#and Ichor is too on point

[musicismymoirail]

Ngl, I am having a lot of fun just making silly diy jewelry designs for Vendetta. 🥰 Ne makes a lot, especially out of wire. I feel like Themmy just gave nem a spool one day and was like ‘go wild you funky little gremlin’.

God. Vendetta would love the nickname of gremlin so so much too. :’l

[the-meme-monarch]

I was having so much fun working on this animatic drawing delilah keen of dandy's world over and over that I forgot the animatic is actually about astro and dandy's horribly strained relationship. and that it's past midnight but that's besides the point

[ukusreticence]

me coming up with way too many parallels between side a and side b because i want to have my two funny unique OCs existing and draw them and develop lore on them but because they have the same name as archangels it wouldn't make sense for them to exist in the same universe so instead i just made them the same person in two different universes and started forcing my brain to come up with more and more ways to link these basically two very different characters

bonus:

[arolesbianism]

I've just been playing the new cotl update for most of the day and I'm so so close to being done with the main new story bits I think but it's also past midnight but also I'm so excited idk if I'll be able to sleep but also god damn do I need to sleep

[endawn]

pax deserves to bite and paralyze people that annoy him

[fanaroff]

Kind of continuation to this comic.

The first thing he opens his eyes to—

———

“Narinder?”

Too loud. Too bright. Too much. Even through closed eyelids and flattened ears. His head pounded behind his eyes. A rhythmic thumping so loud in his ears. A noise he was so unused to. A mortal sound.

Pain was a blinding experience when one was no longer numb to it. The One Who Waits could only huddle in one spot and cling to his own shoulders with claws he couldn’t not yet control enough to retract. He knew where he sat, but he was not going to allow the recognition to settle.

Hurt lanced across his chest, his wrists. He wanted it to stop. This was not how things were supposed to go. He’d planned for so long. How could this have happened?

Narinder chose wrong. He chose wrong. He chose the wrong vessel. His vessel who built him up, built a Temple in his name, raised devotion! His vessel who then tore him down and reduced him to this quivering mess of a new mortal.

How he wished they’d chosen to kill him instead. To have ended his millennia of suffering, not extend it further.

He chose wrong.

The physical hurt now ran in tandem with the emotional. How could they do this to him? When he saw them choose… he thought that maybe things would go right. He would be free and his vessel tucked safely in their own little heaven… but he saw them return the Red Crown to their own head. That damned Lamb!

The one he gave life to! The one he saved!

Betrayed by one he trusted so—

Now he was here. Now he was mortal. How foolish of him.

“…Narinder?” Faust’s voice was gentle, no doubt a front put on for the followers (they should be HIS) that he could hear hanging about in curiosity. (Insects to be squashed! How dare they look upon his visage and see him in this form!)

Narinder knew that if he were to open his eyes, he’d see nothing but hatred in theirs. After all, he ordered his vessel to sacrifice themself. And after all, this was not something his vessel was willing to do. Would such an ask not generate hatred in one unwilling?

Either way, the refusal… the betrayal… has generated hatred within Narinder and when he returned to strength… he would make them pay.

There was no point in putting things off.

Narinder cracked open an eye, blinking rapidly against the blinding light, prepared to see the Lamb standing before him with a weapon in hand. (They’d be foolish not to, what if he chose to attack?)

Instead, the Lamb kneeled before him (why kneel now and not then?), a bowl of water in hand and fake concern across their face. They were still covered in spots of their blood and Narinder’s ichor from their battle, fleece torn in places and wool sticking up in different directions. Yet, they were the victor and looked it. Narinder had no doubt that he looked worse.

He felt worse.

Light from the setting sun lit against Faust, brightening them in almost a halo. It would be beautiful sight… if not for the knowledge he had.

“Betrayer.” Narinder rasped. It came out wrong. He wanted it to be a hiss. A snarl. But it was a wheeze of air at best. His throat hated it. He hated it.

Faust had the gall to shake their head. They opened their mouth to speak, but Narinder beat them to it.

“Betrayer. I never should have chose you. A lamb that defiled my name. My Temple for their own!” He slowly devolved into a rant. A proper tantrum for the ages. Spitting insults that brought gasps of shock from those around them, a few being hands to weapons (garden tools at best), and yet Faust did not react.

If he had taken a moment, he would have noticed their eyes darken to sadness and a frown overtaking their features. He would have noticed the hurt. The Crown trying to get his attention that he had chosen the wrong subject for his ire. But he was understandably focused on his own.

“I wish not to see you! I wish not to be here! Kill me, Usurper! End the suffering you drag out further!” Narinder’s voice had torn by the end, quieted by the force he attempted to put behind it and sounding as if he’d been exposed to the smoke of fires for hours.

He’d begged at the end. Begged to be killed and put out of his misery. And again the Lamb ignored this.

