#(but that still doesn't explain hair + well trimmed beard like you don't look like that after being imprisoned in a horrible prison)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

I know tp ganondorf looks Like That during his execution because there's no sense in doing a full 3D model for a two minutes cutscene, but.

first of all, bold choice to condemn a man to die by impalement and decide it's not as fun if there's not heavy plating in the way trying to prevent you from doing just that, but also.

who did his hair and makeup.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Detour 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Thor

Summary: You find yourself stranded in a small village.

Part of the Backwoods AU

Note: So this is an idea I had for a while but I just know I wouldn’t get to do it full length for chapters but I hope it’s fun.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“Hmmm,” Vol tugs on his red beard, wiry white hairs springing up, “looks like when you veered, you snapped part of the axel.”

“What does that mean?” You tap your toe impatiently.

“Well, it means even with a new tire, you won't be driving off into the sunset,” he shrugs and crosses his arms, “fix like this could take a week. If it's fixable. And if I can mend it, it won't hold for long. Likely need a full replacement.”

“You're kidding me,” you scoff.

“Look, it's good business for me but I wish I was,” he slaps the white finish of the car, leaving a grease mark that has your fingers itching.

“So… what do I do?”

“Hmm?” He furrows his thick brows.

“I'm supposed to be in the city tomorrow. I have a tour booked of the Cathedral and I'm supposed to go to the museum–”

“Not too sure about that,” he sniffs.

“It's just a car. Scrap it then. I'll get a rental–”

“From?”

“Pardon?”

“A rental from where? Got them in the city but no rentals here.”

“What– well, surely someone around here would sell me something.”

“Don't think anyone has a spare car hanging about,” he chuckles.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all,” he counters, “just saying.”

“So I'm stuck here?”

“Suppose…”

“You suppose?” You throw your hands up.

“There's accommodation around here. A B&B up near Thunder Lane.”

“How far is that?” You check the time on your watch, not that it matters much.

“On foot, a good forty or so. I can drive you up in about ten,” he offers.

“How much would that be?” You touch your shoulder, realising your purse is in the car.

“None,” he blinks, “I don't mind. I live on the other side.”

“Mm, that's very… kind,” you glance around, “I'll grab my things then. I'll take the night To reconfigure….”

You trail off. You’re certain he doesn't care. You look at your car, still mounted on the jack.

“What do you need, miss? Don't want you to get hurt.”

“Purse is in the front seat, my bags are in the trunk,” you explain.

He nods and turns. The large fleece lined flannel over his coveralls makes him seen even bigger. He pulls open the front door and reaches for your purse. He uses the mechanism on the door to pop the trunk before he comes back around.

He hands you your purse and you wipe the stain from the cream leather. He looks in the back, “you need all these?”

“Just that one,” you step closer and point, “oh and this one.”

“Right,” he hauls out the round valise and the vintage rolling suitcase. “You sure that's enough?”

He faces you with half a smirk.

“Thanks,” you ignore his joke, “frankly, I just want to be in one place. Alone.”

“Of course,” he shuts the trunk roughly and the car bounces, “I gotta lock up before we head out but I'll get the truck nice and warmed up and you can wait in there. How's that?” He looks down at your stilettos, “your feet must be killing you.”

“No,” you say defiantly.

“Ah, well, still, don't want you to stain your fancy clothes in here,” he insists, “come on then.”

🌄

As much as you already abhor this place, you must admit the B&B is adequate. Vol steers up through the gates and along the curved driveway that leads to a marble fountain trimmed with finely kept hedges. He stops before the broad stairs as you peer up at the grand double doors. It could be called a countryside palace.

The mechanic's weight shifts the cabin as he hops out and to your surprise, comes to open your door. You give him a look as you step down, your heels catching in the mosaic stonework. You clutch your purse tight and consider the full expanse of the landscaping.

“I'll get your bags,” he opens the backdoor of the cabin.

“Do they not have a bellhop?”

“Here?” He snorts as he brings out your bags, one in each hand.

“Right,” you accept. The village probably doesn't have the population to staff the immense hotel. “Thank you, sir. You've been very helpful.”

“I can bring them in.”

“Not necessary,” you assure him, “thank you again. I'll call tomorrow about the car.”

“Sure,” he accepts as you latch onto the bags.

The valice brings your arm down sharply as you struggle to yank the wheeled bag closer on the stonework. He made them look much lighter than they are.

“Good night, sir.”

You spin and march off, a janky, awkward gait in your heels as the bag bounces behind you. You get to the steps and look at the top. You ignore the idling truck as you take in the logistics of the ascent. It's only five steps. In these shoes, it may as well be triple.

You rest the valice on the rolling bag and huff. You shake out your arms and hike your purse high on your shoulder. You push down the long handle of the suitcase and instead grab the handle on top, hugging the valice to it as you lift it one step ahead of you.

You plant the wheels and pant, swaying in your heels. The second step is no easier. The third has you stopping a bit longer.

You turn and look at the tow truck and scowl. You wave him off with agitation. He revs and rumbles around the fountain, leaving you.

“Need some assistance?” A baritone thunders over you. You whip around to face the same burly blond as before.

“You!” You exclaim.

“Me,” he grins, “you're having a hard time.”

“No,” you insist.

You snatch the valice and hook it on your elbow. You grab the handle of the suitcase and grunt, dragging it up the steps with all your effort. It jars you dangerously on the top step and nearly has you tipping over.

“Hm, I was only going to offer my help.”

“Don't need it. Thanks,” you snip, “why don't you mind your business?”

“This Is my business,” he snickers, “well, my parents’ still have their names on the deed but it'll be mine soon enough.”

