jihyo, however, was the most secretive out of the three, and that’s why some of their students came to the conclusion that she was but a friend of the real couple, nayeon and jeongyeon.

not all of them thought nayeon and jeongyeon were together — some of them rooted for miss park and miss yoo, others rooted for miss im and miss park. but the most popular couple was, surely, nayeon and jeongyeon.

even then, they had a good time making their students confused about their relationship. they weren’t trying to keep it a secret forever, but there was no need for their private life to be exposed.

that’s why the three of them would immediately change the subject whenever a student tried to get useful information about their relationship, never giving it away, even if they were bribed with candy and compliments.

but it was obvious enough, really. if their students were clever enough, they’d see the truth.

“wait, i think i forgot my phone in the office,” jihyo sighs, searching for the object inside her purse, finding nothing but her wallet and papers. “i’ll be right back.”

“not again.” nayeon groans. “if you take long to get it back we’re going home without you.”

“it’s her day to drive though.” jeongyeon points out, from the backseat.

“it’ll take less than five minutes, i promise!” jihyo presses a kiss on nayeon’s cheek that makes the grumpiness go away, doing the same with jeongyeon, despite struggling to reach her.

she grabs the car keys before leaving, knowing they wouldn’t leave without her, but it was better to be sure that they wouldn’t than fully trust them.

jihyo manages to walk fast enough to the office to get her phone, doing it in under three minutes, for nayeon and jeongyeon’s sake. she places it safely inside her purse, at the bottom where she wouldn’t lose it easily and gets ready to run again.

she only stops when she hears familiar voices at the end of the hallway, noticing that they’re talking about her, nayeon and jeongyeon again.

“they’re all dating.” ryujin concludes, decisive and tired of the discussion that started months ago.

“miss park wouldn’t do something like that.” lia denies, shaking her head.

jihyo raises her brows, mashing her lips to keep a laugh from coming out.

oh, but miss park would and she does.

“then why do they always go home together? miss yoo treats the both of them the same. and the three of them have matching rings. wedding rings!” yuna defends her theory, siding with ryujin.

“well, miss park probably lives near them. that’s why they go home in the same car!” yeji protests, certain that her and lia’s conclusion was the only correct answer to the rumors going around about their professors. “besides, how are you so sure those are matching rings?”

“i’m not sure… but they look the same.” yuna takes a seat on the bench, next to yeji. “you haven’t seen the way miss yoo treats miss park, that’s why you don’t believe me. you would if…”

as yuna tries to argue that her favorite professor wasn’t a third wheel and that she was actually in a relationship with nayeon and jeongyeon, jihyo decides it’s her time to take a leave.

she had heard enough and her lovers might be ready to jump at her neck for taking twice the time she said she'd take to be back, depriving them from getting home early.

“good evening, girls.” jihyo laughs softly, passing right by them, hearing stuttered ‘good evening miss park’s as she walks back to the car.

“did i miss anything?” chaeryeong shows up only a few seconds after jihyo leaves, snapping her fingers to get her friends' attention, but none of them can find the words to answer her question, afraid they might have been caught talking about their professors’ love lives.

jihyo has never felt left out when it came to her relationship with nayeon and jeongyeon, but after the rumors that they were dating started, jealousy became less rare of a feeling. it was no good, she knew it, there was nothing for her to be jealous about, not when both nayeon and jeongyeon loved her with their entire hearts.

and yet jihyo feels as insecure as she was back when they met, long years before they reached their current stability — old enough to understand their feelings, with solid jobs, a great house and rings on their fingers that meant that they belonged to each other.

“you’re weird.” jeongyeon reaches jihyo from behind, after they have all showered and eaten dinner.

as a penalty for making them wait, nayeon and jeongyeon decided that it was jihyo’s day to do the dishes again.

“thank you, that’s very sweet of you, jeong.” jihyo replies grumpily, rinsing the last plate that was in the sink.

“no, like, you’re weird weird.” jeongyeon says and jihyo pulls away from her grip, drying her hands on a towel. “what’s up, baby? are you upset we made you drive and do the dishes?”

“no. it’s nothing, jeongie.” jihyo sighs deeply — extra dramatic, because she knew that would make jeongyeon worry and keep asking if she’s alright. jihyo knew all the tactics required to get some pampering. on that particular day, she truly needed it.

“come here, im nayeon!” jeongyeon shouts to nayeon, who was busy feeding their pets.

“is it important?” nayeon asks, loud enough for them to hear it, making sure no one would steal the other’s food.

bbuyo, jihyo’s selfish cat had made progress and he wasn’t trying to eat bomb’s food anymore, but nayeon would still watch them to be sure bomb would get his dinner properly. the dogs were real angels compared to the cats.

“jihyo is sad and it’s your fault!” jeongyeon shouts back and nayeon goes running to the kitchen.

“what? what did i do?!” nayeon asks worriedly, approaching them with a slight pout. “is it because i made you do the dishes?”

“it’s not about the dishes.” jihyo looks at nayeon. “and it isn’t her fault.” she tells jeongyeon and sighs, trying to walk always from them but she was easily cornered by nayeon and jeongyeon. “can we take this somewhere else?”

nayeon and jeongyeon look at each other and agree to let jihyo walk freely. they follow jihyo back to their room, but not without questioning her about what was going on.

“then what is it?” nayeon pushes, walking annoyingly close, almost making jihyo stumble on her feet. “oh, c’mon, you’re making me nervous! i don’t think i did anything bad! it’s probably jeongyeon’s fault anyway.”

“it’s no one’s fault.” jihyo stops on her tracks, pouting. “just need some love, that’s all!”

“something definitely happened.” jeongyeon raises her brows. “tell us, baby. what’s going on?”

jihyo finds her spot on the bed, which was in the middle. nayeon and jeongyeon follow her, sitting on her sides. “you will laugh at me!”

“we won’t, baby.” jeongyeon replies, and although her answer isn’t fully sincere, the reassurance convinces jihyo to spit it out.

jihyo blurts it out hurriedly, face flushed as she tells them about what she heard when she went to grab her phone earlier, ashamed to admit she was jealous due to something as frivolous as what her students think about them.

nayeon and jeongyeon aren’t quick enough to understand every word jihyo lets out during the seconds that she vents her feelings, but soon enough they realize the problem in question. jihyo was upset because people thought the both of them were dating, excluding her from their relationship…

“when it’s clear enough i’m dating you too!” jihyo breathes out, burying her face on the pillow to hide away from nayeon and jeongyeon’s amused faces.

“it’s not their fault, hyo. they probably think like that because jeong and i are less... strict about it,” nayeon quickly comforts her, rubbing jihyo’s back with her hand.

“i’m not strict!” jihyo whines, taking her face away from the pillow and sitting on the bed, with her back against the headboard.

“well…” jeongyeon starts, but the words she wanted to say never come out, unable to contradict jihyo when she looked like a sad puppy who needed pets. “how can we make this better?”

jihyo feels like she had just hit the jackpot with the way the both of them look at her. they were clearly willing to do anything she asked, both of them ready to risk it all for jihyo if needed — it wasn’t anything jihyo wasn’t already used to, loving to be spoiled by them.

“cuddles.” jihyo replies, sighing loudly, as if she was hurt. “and kisses. lots of kisses. and bbuyo sleeps with us today.”

nayeon and jeongyeon weren’t happy to have bbuyo sleeping with them that night, mostly because the cat would kick them randomly during the night if they allowed him to sleep in, as if he was telling them not to get too close to his rightful owner.

but they promptly offer jihyo their arms and lips before having to take him in, giving the younger of the three all the warmth jihyo sought for, leaving her breathless with how tight they squeezed her between them.

“w-wait, i changed my mind, bbuyo c-can’t sleep here,” jihyo breaks the kiss with jeongyeon, whimpering as nayeon’s nails scratch her bare tummy.

“i thought so,” nayeon taunts, laughing softly next to her ear. “we need to make it up for you, hyo.”

“mhm, give you a proof that we love you,” jeongyeon adds, kissing down jihyo’s jaw. “would you like that?”

though that wasn’t the kind of pampering jihyo thought she’d receive, she was more than happy with what she got.

“please, unnies!”

#anon #nayeon #jeongyeon #jihyo #2yeon #nahyo #jeonghyo #3mix #sfw #fill

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erin-bo-berin · 2 years

Note

Probably when she finds out 💜💜

Gotcha! Steve has a little secret…or two 😏

Steve’s Secret

Steve Harrington x Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy, Mentions of Sex (no actual smut though)

Based on this request ☺️

Why did peeing on a stick have to be such a monumental moment? Or better yet, why did that have to determine if a woman was pregnant or not? It was a hassle, plus kinda gross when you thought about it. But, here you were, at the point it had become necessary.

You weren’t someone who typically had an active sex life. There had been a few men here and there, but you’d been in relationships with them and protection was always key. You’d been on birth control for a while until you’d broken up with your ex. Since you had no desire to entertain the opposite sex, you’d gone off the pill, having been struggling with the side effects of it anyways.

Then Steve Harrington with all his charm had walked into your life and you ended up in situations you usually never would’ve. For instance, having a one night stand. But, you couldn’t help it. From the moment your gaze had met his across the bar you’d met at, you were as good as hooked. Maybe it had been lust at first sight but you’d wanted him.

He was all searing dark eyes, gorgeous smile and brown hair that seemed to be perfectly swooped; you couldn’t tell if it was naturally that great or if he fixed it that way. His eyes glimmered as they raked over your body, taking you in, the beer bottle coming up to his lips. They were a soft pink shade that enticed you as you imagined what it would be like to kiss them.

All that lead to one stupid moment when desire zapped all rational thought in your mind. He was halfway inside of you before you remembered the condom and you made him don one before you did anything too stupid. Little did you know, that said stupidity had already happened.

“Leave it to my body to get pregnant by fucking pre-cum,” you moaned, when you saw the two lines on the pregnancy test.

The one time you have a one night stand, wanting no strings attached, you end up pregnant. Those strings are rooted in place for good, now.

When you told Steve, it wasn’t dramatic. You simply called him, asked him if he could meet up and the next thing you knew, he was sitting on your couch while you stood above him and changed his world forever.

“So…you’re pregnant?”

He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t upset, he just seemed…shocked, dazed even. You’re pretty sure you looked like a deer in headlights when you’d seen the test yourself, but he was taking it even better than you.

“Don’t worry though, you don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to. I just thought I should tell you since you have the right to know. I mean we hardly know each oth-”

“No.”

The abrupt syllable made you pause your nervous rambling.

“No, what?

“No, I’m not letting you do this alone,” he said firmly.

You had expected almost every outcome but this one. You guess you had a lot lower expectations for him than he deserved and the thought made you wince.

“Please don’t feel like you’re obligated to,” you sighed, “I’m just a random girl. We’re practically strangers, Steve.”

He shrugged.

“So then we get to know one another. Like I said, I’m here to help you with whatever you need. Oh, wait. I should probably ask you what you’re going to do.”

“I don’t know yet,” you admitted, “But I won’t do anything without letting you know, okay?”

He nodded, falling silent.

You honestly hoped things would get better between you two if you did decide to keep this baby because he’d be in your life forever.

You also hoped you knew what the right decision was because right now, you were terrified.

•

Steve impressed you more and more every day.

The amount of research he’d done, trying to learn as much as he could to help you out was incredibly sweet. Between the day you’d first told him about the pregnancy and now, about three weeks later, you’d come to the decision that you wanted to keep this baby.

He’d never say it out loud, but you could tell he was relieved.

True to his word, you two slowly got to know each other and he sheepishly admitted—as if embarrassed by his dream—that he’d wanted kids for a long time actually, a big family even. Of course, he didn’t expect it this early, but he wasn’t mad in the least.

He was as nervous and scared as you were, but his support never wavered.

He bought books about pregnancy and parenthood, then proceeded to spend hours poring over them. He learned where the baby was at developmentally, what you should expect with the changes in your body, what was the best things to eat for the baby—and that was just a few of the long list of things he learned.

He also took care of you, just like he said he would. You had no idea he meant to this extent though.

He was there with crackers and ginger ale for your morning sickness, making sure you took naps if you got overtired and checking to make sure you took your prenatal vitamins. One would think the hovering would be annoying, but it surprised you how much you grew to like it. No one had ever taken such good care of you as Steve had been and it was nice for a change.

That’s when your emotions had to make things messy.

All the sweet gestures, the undivided attention, the drop what he’s doing and run to your aid with just a phone call moments were confusing your brain. He was so sweet to you, so good to you and happy to treat you like a gentleman would. But, you were slowly falling for him.

You could not have that.

The only reason you were getting this attention in the first place was because you were carrying his child; you constantly had to remind yourself of that fact. You’d hooked up with him once and now you were both in this situation, you couldn’t afford to have feelings for Steve.

But damn, if he didn’t make it hard.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked when he walked in your house earlier, hands loaded with grocery bags.

“What in the world is all this?” you asked, watching, amused.

“You gotta eat,” he shrugged, smiling.

“I’m eating for two people now, not twenty,” you replied dryly.

“Just making sure you and baby are taken care of,” he replied nonchalantly, unpacking the groceries in the kitchen, calling out to you.

You were nearing your second trimester and you’d yet to tell anyone yet, it just made it too real. You had grown to enjoy having this little secret for a little while, but you weren’t quite ready to share yet.

“Steve?” you worried your bottom lip, “Have you told anyone yet…about this?”

You motioned to the general area of your stomach, although it wasn’t necessary, since he clearly knew what you meant.

He came in the room, finished with the groceries and sat on the arm of your couch.