When Narinder was done, panting harshly and lying against the ground as his body turned tired, Faust stood from their kneel and turned to a she-rabbit. They placed the bowl of water in her hands.

“Take him to a tent. I feel he would be calmer if I were not in his line of sight. Have someone come to me if he attempts to attack anyone. Make sure he drinks. Make sure he eats. Force him to if you have to, but be careful. He has not eaten in a long while.”

The she-rabbit bowed her head as Faust turned without a second look to Narinder and strode towards the Temple. His temple no longer.

Narinder could only squirm and attempt at clawing, glaring at Faust’s back as he was dragged away with the help of two other followers. Kicking and screeching, he vowed to himself that the Lamb would pay for this.

They all would pay.

— —

Quick Oneshot that may not stay canonical, or it may stay as a companion piece. The image will stay canonical as the first thing Narinder sees upon his indoctrination. For now, it’s a prompt for myself.

I plan to do the main fic series from Faust’s POV, but I wanted to play around with some of Narinder’s thoughts. I don’t know if it worked though, I have a hard time thinking how someone might react in hatred so I hope I got it close enough.

Hope you like it!

[joffyworld]

Ah yes

The infamous "Cum Tears of Ghibli"

psst ewen's tears look... viscous.. which is mildly unfortunate

I am a smut/pinup artists

One who calls my style "the ghibli tears of cum"

It is only natural it would work the other way around

[katiekatdragon27]

Guys you don't understand how much I love these two. (Oh yeah, and Finn's there too)

Glisten: Awww~ Shrimpo, you remembered Shrimpo: B*tch I'm in LOVE with you, of course I REMEMBERED! Glisten: What!? Wait really?? This is very sudden wow! (You said you were straight?) Shrimpo: AAAAAAAAAA

Finn: (yapping) Shrimpo and Glisten: SHUT THE F*CK UP, FINN!! Shrimpo and Glisten: ... Shrimpo and Glisten: (kissing)

The first comic takes place before the two started dating. Shrimpo is really really really bad at expressing emotions other than anger and frustration, so anytime he tries to express anything, he just blurts out his feelings without thinking. Then he gets second-hand embarrassment lol. Glisten was pretty aware that Shrimpo liked him before, but he's pretending to be surprised to make Shrimpo "feel better" (also to mildly embarrass him lol).

Also, I think that Shrimpo and Glisten bonding over hating Finn is very based and true. They need that autistic man to SHUT UP/silly

I think Shrimpo and Finn are very cousin coded. Not close enough to be siblings but definitely got some familial genes going on imo (plz don't shoot me Shrimpbowl shippers🙏🙏🙏) Doesn't stop Shrimpo from being violent towards Finn tho, and Finn does nothing to deter it lol (he finds it funny). Also, Glisten throws no punches bc he doesn't want to get his hands dirty.

Finn: Sooooo?? How was the daaaate~ Finn: No need to be such a clam about it! Shrimpo: I'M SO KILLING YOU!

The second image takes place the day after this post lol. Shrimpo is recovering from a hangover covered in lipstick kisses and super conflicting emotions and Finn is NOT helping.

On the other end, I've been thinking about Shimmer a lot lol. So here is a doodle of her with her "sister aunt" Toodles, and Pebbles.

They all get along super well. In this pic, Toodles is like 12ish and Shimmer is 4 (but her weird biology made her age up to like 7 here). Pebble is pebble, that's all you need to know.

Also, I was in a horror-ish mood earlier so here are some Twisteds <33 (below cut cuz kinda scary):

I love you angst comfort. My sib pointed out while playing one day that Shrimpo looked traumatized as a Twisted, which like, fair, but it make me think.

Glisten: "They say you are not here anymore. But I think you are."

I had this silly idea that Twisted Shrimpo was infected by Dandy personally, and that whole conflict got Shrimpo's lower jaw ripped off. He is very violent and volatile, and very hard to calm down. But, when he runs into a twisting Glisten alone and scared, he comforts him (to the best of his ability).

Since Glisten is still able to be somewhat conscious, he realizes that the Twisteds are actually not completely gone like he originally thought, and it helps him keep his sanity longer, hoping for a way out for everyone.

Willpower is a crazy thing.

On the complete opposite note, I love you horrifying freak of ichor child.

Since Shimmer was made from the ichor itself with no sort of skeleton or solid foundation, her condition is very unstable. And the problem is that her body is affected by her emotions. On a bad day, she can suffer from lots of pain and her body literally melting away. That's when she hides out and waits for her body to stabilize again.

When she completely twists, her body completely falls apart, becoming a puddle of ichor on the ground. If she was an encounterable twisted, she would work like Sprout's puddle root things, but easier to maneuver around and avoid. Also, her antenna glow.

Mini yap session aside, I think I cooked on the art lol.

Anyways, the og images lol:

Have a good one pookies!