You bat your lashes and roll your eyes, “fine,” you shove your bag against his stomach, hard, “I need a suite. Now.”

He laughs even louder as he grabs onto your valise, “of course, your highness,” he backs up and reaches to open a door, “this way.”

[shmowder]

ah, georigy lover. give us your smut hcs on your little "judge"

my gerontophilia is showing again, isn't it?

Where do I start? Where do I begin? Is there a moment of the day where obscene thoughts of that man don't invade my mind?

No, there is not.

How is he so attractive? Is this why I was down bad for Shadowheart's dad before in the other blog? Is this why I wanted to fuck Admiral Hackett so much?

God have mercy.

I'll save you a seat in hell next to mine, anon. For now, let's wallow around in our sin akin to happy pigs in their own filth and sexualise this old man.

His arms oh god his veiny arms! The arms of a weilder, a builder. A sculpter and a sculpture himself. Do you know what it takes to still look this strong and capable for a man his age?

Or how he still puts effort into his appearance. A trimmed combed beard, brushed styled grey hair, and clean smooth skin. He's very well-groomed and majestic.

The apron he wears is doing something to my brain. A kingly grand man like him in such a humble apron, rolled up sleeves and tools at hand. He's not shy to get his hands dirty despite how grandiose he looks and acts. He is truly the ideal man.

Reminiscent of old greek philosophers who were strong enough to hold their own in fights, who backed their words with action and planning, who set the foundations and principles of which whole civilisations were created upon.

I want him to throw me on the bed and manhandle me, even though he will never do it because brutality is not his style. He is far too sophisticated for that.

The idea of him being condescending under the guise of politeness is extremly hot for some reason, how it would fly over my head because I can only understand something when it's as subtle as a brick to the face.

No no, me and you anon, us common folks would never match or catch up to his mind. He'd rather treat us as naive children, actually even lesser, pets more likely.

Don't you want to be his cute little pet that he doesn't bother explaining complex concepts to, because he knows your brain is too small to comprehend it?

He's not blind, he's aware to how much you drool over his body. How shamelessly attracted you are to someone his age and status, tiptoeing the thin line between bravery and stupidity.

Georgiy doesn't even entertain your attempts to make yourself seem anything more than you are. You could try to appear smarter, stronger, or more capable in order to impress him, but he can see right through you.

You don't have to do any of that. He couldn't care less, really. He sees your worth beyond these superficial traits, there is beauty in the mundane, and the best statues were chiseled down from rocks and marble, neither diamonds nor gems.

Be his pet, indulge in your most primal instincts around him. It's only expected you'd want to submit to someone like him, it's in your nature to seek guidance and approval from those older and wiser.

Sit on the floor between his legs, lay your head on his thigh as you watch him work on shaving down a wooden branch, observing the beautiful shape taking form gradually with his careful yet confident movement.

Act as a pet should, nuzzle your face against his shirt until he gives you the attention you're so desperate for. Petting your head and playing with your hair, praising you for remaining patient and so well behaved.

Would you like a collar? He handmade it himself from expensive leather, connected every part with expert craftsmanship. He'd lift your chin so you properly look at him while he fastens the collar around your neck.

Or maybe you'd prefer something more delicate? A silky ribbon that feels unbelievably soft against your skin. Airy fabric that drapes down your collarbone, two strands swaying on a particularly windy day. He'd wrap it around your neck each morning, tie it into a beautiful bow before allowing to be on your way.

Continously fixing it for you throughout the day, asking you to step closer, come here, just like that, what a good pet you are. Let him adjust your collar or fix your loosening ribbon for you.

A proof of ownership around your neck, a constant reminder that you may never escape nor forget as you feel it tickle your throat with every breath you take. Never too confining but neither quite like freedom.

An illusion, a mix of both worlds.

At least he isn't degrading enough to attach a tiny silver bell to it, not that he didn't consider the idea. The temptation is a constant at the back of his mind, yet he'd rather have you ask for it out of your own accord, even if he has to wait.

He has all the time in the world after all, doesn't he?

Being the centre of your whole world, Georgiy is akin to the sun above to you. Having you wrapped around his finger, always nearby, pulling just enough to keep you in orbit but not strong enough to consume you whole with his blazing flames.

You're fragile, he realises. He wouldn't want to accidentally break your mind, neither shatter your world. If dancing with the shadows on the wall makes you content then wouldn't it be cruel of him to snuff out the flames?

No, you may play and live freely. He's as much of a protector to you as the cage's gold-plated bars are to a songbird

The sexual nature of your relationship rarely crosses his mind, it's just not as a prominent part of his life, not anymore, diminished with alongside youth by the time wearing down all forms of novelty and dulling desire.

A tasteful kiss satisfies his needs better than any prolonged nights of animalistic lust. Even as he presses your lips together, it's more sentimental than sexual, pouring his emotions and devotion into it.

Slow and tender, teaching you patience and restraint as you melt against his lips. It's almost sinfully innocent how chaste his kisses are in comparison to the deviant relationship the two of you have.

And yet he is anything but dismissive to your own libido and needs, Georgiy is never negligible of his beloved treasured pet.

He attends to your needs regularly even if he himself doesn't gain any relief from it, using his calloused fingers to bring you pleasure.

Stroking your hair as you move your hips up and down, indulging your carnal needs and bringing you the euphoric release you crave so much.

Expert hands learning how to properly play your body, tuning it, and discovering all of its secrets.

The relationship you share is the furthest thing from what's socially acceptable. It's basic degeneracy plain and simple, even amidst this progressive and open minded town, they'd never understand the dynamic the two of you have.