“No, have you?”

You shook your head. Your parents lived out of town and it would be a simple phone call, but other than them, you didn’t really have anyone to tell. Even then, you were hesitant to share the news. You’d been stuck in a limbo of disbelief and awe since you first discovered you were pregnant and a part of you still didn’t quite believe it was reality. You had been sitting on this secret for almost two months now.

But then, a horrible thought occurred to you.

“Have you not told anyone because you’re ashamed of me and this baby?”

Your face warmed and you prayed he didn’t notice the humiliation that was surely written all over your face. You would be ashamed of yourself too, if you were him.

“What?” he looked aghast as he slid off the arm of the couch to next to you on the cushion, “Of course not.”

His emphasis on the last part of his answer relieved the panic in your chest a bit and you sighed a breath of relief. His hands cradled your face, making you look him in the eyes. For all the care and support he’d been giving you, this was the first time he’d touched you—in an intimate nature—since the night of conception.

His gaze was piercing, his eyes searching your face, trying to convey just how serious he was.

“I haven’t told anyone yet because I wanted to make sure you and the baby are okay,” he said.

Your brows pulled inward, a tad confused. You both seemed alright, so you weren’t exactly sure what he meant.

“Many of the pregnancy books I’ve read said that usually after the first trimester, the chances of a miscarriage are a lot lower than in the first three months.”

Your chest ached again, the thought of losing this precious baby that you had quickly grown attached to, causing you such a sharp stab of pain.

“But,” he continued, “I won’t tell anyone until you want me to, okay?”

You nodded, heart warm with how caring he was. You noticed his hesitation as his eyes dipped lower to your mouth and against your better judgement, you found yourself wishing he would kiss you.

But, he didn’t. He kissed your forehead gently before dropping his hands from your face and proceeding to ask you what you’d like him to make for dinner.

He was way too good for you and you didn’t deserve him. You planned to put a stop to this childish crush and butterflies in your stomach before it was too late.

•

Steve knew his friends were getting steadily more suspicious.

They knew he was acting weird, hiding something. He couldn’t always commit to plans, rambling off an excuse that he had to do something else or disappearing for days at a time.

It was getting harder to hide you and the baby.

Not that he was intentionally doing it, but for a time, it had been nice to share the little secret of the baby with you. He knew he was screwed though because his friends would see right through him. You weren’t just the mother of his child, you were someone he had fallen head over heels for.

In fact, he had felt a spark of something the moment he first laid eyes on you at that bar. He had never told you though because that sounded crazy, even to him and he was sure it would freak you out. After all, you had enough on your plate just from carrying a baby.

Another month had passed and now you were due for the anatomy scan, which he was meeting you at. He was dying to find out what it was, while you wanted it to be a surprise. You two still hadn’t made a decision about it yet.

Now, he sat next to you in the exam room. He felt bad for you as you were dying for the bathroom—the one downside of having an ultrasound, your bladder had to be full.

“If I pee all over myself, this is your fault,” she grumbled, though good-naturedly.

“How is it my fault?” he asked, exasperated.

“Because your dick was too tempting and now I’m pregnant.”

There was a cough and a wheeze from the ultrasound technician as she tried to smother her laugh with her hand. Steve still saw the amused smile on her lips from the side view he had of her. He gave you an even more exasperated look in which you just gave an amused smirk and a shrug.

The mother of his child, everyone.

“So, mommy, daddy. Have we decided if we want to know the sex of the baby?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You and Steve faced off with silent stares, each trying to outdo one another to win this argument.

“I can leave the room if you want to know that badly,” you said.

“Or we can play Rock Paper Scissors to see who wins,” Steve quipped, amused.

“I don’t remember the last time I’ve had an such an entertaining couple as you two,” the technician chuckled.

“Oh we aren’t-”

“Together,” you finished for Steve.

You weren’t sure what to make by the woman’s amused, arched brow, but you didn’t try to dwell too much on it.

“Alright, I’d be too impatient to wait four more months,” you relented, “If he wants to know, I do too.”

“Really?” Steve asked, grinning, “You do?”

You nodded, smiling.

“I’d be terrible at shopping for the baby anyway if I didn’t know.”

“Alright,” the technician smiled, doing a last few checks as she moved the wand over your belly, “Ready, mom and dad?”

You and Steve both nodded and he grabbed your hand out of instinct, excitement filling his body.

She held the news off long enough to hand you a wet wipe to clean your belly with and you sat up, pulling your hand from Steve’s to gently wipe the gel off your skin. She waited a moment until you’d pulled your shirt back down to speak.

“You might want to tell us now before Steve dies of anticipation here,” you teased, motioning to him.

He looked like a little kid anxious to go to the toy store. He was fidgeting, unable to sit still and bouncing on his feet, an eager expression on his face.

“Okay, I’ll cut you some slack, daddy,” the technician smiled, “Congratulations, you’re having a little boy.”

The world stopped as the words sank in. This baby—this baby boy was now incredibly real. You felt light with happiness and excitement. You and Steve were going to have a little boy.

Steve’s smile couldn’t get any wider, he was so happy. He had had no preference, as long as it was happy and healthy, he was happy.

“I’ll go print out these pictures for you and I’ll be back,” she smiled, “I’m sure you need to use the bathroom, so you can go ahead.”

Steve had to laugh at the speed of which you climbed down off the table, hurrying off to the bathroom down the hall. There was no kind of speed like the speed of a pregnant woman who needed to potty. Or a hungry pregnant woman.

Truth be told, he had a huge amount of respect for any mothers. He may not be close to his parents, but in that moment he had a huge amount of respect for his mother for bringing him into this world.

When you returned, clearly very relieved, his eyes fell to the small curve of your belly. It was much bigger now than it had been even a month ago, but you still weren’t heavily pregnant yet. It was more like a soccer ball look. The sight of your bump did weird things to him. It made his heart flip knowing that you were carrying his baby—his baby boy. It made him love you even more.

He had resigned himself to the fact that he was utterly and truly in love with you and not just because of the baby. The baby may have brought you two together, but he wasn’t going to be the only reason he stayed with you. If it was up to Steve, he was going to keep you two forever.

He looked at your happy face, the sparkle even brighter than moments before when you both had found out the sex.

“Steve! He’s kicking!”

His eyes widened. It wasn’t the first time you’d mentioned feeling the baby move, but something about this time seemed different in the way you moved quickly towards him.

“Do you want to feel?” you asked.

“Can I?” he asked, hesitantly reaching out.

You nodded enthusiastically, taking his hand and placing it on the specific spot you’d just felt a kick. Steve’s eyes brightened, feeling the sensation of the kick against his palm. It was an insanely surreal moment.

“Wow,” he breathed, both hands coming to gently caress the sides of your belly, fingers stroking it gently, “Hi buddy, this is your daddy. Be a good little guy and don’t kick mommy too hard, alright?”

You smiled, watching Steve talk to the baby. You could’ve blamed the tenderness of the moment, the joy of the baby boy news, but you knew what it truly was that made you do what you did next.

You kissed him, right in the middle of the exam room at the doctor’s office, not caring who would walk in at the moment.

And he kissed you back.

He looked dazed when you pulled back and you gave him a shy smile. There’d be plenty of time to discuss that kiss—and kiss some more, obviously—but right now, there was only one thing you wanted him to know.

“I think it’s time to tell everyone.”

•

You were nervous as all get out to meet Steve’s friends. Not only were you his girlfriend now—one they hadn’t even known about, but you were having his baby. What if they didn’t approve?

“Relax, sweetheart,” Steve squeezed your hand as he simultaneously opened the door for you, to the diner you were meeting them at, “They’re gonna love you.”

Your parents had taken it pretty well when you told them right after the anatomy scan. Steve had stayed by your side for the entire call, much to your relief. They’d been thrilled with the fact that Steve had stepped up and been such a help. They even talked to Steve for a bit, instantly liking him. Then, they started making plans to come visit you before the baby was born, so they could meet Steve in person. Your mother couldn’t wait to help you shop for baby things.

Now, it was time to meet Steve’s very large group of friends. Your eyes widened at the sea of faces that sat at the back of the diner, divided between two tables. There were around ten people there. Four of them appeared to be around yours and Steve’s ages while the rest seemed to be a handful of years younger—possibly early high school aged.

You’d worn a bigger, more flowy dress to hide your growing bump as it would definitely give the news away before either of you could say anything. Even so, if anyone was to look at your stomach long enough, they’d pretty much be able to guess.

He had a gentle hand on your lower back as the two of you approached the group.

“Y/N these are my friends,” Steve smiled, making introductions.

Names swam your ears and you tried to hold on to who was who and match to the faces. They all seemed nice enough either giving you a smile, wave or a friendly greeting.

“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Steve said, wrapping an arm around your waist, “My girlfriend and the mother of my child.”

The group burst into chaos at that point.

Steve laughed at your shocked expression, his friends shouting over one another with their questions and excitement.

“Welcome to the family, babe.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things blurb #stranger things fluff

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pansy-picnics · 3 months

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in one of ur order posts you mentioned cass and lance understanding each other and I am VERY interested to hear ur thoughts. I always thought those 2 would have a fun dynamic...

AUGHHHHH YES THANK YOU I THINK SO TOO….!!!!!! Idk it’s kind of a mess when i try to put it into words but it’s like…something about them both being in the “shadow” of rapunzel and eugene respectively. they just both handle it very differently…bc lance i feel is always looking out for others and it leads him to neglect himself a lot, but when he really looks into it and he sees eugene’s growth and how he’s come into his own…how he’s found his roots and even his father….as happy for him as he is lance can’t help but feel a bit bitter sometimes. it’s the secondary character syndrome yk!!!! lance just hasn’t really reached a “breaking point” like cass has because he’s trying to manage it in a healthier way…he’s trying to make a life for himself with what he has and he’s realizing he likes things a lot as they are. but that doesn’t make that grief of what he wish he could’ve had just go away….so when he does confide in someone abt those feelings nobody rlly gets it more than cass does. and more than anyone else LANCE is the one who truly understands why cass did what she did.

this little fic of them is very important to me... this one is also one i think about a lot. it’s hard to find lance fics in this economy. :( i like to think they bonded a little leading up to destinies collide, not enough for cass to change her mind about leaving but enough to give them both some food for thought you feel me…..they both just have this unspoken Understanding with each other, and they both admire each other a lot. the shenanigans cass lance and eugene would get into would also be SO silly so it’s a shame we never really saw them interact </3

cass seems to be inherently drawn to the golden retriever type anyways whether she likes it or not so i’m sure lance and rapunzel drag her out on day trips all the time. she and lance gossip together and stuff yk...i think post series she’ll often still go out of the kingdom for work trips (in my head after settling with rapunzel she works as an ambassador for corona, mostly just to be able to get out more while still helping raps), and sometimes in the middle of the night as shes on her way back she’ll stop at his place in old corona just to steal food from him. leaves him a horribly written note and a cool rock or something. like. “Took a piece of the pie in the oven. There were already slices taken out so I figured it’d be fine. Oh I’m back btw. Not dead yet”

they also play pranks on eugene together ALL the time and this is canon actually i made the show. lance can honestly get her to do anything if he can convince her it’ll annoy eugene somehow /hj

ALSO LANCE BEING A WINGMAN FOR CASSUNZEL IS SOMETHING I NEED SOOOOO BAD AND I CANT BELIEVE NOBODY’S THOUGHT OF IT BEFORE. Like honestly i think if she were to tell a single soul about her hopeless crush it would be lance. i think he’s the only one who would be normal about it and keep it a secret tbh. lance just keeps randomly trying to put them in Situations together and cass is getting really suspicious that he’s doing it on purpose but she doesn’t REALLY have any actual evidence so she can’t say anything and it’s driving her crazy. rapunzel is just like “Cassss don’t be silly ur overthinking it ^_^” (shes lying to herself)

IDK. I THINK THEY’D HAVE SILLY SHENANIGANS AND THEY MAKE ME EMO TBH. The secondary characters always cursed to live in someone else’s shadow…..finding solace and friendship in each other………..Though one is sidelined for a much more obvious reason than the other (cough cough RACISM) but its Fineeeee its fine i’m normal about it😁 /s

#tts headcanons #tangled ask #tangled the series #rapunzels tangled adventure #pansy rambling again #lance strongbow #lance tag #tangled cassandra #ask #i need to think about them more because my thoughts on them are kind of jumbled #but generally i just want them to have more than simply acknowledging each other yk….#Such seems to be the case with most lance relationships unfortunately #either that or they just treat him like hes the idiot in some comedic duo😭

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kisaraslover · 3 months

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Do you think Kisara has any hobbies besides sitting in Kaiba's lap?