[haeryna]

the purest shade of white ↪ okkotsu yuuta x reader ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼

summary: yuuta looks almost like an angel, you think to yourself grimly, as you shift on the balls of your feet. you haven't seen your best friend in a couple years now, not since he left for africa. too bad he's attempting to kill the kouhai that you're trying to protect.

tw: manga spoilers! anime watchers, do not read. mild angst but happy ending. starts at the beginning of ch. 139. naoya zenin is here and he is his classic asshole self. reader is in the same grade as yuuta, both in age and in terms of cursed energy. swearing because reader is a bad bitch. mildly suggestive. unironic use of "senpai" and "kouhai." slight descriptions of blood and injury, everyone is subjected to the author's attempts at writing dialogue and fight scenes. not proofread but at this point that shouldn't be a surprise. it is blatantly obvious that the writer also does not know how to end stories

notes: thank you for 100 new friends! :) poll is technically still up but i'm impatient and yuuta was winning by a pretty decent margin so here it is lol. divider by @/saradika-graphics!

"Yuuji!" you yelp, slicing the head off a curse with a clean stroke of your katana. Purple ichor splatters to the ground as you whirl, searching for the familiar head of pink hair. "Stay close to me!"

Behind you, Choso grunts with exertion, sending out another bolt of Piercing Blood. Panting, you weave through the curses, letting their corpses fall behind you. Yuuji, where is Yuuji?

As the last body falls, you can't but let out an exasperated huff at the sheepish grin on Yuuji's face. "Don't scare me like that," you chide. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even find you?" Yuuji opens his mouth to protest but you shake your head. "I made a promise," you tell him, pain rippling through your heart dully. Gojo-sensei was long gone, stolen away by one of the people he had loved most in the world. Grimacing, you sheathe your katana, mindful of the blood that stains your palms, as you try to ignore the memory of his words all those months ago.

If anything happens, I need you to protect Itadori Yuuji. I know they're going to pull something on him once I'm not there to back him up.

"Senpai, what should-"

Yuuji immediately tenses as your hand flies to the grip of your katana. "I smell a rat," you mutter, nose wrinkling as you turn to face Naoya Zenin, standing atop a bridge. He bares his teeth at you in semblance of a smile. "How perceptive as always," he mocks.

"Cut the bullshit," you snap, hand still resting on the pommel. "What do you want?"

"Fushiguro Megumi," is his rather bland response, and you shift your feet into the opening steps of Flowing River.

"What do you want with Fushiguro?" Yuuji yells, and the way Naoya's face twists makes you want to vomit.

"I think I'll have him die."

Cursed energy fills your body as you leap. Naoya's resounding cackle burns through your ears as you swing, barely grazing his shoulder. Before you can push forward off your feet, a heavy presence rests on your shoulders, locking you in place. All four of you freeze. Yuuji and Choso look horrified, and Naoya looks as though he's broken out into a cold sweat. But you know this feeling, feel it settle back into your body as if it never left.

Okkotsu Yuuta steps out from the building ledge, dark eyes unreadable. Your body sings. Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta! His hair has grown longer, bangs sweeping over his forehead, eyebags a little darker than they used to be. You can feel Rika's presence, swirling around you in a mass of death and decay. You're used to it. You've grown to crave it, even. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, his facade cracks. Confusion, fear, and...regret?

Yuuta leaps, slamming into concrete and sending shockwaves deep into your bones. "Who's with Itadori?" God, even his voice is different, so different from the boy who said goodbye to you so long ago. You open your mouth to speak, but Choso beats you to it, brows furrowed.

"So you're Yuuji's executioner."

Blood turns to ice in your veins, and you can tell by the pained expression Yuuta has that you aren't hiding your emotions as well as you think you are. Naoya laughs. "I was going to tell you that, but you were being too emotional like the bitch you are."

"Who're you?"

Yuuta's voice is cold, but as Naoya babbles on, you can feel the horror settle thickly into your chest. Choso and Yuuji are talking behind you but it feels like you're underwater, you're sinking, drowning, and Yuuta must have come to a conclusion because all of a sudden he's surging forward-

You move before you can even think, steel clashing against steel. "Yuuji," you say, through gritted teeth. "Run."

A horrible grating noise fills the air as you let cursed energy flow through your body, shoving Yuuta's sword away from yourself. "I won't let you kill him," you hiss, body already shifting into Jagged Bolt. Yuuta's eyes flash as you surge forward, katana in hand.

"How would you describe my cursed technique?" you had asked Gojo, mindlessly swinging your feet. Gojo hums.

"Have you ever heard of Newton's Law's of Motion?"

You had crinkled your nose at that. "No?"

"An object in motion, stays in motion. Except you are the object. And your cursed energy is the motion." You remember how Gojo's lips curved slightly. "In other words, once you start, nobody can stop you."