Neither does he ever expect them to, tha Kains grew used to having their visions constantly doubted and their proven facts dismissed.

Even if the two of you are not on equal footings, even if you are world aparts, you still make it work. Slot together so perfectly like two souls lost in the night, drifting amidst a stagnant sky, a lone planet orbiting a massive star.

[qqueenofhades]

*coughs* you should write something about 1389 hob and dream fucking nasty behind the white horse

Hob Gadling has had, to say the least, a bloody strange afternoon. At this point, he's more or less written it off as some sort of demented jest, the sort of thing you boast about when you've had a few too many tankards of ale and your mates about you to impress, and -- well, it was odd that the stranger knew his name without being told, but perhaps he's been in London longer than it seems, and learned it elsewhere. And the promise to meet a hundred years from now... well, they laughed. They all laughed. Hob laughed. It was only the stranger who kept looking at him as coolly and calmly as if he actually meant it. He's not a bad-looking bloke, if a bit pale, peaky and vaguely resembling an anchorite shut up in a church wall for years without seeing another living soul and becoming decidedly spooky as a result. Has he been shut up in a church wall? Seems like a waste.

Still, the others are making jokes about Hob's newfound immortal grandeur and aren't paying attention; they're pounding on the table and shouting at the wench to bring more wine, and for some reason, Hob feels anxious, as if he needs to run after them and double-check that he actually heard what he thought he did. So he gets to his feet, jostles through the trestle tables, the stools and chairs and boots and swords and stacks of logs for the great fire, past the spot where Chaucer is now explaining something about a lecherous miller, and out into the muddy forecourt, trampled with the hooves of horses and the paws of hounds, the footprints of the servants fetching more water and handing down arriving visitors, and spots the two of them about to vanish down the Thames towpath -- or somewhere else, though there's nowhere else to properly go, out here beyond the city walls. He doesn't have to say a word. He could just count it as some lighthearted tavern-banter and forget it.

Instead, never being one to do the sensible thing when the adventurous one could suffice, Hob bellows, "OY!"

The pale man and the dark lady stop in their tracks and glance 'round at him, and he waves in vigorous demonstration of the fact that he wants a word. The man seems unwilling to comply, but the lady gives him a smart shove in the ribs, and he huffs deeply and sweeps toward Hob. He still looks exactly like the Devil would in human form, as if he's strolled off the page of an illuminated manuscript depicting the temptation of Jesus Christ in the desert: dark hair, stormy eyes, a ruby like the fires of hell, that black robe and alabaster skin, something rare and strange and otherwordly that might burn Hob if he touched it. Sounding deeply impatient, he says, "Aye?"

"This way." Hob leads him around the corner of the White Horse, to the troughs and kailyards in the back, splattered in mud, rainwater, the midden-heap, and thick clumps of torn-up sod. Once they're alone, he says, "Were you just... having me on? Back there?"

The stranger stares at him icily, but with a hint of deliberate, goading challenge. "I don't understand."

"You knew my name. You said that we would meet again, one hundred years from now. How would you know that?"

"It is of no concern to you. Do you want it or not?"

"Oh," Hob says, leaning against the wattle-and-daub wall and flashing his most rakish and charming smile. "I do. If that's what's on the offering here, m'lord. But I just wanted to be clear on whether, if it was a bargain, some sort of boon was expected in exchange."

The stranger's eyes move down him slowly, taking him in from head to heel. Hob hasn't washed in a while, aye, and his hair is long and scruffy and his beard isn't much better, and his cloth is poor enough to make any bloody nobleman, besotted of their stupid sumptuary laws, to run away screaming and clutch his marten-trimmed cloak for comfort (no ermine, unless you're royalty). But he's tall and strong and straight-bodied, has a longsword strapped around his waist and walks with the confidence of a man who knows how to use it, has all his own white teeth and a smile that folk tend to melt for, the very smile he is employing now. The stranger's pale cheeks turn the faintest hint of pink, like the first flush of sunrise on Midwinter-morn. Then he says, "You need offer me nothing. The bargain is made, and will be kept."

"Certes, m'lord?" Hob takes another step, close enough that they're suddenly nose to nose, and the stranger flinches slightly. "Nothing?"

"Are you..." The stranger looks as if he cannot possibly comprehend this utterly bizarre behavior. "Do you think I want something?"

"You came to talk to me," Hob points out. "You were the one who seemed willing to act as if my fool wish was real. Why is that?"

The stranger's gaze drops deliberately to his lips. Then it flicks back up to his eyes. "Because," he says, "I'm interested."

"In what?"

"In whether you'll be begging for death in a hundred years' time." Again that oblique, goading look. "I think you will. My sister believes that you will yet surprise us."

"I'm a surprising man," Hob says smugly. "You'll lose."

"If you say so." The stranger folds his arms, either in petulance or in an attempt to stop Hob in his tracks. Either way, it doesn't work. "I say you've no idea what you're.... asking for."

There's an unmistakable seductive burr in that voice, so incongruously deep for a Devil who looks as if one strong gust might blow him away, and Hob feels it down to the toes of his battered boots. "What say," he murmurs, almost against the stranger's mouth, close enough to feel the other's breath on his cheek, "that I did?"

The pause that follows is even longer, crackling at the edge of potentiality and possibility, and -- Hob doesn't know exactly what he's doing, but it's not the first time he's pursued an assignation with a handsome gent out back, out of sight. His first meeting with Wat, may God assoil him, was, after all, almost like this, and for all his standoffishness and snobbery, the stranger hasn't bothered to actually step back. Lucifer was the most beautiful of the Almighty's angels, before he fell. Is this exactly what Hob is about to do? Sell his soul to the Devil out behind a tavern, as the bells are calling Vespers? Or sell something else, if it gave him the chance to live forever?