Well i like to look at established Kisara to draw out more traits so first things first is the dragonic nature. I think Kisara deeply enjoys nature and solitude and sitting in the sun. I dont mean this like camping either, from ancient Egypt we see Kisara already has unusual resistance to exposure to elements, with something godly in her veins so i think she might be really zen watching birds to flowers to the sky and basking her place in all this. We all have a passing moments of "everything IS everywhere all at once, all is one, one is all" but i think it would be a constant presence in her. she swings between "oblivious to life weird ass woman" and "enlightened higher being" VIOLENTLY. Meditating would be grounding to her, in the opposite way to all other people meditating.

and then music. dragons are a kind of bird <3 dont look that up. i think Kisara has an uncanny aptness when it comes to music. one of those people who can pick up any instrument and play a simple tune on it. i dont think she has a remarkable singing voice at all though. embodies "people sing because they want to not because they are good at it" hums gently music she likes. if she tries to seriously sing along to a difficult song her voice cracks loserly. she laughs and continues yknow? its still Seto's favorite and if he catches sound of her humming before entering a room, he waits outside to listen for a couple secs. its his secret no one needs to know shhhh. ALSO the fic Paper Roses has piano player Kisara and the romance is served so well by Kisara giggling while placing Seto's hands on the right keys so.

making things with your hand is a very grounding practice for anyone struggling to stay in the moment and stay present and i just cant move past these very artistic but expensive looking hobbies from youtube shorts -tries not to cry about capitalism locking the public out of arts- so after getting that Kaiba Money she'd just go "i always wanted to try glass art btw" and seto goes "?????. thats. alright ok. go for it"

im really conflicted on many "hobbies" and what makes them hobbies but if we work with the basis "how you spend your day is how you spend your life" i think she'd really be the least online person. the activies above WOULD be very frequent but i think Kisara spends her most days, ironically enough, socializing. she'd be talking to employees (important business) or talking to employees (just chatting lol) out with friends of all kinds and trades, Mokuba and his friends or Seto and HIS friends, or most surreal one, Seto and HER friends. shes the kind of awkward person who listens more than they speak, with her own charms and difficulties, thankfully when you try enough you can find people you can get along with. very endearing on the line of strange, bringing out peoples protective sides which is why she would gather Mom Friends and Bossy Bitches and Protective Eldest Siblings faster than you can say her name. while i characterize both Kisara and Seto as kind of introverted, i think Kisara would be charged with a thirst to know and understand humanity (both result of godly roots and alienated youth) so if her luck turned around after meeting Seto i think she'd build quite the social circle, not even realizing how many people shes getting close to at first. Seto's socializing would be more acknowledging part of healing means creating support systems, opening up to people -to whatever extent he can- surrounding himself with people who he cares about and who care about him in return, and definitely less easier than her collecting friends.

SO YEAH! sorry for the LONG ASS reply, i think Kisara is adopted by many Extroverts and on the time off she goes into her workshop does fuck all (DEF made a wooden dildo to see Seto's reaction. mokuba laughed his ass off thinking it would perplex him. he took one look at it and said its a pathetic cock and he could nude model for her. no ones laughing now.....)

#is this ask so lowkey shady? lmao i was tripping over myself answering like NOOOO MY QUEEN HAS MANY HOBBIES SHES FUN SHES INTERESTING #LISTEN TO ME DOCTOR HAN SHES INTERESTING #lmaooo #yugioh #ygo #kisara #not art #ask tag #her lowkey gift with instruments is quietly ignored by all of them. kisara plays an instrument shes seeing for the first time #all of them go 😑 i do not see anything strange. great job kisara youre so talented and its soo normal you can play everything.#so normal. you just got a strong ear. and strong understanding of what sounds come out with what movements on instruments #its normal its normal. no hocus pocus magic tricks here no sirrrrr

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copiousloverofcopia · 7 months

Text

I have RISEN from the dead....

Lol just kidding...but----I am here with some new content!!!!

Here is the first chapter of my fairytale level fan fiction for @ashley-ghuleh featuring their OC Marcus and Secondo!!!

Thank you so much Ghestie for the opportunity to bring Marcus to life! I hope you and everyone else enjoys!!!!

The Hell Torn Heart

After a recurring dream leaves Marcus, a half-demon/half-hellhound, dealing with the ghosts of his troubled past and visions of a place he has never been. He is unexpectedly thrust into an unknown world. Guided by a mysterious couple to the Ministry, surrounded by ghouls and siblings of sin. The once outcast struggles with what haunts him and learning to find himself—until he meets Secondo.

Chapter 1: The Dreams

Also available HERE on AO3!

Read below the cut! (Eventually will be NSFW)

They would leave as swiftly as they came. Leaving beads of sweat along Marcus's brow and a cold chill running down his spine. His mind, unraveling night after night with the things that haunted him. The dreams had reared their ugly head once again.

Last night was different, however, though it had started just the same. Dreams of his father, to Marcus nothing but a glorified sperm donor, who just so happened to impart half his infernal roots. Visions of his cold, intimidating stares and the sting of his hand, thankfully fading as Marcus stirred on his mattress. Its comfort, only one step up from the bare floor.

Then came the dream of her. Always the same and as haunting as it was emotional. A woman, one he knew only for a short time, but who held his heart for a lifetime—calling out to him from the abyss. Her bright eyes and dark hair, like the mysterious void that was the night sky. Filled with celestial bodies, burning with the fury of creation. She was holding his hand, though it looked quite a bit smaller held in her palm than it truly was now. Marcus, only a young child when he lost her—his mother.

She showed him a place. One he had never seen before. Built like an old castle and hidden deep within a thick forest of trees. Filled with secrets he could feel, carried on the wind as it swept through his cobalt hair. It was a vision of grandeur. The massive, arched double doors and stone walls—impressive as they carefully approached. The fascia, all covered in years of history, draped in ivy and sweet smelling bougainvillea.

It was an old Abbey, or at least it appeared so. The steeple, adorned with an inverted cross, with what appeared to be a "G", standing proudly atop the roof. He recognized it instantly as a place of worship, but of what Marcus was unclear. His eyes, crawling over it before staring at the countless stained glass windows that shimmered in the light—beckoning him to continue.

He was in awe of it, feeling it somehow both ominous and inviting. Marcus could feel his mother squeeze his hand when he stopped to take it all in. Urging him to continue when his instinct forced him to stop. Worried about what dangers may lurk beyond the doors that stood before them. Trusting his mother enough to continue on despite his better judgment.

As they reached the stairway, Marcus froze once again. His heart, pounding hard behind his ribs. The mystery felt too great, too heavy as it weighed on his mind. What would happen if he dared to go inside?

"Go on…Marcus…find this place. Be happy." His mother whispered. He began slowly ascending the steps, taking a moment to breathe in the cool air that surrounded him before turning around to find he was alone. Now appearing as the age he was now. His mother, no longer standing behind him when Marcus finally summoned the will to bring his hand to the door. Turning the knob and then, like every time before—waking up.

Just like that, the blast of his alarm hit. Blaring incessantly as Marcus rolled over. Trying desperately to drown out the noise with a pillow pressed firmly over his head. His sensitive ears, ringing no matter how well he tried to muffle the sound.

"Argh…fucking hell." He whined, rising up and scratching his head. Choosing to sit up and turn off the abomination as he succumbed to his waking. It was already after 4 in the afternoon and his aching head was happy to remind him of the bad decisions made the night before. "Guess it's time to get up." He yawned before managing to drag himself out of bed.

It had been weeks now since the dreams started again. Each time, slightly different than the last. The dreams of his abusive father, which were thankfully overshadowed by the ones with his mother, filling him with anger and resentment. Replaced each night, when her ghost would visit him, leaving him feeling both broken, and whole all at once. Curious as to why she seemed to be begging him to go inside that place. An old Abbey that he had never even seen before.

For now he would have to shrug it off. Shaking off the intrusive thoughts that nagged at him as a dog shakes off the water from its coat. He splashed some cold water on his face to help collect himself, grateful that his glamour had managed to hold up so well with his failing mental state. He slapped on a bit of eye liner and ran a comb through his hair before grabbing his cropped leather jacket. Swinging his case, filled with his prized white, heritage guitar, over his shoulder before heading out the door.

He was on his way to a small bar in Berlin, one that had been there long before the wall came down. The Hundekeller, was a small and insignificant place to most, but Marcus knew better. It was here that the most colorful characters humanity had to offer, convened. In this small, somewhat sketchy place Marcus had acquired all manner of interesting encounters.

Marcus would often recall the time when he met the guy who carried around his pet spider inside his waistcoat pocket. Old Snippet he called him, a big tarantula that had the rest of the patrons keeping their distance. Or the time the long-legged woman, dressed in furs and sequins for days, flirting with him from the other end of the bar turned out to be a former U.S. spy during the war. Regardless of its bizarre and, at times, unsavory surroundings it felt more like home than his flat.

Marcus strolled over at a leisurely pace, passing the bokeh of street lights and cars as he lit up his first cig for the day. Relishing the taste of the sweet tobacco as he drew the smoke into his lungs. He was on his way to spend yet another night playing his guitar, once the paid act had taken their leave of course. Ready to sniff out all the interesting smells he’d encounter. He sat down as usual, inconspicuously in the back of the room and watched as people began filing in.

The frequenters took their usual spots. The gentleman who always wore a red teddy, hidden under his blazer, sat down at his booth and Fräulein Elsa managed to slide right into her spot—a lone stool at the far end of the bar. All of them, settling in before the show and leaving only a few empty seats, for anyone else curious enough to enter, before the band began to play. This time the band played some sort of whiskey rock. The type that crosses rock with notes of country. Not Marcus’s usual taste, but the sound at least didn’t bother him while he waited. He watched almost in a daze as they performed, song after song. All by himself, as it was every night, until Ash came over to say hi.

“You know one of these days you’re gonna be up there performing as the headliner, if only you’d give yourself some credit Welpe.” he told him. Leaning back to pop his back and rolling up his sleeves before picking up a crate from the back of the room.

“Yeah…well I doubt it, old man. I’d hardly call what you all got going on in here “headliners” but whatever you say…not that you care but I also kinda like keeping to myself.” Marcus replied, giving Ash a shit-eating grin before the short, purple-haired man with the faint hint of subtle for a beard, headed back to his station. The bar keep was usually the only one Marcus ever talked to, and quite frankly might have been the only one he’d ever considered a friend. It wasn’t easy with his lineage, trying desperately to maintain his glamour, never allowing anyone too close. Worried that might see him for what he really was, a hound of hell.

It was his mother’s wish that he grow up to be like them–the humans who had been nothing but kind to her. Unlike his father who had made both their lives miserable from the moment he was knitted within her womb. No—meaningless sex and a few well spread out acquaintances were far more manageable he thought. Refusing to ever be close enough to someone to get hurt again.

As the night went on, Marcus remained in his thoughts. The traces of his dreams, still lingering in the forefront of his mind and the ache in his chest from the visions of his mother, kept him even more reclusive than usual. Wondering to himself if maybe tonight he should have just stayed at home. Then, just as he rose from his stool and readied himself to leave he caught wind of it.

A scent unlike anything he’d smelled there before. A scent—like his own. It was metallic with hints of charred wood. Otherworldly, a scent he had worked hard to mask, flooding his nostrils as he scanned the room. His eyes fell over the audience as the band finished playing their last tune.

“That's weird.” he whispered to himself. Shaking it off, convinced that he’d been imagining things. Before he knew it, it was finally time. The sparsely filled room, emptying to a mere handful of filled seats as he took the stage. Marcus said nothing as he took a short moment to tune his guitar. Strumming until he confirmed the notes hit just right.

He began his song, nothing award winning, but one he had been tinkering with for some time now. Melodic and moody, he played—closing his eyes to feel the vibrations from it. He had refused to sing, his music serving almost as background noise for those who had found one reason or another to stay at Hundekeller. It wasn’t until he finished his second to last song, opening his eyes to the audience, that he saw them sitting together in the front row.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. The man, quite bulky and handsome, though he looked as if he were more than a force to be reckoned with. The woman, curvy with a mess of blonde curly hair atop her head. Radiating sweetness—almost bubbly as she listened to him play. Bouncing around in her chair when Marcus began the next song.

He struggled not to stare. The two mysterious strangers, maintaining eye contact with him, breaking only in moments when they would talk to one another. It left Marcus with an odd feeling burrowing in his gut. Something was different about them, but he couldn't be sure what.

He tried to press on, finding a way to distract himself from them when he happened to catch sight of a photo illuminated on the man’s phone. The image on the screen seared into Marcus’s brain as he watched the man show it to her. It was the building from his dreams. He struggled his way through it and the moment his set was up, he bounded off the stage and into one of the chairs at their table. Mad-looking and wide eyed as the man began to speak.

“Well hello.” the man laughed, his hand gracing the shoulder of his female companion.

“I—ah—I.” Marcus stammered, unable to explain himself with any sense of sanity.

“I think he’s at a loss for words, Aeth.” the woman said, rising up from her chair to find a new seat right next to Marcus. “You alright there?” she asked him.

“Of course he is, just might not have even seen someone as devastatingly beautiful as you Luss.” Aether mused, eliciting the eyeroll of a century from Cumulus. Marcus sat in silence, almost overwhelmed with the scent he noticed before, trying his best not to drop his glamour and give himself away as he got lost in it. Finally he swallowed back the knot in his throat, trying to gather himself before speaking again. How could it possibly be a coincidence that they smelled the way they did—and more so that they had an image of a place that, until now, had only existed in his dreams.

“I’m sorry I don’t know what came over me.” Marcus managed to get out, rubbing at the old scar tissue gracing the back of his head. A callback to another night where his mischievousness got the better of him.

“It’s alright doll. I’m Cumulus by the way…but you can call me Luss if you want–and this is Aether.” she told him, taking his hand in hers. She was soft and kind. Marcus was bewitched by her almost instantly. Had he swung that way, she would have definitely been his type. Aether looked over to her, the two of them communicating something between them. Though their lips remained completely sealed.

“The photo…on your phone…” Marcus started, unable to continue. Struggling to find the words to explain his interest in it.

“Oh you mean this?” Aether said, showing Marcus the image again. It was of the Abbey from his dreams, though much less secluded looking. The image, filled with nuns and what looked like priests. A sprinkling among them of people who appeared to be wearing masks on the front steps. Their hands held up as if they were waving at them–a friendly hello to their far away friends. Instantly his interest was piqued, even more than before.