You're crying, you realize with a start, as you cut a line into Yuuta's chest. Moisture seeps from your eyes as you twist your forearm into a parry, katanas sparking with each strike. Belatedly, you sense that Yuuji, your foolish, stupid, loyal kouhai has stayed, trading strikes with his fists between the precise movements of your blade. Your heart drops as Yuuta reaches for the ring on his finger.

No. No!

He twists it, and Rika appears behind you. Claws sink into your shoulder and you let out a cry of pain as she flips you into the ground.

"Be nice, Rika," Yuuta chides, as you hit the concrete. Blood spurts from your mouth as you choke, fingers clawing at the ground desperately for your katana. A piece of scaffolding is practically crushing your legs; instinctively, you know that if you try to break through it, you'll tear your limbs right off.

As Rika holds Yuuji up, you lunge desperately, uncaring of what you have to sacrifice. Inumaki's arm, the way half of Nobara's face had been practically ripped out of her skull, the remains of Nanami-san, the way that you were the one to find Maki's charred body-

I can't lose anyone else.

You scream as Yuuta pierces Yuuji's chest with his katana, cursed energy building in your legs as you prepare to shoot forward. Yuuta turns, eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion as he sees you about to tear yourself in half just to reach Yuuji.

With a wave of his hand, Rika dives for you, and everything goes dark.

Yuuta had known you were special from the day he'd first met you. That spring, when Gojo-sensei had dropped him (and Rika) into a class of unsuspecting first years, he remembers that out of the four of them, you had moved so gracefully that he hadn't processed the katana in your hand until you'd pressed it against your throat.

"Gojo-sensei," you'd hissed. "What is this?"

While Maki, Inumaki, and Panda had been subsequently bruised up by Rika, you had dodged every single one of her movements until Rika had been (barely) called back by Yuuta.

"Another Special Grade," Gojo had hummed. "Just like you, hm?"

Special Grade?

What he hadn't realized then, he realized later; you weren't just special to him, but to the entire rest of the Jujutsu World as well. Special Grade Sorcerers were rare, Maki had told him. "You only have it because of Rika," she'd scoffed, "but she deserves it."

You quickly became one of his closest friends. You were fast enough to dodge Rika's ire, even laughing whenever she tried. You'd shown Yuuta kindness that he didn't think he deserved. You broke him out of his shell enough so that when he left for Africa, he felt as though he was standing with his own strength. His first katana had been the sister blade of your own, forged from the same metal by the same hands. The way your eyes had lit up when you saw it was a memory he cherished.

Somberly, Yuuta eyes the chains encasing your wrists and ankles, each decorated with the slips of protective paper that would nullify your cursed energy. Most sorcerers required only one. You required at least twenty.

He knows you, knows the way you always take the strawberry daifuku, leaving him the red bean ones even though he knows you prefer the red bean. He knows that you push yourself hard, harder than he's ever seen anyone work. But most of all, he knows your loyalty, how once your heart finally lets someone in, you'll never let them go.

Did you miss him like he missed you?

The chains are more for your own protection. He needs you to hear him out before you attempt to end his life for a second time. Yuuta knows now that Gojo must have asked you the same thing he'd asked him; to keep Itadori Yuji safe from the whims of the higher ups. Gojo, being the forgetful bastard he was, probably didn't alert you to the fact that he'd gone to Yuuta for help as well. Crouching, Yuuta eyes your body with a sad tilt of his lips. The injuries you'd sustained were immense, and it had taken quite a bit of his own cursed energy to reverse.

Will you forgive him?

You're asleep, breath hitching every so often. Yuuta wonders what you're dreaming of, before pushing the thought away. Tenderly, he cups your face in the palm of his hand, calloused fingers stroking your cheek.

"You need to wake up now," he murmurs, as your eyes flutter open, first in dazed confusion, before sharpening into panic.

"I'll miss you!" you'd cried, as you clung to Yuuta under the shade of the large oak. You were the first person he had told about his departure to Africa, and you took it hard. Yuuta had stood frozen as the first of your tears had dripped down your cheeks. It was the first time he'd seen you cry.

"I'll be back before you know it," he'd murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of your head. You'd looked up to him, eyes teary.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he'd said, interlocking his pinky with your own. A love like Yuuta's is a dangerous thing, you know, but in this moment you feel nothing but safe.

The first sensation you feel upon awakening is the dull ache in your (miraculously still attached) legs. The second is the warmth on your cheek. Yuuta is standing above you, hand gently resting against your face. Immediately you lunge forward, teeth bared. The rattle of chains stops you, and you swear. Of course he would have taken precautions. Yuuta looks almost hurt as you violently shake off his touch.

"Don't touch me, I swear to god I'm going to rip you apart."

Yuuta says your name sadly, but you're practically trembling with rage.

"He was just a kid, with the kind of power we wield, why the fuck would you listen to the higher ups?"

Yuuta echoes your name a bit more firmly, but you ignore him, tears building in your eyes.

"You're no better than the rest of them are you, you're just-"

"Senpai!"