"I should go," the stranger murmurs. "My sister awaits."

"Sure you won't give me something to remember you by? A hundred years is a long time, m'lord. If I grow that old, I might forget."

"Oh." The stranger's eyes flick up to meet Hob's again, feral and thunderous and threatening to devour Hob altogether, body and mind and soul. "I don't think you will."

Another instant -- a frozen, endless instant -- and then it snaps. The stranger seizes Hob by his grimy tunic, shoves him back against the wall, and Hob, and it please you, does plenty of seizing and shoving in return. The kiss tastes like weak English wine, nothing so good since they lost Gascony and its lush vineyards (perhaps that is why the Black Prince, while he lived, sought so ceaselessly to retrieve it?), like woodsmoke and ash and wind and summer, like the blood where they've bitten each other's lips and are in fair danger of breaking each other's noses. Hob closes his eyes and pulls the stranger closer, wrapping his arms around him, making sure that there is no doubt, that when the time comes again (if indeed it should), they will know each other at once, by scent and sight and touch, by sense and speech and taste. Hob Gadling would do far worse than to kiss a beautiful man as if all the world was ending, if it gave him this gift of eternity. And for a moment, for a blinding, lightning-struck instant, he thinks, It's real. It's real.

They kiss in a grappling, struggling, stubborn ferocity, both of them trying to get the upper hand on the other, until Hob pulls his mouth back with a bit of a jerk and goes to his knees, pulling the frankly excessive flourishes of that black robe aside and fumbling to find if there are anything resembling breeches below it. He momentarily thinks the stranger is going to stop him, but he doesn't. He jerks at Hob's hair and growls something that sounds like do it if you dare -- and then Hob tugs the laces apart and draws his cock out, pale and hard and perfect as a Roman statue, of the kind that they still sometimes dig up in York. He takes it into his mouth, wraps his lips around the shaft and sucks slow and considering and deep, and the stranger utters a low, shivering whimper that Hob, once again, feels to the back of his spine. It is wet and raw and too fast and too slow at once, it is like a dream of the sort that wakes you arched and clutching and in need of changing the bedclothes -- Hob closes his eyes and licks, moves his tongue with a devilish little flick, and takes it deep, to the back of his throat, sucks down, and --

The stranger loses himself with another maddeningly deep half-growl, half-moan, tugging at Hob's hair again, almost losing his balance, shuddering from head to toe as his pleasure (or something like that) washes through him like a tidal wave. Then, slowly, as if neither of them are entirely sure what has just happened, he pulls back, as Hob turns his head and spits. The stranger laces himself up again, steps back, and says, desperately trying not to breathe too hard, "You -- you need not have done that. It was -- crude."

"What sort of thing is that to say to a man who's just made you forget your own name?" Hob cocks a dark eyebrow. "And by the way, I don't think I caught that myself?"

The stranger stares him dead in the eye for a full five heartbeats, just to make it very plain that he heard and does not intend to answer. Then he whirls around, cloak swirling, and takes his leave. Hob hears his footsteps striding away, fading, and he leans back against the wall, suddenly rather weak-kneed himself. Fuck. Well. Fuck.

This is going to be a very interesting century indeed.

-------

"Well?" Death says, much too sweetly, as she is badly stifling a smile. "Did you go.... talk to Robert Gadling?"

"Yes," Dream says with tremendous, dogged dignity. "We spoke. That is what happened. Nothing else, by the way. Except for speaking. Which we did. Thank you very much."

(Death of the Endless smirks like a cat in cream all the way back home.)

(It is really terribly irritating.)

[g0dspeeed]

Our Greatest Protector

Shortly after reuniting with Jacob Seed at the homeless shelter, Joseph and John take their brother to have his first haircut. It's not as lighthearted as John had hoped.

Warnings: Cursing

The barber jabbered on and on with suggestions, a fine toothed comb wielded between manicured fingers as if he was a conductor of magic.

Based on the challenge slumped in the barber shop chair, a mess of long, tangled red hair and unkempt beard, John thought the barber might as well be.

"Or a fade?" continued the man, "With a crew cut! A crew cut might look nice to flatter your cheekbones. Oh and with some sharp edging at the hairline…"

John maintained his easy smile despite the harsh scowl of his eldest brother.

Jacob held onto the arms of the chair with knuckles white and held breath, red rimmed eyes watching the barber's every move.

Joseph, ever calm and observant, glanced up from his pocket Bible and his chair when the barber's question went unanswered.

Thus far, the event wasn't what John pictured. He thought Jacob would be thrilled to be rid of the gnarled locks of red hair that had grown past his shoulders, to shape and trim the beard that aged his face more than his sad eyes did. It would take years off the man or at the very least, make him feel a bit better about himself.

That's what John assumed. Judging by the stiffness of the terrified man in the chair, John was mistaken.

"You know," he interjected, voice smooth as water. "How about you give us a moment."

The barber nodded in what John guessed was hearty relief and turned on his heel to leave the brothers alone.

Joseph snapped his Bible shut.

"What troubles you, Jacob?" he asked.

A heavy silence befell the men, a quiet that itched the skin and made tranquility a chore.

From his place behind the chair, John saw swarms of thought swirl behind Jacob's eyes, as if the words of their brother kicked his mind as one would a hornets nest.

A swallow.

"I," began a guttural voice, "I, I know what I want-"

John's brows lifted.

"Oh, you do?"

"-And I hate myself for it "

In free fall, John listened for his brother to finish, to explain, but when their blue eyes met in the mirror before them, Jacob hung his head in shame.