“Where is that?” Marcus asked, watching as both Aether and Cumulus smiled at one another and turning back to him. Aether put his hand on Marcus’s shoulder, winking at him before he would explain.

“That, my friend, is home.” he told him.

“It looks so familiar…I think I have been there before.” Marcus continued, staring at the photo until Cumulus managed to recapture his attention. Resting her face on her hand and she continued on talking to him.

“Oh? Well, do you travel around much?” she asked.

“Not really, I have been here most of my life.” Marcus said, nervously chuckling with his words.

“Well now..that is interesting. You see…our home is in Italy. Not sure how you might have seen it if you have never left before, but hey you never know.” Cumulus said, looking over to Aether and giving him a wink. “Anyways… I just have to tell you…ah…” Cumulus began as she waited for him to give her his name.

“Marcus.”

“Ah yes…well Marcus, you have a lot of talent you know.” she continued, “...you play that guitar like a lover. I know a lot of people who could appreciate a talent like that.”

“Really?” Marcus exclaimed, worried he might have misheard her. Feeling the heat of his anxiety building up inside him.

“Really… I mean listen kid, I like your style and clearly Luss does too. Maybe you should come see the show our band is doing over at the Olympiastadion in Munich tomorrow night. I think our boss would love to hear you play and maybe we can talk more about the Abbey. What do you say? Entry on us—”

“Wait really?” Marcus asked him, thrilled at the prospect. The anxiety grew as he continued to desperately keep up his appearance. Then he realized something, “hey, isn’t that the Ghost show?”

“Oh, so you’ve heard of us?” Cumulus asked excitedly.

“I have…but I will be honest I haven’t listened to anything. Just heard about Ghost in passing. I would still love to come. I have never been to such a big show before…that is iif…if you will still allow me?” Marcus whimpered, hoping his admission hadn’t ruined his chances.

“No worries…” We will have your tickets waiting for you at the box office kid…see you tomorrow?” Aether asked as he motioned for Cumulus to stand up with him. Grabbing his jacket, and helping her with hers, before they would be headed off. Marcus jumped up from his seat and nodded. The excitement coursed through him as he watched them push in their chairs. Finally now he might have some answers—and even if he didn’t, he might as well at least have a good time.

“See you there.”

Notes:

The Hundekeller- Hound Cellar

Fräulein- Unmarried German woman

Puppy-Welpe

Olympiastadion- Concert venue in Munich, Germany

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therealnightcity · 4 months

Note

2 for Hiro, 1 for Avi and Ares, 16 for Ares :3

Character asks for @a-pirate 🥰🥰

Hiro:

Lt. Mower: What is the worst betrayal your character has faced?

Hiro isn't a stranger towards how self-serving people can be, but by far the worst was Wakako. He grew up thinking he didn't have any family aside from a brother he was estranged from, didn't know that she was his grandmother or that his dad had been her son, estranged from the family, or that he has a half-sister. She kept an eye on him growing up, but always held him at arm's length. She said it was because she didn't want him to turn out like his father, that it was for his own good but he wishes she just would've told him, been more involved. She let him make his own mistakes, firm iin her belief that if he was determined enough he would dig himself out of them, and while that held true, he's always resented her for it. He put his trust in the wrong people and she simply watched.

Ares:

The Wasteland: How does your OC feel about the Raffen Shiv? Is it too harsh what the Nomad clans do, or is it fair?

Ares' view of the Raffen Shiv is less rooted in personal views and more of a practical nature. While she doesn't think the punishment of exile is too harsh, especially given what led to them getting kicked out, she's less "kill on sight' than other Nomads. She's the only mechanic shop around for miles, and as a result her clients tend to be an ecelctic mix, Wraiths included. And she knows that sometimes it's easier to tolerate their occasional presence in exchange for leaving her alone, and minding their own business. It would be foolish to raid a place packing that much firepower, at least on your own, and her no-nonsense attitude is at the very least, respected. If you bring her a car with blood on the seats though, expect an extra cleaning fee tacked on. She doesn't like the Raffens, but she also doesn't have a Nomad clan backing her, that allows her to pick the bigger fights, and still sleep soundly.

Avi & Ares

Demons of War: Is there a job that's left a permanent mark on your OC?

Mr. and Mrs. Peralez turned to Avi, when they started questioning their home's security, and wanted to investigate the death of the mayor. He'd previously been afiliated with Arasaka, and had experience with corporate politics/complexities, while not having current loyalty to any coorporation, and had slipped out of the limelight following his departure from the company--a perfect fit for digging up information that others wanted to keep secret, and to protect himself or them, if it ever came to that. He'd been communicating with an anonymous source since before his split with the company, feeding them information in exchange for Arasaka's dirt--assistance in locating his files, of which he could find no trace. It's the first time he met the mysterious Mr. Blue Eyes face to face, and shortly before he was able to connect his mysterious source to an individual, and the realization that he'd stepped into a mess even deeper in the attempt to avoid Arasaka's.

For Ares, it was the hit put out on Joanne Koch, Biotechnica's chief. She has her own reasons for mistrusting Corpos, and a group of Nomads reached out to her, seeking vengence. She's not tied to a clan, and doesn't have the same responsibilities to stay put and look after her family. Although hit jobs aren't her usual forte, it was something she never would have been able to refuse, particularly after she was able to locate the files on her mark, and learn of the death of the Red Ocher Nomads. Rather than electing to zero Koch, she knocked her out and delivered her personally to the Nomads, feeling as if they should be the ones to decide what to do with her. It's only intensified the belief that Corps can't be allowed to get too comfortable in the Badlands, and she's been open in discussing this with the Aldecaldos, stating that she'll in no condition be an ally if they side with Biotechnica. This has led to her relationship with Saul being strained at best.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk ocs #oc: hiro oda #oc: ares tanner #oc: avi kaiba #character asks #cyberpunk headcanons #thanks for asking!! this was really funnn <3

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theoddcatlady · 5 months

Text

Mr. Ferguson

I think the whole street breathed a sigh of relief when we saw the EMTs take a body bag out of the Ferguson house. I was only about ten or eleven at the time and it’s been a while so some details of my childhood are lost to time, but I can’t forget Mr. Ferguson.

There was never a Mrs. Ferguson in the picture, as far as I know. He lived in the house on the corner, the one with the bright yellow shutters and the gorgeous garden out back. The garden didn’t make up for the rotten old bastard he was. I wondered once if he was nicer when he was younger, when he didn’t have to walk with a cane and could actually get around without help, but my dad set me straight on that one. Mr. Ferguson had always been a terrible person and the neighbor from hell.

All day long, Mr. Ferguson would sit on his front porch in his rocking hair, grasping onto his black cane as he stared out on the street. If someone walking their dog even got close to his yard, he’d start spewing threats about what he’d do if the dog took a shit on his lawn. If a kid put even a toe on his property, he’d get up from that chair and start shouting more terrible things. I learned my first cuss words from Mr. Ferguson, he didn’t censor his language even among the smallest of ears. And he wasn’t all talk. One of my friend’s dogs wandered into the Ferguson yard, just sniffing around as beagles do, and Mr. Ferguson beat that dog bloody. The poor thing had anxiety for the rest of its life and if you so much as passed the Ferguson house with it the dog would lose its mind.

Other than him, our neighborhood was a friendly place. Summers were full of cook outs and pool parties, winters had Secret Santa gift exchanges and someone was always willing to help shovel out your driveway. You’d never be hard pressed to find a babysitter on short notice, odds are your friend had a teenage daughter willing to make a few bucks to make sure the kids were on bed in time.

But not Mr. Ferguson. People did try to bring him in on the fun sometimes. He’d scoff and tell them to leave him alone in no uncertain terms. Mom said he just wanted to be miserable. I didn’t understand how someone could want that and well, I still don’t.

One hot summer morning though, his caretaker came in to do a check and found him in his garden, dead as a door nail. Probably a stroke or a heart attack.

My mom made us go to the funeral. I don’t know why, she probably hated Mr. Ferguson the most and we were like one of five people that went. One of those people was the priest. At least it was short, the priest just said a few words about how we should treasure our lives and be good to others and then Mr. Ferguson was chucked into the ground.

That was that… or so I thought.

The accidents started happening just a week later.

I was at my friend Michael’s house, we were playing board games when we heard the crash. It was so loud it shook the house and Michael dropped his soda. Root beer spilled onto the carpet as we tried to figure out what that sound was for a second.

Then we heard his dad screaming bloody murder.

Forgetting completely about the spilled soda, we ran out to the garage where he’d been working on changing the oil in the car.

Michael’s dad was pinned by the car against the garage door, face white as a sheet as his head lolled to the side. I saw blood splattered against the off gray color of the metal and I puked while Michael ran inside to call 911.

It was luck that he survived. He never walked again and health issues plagued him for the rest of his life, but for a guy crushed by a car that’s probably best case scenario.

It was an accident, sure, but a weird one. The car just suddenly launched forward as Michael’s dad stood in front of it. But there was no one in the garage with him. So yeah. It was just an accident.

But accidents started happening more and more often.

The next one was at the final pool party of the season. We were all at the Benson house because they’d just gotten a brand new hot tub. There was probably like twelve kids running around, the sun was shining, the barbecue was sizzling. I had just gotten out of the pool to grab a lemonade and was chatting with Annie when I heard the pop.

Mrs. Benson and her friends had been relaxing in the hot tub, making jokes and laughing until the pop. Their bodies suddenly went rigid before they began rapidly jerking about and twitching. Mr. Benson shouted if she was all right and I heard this gurgled yell before Mrs. Benson went under.

The kids stampeded out of the pool and I smelled something burning before I realized that the hot tub was on fire.

Mrs. Benson and her sister ended up dying on the way to the hospital. The other woman ended up surviving but not without some serious electrical burns. Electrocution via hot tub. Just an accident. But there was one more accident we all missed until we returned to the pool to see a little body floating at the top. Three year old Maggie had fallen in during the chaos and drowned.

Mr. Benson moved away after that. Losing both his wife and youngest child in that house just killed something inside of him. But after he moved away, we all saw it happen.

His backyard became overgrown by plants. Not over a few weeks, like what happens when a house is uninhabited and there’s no one to mow the lawn. The very day after they’d left that house the backyard was now filled with dandelions, daffodils, lilies. and all sorts of flowers that shouldn’t naturally appear in the late summer.

It was like a garden.

Accidents happen, sure. But not like this. Not when a guy who’s been working home improvement his entire life ends up toppling from a ladder and breaking his spine. Not when a mom trips and falls face first into the open dishwasher and ends up getting impaled on a knife. Not when a toddler was left alone for just a few seconds and ends up nearly drowning in the bathtub.

Dogs ran into the road and ended up getting hit by cars. Kids fell from their bunk beds and cracked their heads like eggshells on their dressers. Teenagers got into fatal car wrecks. It was a mess.

Two other families ended up leaving our neighborhood and their yards had the same fate as the Benson’s- completely grown over. A morbid beauty.

Fall came and the yards grew brown but the gardens seemed to be even greener. The whispers started about a ghost. A ghost that was such a miserable old bastard in life and was now a nasty poltergeist in death.

Mr. Ferguson had never left our neighborhood.

It all came to a head when a tree was struck by lightning and a large tree limb crashed into our living room. I’d just tripped while picking up my things and suddenly the roof caved in above me. I was lucky I was on the ground. If I’d been standing, well, I’d probably not be telling you this story.

Two nights later my mom woke me up. She looked grim.

“Come on. We’re going to see Mr. Ferguson.”

When we walked out of the house, I saw everyone on our street was out. Everyone had this same grim look on their face. The deaths, the mutilation, it’d forever tarnished our street and we’d all had enough. We walked down the street, I saw several guys walk into Mr. Ferguson’s house with mallets and chainsaws, but we kept going with a few of the others. I saw that several of the adults were carrying shovels and containers of lighter fluid.

We walked into the graveyard and my mom led them right to Mr. Ferguson’s grave. She took a deep breath.

“… Start digging.”

It was the frantic endeavors of people who believed they were cursed. Dirt flew in the air and nearly pelted me in the head a few times. I hid behind my mom, who just stood there stone faced.

Even now the accidents weren’t over. A man tripped in the hole and his leg snapped like a twig. He wailed as he was dragged away by a few others before they got right back to digging. Someone else got smacked the face with a shovel and blood coursed down his face from his nose as he just kept on digging.

Finally the coffin was reached, the lid cracked open. Mr. Ferguson’s body laid inside. He didn’t even look dead, it was like he was just taking a nap.

Then they started pouring the lighter fluid in. It covered the corpse’s skin, his clothes. They probably added more than necessary. My mom struck the match and threw it in, shielding me from the sudden burst of flames.

I didn’t get to see the body, but I swore I heard that old man’s yelling as his body burned.

It was over after all that. The gardens were all dead by morning. The accidents stopped. And although we’d lost so many of our friends over the past year, we recovered. New neighbors moved in. We welcomed them into our fold. One or two asked about the property on the corner, the one that looked like a tornado hit it, and we’d just say it was vandals. They stopped asking. We never talked about what we did to Mr. Ferguson’s body. And soon we just stopped thinking about it.

I grew up on that street. Even now I only live a few blocks away. And for so long I wondered why our family was practically the only one untouched by the tragedy. We never got hurt, even when the tree branch came crashing into our living room.

I think I found out the answer. See, my mom passed away a few months ago from breast cancer and I’ve been going through her things. She’s always been such a good, kind woman and it was great seeing pictures of her helping plant the garden behind the church and teaching at the local school.