Your heart stops as Yuuji pokes his head out from around the corner. They must have brought you back to Jujutsu Tech, you think distractedly. Just how long were you out?

"Yuuji!" you cry out, scanning his body for any injuries. He seems to be uninjured, but most importantly, he's alive. Tears fall down your cheeks. "Are you alright?"

Yuuji appears horrified by the sudden outburst as he hastily holds up his hands. "I'm fine, senpai, really, I'm sorry for worrying you. Okkotsu-san is actually on our side, I swear! It was a binding vow, that's why he had to actually kill me, but he did some really cool Reverse Technique shit and I'm all good now!"

Warily, you eye Yuuta, whose expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "Okkotsu Yuuta," you say, voice hard. "Let me out of these chains right fucking now."

With a wave of his hand, the papers attached to the chains fall to the floor. Yuuta looks dejected as he looks away from you. "I'm so sor-"

Before he can finish you immediate tackle him into a hug, knocking the both of you into the floor as you bury your face into the soft slope of his neck. "You're such an idiot," you sob, unable to hide the rush of emotions going through you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tentatively, Yuuta wraps his arms around you, and you melt, pressing yourself closer to his body. "To be honest, I think Gojo-sensei is to blame. I think he forgot to mention to either of us that he asked us to do the exact same thing."

You let out a hiccupping laugh. "Of course he did. That forgetful asshole."

The sigh Yuuta lets out is shaky as he nuzzles the top of your head. "I'm so, so sorry," he tells you earnestly. "I must have scared you, and Rika's mad at me for making me hurt you like that. I think she likes you, even though she pretends not to."

You look up at him, really look at him, and see the look of adoration in his eyes as he stares back down at you. Thankfully Yuuji's escaped long ago, most likely understanding that you two would need privacy. "You came back," you whisper, and Yuuta's resulting smile makes your heart skip a beat.

"I promised you, didn't I?"

Before you can stop yourself, you pull Yuuta down for a searing kiss. He's so soft, and you nip at the plush of his bottom lip teasingly, pulling a whine from his throat. His large hands grip your hips, and in retaliation, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The breathy noise he makes goes straight between your thighs. You know he can feel your smile against his lips.

"I missed you," you breathe, pulling away. Yuuta looks dazed, lips kiss swollen, pupils so dilated that you can barely see the soft brown of his eyes.

"I love you," he blurts out, and your resulting laugh is airy as you press another chaste kiss to his lips.

"I've always loved you, Yuuta," you admit. "During Shibuya, I thought I wasn't going to make it. You were the only thing keeping me going."

The look in his eyes is fierce as he tugs you back into him, enveloping you in his arms. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You have my entire life. Where you go, I'll follow, and if I die, not even Death would be able to separate me from your side."

"Those sound a lot like wedding vows, don't you think?"

Yuuta's blush covers his entire face and you grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on now. We have kids we need to protect."

As Yuuta leads you to where the others have convened, even under the dark circumstances you're in, the warmth of his hand clutching yours fills you with a giddiness you hadn't experienced in months. The sentiment is quickly dashed as soon as Maki opens her mouth.

"Fucking finally. Inumaki owes me 3,000 yen."

[razztazzel]

Dandys

SOOO… I’m now realizing I’ve never told anyone about this au!! I don’t even know if you guys know this is an au… LORE DROP!!! I usually call this au the marketable plushie au since it doesn’t have an exact name, but it’s still “Dandy’s World” regardless

So Basically, The main toons look differently than their canon looks which are kid friendly for marketing and TV shows, The handlers sometimes make the Original variant mains watch the smaller toons, Marketable dandy gets to run the shop with the Original (to the au) dandy but he’s too small to fit over the counter… hehe he’s so cute, anyway there’s no scary stuff no ichor problems no dandy fucking everything up and killing everyone, so to cut it short the ichor operation hasn’t happened yet

Dandy’s actually really strict with them, He wears gloves not only because he’s a gardener but because his claws are actually really sharp and he doesn’t want to hurt someone, And because every time he takes his gloves off toons are quick to ask omg do you paint ur nails… besides the point He’s keeping the little ones safe, Isn’t that cute!!! his gloves are like those thick rubber ones so he can’t accidentally break them.. I imagine the marketable toons are somewhere around 3 feet and the The original variants about 5 feet or a tad taller than that, like Astro and sprout is, For specific’s Astro is 5’6 and sprout is 5’4

So they’re not technically taller than grown adults but most likely taller than some short ones that’s for sure.. Their heights are lowkey the reasons why the marketable plush toons were made, And because sprout is too sarcastic for his own good…And they can’t even do anything about it because he purposely taught marketable sprout how to be just as sarcastic

The marketable variants are like the exact same as they are in the game! — And the mains are the only ones with an original variant, everyone else without the main rarity, besides dandy look the exact same as if they do canonically!