Joseph rose from his seat behind them, the plastic crinkling. He stood beside John, his face still smooth and exuding patience.

"Go on, Jacob," assured Joseph. "We're listening."

A restlessness started to spread under John's skin like an electric current. From his shifty feet and twitchy hands, he hummed with doubt.

A terrible idea, John thought. Too soon.

Anxiety tickled his skin, but settled as Joseph placed a thoughtful hand on his back.

The eldest Seed fidgeted as well until raising his head. John frowned at the sight, at the bizarre mess before him.

With wet eyes and a deep, furrowed brow, Jacob mumbled, "I want an undercut, close to the head. Clean. Tight."

Both John and Joseph needed a moment to process the request, their focus shifting to somewhere, anywhere else in the room. Just as Jacob was about to retreat back into himself, John cleared his throat.

"But of course you do," he stated. "There's no shame in that-"

"Isn't there?" snapped Jacob.

John glowered at the anger, at the fire that blazed in the heat of his brother's eyes.

"I'm a washed up nobody that the Army doesn't need no more! Shit, look at me, John! Look at me! Nobody wants me! Why the fuck would I want to go back to looking like that, huh? I don't matter-"

At his voice catching, Jacob fell back into the chair, a scarred hand lifting to shield his eyes from the world.

The words, heartbreaking.

The incongruence, startling.

To see the broken man before them clashing with the memory of the strong-willed teenager of their youth, it ground John's teeth and wound his hands into fists.

For Joseph, he looked on with sadness. The outburst was a spectacle, a trainwreck that the strangers in the barber shop had no problem conveying their curiosity in watching, all sideways glances and hushed voices.

They knew nothing. They knew not of who Jacob was, or better yet, who Joseph knew Jacob was destined to be.

He gave only a fleeting look to John, meeting his eyes before stepping closer to their brother. John followed suit without question.

"You are not worthless and your value does not amount to the style of your hair, Jacob. You are and always will be worthy of love and worthy of living."

Joseph placed a gentle hand on one of Jacob's shoulders, leaning close to his ear.

"Only you can lead us into the future, into a world rid of darkness. Only you can lead us to victory, to forge greatness from the weak. Only you, my brother, can protect us, and that purpose fills my heart with love for you because you have and always will be our greatest protector."

Jacob soaked in every word, his teary eyes watching the reflection before him with rapt attention. He absorbed the peace and confidence in the planes of Joseph's face, in the quirked lips and knowing eyes of John.

"We love you, Jacob," added Joseph. "We will never leave you again."

The eldest Seed blinked a tear, a small river running down his cheek before he quickly rubbed it away.

John smiled and looked over his shoulder. He caught the barber's eye.

"He's ready."

[softlilacmoonlight]

Everybody x Reader - Forbidden Love

(Y/N) pov:

"(Y/N)!! WAKE UP!"

"HOLD ON!"

"SOMEONE GET THE D*MN DOCTOR!"

"SOLOMON DO SOMETHING!"

Shouting. It's all I hear. It's loud. Disruptive. I wish it would stop. I want nothing more than to sleep. I feel so tired. I no longer feel the pain in my throat. The ache in my chest has reached its climax, a symphony ready to take me away. I guess it's ironic. All of this is. The blood in my mouth leaves a sharp and icky taste, but it doesn't bother me anymore. For amidst the chaos, the yelling, and the blur of people running, I close my eyes and breathe no more. 

A month prior...

"(Y/N)! We're ready to go to supper!" yells Mammon, outside my door as I finish putting my earring in. 

Walking over to the door, I swing it open. "Ready!"

"(Y/N)... you look gorgeous..." whispers Mammon, gently smiling at me in awe. 

My dress is a blue cling that splits partway down my thigh. The neckline is a v-neck that reveals a little bit of my chest. My heels are a warm gold, along with my sapphire gold-lined jewelry. I made the choice to pull my hair into an elegant updo, and my eyeshadow blue. Lastly, I have a little golden clutch for the night. I feel like a gorgeous queen.

"Thank you, Mammon! Let's go before Lucifer kills us!" I exclaim as we make our way to the entry hall, Mammon's arm out like a gentleman, and mine looped through his.

Reaching the stairs, we start to descend down the right side. Even though I am focused on not tripping, I can still make out the faces of the men as we walk down. Love. I feel so loved and cared for at this moment, like nothing in the world could hurt me because my family will always be here to protect me.

We reach the bottom of the stairs and Lucifer steps forward with his hand outstretched. "You look stunning. Shall we leave for supper now?"

"We shall," I say, as a smile graces my lips.

Looking back on this moment, supper was fine and dandy. We laughed, had fun, and of course, a little reprimanding in between. Desert was gorgeous and overall it was a meal I could never afford before the Devildom. However, it was after supper when I went to the restroom that it happened.

"Please excuse me for a moment. I'm going to run to the Ladies' room." I say as I excuse myself from the table. 

Walking through the restaurant, I take in the beautiful lights and the surrounding. So much so that I don't even realize that there is a man in front of me. In my moment of clumsiness, my breath gets stolen from me. His aquamarine eyes shine bright like sunlight through a clear pond. The chocolate brown tresses grace the top of his head, some frame his face in loose curls while the rest are pulled into a handsome man bun. A well-maintained and trimmed beard covers his face and looks oh so nice on his tan skin. His clothes are surprisingly relaxed, with a nice jacket, a white t-shirt, and a pair of nice jeans. 

In that split moment, his eyes meet mine fully. "I'm so sorry miss. Please forgive my lack of attention."