But in the bottom of the box, hidden under dozens of other albums, was a picture from when she married my dad. Unlike the family picture with the groom, all it was was my mom and an older man. I didn’t recognize him until I flipped the picture over.

On the back was written ‘Pauline Walters (P. Ferguson) and The Father of the Bride.’

#my stories

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hirazuki · 8 months

Text

Something in the Darkness

Something in the darkness pulled me deeper Something in the madness eased my mind Was I awake or was I dreaming? - Blackmore's Night

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

“I wove an enchantment to lead you here,” he confesses against her, lips moving lazily along the lines of her ribs. “On the day you first rode near these woods.”

He had not intended to tell her – not now; not ever, truly – but the haze of pleasure loosens tongues and this particular instance has left him exceptionally complacent, satisfaction spreading throughout him like molten metal running hot and thick and heavy through the grooves of a mold, and he lies boneless, senseless, in her arms.

Her hand – that has been absently stroking his back, occasionally coming up to tug at the tangles they have created in his hair – stops.

With a start, Eöl realizes what he has said.

He braces himself; for claws, for teeth, for temper. She may have come to him wrapped in royalty and fine raiment, but he is under no illusion that the creature he has taken to bed is anything other than as ill-suited for conventional society as he. It would never have taken root between them otherwise, this thing of hunger that they share. He may acknowledge it his for its planting, but she, too, has kept it well-fed; fervently so. It has bloomed shadows, as all things do in this dim land, and they two stand as though reflections across the water’s edge – dark and bright; maker and reaper; each, the other's predator; each, the other’s prey.

Aredhel laughs.

It startles him – unexpected, like a sudden storm or eyes in thickets or the sharpness of a twisted antler at one’s back – and he is reminded that wild and unpredictable does not always equate to violence. She is as the forest, and, like the forest, as inclined to play as to the hunt.

He turns his head to look up at her in confusion, all the same, when he feels the sound under his cheek.

“I know,” she replies, amused, and runs her fingers through the still-damp strands that cling to his face. It is an unconscious act, to brush away any worry, presumably, for her manner is uncommonly gentle with him, more akin to the way he has seen her with the horses. “I have walked with gods in Valinor; did you think I would not recognize when a spell has been laid around me?”

He frowns, solid brows coming together to cast his already severe seeming into deeper relief. “Then why did you – ”

“Try as I might – and believe me, I did – I could not break out!” Another burst of laughter, and it falls like light upon rippling water or the wind dancing in glass chimes, and fades away just as fast, as her mirth settles. She places a careful finger on the bridge of his nose, slowly tracing it all the way down, and lightly taps it at its end. “And you roused my curiosity.”

Eöl chuckles. It is no more than an exhalation, and deep, from a secret place far inside his chest, but it is rare and she is ever the only one to see this side of him, and he is aware of how she delights in it and in the knowledge of it as well. He rises up on his forearms and pulls himself higher, closer to her, sliding his body over her legs and waist until their eyes are level.

“You should not follow strange enchantments,” he whispers into her lips, and feels the reflection of their mingled breaths warm upon his own. “You never know what you might find.”

“And you should not cast them,” she whispers back, leaning forward until both her words and her mouth are pressed into him. “You never know what you might catch.”

He loves her.

It is more than the falling shadow of her hair, whose soft weight is currently sweeping over his bareness as she shifts to rest against him, and her skin that is pale and shining as moonlight, and her lips, ripe for the taking like red berries in summer; though it had been desire for these things that had stirred eagerly in his blood at the first.

He loves her and he knows this, despite never having loved anything other than his craft and his woods before, just as he knows it is not the kind of love he has seen nest in others’ eyes. He has found dark things with her, urges that strangle and bruise and choke; they snake like the crawling vines of Nan Elmoth, wrapping around naked limbs and souls alike, in the deep shade where caress all too easily slides to crushing. She has shown no alarm at them, fearless as she is, and has terrible thirsts of her own that he knows she is slaking for the first time, for they have no place in the glistering palaces of her people, with their wide open skies and their fountains in the sun.

She does not do well in cages, and that is another thing he knows; neither does he, else he would have remained in Doriath. But cages are all that is left to them in this world, between the terror in the North and the tearing of the twilight and the arrival of those who have brought fire and fury to these lands, and he is determined that, at the least, it will be a cage of his own making. And so he has taken great care in crafting this one, with its bars of trees and ceiling of stars and winding paths that lead far under the moon.

They are of a kind, he and she: restless spirits roaming the wilds, ill at ease among their own kin, ever searching for something that will soothe the nameless need that eats away at them; for a place they can abide.

He thought he had found it, years ago, in these starlit woods. Wrongly; for he is certain he has it now and it casts what came before as immaterial as the mists that hover over the neighboring fields, for now he holds the sun in his sheets, and he is loath to do anything but coil himself around her. He wishes to keep her here, always, and fears what he will do to that end; he will swallow her, if he must.

It is his fiercest hope – hidden well, behind every glance and within every deed, and it rears its head every time she seeks him – that this holds true for her as well; that it will prove to be enough and she will always stay. But a part of him – the one that reads stones and can taste the tidings in the air and sometimes dreams of sharp eyes and sharper rocks and a city burning in the night – knows that light slips through fingers more surely than water, and the echo of doom has thrummed low in his veins since he first sighted her, a gleam of white in the waning of the year.

Eöl closed his eyes to it then just as he drags his mind away from it now – away from fate, away from ruin, away from anything that is not two circles of blue-gray, almost wholly consumed by the black at their center, and the warmth under his hands.

“I do hope your curiosity was sated to your satisfaction, my lady,” he offers, returning to her.

Aredhel laughs again and rolls them both over, pinning him down and burying her face into the side of his neck. He allows this of her, going still and docile under her touch; he knows she allows many things of him in turn.

“Nay, my lord,” she says, with teeth around his pulse, and, when she closes in, it is with the excitement of a hound at its quarry and it draws a litany of sounds that no other has ever heard issue from his throat. She relaxes her jaw and releases him, licking at the injury even as she moves to better sit astride him. “Nowhere near.”

#eol #aredhel #silmarillion #tolkien #my writing #hira writes tolkien #i never know how to rate my stuff XD #but. no real warnings other than myself lmao #by which i mean my take on these two and their relationship (incredibly unhealthy but enthusiastically consensual)#this is. *not* what i was supposed to be writing...#it's not even what i was /already/ writing with them #THIS CAME OUT OF NOWHERE and it wanted OUT #i'd actually never thought about the possibility of aredhel being aware of the enchantment until exactly six days ago #but the more i think about it the more i like it so. into the permanent personal headcanon soup it goes ^^

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bluegekk0 · 6 months

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Did Hornet feel lonely or ostracized before the fall of Hallownest? In my head I would think so as everyone has a negative view of Deepnest(or at least in-game and I would think that's the same before the fall).

she definitely had some of the retainers and fpk's other subjects look at her funny. she was the princess, yes, but her deepnest roots made her appear untrustworthy

if she ever felt lonely and ostracized, she would always cling to her father, as he knew better than anyone else how it felt to be an outcast. that was without a doubt one of the reasons why they were so close. there were no children her age at the palace, so until she started training under queen vespa she had no opportunities to make friends - her father and grimm (whenever he visited) were her only friends during her childhood. the fact that she was a bit of a menace to the retainers certainly didn't help her reputation. she was known to bite, cause trouble, and use her status as the daughter of the king to avoid consequences. even in the hive she struggled to find friends. like you said, deepnest wasn't exactly the most liked among the general population, so the moment it was revealed that she was born there, her chances of finding friendship decreased even further

i think that's why she ended up partially rejecting her deepnest origins. after fpk disappeared and she was left on her own, she decided to keep it a secret. not that she was looking to make friends in the first place - the circumstances made her angry and bitter, so she generally avoided the rest of the population that wasn't hit by the infection. but she already learned the hard way how much prejudice there was towards deepnest, so she figured it would be best to keep it to herself. at the very least she could thank her father's genetics for helping her blend in. she only had two eyes and four limbs, so her appearance didn't scream deepnest. though her unusual ability to use silk would certainly draw some attention. but hey, if anyone pointed it out, she could always pretend she just learned it. or tell them to get lost

#ask stuff #feral pk au

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 1 year

Text

His little guest

Elendil x shapeshifer!reader

*****

Imagine being one of Queen Miriel’s ladies-in-waiting, living with her at court; you take care of her correspondence, organize her wardrobe and accompany her on official trips. The role is more demanding than most people would imagine, but you enjoy what you do, you are good at it and get along well with Miriel, who is a friend of yours since early childhood. You live a peaceful, tranquil life... hiding a secret that could destroy everything you love and know.

You have known Elendil since you were a girl, since your mothers were good friends. You have always been fond of him -and how could you not? Clever, kind and charming, the captain is everything you appreciate in a person- and for a few years you have felt feelings quite different from simple friendship take root in your heart, feelings that make you shiver every time his sea-blue eyes meet yours.

One day the Queen sends you to the palace’s library to retrieve some scrolls she needs for a meeting with some of the guild masters. Retrieving them takes longer than expected, so you find yourself almost running through the corridors towards Miriel’s apartments, your arms heavy with the materials your lady requested; you turn a corner without looking ahead... and you hit what you at first mistake for a wall, but is instead Elendil’s firm body.

“I am so sorry, are you alright?” he asks, quickly bending to retrieve some of the scrolls that you inadvertently let fall from your arms. He is more attractive than ever, you think admiringly, clad in the sea-blue of the Sea Guard uniform, so similar to the colour of his eyes, soft brown hair framing his handsome face, his bright smile that makes you weak in the knees.

“No harm done, and thank you. What brings you to the palace, Elendil?” you wonder, returning it with a smile of your own, and you learn that councillor Pharazon has requested a meeting with some of the Sea Guard’s officers.

The Queen is expecting the scrolls, safe in your arms again, and normally you would do your utmost to perform the tasks given to you with alacrity... but the captain seems happy to see you, and inclined to chat, so you are only too happy to stay for a few minutes enjoying his attention... and the deep and sensual timbre of his voice.

You ask about his children, and he inquires about the health of your mother.

“Are you going to the regatta, tonight?” he asks then, referring to a popular event that takes place every year in Armenelos to commemorate the natal day of the ruling sovereign; apart from the competition itself, there will be music, dancing, and even a firework display, until late at night.

“I guess so, even though I'll have to go alone. All my friends are otherwise busy, and my mother has been so many times that for her the event has lost its appeal.”

“That is unfortunate, events like this are best enjoyed in the company of others. Maybe...”

“... yes?”

For a moment Elendil, a brave man who has fought many battles and even dived into the stormy sea to save a comrade who was drowning, looks almost scared, as he rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe you would let me escort you? I would also go on my own, since my children are busy with their friends, and we could keep each other company.”

He smiles, almost shy but clearly hopeful at the prospect of spending an evening with you - maybe not just, you allow yourself to think, because any company is an improvement compared to loneliness. Your heart flutters, and suddenly you don’t care if the Queen reprimands you for your tardiness.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother?”

“Quite the opposite, I would be happy to. So... shall we go together?”

The smile you give him is the happiest of your life. “Elendil, there is nothing I would love more.”

*****

That evening, Elendil reaches the pier where you have agreed to meet well in advance; he is wearing his best clothes and brought you flowers. He is happy, even excited, at the prospect of spending an evening with you; he has always considered you a friend, as well as one of Númenor’s most beautiful women, but for a few years he has found himself infatuated with you, and after so long fearing you would not reciprocate his interest, he feels tonight will be his chance to express his feelings, and maybe you will even let him court you...

It is a whole hour before the regatta starts, but many people are already filling the streets, enjoying the concerts and the other entertainments planned for the evening. Music fills the air, children play in the square, and he feels excited as a boy courting his first sweetheart as he waits for you at the pier.

And he waits.

And he waits still, until the blare of the trumpets announces the start of the regatta, and he waits some more, until the pier empties and elders and families with young children start returning home.

At first he is so surprised at your tardiness he doesn’t even feels disappointed. Why haven’t you come? Is it possible that there was some misunderstanding when you agreed to meet tonight? It is you who proposed the pier, which is not far from your home, so you can’t have gotten it wrong; you could have gotten confused about the time to meet at, but the regatta must be over by this time, so if you wanted to come, by this time you would have already.

If you wanted to come...

You had looked so happy, even flattered, when he offered to escort you, but maybe you've changed your mind about joining him? But why? Have you found something better to do or someone better to spend your time with? Did you realize that his intentions were not strictly friendly, and you decided to stay home to spare both of you the embarrassment of your refusal? The very idea breaks his heart, but he sees no other option; to leave him like this, without apologizing or at least warning him, is not like you, but maybe you were to embarassed to confront him, or perhaps you sent him a note home that he missed since he left early.

He briefly considers the hypothesis that something has occurred to you, an accident or even, Eru forbid, an assault, but it seems highly unlikely: the pier and your home are just a few minutes apart, connected by well-lit streets, and after all he saw you only a few hours ago. He has to face the truth... to stop you from showing up at your date was not and unexpected event, but simply the realization that your feelings, or maybe just your interest, don't match his.

It is not the end of the world; but in that moment he feels like it is, his heart broken by disappointment and solitude. Eru forgive him, for a minute he had actually thought... hoped... his heart already beat with happiness at the fantasy of walking with your arm under his, and maybe even kissing you goodnight after he had walked you home...

You naive idiot. You better forget everything about this, and her; she must have never cared about you, not like you cared about her, so at least you were saved the humiliation of hearing her say no...