I draw this au ALLLLLLLL the time :3 I even drew an updated version of their older redesigns, though I’m too lazy to color it meeehhhhh, some changed a lot, some changed a little, and some didn’t change at all

[lxkeee]

END GAME

PART ONE

pairing: lucifer x fallen angel! fem! reader

fandom: hazbin hotel

genre: fluff

warnings: no warnings yet.

notes: very feral for this man and this is multishot fic and would be writing a smut for this. Reader is close to his age (probably a hundred years younger but meh)

additional notes: this is a long one.

Part two |

[y/n] stood in the podium, her hands bound by golden chains. She looked at the higher angels who sat on the high chairs of the courtroom, her [e/c] eyes stared at them with boredom. She never liked being in heaven, so many rules to the point she couldn't breathe. She was created a few years after the infamous Lucifer fell from grace, she admired him. She has heard his cause and mentally agreed to his beliefs—she couldn't say it out loud as the higher beings would punish her. She was a good angel, always a rule follower and a good role model, then she suffered from burnt out, repeating the same thing everyday—waking up, praying, doing good, following the rules.

She started questioning their ways and now, the time has come for it to bite her back as she finally faces a trial. [Y/n] what happened the majority of her trial, she remembers doing a couple of nods in agreement and occasionally rolling her eyes whenever Adam said something stupid. She couldn't take whatever bullshit Sera was yapping about and decided to cut her off, “Enough about all these rules, just admit that us angels are egomaniacs, always hungry for control. Heck, Lucifer was right with his intentions but you guys saw it as an act of disobedience. You didn't like what he was doing since it didn't follow what you guys wanted him to do.” She said coldly, her tone making the whole room tense and cold, “he thought it was unfair to the humans to follow whatever heaven's command is without question and hesitation. But Lucifer gave them freedom,” [y/n] pauses, glaring at the higher beings, eyebrows furrowed and her eyes staring at their very soul, “Heaven is fake, you put on a show for everyone, pretending that everything is fine and this is a fun place filled with peace and we all know you guys want them to blindly follow your rules.”

“Do not ever speak his name or do you want to follow where he is?” Sera asked loudly, her voice commanding and echoing off the walls of the court but her message just made the angel in trial smirk, “Oh...? Frankly speaking, I think hell seems to be a better and more fun place than heaven. I could do whatever the fuck I want.” [y/n] says with a smirk, heart thumping loudly for the first curse word she had said. This made Sera more angry, “Then, so be it.” Sera sneers.

Falling... So this is what Icarus felt when he flew too close to the sun. Lucifer was lucky as heaven wasn't this harsh before, [y/n] closes her eyes as she felt the stinging pain of the wind caressing her back, golden ichor flowing from where her wings should be, but despite the pain, a grin was plastered on her face as she embraced the imminent pain she'll receive once she hits the burning ground of hell. Despite the extreme pain she felt on her back, the missing part of her that heaven decided to take—she felt free, shimmering tears cascades down her cheeks as she cried for her acquired freedom while simultaneously mourning for the loss of her wings. Her weak body passing by many, many clouds, passing by the crust of the earth and soon she could see the fiery red skies of hell, she can only wait for the impact.

She could hear the sound of something breaking and cracking, the loud ringing on her ears before her world turned dark. Falling from grace isn't enough to kill her.

Lucifer's usual schedule usually consists of him wallowing in self pity inside his room, making rubber ducks, or having an existential crisis in his balcony. Lucifer just so happens to be on his balcony that day, talking to his newly created rubber duck that looks like his daughter when his eyes noticed the dark red clouds of hell parting and a figure falling at extreme speeds, at first he thought it was another soul who ended up in hell but his eyes widened to see occasional gold shimmering on the figure. “What...” Lucifer murmurs in confusion, his eyes following the figure and what the...? It's about to land in his front yard.

Only his eyes widened in fear as the figure crashed and golden ichor splattered everywhere. The realization damned upon him that another angel has fallen from grace.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Lucifer never cursed so much as he jumped off the balcony, three pairs of wings springing out of his back as he quickly flew next to the crash site. “I swear to me if this person died,” this wouldn't be the first time someone died in his front yard but it would be the first time an angel would, but can an angel even die from this impact?

He quickly checked the fallen angel, identified that it's a female. She looked like such a mess, golden ichor splattered everywhere, messy hair from falling, eye bags, and passed out but despite all that, he found her to be very beautiful, “I swear to me, this isn't the time Lucifer.” he muttered to himself as he began to work and make sure this woman is treated properly. What made the king of hell freeze was when he used his power to lift her up gently, he noticed that so much blood was gushing out of her back where the bone that should connect to her wings. He just realized why this angel crashed, she couldn't fly. She doesn't have her wings anymore and that realization filled his heart with anger.