"No..." I barely whisper out. Say something (Y/N)! "It's perfectly fine, I wasn't paying attention either."

His chuckle, low and smooth fills something in me. Something I didn't even know was empty. "Well, I better get going."

"I- I'm sure you do indeed have somewhere to be! Safe journey!" d*mn it (Y/N), you didn't even get his cell.

I used the restroom and rejoined the group, and at that moment they were none the wiser, but I felt empty. That one pivotal moment changed my entire life. I yearned for him, pined for him, and loved him senselessly and unconditionally. Could I explain why? No, that's beyond even my knowledge. Until it began to happen.

"Hey, Asm-" Before I can finish my sentence, I start hacking and coughing violently. My chest aches so badly, and I wish he was here with me. The Chocolate tress man. 

While I'm bent over hacking, Asmo rushes to grab me a glass of water and I greedily chug it down the minute I have it in my hand. "(Y/N), are you sick?! You've been coughing so violently for the past week my dear. Ever since we went to the restaurant it's just grown worse and worse. Did they give you food poisoning!? I'll go get Lucifer!"

"Asmo, I'm fine. I just think I'm catching the cold or something. There's no need to bug Lucifer right now, I'm just going to go lay down and rest for a while." I whisper hoarsely through my scratchy throat. 

Standing up, Asmo follows behind me like a faithful little puppy. "I'm coming with you to make sure you get comfortable."

What I don't tell him is I don't want him. I want Chocolate tress man. "No, no. It's okay. Get back to doing your things, I'm sure you want to repaint your nails. It's not like I can't walk."

It took me quite some time to turn down Asmo, but I felt like being alone. I had begun to distance myself because I knew that they were all too close to me. I knew that they loved me, a love that I wasn't able to return. That was the first time. Laying alone in my bed, hacking, that the petals came. They were luminescent with a reddish-purple, turquoise blue, and gold. They were definitely from a Devildom flower. That night I just hacked petals. My throat ached and ached, and my lungs felt like they were going to burst. He probably doesn't even remember me were my thoughts as I coughed up those beautiful and painful petals. That was when I began my search for this disease and its cure.

Combing through the library, a voice suddenly startles me. "May I help you find whatever you're looking for?"

"Satan! You scared me to my wit's ends! No that's quite alright, I'm browsing aimlessly and the medical books caught my attention. I don't know why myself, but here we are." I state laughing and lying straight to his face. However, I can see in his eyes he believes me. Love and blind trust are deadly weapons and can be used to harm others or keep others ignorant of the situation. In this case, it harms me but keeps him blissfully ignorant. 

"Ah well," he starts, his warm gaze looking at me. The warmth reserved only for me. "I am going to read and drink some tea, would you like to join me?"

At this moment, I find the book that I believe holds the answers I need. "I'm sorry Satan, truly I am, but I was going to read this alone in the music room and soak it all in. I hope you understand?"

"Of course," he chuckles. "If anyone does it would be me. Go enjoy your book and your own mind, I'll see you at supper."

I did just that too. I went to the music room, and I delved deep into that ancient book. I wanted to unveil all of its secrets, mysteries, and clues. I never expected to find what I found in that dreadful moment.

"Hmm..." I mutter out loud to myself in the solace of the music room as I skim the index. "What is Hanahaki Disease?"

I flip to the pages to find a beautifully drawn flower. "Hanahaki is an ancient disease. To the humans, it is seen as a myth, but to the people of the Devildom, it is deadly. When unrequited love blooms inside of a person, much like that of a bud in bloom, a chance to fall victim to this disease is born. It starts with bursts of coughing and fits of hacking. This is the first stepping stone to the disease rooting itself into its victim."

"The next noticeable symptom is petals. No longer will the lover be solely coughing, but they will also start to hack up petals. The petals are the favorite flower of their unrequited love. This is the next vital stepping stone in the Hanahaki disease."

Placing my fingers between the pages, I carefully close the book. Do I really want to know my demise? It seems quite obvious with how the author writes about this disease that it cannot be good in any manner, but it blooms from love. If it comes from something so pure, then there has to be a cure. I have to keep reading!

"Next the stems of the flower start to grow through the lungs and windpipe of the victim. This is the third escalation of the disease. This step comes with petals coated in blood and blood on its own being coughed up. The jump from step two to three is one of the most deleterious in the Hanahaki disease's cycle."

Coughs up... bloody petals? That sounds terrible and painful. Who would want the plant to grow through the lungs and windpipe?! It's basically strangling its victim but from the inside! 

"The final step of the disease is to claim the life of its victim. Once the plant has fully bloomed through the inside of the being, it kills them entirely. This parasitic disease leaves no chance of survival for the victim, and only one cure is known throughout all of history for this deadly disease."

So there is a cure! I have to finish no matter what! There's a cure!

"Hanahaki disease can only be cured with the victim's love being returned by the admired one. The admired person must love the victim as romantic and pure love. Any other form of love is useless in the fight against the Hanahaki disease. If the admired one doesn't return their admirer's love, then the victim will die. This is the only known cure to this disease."

Only if the admired one returns the victim's love? I have to find a man I briefly ran into, get him to love me or hope he remembers me, and then have him promise his 'pure and romantic' love to me? I don't even know his name! What am I going to do? The only cure is him...

That was the day... the day I gave up. My heart sank and the pain intensified because I knew I would never find him. I would never get that return of affection or love. Besides, I thought, he probably doesn't even remember me. That was the cards I was dealt, and I knew that.

My days went quickly from there. My time was occupied by schoolwork, the brothers, the royals, and the members of Purgatory Hall, but that didn't matter. I was spending all of my time running to the bathroom, and hiding one major fact... that I was dying. No one knew, and I didn't give them the chance to guess. I retreated into my room more and more. I stopped attending events like movie night and family supper. 