That is a fact; still, the disappontment is almost too much to bear. Flowers of colourful lights explode in the darkened sky, the people with their faces upward expressing their awe and joy from the docks and the squares; Elendil sighs, thinking about how much he would have loved to witness that spectacle with you.

Not far from him there is a large statue commemorating the sacrifice of all the Sea Guard members who who lost their life in service. Elendil, who often stops there for a moment of recollection, leaves the flowers he had brought you among the many posies at the base of the statue before setting out for home.

*****

He is walking through a dark alley not far from his home, trying to think about his next mission with the Sea Guard to distract himself from the failure and the disappointment of that night, when the silence of the night is pieced by a sound Elendil can’t at first recognize... a lament? A moan? A yelp?

Whatever it is, it originates from behind a low wall on the left of the alley; a few moments, and he ears it again, more acute, more urgent. Elendil cautiously approaches, all too aware he is unharmed, and alone, should it be a trap, he peers beyond the wall...

... and the red fox curled up on the pavement close to the wall looks back at him, aching but not scared, and doesn’t move while the man nimbly jumps over the wall and bends a knee next to it.

It is a fine specimen, pretty big for its race, a vixen with bright red fur, black-tipped ears and paws, a pointed snout and a long bushy tail, and she clearly took a violent beating: the poor creature is soaking wet, bleeds from her mouth and side, and shakes violently, as if in shock.

Elendil has never been particularly an animal lover, but the scene in front of him breaks his heart - again. "Who did this to you?" he asks gently, not wanting to scare the fox "Some kids? Or a shopkeeper found you while you were stealing food?"

Whatever the reasons for the creature's sorry state, Elendil finds himself unable to let her be. He offers her an hand and the vixen licks his fingers, looking at him without fear, as if waiting to see what he decides to do. I am in your hands, she would say if she could, and Elendil decides he cannot and doesn’t want to disappoint her. He has enforced a strict no-pets policy at home since his children were born -Isildur broke it once, when he was seven, smuggling a raccoon he had found Eru knows where and hiding it under his bed for a whole month until he bit his mother’s leg as she was making the bed- but they would still be out with their friends at this time, so...

“I will not hurt you” he promises, and the vixen appears to understand, or maybe she is too tired and in pain to fight, because she lets Elendil pick her up and comfortably snuggles in his arms, looking at him from below with shiny eyes the captain is for a moment sure he knows. So, are we going or not?

Whatever conclusion he had imagined for tonight, this was not it, but Elendil finds himself not caring -not too much, at least- as he arrives home with the fox still nice and quiet in his arms. He carries her to the bathing room, leaves her on the clean floor and uses wet rags to dry her and clean her wounds. At ease as she is with him and in his house she cannot be a wild animal, Elendil reasons, even though a fox is an unusual choice for a domestic animal perhaps she belongs to someone in the city, someone who in that very moment is desperately looking for her, wondering where their beloved pet has ended up.

“I wish you could tell me where you live, and who you belong to” he confides while he gently dries her tail, the red fur now shining like a flame “I cannot keep you, since it would mean breaking a rule I have set myself, and I wouldn’t know what to feed you...”

The vixen doesn’t appear too proccupied; she has stopped shaking and she is licking the injured paw that Elendil has done its best to clean so that it doesn’t get infected. In his experience foxes are diffident animals, even aggressive, but this one is different; she lets Elendil touch her and licks his hands as if to express her gratitude.

He really has no idea what food she would appreciate -berries and fruit, perhaps? Foxes eat smaller animals too, but he wouldn't know where to find mice or birds- but his little guest gladly drinks the water he pours in a bowl; she walks with a limp, given the wounded paw, and Elendil hopes it will heal in time.

In the end, the little fox curls up on the floor of the living room and open her mouth wide -she has a very respectable set of teeth- in a yawn; she is ready for her beauty sleeps, an amused Elendil thinks, but he is hesitant about leaving her where his children will find her when they come home. Not because they could reproach him for not letting them keep animals when they were children while he is doing It now, just... they could find it weird, or... stupid.

No. His little guest better remain hidden.

He scoops her up and brings her to his bedroom; the vixen jumps down and sniffs around between the large, low bed made with linen sheets and the wooden chest that his father had carved himself and gifted to his son when he had moved out of his parents' room.

Elendil sleeps on the left side of the bed; he puts his oldest pillow on the right half, which has been empty for years, and pats it. Immediately the vixen, until now scratching at the door as if she would rather sleep in the living room, approaches, jumps on the bed and lowers herself on the pillow, perfectly content.

Elendil joins her on the bed a few minutes later, having closed the windows and blown out the candle on the desk. Naked from the waist up, he lies on the bed, and as he pets the vixen's soft fur -she is so well behaved! Her owners must have trained her well- he finds himself smiling. He is still thinking about you, the disappointment of not seeing you at your date and the bad feelings about what this could mean for your relationship, but the unexpected meeting with the small predator has nonetheless put him in a good mood. Tomorrow morning he will set her free, hoping the vixen can find her way home.

Tail wrapped around her body, the fox licks his fingers, her teeth coming close without touching him; Elendil smiles as he finds a comfortable position on the bed.

"You are not the lady I was hoping to take to bed tonight" he confides, perfectly aware she cannot understand "But I am happy you are here."

The fox still looks at him; Elendil looks back until Irmo comes to take him in his arms.

*****

The first sensation that hits him, even before he is completely awake, is the presence of another body next to him: a leg pressed against his, an arm resting on his hip.

There is someone on the bed, next to him. How is this possible? Immobile, eyes closed, Elendil reflects for a moment: it has been years since his wife passed away, his children stopped coming to sleep with him when they had a nightmare at least a decade and a half ago and while he doesn't yet remember what he did last night -he went out...? To do what? To meet someone, perhaps?- he is sure he didn't bring anyone home. Then, who in the world...?

He is lying in a fetal position, the right half of the bed behind him. Not knowing what to expect, he cautiously turns... and gasps.

There is a woman laying on the bed next to him, sound asleep with a hand under her head; a woman who is only wearing a white shif, too tight to completely hide the shape of her body, her chest gently rising and falling with her breath. A woman Elendil knows well..

It is you.

Elendil feels like he is still asleep, and not only because part of him has secretely hoped to have you right there, perhaps not sleeping, one day. He is flabbergasted.

What are you doing there? He knows he didn't invite you back to his home last night, he didn't even meet you!, and you were not waiting for him at the door to explain the reason for your absence... and maybe earn his forgiveness in the most pleasant way.

How did you come in? Why would you come in, in the middle of the night, not calling him or speaking but simply making yourself welcome on his bed? There are no clothes of yours around, did you walk from your house wearing only a shift? And there is something else he should wonder about, something only apparently less important...

Where is the vixen? She has disappeared, he realizes looking all around him; the bed is too low to hide even her tiny body under it, and both windows and door are closed like he had left them last night. Maybe she ran away when you came in? Yes, it is the only solution, even though it explains little.

Unless...

But the absence of his little guest crosses his mind only for a moment. Elendil cannot take his eyes out of you, you in his bed, you so at ease and defenseless and even more beautiful because of it, you wearing less than what he ever allowed himself to picture you in.

You are magnificent, and he would never take advantage of your unconsciousness to touch or look where only a lover should, and with your explicit consent, but he cannot help looking at you, the dreamy expression on your beautiful face, your chest, your legs, your...

Stop. You shouldn't, and you won't, he mentally scolds himself, and even in the midst of the most baffling moment of his life, he instinctively does the right, honourable thing: he touches your arm, and gently calls your name. "Wake up."

You obey. Your eyes open; it takes you three seconds to get your bearings, and two more until an expression of absolute horror appears on your face. "Elendil...!"

"It is all right" he instinctively feels the need to comfort you; he doesn't realize you are not the only half-dressed one in front of the other "Are... Are you all right?"

You mutely nod; you couldn't look more terrified -and mortified- if you were facing a killer with sword and axe, while you start getting up from the bed. "Elendil, I am... so sorry..."

He assures you he is not angry, and sincerely he is still too astonished to wonder about whether he has any reason to be. He looks at your right hand, clean but wounded, and at an ugly black bruise on your temple, and his doubts become a certainty, although one he cannot for the life of him explain.

"The fox... is you." he breathes, amazed, and he sees you shrink, as if you are trying to offer the smallest target possible to an attacker. "You are her. But how is it possible...?"

You look at him, wondering whether he can see your heart break through your eyes. "I am so sorry I couldn't come" you whisper "Please, please don't tell anyone..."

You stand, and go open the nearest window, the one giving onto an empty street. You turn, immobile, looking at him, and he could almost think you are letting him look at you in your state of undress, but you aren't; you are simply realizing you are in love with him, deeply and truly, now that you lost him forever, and you are committing his handsome face to memory as you look at him for the last time.

And then you start changing. An astounded Elendil sees your body being remoulded - this is the only word he could use to describe the process taking place in front of his eyes, like a piece of clay being given a new shape by a sculptor. You bend yourself on all four while thick red fur grows all over your body; your shift vanishes, your limbs shrink as paws take the place of hands and feet. A triangular face with small ears has appeared instead of your beautiful features, and the fox's bushy tail sweeps the floor.

Her tail. Your tail. You are the little vixen he succoured last night, he still cannot believe it even though his very eyes witnessed the transformation, and he is now looking at fox-you, who on her part looks at him with all the sadness and the love her eyes can contain.

Those eyes, he knows; they didn't change, and he would know them anywhere and in any case.

For a whole minute no one moves; then the vixen turns, quickly climbs the wall and jumps out of the window, disappearing from view and leaving a shaken and shocked Elendil in her wake.

*****

You pass the next hours in a daze, as if you couldn't wake up completely or you were drunk. You return home in your fox form to reassure your mother, who has spent the whole night awake waiting for you, that you are all right, then you dress yourself and reach the palace to attend the Queen.

Miriel is an extremely perceptive person, as well as the one who knows you best in the world next to your mother, so when you tell her you fell at home to explain the bruise on your temple and your wounded hand, she looks at you skeptically but accepts your explaination, simply reminding you that you can take some time off whenever you want.

You do your best to work as you always do, even though you cannot pretend everything is back to normal. You feel... upset, in a way you cannot explain or understand, and while you make sure the Queen's clothes, including her capes, shoes and jewels, are in order, or you receive her lunch on a tray from the kitchens to serve it to her at her desk because she is too busy for a proper meal, there is only one thing, one person, you can think about... Elendil.

Elendil. You are not scared he will divulge your secret, and not just because no one in the city would ever believe him; you know him well enough to trust he will understand that is a matter to keep secret, because it could ruin your life.

About the two of you, on the other hand, you are much less optimistic. You don't know what you are more embarassed about: what he is thinking now that he knows your secret, or the fact that he found you in his bed. It was so kind, so selfless, of him to take care of fox-you, and you didn't think that when you go to sleep in that state you often unconsciously turn...

You will never have the courage to look at him in the eyes again, and you will probably not have the occasion to anyway, since he must be so perturbed by this morning's events he will try to forget he ever knew you.

It is so unfair, you think as you make order on the Queen's desk, as always cluttered with scrolls, writing instruments and other things. You know that you would have told him sooner or later, if the two of you had started courting as you hoped, and it would still have been a shock for him, but this... at this point, before you even had the opportunity to spend an evening together as a potential couple... You wouldn't blame him if he decided to never speak to you again, for one reason or another.

You are ordering the scrolls on a shelf, keeping the ones you have brought Miriel yesterday in front, when a maid enters to tell you that one of the Queen's advisors is waiting for you in a room nearby.

"Whatever for? Why should one of the advisors want to talk to me?"

"I have no idea, milady; you better ask them." the maid placidly answers; only later you will remember she is acquainted with Elendil, since her sons are both in the Sea Guard.

Perplexed, but not wanting to displease someone who could complain about you with the Queen, you leave Miriel's study and reach the other room... where waiting for you there is not one of the advisors, but Elendil, with a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hands.

"I left the ones I had brought you yesterday at the statue at the pier, I hope you don't mind." he explains, and there is shyness in the gestures with which he offers you the flowers; you accept them, and he smiles.

"Oh, these are so beautiful..."

"I am glad you like them. Are... Are you all right?"

The sincere concern in his sea-blue eyes threatens to make you cry. He has come, maybe asking the maid's help because he feared you wouldn't want to talk to him, he doesn't hate you as he should... "Elendil, I am so sorry..."

"Again, you have no reason to. Listen, if you want we, I, can forget everything that happened, I will tell no one, I swear..."

His hand moves for a moment, as if he wanted to take yours but then he decided it wouldn't be proper, and seeing it fills your heart with happiness. You don't want him to forget, you decide, rather you want to share with him your secret, something you have done your utmost to keep to yourself until now, because whatever happens between the two of you, you know he deserves your trust.

"I have almost an hour before I have to help the Queen prepare for dinner" you say "Shall we walk in the gardens until then?"

Elendil's smile widens as he offers you his arm. "I would want nothing more."

The gardens are in bloom in this period of the year, flowers, plants and trees of every kind, both native of Númenor and brought from distant lands, surround you as you and Elendil walk for a while before sitting on a stone bench, his hands in yours.

"I will tell you everything." you promise, and you do, once you have made sure no one is listening.

Shapeshifters are not unknown in Númenor, but they are considered nothing more than stories to entertain children; legends say that they once existed until Men hunted them to extinction, but no one above the age of ten believe them. They should.

You inherited the gift from your mother, and her from hers; shapeshifters are now very rare, and they keep their nature secret out of fear of being ousted or hunted and captured like animals forced to entertain a crowd.