He stared at her broken form lying on the bed of the spare guest room of the castle, he couldn't fully heal her. There's a limit to how much his angelic powers could do, it can't reverse the damage heaven themselves have done to her. Thankfully, he managed to fix all broken bones and close the wounds she had received but he can't fix the trauma she'll receive from this. Believe him, he tried (with himself).

His hand caressed away the hair that was falling on her face, finally taking a good look on her. She looked more beautiful without those wounds, she looked better without the stress—a contrast to the first time he's seen her. Warmth flooding his cheeks, he doesn't even realize that the red of his cheeks has become significantly darker.

“Ah, Lucifer stop. You don't even know this woman,” Lucifer mutters in annoyance as he squeezes his own cheeks to stop the warmth before eventually leaving the guest room to continue his usual routine.

He's starting to get worried, the fallen angel that currently resides in his guest room still hasn't woken up. It's been eight days. He spent the entire week checking up on her and continuing to treat her, he admits that this unknown angel's presence did good to his mental health as he was busy worrying for her that he forgets to listen to his intrusive thoughts. “What am I going to do with you?” Lucifer mutters softly as he places his hands above her, hovering over her body as golden hue begins to glow. Slowly and surely healing her.

Aching pain in her muscles is what she felt, slowly regaining consciousness. [Y/n] woke up in an unfamiliar room, oddly reminds her of the rooms that only royalty have. She tried to move her muscles but she could feel it cracking from not moving for a long time. “What happened...?” she asked herself softly, trying to remember what happened. The trial, Sera's anger, Adam being annoying, falling, her wings, then crashing. “Where am I?” she asked herself again, her voice croaking slightly, she slowly moved her body so she could sit on the bed, her eyes wandering everywhere, taking in her surroundings. She noticed that the symbol apple and snake was present on the designs of the tinted windows. The door opens.

Another week has passed, still no sign of her waking up. Lucifer was walking towards the guest room, preparing himself to try to heal her again. He opens the door and he froze to see the fallen angel who's usually lying limp on the bed is now sitting and staring on the window. “You're awake.” he says softly and she turned to look at him, her eyes, it's so beautiful. “Who are you?” she asked him softly and he smiled, “The name's Lucifer Morningstar, welcome to hell.”

[vyainide]

ㅤㅤㅤ౨ৎ law, luffy & foreplay

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

includingㅤ━ㅤtrafalgar d. law, monkey d. luffy

tag(s)&warning(s). gn! reader, description of the body remains neutral, slightly suggestive, subtle body worship, reader refers to their heart with "she/her" in law's, law does some real freak shit (take reader's heart), reader reciprocates his freak, luffy is a different kind of freak

from vyon. this is not about lust, this is about love 😝

law knows the human body as well as any other doctor out there— maybe even more so, when he knows something, he knows it to its very end after all. basic human anatomy has always been easy— skin, epidermis, dermis, hypodermis, flesh, muscle, sinew, bones, tendons, whatever— all methodically connected so that when you feel a burn at your fingertips, your entire arm knows to jerk back from the harm. 

but this wasn't law regarding your body in its physicality as a doctor, no, this was him playing worship. his knuckles running over your side where no one (not even yourself) has made a habit of touching just to see an earthquake rumble through your stomach, thunder deep in your flesh where you lay— underneath law, who was still standing by the bed, thighs pressed into the edge of the mattress. an impressive faraway look painted over the hull of his face, like he’d broken away the part of your body that made it yours and was assessing his own handiwork under a suspecting eye. lighting a motion of fire over a stitch of skin, undeniably immobile.

“so,” you begin, your voice light as your ribs shiver away from his touch. “good enough for a textbook?” you called out, suddenly whipping him back into the absurd moment with just your voice, airy and light in its teasing.

there’s some tired amusement on his face, exchanging the awkward hovering over you for settling his knee in between your thighs and then— leaning his weight forward when you shift back, taking your movement as a subtle invitation. “no,” he breathed. “better,” he admits before he sees spluttering faux heartbreak turn over your features.

pleasantly embarrassed, you turn your head up to look at him, eyes wide; everything you do is beckoning at the point, a narcotic transmitter that makes his muscles lurch in preparation for lucid piety.

his hands press over your cheeks, eyes burnt with ichor trace your features slowly. his thumbs brushed over the fat under your eyes, the rest of his fingers spread out, his pinky at the side of your neck, middle finger on your ear, and everything else in–between. your hair is uncomfortably pressed against the side of your face with the way he's holding you but it's not in you to complain when law leans down.

then he turns his lips onto you like he just wants them there, a light barrage of nudges and nips, no more than that despite your attempts. when you part your lips, law turns his attention elsewhere and you open your eyes to glare at him.

law, however, has his head lowered. it forces your neck to crane down awkwardly, your chin just about touching his hair as you furrow your eyebrows to really look at law. he bends his head down and presses a kiss over the fabric of your shirt where your sternum is. suddenly, it's strange. you realise it's the angle. law's never lowered himself to you consciously; you've never been allowed to see this kind of weakness in your captain.