In hindsight, I know that these actions only worried everybody all the more. Did I care at the moment? No. I couldn't stand the thought of them having to watch me suffer through that and be able to do nothing about it. After all, they were all very fix-it people when it came to these situations. This is probably what led to that one fateful night.

Knock knock. "(Y/N)?" calls Lucifer, oddly gentle through the door.

"Yes?" I manage to cough out between the petals in my mouth.

I can almost imagine him on the other side of the door, unsure of where to put his hands. "May I, uh, come in dear?"

"Now's not really a," I stop and mask my cough by 'dropping' the laundry I was holding. "a good time. I kind of have my hands full!"

It all hurts so badly! My chest, my throat, it hurts. I want this pain to disappear. I wish I was already dead! "(Y/N), Lord Diavolo sent over a personal handwritten invitation for you to the ball tonight... we'd all be overjoyed if you came."

"I don't think I'll feel up to it tonight, sorry Lucifer," I call, and then quickly spit the bloody petals invading my mouth into the trash can. 

Suddenly a shadow peaks under the doorway. Someone is sitting against my door. "(Y/N)... what can I do? How can I help you? Whatever's going on, surely we could fix it. Please (Y/N), please let me help you. I can't lose you."

"Oh Luci," I sigh out. "This isn't something you can fix, no matter how much I wish you could. If it'll make you feel that much more relieved... I will try to attempt tonight. However, I can't promise I won't find a quiet room somewhere in the castle."

"That makes me so glad to hear you say you'll try. I actually bought you a dress... it's out here with me right now. I'll let you grab it once I'm gone. I designed it just for you, no Asmo involved. I hope you like it." He whispers through the door, a whisp of happiness lacing his voice. 

Oh, my dear firstborn... my time is next to up. I fear my clock could hit midnight tonight, but for your blissful ignorance and the others', I shall attend. "Thank you, Lucifer. I'll be out in roughly an hour."

I watch as his shadow peels away and listen as his steps fade down the hall before I open the door. The dress is off-shoulder with side shoulder straps like the iconic Belle dress, emerald green, green jewels scatter the top of the dress, and its skirt poofs out to grace me with a princess gown. The neckline has a little v showing a little bit of my chest, but other than that it's an overall gorgeous dress. Kittens heels of black grace my feet and emerald accessories lined with gold decorate my ears, neck, wrists, fingers, and my updo. It's a stunning dress, that shows off all of my curves, assets, and pact marks. 

I made my way out the door and to the front hall. Much like that evening, the men gawked, complimented me, and treated me like a queen, but this time was different. I was being treated like glass. Beautiful, thin, easily breakable, as if one slip up would crack me and destroy me. They weren't quite wrong, to be honest. 

The party was gorgeous, like something out of a fairytale. It was everything I had dreamed of as a kid, and admittedly a little bit as an adult, but that dream was short-lived. An hour into the party, I snuck away. Away from the sparkling lights, the sweet music, and the scrumptious food. Away from my family. 

I found a little room. Quaint, quiet, and away from the party, so naturally it was perfect. I barely made it to the room when the petals and blood started to come, but I knew they would. I knew that that night would be my last, so I soaked it up. Danced with everybody there I loved, all of my family blissfully ignorant to my suffering. They wouldn't understand. How could they? Except for this time, the blood and petals didn't stop. The pain didn't abide. It kept coming. Waves and waves of agony pierced my body until I crumpled against the wall, and my eyes started to blur. 

Before long, the door slammed open and loudness returned to my senses... but it was dull, distant, as if I was in a dream, far far away. I could only hear little snippets throughout the mess of noise and downright confusion. 

"(Y/N)!! WAKE UP!"

"HOLD ON!"

"SOMEONE GET THE D*MN DOCTOR!"

"SOLOMON DO SOMETHING!"

Shouting. It's all I hear. It's loud. Disruptive. I wish it would stop. I want nothing more than to sleep. I feel so tired. I no longer feel the pain in my throat. The ache in my chest has reached its climax, a symphony ready to take me away. I guess it's ironic. All of this is. The blood in my mouth leaves a sharp and icky taste, but it doesn't bother me anymore. For amidst the chaos, the yelling, and the blur of people running, I close my eyes and breathe no more. 

And at that last moment, I heard one voice. One voice I knew in my very soul, but it was too late. "Mystery girl! Please hold on! Please! LET ME THROUGH! I LOVE YOU... I... PLEASE... DON'T... DON'T... LEAVE!"

[mochuelovelli]

Fix-It AU for the Moonvasion Arc!

I would like to preface this by saying that this is gonna seem real fanfic-y and for that I am sorry. I want to bullet point some ways to change some aspects of S2 from Whatever Happened to Donald Duck?! onwards.

Whatever Happened to Donald Duck?!:

The segment that shows the McDuck/Duck family tree has Donald Crossed out not because he is captured but Lunaris PLANNED to kill him before going to Earth once he would basically tortured him for information

Donald is tripped by Lunaris which makes him land on Penumbra, allowing him to sneak the device under his hat as it falls off without Lunaris noticing. After Lunaris explains his plan he throws Donald and the scene transpires as normal, save for Don attaching the clamp to Lunaris and finding the remote. 

Lunaris still ends up getting the upper hand and punching Don away but he reveals the remote and presses it. Only for it to, of course, get broken on impact and the rest of the scene transpires normally.