"My kin's animal is, as you have seen, the fox; I know a man who changes into a wolf, and there is a pair of sisters who can turn into seals." you explain; you don't add their names, since you have all sworn to keep each other's secret as well as your own "We learn to shift around eight or ten years of age; after the first time it is as simple as breathing. The transformation is not painful, and we retain our intelligence, memory and conscience. The least we wear when we turn the better, but clothes magically disappear and reapper when we return to our original shape, even though no one really knows how it works."

Elendil listens, fascinated by you as well as by your story. He has always known you were special, but to know it for a fact is different... in a good way.

“Do you eat what a real fox eats? Can you change every time you want? There is a legend that says shapeshifters can only do it on a full moon night.”

“I have gotten used to eating mice and small birds, yes, even though as a young girl it disgusted me; I simply need to give the fox's body time to digest before shifting back, because the real me would then be sick. And about the moon, it is a common misconception; we can turn whenever we want... but we need to do it regularly, otherwise the animal part of our fëa will take over, and the shift will happen out of our control.”

This rule is, sadly, the cause of your misfortune of yesterday. Since you were a young girl, your habit has been to turn every five days; you know you can resist up to nine before being forced to shift against your will, but as your mother taught you, it is safer not to rely too much on your self-control. Therefore, every five days, you turn in the secrecy of your mother’s house and go roam free in the city, sniffing around, hunting small preys and even letting children pet and play with you. The worst that had ever happened to you until last night was to be kicked out, sometimes literally, from a shop you had sneaked in looking for food or a combative fox, a real one, in whose territory you had trespassed. In your vixen form you are quick, agile and exceptionally good at hiding; you are careful to stay where it is safe, and never stray too far from home.

But last night was different; last night you really feared your time had come. You didn’t even want to shift and go for your usual stroll, since you feared you would be late for your date with Elendil, but it had been seven days since your last time -in the previous days you had been too busy with the Queen to go- and you didn’t want to risk shifting while you were with him. So you have gone out... and while happily scampering in an alley after a hearty meal of mice, you had stumbled on a group of boys playing with a ball in a small square.

“I didn’t scare them; I was simply minding my own business, but they saw me and decided to have some fun with me” you explain, and you shiver, even though a warm evening is falling on the city; you felt so scared, so powerless to stop them unless you shifted back and revealed your secret to six or seven strangers, and some say that animals don’t feel pain or fear as Men do, but as far as you are concerned, that could not be farther from the truth...

“I tried to run away, and then to bite them so that they would let me go, but I couldn’t; they caught me, surrounded me, and decided that since I was so quick and small, they would buy dinner to the one who would hit my head with a stone.”

“Oh, Eru..."

“I know; I was so scared... such cruelty, from a group of young boys, and without a reason, since I was not a threat nor a prey they could eat if they were hungry. In the end, one of them did hit me, and then another one, and another one... and in the end, since at that point I was limping and the game was over, they decided it would be amusing first to dunk me in a fountain to see whether I could hold my breath, and then to set my tail on fire.”

Elendil blanches, even though he saw your tail is whole and healthy himself, and you quickly reassure him: you were finally able to escape biting the boy who was holding you while the others discussed who would go and procure a tinderbox; speaking wet, weak and limping, you were finally able to find a place to hide... and that is where he found you, hours later.

You smile while, having overcome guilt and embarassment, you caress his hand with yours. “Thank you for taking care of me; I know you are not used to having animals in your house, and for that I am grateful. I really don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t intervened.”

“I was happy to help, even though I had no idea it was you. So...” Elendil begins with a coy smile “Is that misadventure the only reason you didn’t join me at the regatta?”

You assure him it is; the idea of spending an evening with him made you so happy, and you felt terribly guilty when you realized you had left him waiting for hours at the pier... even though his kindness had allowed the two of you to spend some time together anyway, even though not how you had imagined.

“So the vixen was not the lady you had planned to take to your bed last night?” you ask with a mischievous smile, and the man next to you turns pink in the face.

“I didn’t mean... I swear I wouldn’t have... I would have been happy, obviously, but...”

“It is all right; I know I can trust you, and your intentions. Anyway, you need to know I turned the other way while you were changing into your sleeping clothes... even though I was tempted to peak.”

Elendil is now fully blushing, which unlike what would happen for most men, makes him even more handsome. He laughs, shaking his head, and “Truly you are marvellous” he says, his voice full of affection, as if your ability to shapeshift into a fox weren’t the only thing filling him with wonder as he looks at you “But I always knew that; at least, I have been certain for some years already.”

He doesn’t talk anymore; but the mute question, the invitation, in his sea-blue eyes is clear enough you cannot even pretend to misunderstand. The beating of your heart is so loud it deafens you, but the sensation is not unpleasant - far from it, and you feel more thirsty than you have ever been, in front of a spring of clear water...

”You must know" you stammer, just as he starts closing the distance between the two of you; it is almost painful to discuss something that could separate you now that you are close, finally as close as you always wanted, but you want there to be sincerity between you, now that he is part of your secret and he has proved he deserves to be “If I ever were to have children, they would be...”

“I know; they would be beautiful, just like you are” he interrupts you, a smile dancing on his lips -his lips!- and in his eyes “I know what you mean. It is too soon to talk about children, but I wouldn’t mind if they were... kits. I would have never imagined any of this, but this ability is just another thing I love about you. I would have loved you all the same if you didn’t have it; you already were, and always will be, special to me.”

Those words move you to the point of making you speechless, even if you knew what to say. But you know what to do, that is to offer him the face that Elendil gently takes in his hands, and a moment later you are sharing your first kiss, passionate, warm, long enough to leave you both breathless, and then a second kiss follows, and a third, and a fourth, your fingers moving in his hair as you repeat his name like an invocation, like a prayer and a plea, and his warm and firm hands have started moving on your body, gentle and possessive, a promise of more to come...

In the end, his forehead is resting against yours, your breaths interwining; he quietly asks what he had hoped to ask you last night after walking you home, and you don't hesitate before answering.

“Yes! Yes, of course, there is nothing I would love more.” you say, your heart bursting with joy; Elendil laughs, happy and relieved to know your feelings match his.

“My beautiful fox-lady” he says, voice full of affection and tenderness, holding you close, and you will have to ask him not to call you that in public, but you like it, you love it, and you love him.

The flowers he brought you remain at the other end of the bench while you share words, kisses, and feelings, and promises, and make plans for tonight. It is outrageously late when you finally return to the Queen’s rooms to help her prepare for the banquet, but for once in your life you don’t care, happy with the certainty that your heart is in good hands, your love is returned, and that both fox-you and woman-you will be safe in the care of the man you both love.

Tagging @starlady66 @grinkitty and @elvenenby. Hope you like this!!

#The Lord of the Rings #The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power #The Rings of Power #Rings of Power #Elendil #Elendil the Tall #Elendil x reader #Lloyd Owen #Bellona's stuff

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dng3r · 6 days

Text

no, there's no malfunction, i'm doing perfectly fine.

【 park sooyoung //. ciswoman //. she/her 】 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠… ARI "ANGEL" MYUNG into The Hub. You are registered to be TWENTY FIVE YEAR OLD and have been given citizenship for A LIFETIME under the Expatriate Act. According to the data compiled, your most notable qualities seem to be ENERGETIC & DETACHED. Please confirm that you are CHAOTIC GOOD. From what we’ve gathered your place of employ is currently for the YOSHIMOTO KOGYO ENT. as a SOLO IDOL //. GESTALT BUREAU as a HOST. We strongly advise that you provide the correct information pertaining to your background to ensure proper safety precautions: are you a _HOST_ or _HUMAN_? A deeper dive into our archive suggests that you are DANCING AND SINGING TO ENTERTAINING THE MASSES, BEING ON BILLBOARDS, QUESTIONING WHATEVER OR NOT YOU'RE DREAMING OF BLOOD, THE DEEP FEELING OF CONFUSION. Though we noticed you, too, are similar to LIZZY WIZZY ( CYBERPUNK 2077 ), JOI ( BLADE RUNNER 2049 ), NUMBER EIGHT ( BATTLESTAR ), DAZZLER ( X-MEN ) . ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ᴠᴇʀɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! Please comply to all regulations and laws. It is our hope that you enjoy your stay.

general information

name: ari myung

nickname/stage name: angel of death

age: twenty five

face claim: park sooyoung

gender & pronouns: ciswoman & she/her

orientation: bisexual/biromantic

relationship status: single

physical & mental

hair color: black

eye color: brown

height: 168 cm/5'6ft

tattoos: an angel tattoo on her shoulder

scars: none

biography

tw: murder, blood, semi-unreliable narrator.

THE NIGHTMARE.

she meets so many fans and each time there's an exciting smile on her face, entertaining and being friendly to everyone is too rooted deep inside her that she'll always make sure that these clients her agency paired her up with are going to have a night they'll never forget with one of the most successful and popular idols.

angel wakes hours later, questioning what happened the night before. an important client, drinks and laughter. a hotel room. a pill into a glass. blood, so much blood. she was only supposed to choke him— wait, why would she want to do that? she would never hurt a fan. it's not in her programming. look what you did, going to have to clean up after you again, someone need to check and solve this one and for all.

what's happening? why is she covered in blood? she cries and screams and then people are bursting through the doors. she doesn't see it but one of them presses a button and she's surrounded by darkness.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

would people accept a host who was an idol? of course they would, the people would take anything that looks and feels like a human being. under the layer of what was created to be a positive idol was a secret that even she didn't know about; the following is a quote from her chart; the host, aka the angel of death, contains a specific code that states that said host could eliminate any target that the bureau or yoshimoto kogyo ent. sees fit. the host cannot, under no circumstances, find out or be of risk of becoming defective; in the case such thing happen, the bureau recommends erasure ( within 6 hours of exposure ) of the host's memories to maintain loyalty and eliminate the risk of defection.

and the world were none the wiser that underneath the angel resided a sleeper agent, one who has killed an untold amount of people and it was all swept under the rug. it was the perfect plan, angel could do their dirty business and not even remember it turning her into almost the perfect case of jekyll and hyde.

THE CONFUSION.

the first time it happened, angel was rehearsing a dance when she felt tears running down. she was confused at first as nothing bad happened but then the hallucinations begun, blood on the floor and dead bodies— then darkness— dancing again and smiling, nothing was wrong anymore.

there was nothing wrong with angel, she always performed at the highest of her abilities. but they were erasing her memories a lot, she didn't mind. there had to be a reason for that, maybe a flaw in her programing? she'll be perfect— she'll dream of the blood again— she'll— she'll— there's no malfunction, the angel of death was doing perfectly fine.

wanted connections.

what am i ? — higher ups at yoshimoto and/or bureau who know that she's a sleeper agent, they'll never tell her because that defeats the purpose but probably are friendly with her due to manipulation.

the handler — angel thinks this person is her closest friend, who is probably masked as a bodyguard but they're actually the one who receives and execute her sleeper commands. they've seen her freak out at being covered in blood, they know about her nightmare and maybe they have also administrated the thing that erases her memory.

forgotten romance — due to the fact she has receives so many memory erasures, maybe one of them included accidently their relationship? i imagine she was very happy but she's always a happy person as it's literally written into her.

fans — people who like and listen to her music and dancing!

any and all other connections!

#intro // ARI.#anarchicintro #idk if i like this intro but at this point i literally can't look at it anymore

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fearhims3lf · 9 months

Text

PARTIES: @vanishingreyes @fearhims3lf

TIMING: Current

SUMMARY: Trying to find a place to relax, Mateo and Xóchitl pick the same spot, and decide to share.

WARNINGS: None

Between the bullshit music Leticia was forcing upon the shop, and the never-ending city sounds, it was difficult to find a place to simply be. That was the problem with the states. Everything and everyone moved so quickly, there was hardly a moment to sit in the quiet. Mateo missed Mexico for a lot of reasons, but that was a big one. You could find yourself on any rooftop, at any time of the day, and there would hardly be a disturbance. Cars were common, sure, but most people took to walking or riding bikes.

It was so much simpler there. While Mateo always searched for something new and shiny, his roots were in the calm and quiet. There was safety in that. Because of this, finding a little piece of safety was important. Mateo had picked out a spot in the woods, not far off from a hiking path. He had his guitar strapped to his back, ready to play some tunes in a place no one would see him or hear him. Well, that was the plan. Sadly though, there was someone encroaching on his apparently not-so-secret spot.

“Uh…” Mateo scratched at his temple, “You hanging out right here?”

She’d liked Boston for how busy it could be. It wasn’t New York City levels of loud, usually, but it was loud enough when she was little that it did a wonder to keep her mind off of distinctly less pleasant sorts of things, things that she did her very best to ignore as often as she was able to. Wicked’s Rest, on the other hand, was painfully quiet. Even before losing her friend, Xóchitl had had a number of moments where things were too quiet, but Mackenzie had always eliminated any worries that came to mind. Not that there’d been tons of worries, before.

Now that she was back, she did her best to find moments of quiet. Shutting herself in her office did the job sometimes, as did stretch sessions in her home. Not quite yoga, though she tried, but calling them stretching sessions seemed more reasonable. Today, though, she’d decided to go out for a walk, to clear her mind.

She’d been doing more of that lately than she wanted to entirely acknowledge, but that was for her to talk to her presently-non-existent therapist about. Even though she’d told her moms that she had someone she was seeing. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. She was better now, after all.

Except that someone else was in the space she’d elected to walk to. “I was planning to,” Xóchitl replied to his question. “Unless it’s taken.”

Oh…oh. The woman impeding on the space was gorgeous. Or was Mateo the intruder in the scenario? He was inclined to believe he was, all sensible thought tossed to the wind for the sake of swooning a beautiful woman. Mateo was nothing if not a creature of habit.

“You were here first, right? I’m not a barbarian. I respect the rules of dibs.” He smiled playfully, hoping that it was as disarming as it usually was. Tattoos be damned, Mateo had full confidence in his personality—or at least the kind facade he put on for strangers. After all, they’d remain strangers even after they got to know each other’s bodies. But that was still a big what if.

Mateo adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulder and looked around, his eyes landing back over to the brunette. “I’m Mateo, by the way. I actually come here all the time—kinda my cute little spot, ya know?” He chuckled, his sight flickering to her lips. “Surprised I haven’t seen you before. It’s cheesy as hell to ask, but do you come here often?” A common rouse for the mare, utilizing cheesy pickup lines, but actually making them pertain to actual conversation. Thus, making the horrible joke have some sort of charm. Usually.

“I mean, you arrived first today, seems like.” Xóchitl turned her head, examining him. “I didn’t think you were a barbarian and I mean, I didn’t really call dibs, and even if I had, you didn’t know, which maybe overrides it, I don’t know.” She smiled at him. He seemed nice enough, and hell, she was lonely, so having someone so immediately ready to talk to her who wasn’t paying to get therapy was nice. Really nice.

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Xóchitl,” she let her gaze fall over the guitar, and, admittedly, in turn over the man. He was handsome - probably in the way that her parents would’ve disapproved of, if she’d had the mind to have an actual relationship in highschool. Though again, Mama and Manman had never really been the sort to judge. That also was neither here nor there right now.

“It is a cute little spot.” She rolled back her shoulders, just slightly, because maybe she was showing off just a bit. Maybe Xóchitl liked the attention, and that couldn’t be any sort of flaw, could it? “I come about sometimes, I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before.” A shrug. “You know, I don’t think I’d mind the company too much.” She sat down, a few feet away from him, and stretched out her legs. “If I’m not a bother to you.” A small smirk crossed her lips.

The charm was working, as thick as it had been laid. That was the benefit of having been at it for a while. Mateo had navigated his way through enough stale conversations to handle the more responsive ones with ease. “Nah,” Mateo grinned, “Rule of dibs applies still. It’s like you haven’t called dibs on anything before. Maybe you’re the barbarian.” An obvious jest, one that made Mateo chuckle lightly as he set his guitar case down.

“So what are you doing out here, Xóchitl?” There was a bit of emphasis on her name, the Latine accent prominent. “Don’t you know there’s monstros out here?” Much like Mateo, but he kept that information to himself. “That’s what the town says anyway.” He took a seat, leaning his back against a neighboring tree as he outstretched his long legs and glided his eyes over Xóchitl’s every feature. “You must be one of those women who can beat the shit outta someone, huh? Dope shit if that’s the case. Strong women are a favorite of mine.”

“I’m not so sure that I like the idea of being a barbarian, but if you say so…” Xóchitl made the slightest of faces, “then perhaps I am.” It seemed to be what he’d want to hear, and he had to have been joking, and even if he wasn’t, she was determined not to let it get to her too much. At all would’ve been impossible, and since she had her thoughts all to herself, she let herself sit with it.

“Hmm?” His accent made her grin, “Sí? qué clase? Bears? Lions, Tigers? Whatever else’s in that Wizard movie?” Xóchitl shrugged. “The town says a whole lot of things. I’m inclined to believe what I see, not rumors. I don’t see any monsters, so I think I’m good.” She let her gaze flit across his jawline, across his lips. “I mean, I don’t have loads of experience, but probably, if I wanted to. I can certainly appreciate a man who likes strong women. Especially one who admits it so readily.” Her lips curved into a smile, and even though she’d very much set out for quiet, she found that she didn’t especially mind this company. Not too much at all.

The Spanish made everything feel softer than anticipated. Being away from home was difficult enough, but to realize there was no one to share his language with made it that much harder. Maine was so far north that Mateo felt displaced most days, but right then? It felt like he had a touch of home with him in the most unlikely of places, with a stranger of all people.

“What wizard move you talking about? They got cooler shit than just regular ‘ol bears, lions, and tigers. There’s fire-breathing birds, venomous dogs, and shit like that.” Mateo scooted closer, leaning back on his hands. “You don’t even believe them even a little? Like…” Him, for example. Though he wouldn’t say that aloud. Mateo would offer a different species. “Like those vampire guys. They don’t look like monsters. They’re, like, handsome devils like me.” He bit his lip as he smiled, unable to contain the laughter that spilled out.

Twilight was funny for so many reasons, except for the glittery skin. Somehow they mixed up vampires and mares in that regard, but it wasn’t something that Mateo minded terribly. The sparkling made him look ridiculous, but that couldn’t be helped. “Well, Xóchitl, here’s to you not having to kick ass. Certainly not mine, at least. I’m a good boy and just wanna relax.” He breathed, leaning toward Xóchitl,

“Was even gonna play some tunes, but that’s more of a fourth date kinda ordeal.”

“Something about Oz, I don’t know, a friend made me watch it when I was six. There’s talk about being lost in the woods with bears and tigers and lions, I think.” Xóchitl paused, “yes, I’ve heard stories about those too.” Stories that she avoided, if possible. Stories that were all entirely something fake, made up, cruel. No matter how popular they might have been.

“I’ve read Twilight. Wasn’t impressed. Don’t see the appeal of pasty men who - anyhow, my point is, you’re handsome, yeah - of course - but I think things like that would look weird, if they were real.” Whatever had killed Mackenzie certainly had, and Xóchitl felt sick to her stomach, for only a moment, before she refocused on the man in front of her, who was now closer than he was before. Which she found that she didn’t mind all too much. After all, anything they were talking about was entirely surface level, which meant she was safe. Meant she didn’t have to keep up her guard as much.

“You seem like a very good boy, and I came here to relax too, so I have no plans to kick your ass. Don’t know if I’m wearing the outfit for it. Is there an outfit for that kind of thing?” She mused, more to herself than anyone else. “Fourth date, really?” A grin spread over Xóchitl’s lips. “Well then what should we get up to now? Though I would love to hear music, but I understand I’ve got to work for that.”

Mateo threw his head back with laughter, the jab at pasty men doing well to humor him. Twilight got so many things wrong, but the sheer lack of color on most of the characters was just offensive. The blue tint overlay didn’t help much either, but Mateo wasn’t going to get into it. “Okay, okay. So you’re saying you’ve got taste. Glad to hear it.” He grinned, settling into the earth on his side with his head propped up. His guitar was all but forgotten in the midst of such wonderful conversation. Mateo was never really one to talk so much, but it all felt so familiar and comfortable—like he wasn’t so far from home anymore.

“Hey, you can kick ass in any outfit if you believe. I’ve had to do it in a suit.” A shrug, “Listen, it got ruined, but I did, indeed, kick some ass.” Mateo laughed again, rolling onto his back and lacing his fingers behind his head. The sky that peeked through the trees was peaceful enough to get Mateo to let out a relaxed sigh, enjoying the moment as long as he could. “Maybe we could discuss favorite music. I am a professional and even work at the Vinyl Countdown in town. By the fourth date, maybe I’ll play a song you like.”

“I have got taste, thank you for noticing.” Xóchitl couldn’t help but grin. “Seems like you do, too, though we’re still getting to know each other, so I can’t say for sure.” It was easy to play playful here, now, even if she didn’t fully feel it in her gut, but he was a stranger, and so he didn’t have to know that her laugh was just the tiniest bit forced.

“A suit?” Xóchitl raised an eyebrow. “Well, don’t you just keep getting more impressive.” She switched to Spanish for a moment, “Are you new in town? I only ask because I don’t always see people like us around, though it’s not awful, as far as towns go.” She nodded at his next words. “Sí, en español o en inglés?” In Spanish or in English? “I’m impressed you already want to try to get to a fourth date. I hope I can make this one worth your while. But yes, what music do you like?”

“That’s what I do, ma. I’m full of surprises and unexpected tastes.” Mateo’s expression fell at the sight of the sun, managing to finally hit his skin. He covered it as quickly as he could, knowing the sparkle would only incite questions. “I, uh…” Eyes flitted from his own skin to Xóchitl, attention difficult while the sun remained a problem. “I’m new in town, yeah.” Mateo replied in Spanish, “All the way from Texas. Left a big family, but it was time to…” Ensure they wouldn’t get hurt with his new job. “Spread my wings.” He sighed, picking at invisible dirt on his arm.

“I actually like punk rock mostly.” Mateo gestured to his battle vest. Well, his day-to-day one. The one he wore to concerts had much more on display, pins and patches of his favorite groups and what he believed in. The one he had on in particular then only had a few patches. The Misfits, Public Enemy, Dead Kennedys, and Bad Brains, all of which were stitched carefully and placed strategically. But that was hardly what mattered at the moment. Mateo was feeling confident with how Xóchitl proclaimed the time they were spending something else. “So, uh…you’re saying this is a first date?” He grinned, “Never fallen into one before.”

“Can’t say I always like surprises, but also I can’t say that I mind this sort too much.” If nothing else, this continued to prove a useful distraction from everything that was going on. Even if less was going on now than at other points of her life, a distraction never could hurt. “I’ve never been to Texas, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful. It must be nice to have a big family -” Xóchitl continued in Spanish, “mine’s just me and my moms. But yeah, I came back here to, I guess, spread my wings too.” Or at least that was the easiest sort of excuse to make regarding her plans for being here.

“Ah yes, I see.” Another nod. “Can’t say I have too much experience with punk rock, but what little experience I have, I appreciate. I like?” She made a small face. “Regardless, that’s a good genre.” Xóchitl laughed, “I say that like I have even the slightest bit of authority on music. Which, I mean, I play the piano, so… but I don’t think that’s the same as knowing music like you seem to.” An eyebrow shot up at his next question. “If you want it to be. I don’t usually date, but I have been known to do things that get me what I want, and I’d like to hear you play music, so, if this is what it takes…” her voice trailed off.

The way Spanish flowed freely was a growing comfort, something Mateo felt like he could lay in for hours. As much as Puro Vida and the fact that Leticia was Latine herself was a saving grace in Wicked’s Rest, there was always a longing for more. Mexico was so far away, and keeping his family safe was the priority in Mateo’s life. He’d take what he could get. In that moment, it was simple conversation with a stranger, who just so happened to be his type. Beautiful, funny, and witty. He was a simple guy. Sue him.

“Depends where in Texas. We moved to Temple, which is close to Austin. Big Latine community and lots of nightlife. Best tacos you could eat if you weren’t in Mexico.” Mateo shrugged, licking his lips as he traced patterns in the dirt. It was easier to talk that way when emotions began to build. He missed home. “Big family can be nice. Not the easiest to be away from them. Most of us stay close to the nest, you know?”

Sighing, Mateo looked back up, smiling at the way Xóchitl talked about music and how she played an instrument herself. She was getting cooler by the second. “Oh, dip? You play piano? Not knowing the beauty of punk rock is fine now that I know you play.” Mateo sat up and laughed, growing excited at an idea that came to mind. “Listen, I don’t usually date either, so this doesn’t have to be anything. If you wanna hear me play, then I’ll do it as long as you play for me. I’ve got a keyboard back at my crib, but it’s up to you, ma.”

She didn’t have to think as much when she spoke Spanish, which was a relief unto itself. Enjoying the conversation was an added bonus, as were Mateo’s looks. “That’s nice. God, now you’ve got me craving tacos - especially carnitas.” She sighed at the very thought of it. “Yeah, I do know. As much as I like independence, I do miss being around my mama. But you know, maybe this town isn’t so bad after all.” So what if she made an extra effort to throw a smile in his direction. She was allowed to have fun, wasn’t she?

“I do, and glad you’ve found it in your heart to forgive me. It’s appreciated.” Her lips curved into another smile. “I’d like to see your place, yeah. I’ll play for you, absolutely. You can even make requests for what I’ll do,” Xóchitl paused for a moment, “and I’ll do my best to perform to your satisfaction.”

Xóchitl had more game than the mare cared to admit. The smile she shot at Mateo felt like she was turning the tables on him, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. He chose to ignore that for the time being. “If you’re craving tacos, there’s literally one place you can get some that actually taste good.” Mateo grinned, thinking of the sopapillas he could get to scarf down. God, he loved sugar, and always had. The craving was just a bit stronger now.

“Sweet,” Mateo grinned in return, “So it sounds like we’re getting tacos and I’ll definitely be getting sopapillas on the side,” He sat up slowly, looking toward his guitar. “Then you can play me piano and we’ll see where the day leads us. Sound good, ma?”

“Oh yeah, where’s that?” She responded, “I’m a shittier cook than I’d like to be, but I can also whip something up, probably.” Xóchitl grinned at him. “I’m starving now, especially with you mentioning that.” Starving for more than one thing, surely, but that was neither here nor there right now.

“Good, yes. You better get two orders of those, because now I really want them. I have some ideas of where the day could lead us, but I’m always up for suggestions, and just to see where things take us.” Xóchitl murmured, “and of course, I’ll play piano – I won’t miss a shot to show off a bit, though I’m welcome to receiving feedback, too.” Her fingers found the top of his hand and she gave it the lightest of taps. “You look like you’d be good at that.”

#wickedswriting #writings #nightmarescapes #c: xochitl #mateo and xochitl #a quiet place

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