[Here is the biggest change]The rocket DOES end up exploding. It makes it to Earth's atmosphere but of course the bullet hits one of Scrooge's satellite and rickashays back to the moon again. Upon realizing he is going to crash, Donald jumps out but just in time as the blast from the pod knocks him semi-conscious.

Last shot is him falling toward a crater and shows Donald gaining conscious only for him to see he is falling into the moonmite's mouth but doesn't reach beyond making a groan and the scene cuts to black with the jaw snapping sound (alternatively it can just cut to black as he falls)

The Jones Scene ends with Scrooge saying the same line about not paying Donald bills. Only he also adds once closing the door, "Fallacious tightwad, I ain't payin' for some leeching city counselor. I'll find that lad a proper therapist when he gets back. One that doesn't have an arachnoid infestation." *cue spider coming to crawl on Scrooge's face before he chucks it off*

Webby's line is cut down to "Well I guess there really wasn't some big mystery to solve." But the kids' lines stay the same frome there on.

Scrooge gets only Donald screaming "Uncle Scrooge!" before the audio cuts to audio to one of Mrs. Crackshell-Cabera's novelas due to the satellite being damaged(does that make sense? No but neither do moonpeople). You could probably make a suggestive joke here about cruises and Scrooge's line can stay the same. The camera pans up as the line is delivered still but it is just a shot where the moon is in focus. That or it's the satellite falling instead.

Happy Birthday, Doofus Drake! until Moonvasion:

(know it would be a pain in the ass, but I think it be cool to edit the intro to remove/replace Donald during the time he isn't shown in an ep. Though I guess they don't change the intro until season 3 so yeah. Mainly wanted to give the illusion that he is "missing" to scare anyone under 8 that "oh no maybe he is GONE gone just to be a prick

The Golden Armory of Cornelius Coot!

Trim down the Bigtime C plot like a LOT. Maybe end that original scene with Ma Beagle by having Bigtime lean on something (statue, standing on some "moss") and fall down to the caves. 

The cart scene with Bigtime still happens but that cut back from Launchpad and Della doesn't happen until after Della yells at Launchpad when she is flying. (So not the scene where Louie is kicking rocks)

Maybe cut the scenes where Bigtime is bragging about "finding a name for himself" and just have one scene where he ties up the boys and saves his family but they argue and waste time til Della and Webby come back. The end where Ma says BT is welcome back is cut as well, she just says it and then complains about the popcorn

After the scene with LP, Della and Webby, the camera pans up to the sky so a transition to the moon happens. Transition zooms out to reveal Penumbra looking at the Earth with her spear, before she turns upon hearing the moonmite screech and readys herself.

The moonmite is then shown crawling up from a hole at first by itself before Donald's torse is revealed, his hair is a bit longer and feathers are ruffled. Penumbra stands down and looks a bit more open before asking "Did anyone see you?" 

Donald just says no before hopping off, of course falling along with the equipment he brought. The shot is focused on Penumbra looking towards Donald's silhouette as he gets up.

She then asks "How's the leg?" To which the camera cuts back to Donald and we see him in full view, his model is similar to when he is on the island only way less beard and his hair isn't quite as long yet. But the most notably difference is that his right leg from the knee down is now a golden prosthesis. Don responds with "Fine, thanks for making it for me."

Penumbra turns back as Donald is shown to clumsily put the equipment on a nearby table and says "I couldn't have forgiven myself if I let Della's brother die." Donald nearly falls over again before she turns to face him and asks if he is ready to which he nods before they turn and the camera reveals the broken Spear of Selene. Penumbra's voice is heard then saying "Then Let's get you home." Before the ep ends.

The Richest Duck in the World!:

Everything is the same except when Penumbra calls, She says "This is LT. Penumbra calling for her friend Della Duck!-" [Della's Line] "All of your defense satellite just went down for some reason. Della-" Familiar quacking can be heard and Della even questions it before Donald's voice comes on. "Della!" "Donald!" Della parrots as she grabs the SATCOM box. "There's going to be an invasion! He's coming for the kids!" Episode ends the same from here.

[I'll make a second post l8r since I planned this to come out before 10 and it's already almost 1130 so yeah. Literally all these changes are basically to set up a bit of a stronger connection between Della and Donald (as well as giving Donald more screen time) by having the twins mirror each other a bit more. I personally headcanon that like Donald, Della is unlucky as well but in a different way. Where Donald has bad luck everyday of his life which mostly comes in the form of physical harm (secondly it would be emotional harm), Della's bad luck comes in the form where she is just as "lucky" as the rest of her family (maybe discounting Louie) but while she enjoyed 20ish years of adventuring relatively unscathed, she then crashes on the moon after a freak storm happens and is stuck there for over a decade. To me, her struggles on the moon in Whatever Happened to Della Duck?! And The Golden Spear! really showcases her bad luck, almost as if the universe decided to throw the biggest karma bomb at her all at once. But just like her brother she is fuelled with determination and love for her family in order to survive anything, she just has to do it all by herself (another thing which is worse for her bc she doesn't have them) at that point. And it isn't a one and done thing, it's something permit as she now is literally 11 years behind on parenting and the show continues to show her stuggle with that. By having Donald lose his leg and have a journey back to his family that's quicker than Della's (along with having company from nearly the beginning) it parallels that unluckiness the Duck twins have. It also can serve as a plot for future eps (well fake eps lmao). 

Ik that this au wouldn't have been possible as Disney would be really anal about having one of their mascots have a total design change. Unless they really wanted to milk having characters with prosthetics for park days or whatever, maybe it wouldn't be THAT big of a deal aside from some fluff articles. I realize though, it might overshadow Della's trauma so ideally I would hope to figure out or map out an ep where it would be addressed along with some other family issues.]