you can see the hardened furrow of his eyebrows, the curl of his lashes, the cupid's bow of his mean lips as he pressed his thumb over where they've just kissed, the curve of his bow, the shoulders that you're so used to seeing pulled back curled in towards you. it's all too unusual, seeing law folded over like this, a nagging haunt in his bones and every move he makes like desperation's hypnic jerk. he continues dragging his hand over the stretch of your skin, the shirt you had on pushed all the way up to lay across your collarbones as he unearthed the flood; a man reserved to quiet loving— that’s what you can see in law.

he’s no stranger to love, but it can’t quite behave on his tongue. a language that’s grown old and foreign to him, translated as best it could be into a stilly retelling; it’s all his hands now, best spoken through firm gesticulation and motions. that’s what makes him the best at this. his hand over your heart, “room,” you hear. and then, “shambles.”

by the time you're up to speed, you realise that it's your heart in his palm. you watch, two parts in morbid curiosity and a final part in pure interest, as law's eyes turned back to you, unwavering, and then how he brings the boxed heart up to his face. his tongue pressed against the humming blue barrier your heart is locked into, it's obscene and dirty and still, you can't look away. his tongue held against one edge, dragging upwards until it finishes the length of the side, then he gently places a kiss over the top.

“oh,” a sort of strangled gasp leaves you. there’s really nothing else to say, nothing else that needs to be said because your heart starts speeding up in his palm. you point a finger at the heart, “can i have her back?” you ask, like it wasn’t yours to begin with. “she’s embarrassing me.”

law’s lips turned upwards, his teeth peeking through chapped lips. “she’s doing great.” he dismisses easily, stroking his thumb over the heart; you wonder if sensations still carry through to when law uses his devil fruit. you can feel the itch like a phantom limb, a dizzying sensation that feels like the callous on his fingers are turning over your skin.

he doesn’t listen to you— doesn’t have to— his room eases down, blue spluttering over your vision and he leaves your heart beside your head. like a hesitant worshipper that's finally being indoctrinated, his god for the taking, ready to forgive. his hands are first to feel the tender raw of forgiveness, brushing up your side and his lips fall onto your stomach as your shirt shifts. you can only watch, entranced. your stomach shivers inwards at the heat of his mouth, his nose bruising a desire path underneath your ribs— this was the kind of worship that would have urged god to open again the gates of eden.

you're wholly disturbed at the sight but your heart— your damn heart that's still sitting beside your head, ripe and raw, is only speeding up, banging on impossibly loud beside your head like a mantra. for reasons unbeknownst to yourself, instead of watching law touch you, you stare at your heart, kicking and burning alive to an ember with every turn of his wrist, every curve of his nails, every path he carves with his touch first before he turns down his lips to the ripe fruit underneath the skin he'd peeled back.

never patient enough for it and usually not so interested, you're just lucky that luffy likes to see the state he leaves you during foreplay. when he's in one of his moods, he just about brushes over the basic points of foreplay quick as he can— it's not to say he doesn't care about your pleasure, sometimes he's just so wound up that he needs immediate gratification and dragging on foreplay only makes it worse. it was like in drum island when, only after looking at the clothes he was wearing, he realised that he was actually cold. anyway, he's never one to savour, he takes what he pleases and if it isn't enough, he'll demand more and to blame a pirate for being a pirate— well, you've never been so petty.

in harsh truth, luffy's servitude is sometimes hard to remove from vulgarity, his kindness soaked in a criminal selfishness. his hands run over your skin in a ritualistic manner, he uses his palm to touch rather than his fingers, pressing against an expanse of skin with the butt of his hand and then dragging his fingers down across the skin he's seared.

strikingly slow and detailed for someone like luffy— he adds some weight as they press over the canyons of your ribs, just under your breast like he might be able to smooth it down to keep it as a roof over his head, create a home out of your flesh and burrow there come winter. then, he smacks his lips like there's the haunting taste of you on his tongue— catches his tongue between his teeth, furrows his eyebrows and then comes to the realisation that he hasn't kissed you yet. it's your fault, apparently, based on the way he's glaring at you.

"what now?" you sigh, exasperated because only a few seconds ago, you had squirmed away from his touch and he'd made a fuss over that too. your hands are tucked into the ends of his denim shorts, idly brushing back and forth as he's straddling your lap.

he pushes his hands down to your waist and squeezes the fat there, "you distracted me!"

you're buried under his every heavy action, no memory of ever doing so, but you defer. "uh huh, sorry captain, what'd i distract you from?"

"kissing!" he jerks forward, his hammock swinging abruptly from his move and whatever scold you have on your lips is devoured whole by luffy. teeth, tongue, spit— it's like he eats; slurping up the skin that crawls from you, hands on your shoulders and holding you down like you're the enemy. it's erratic, just as you think you're catching up to luffy, he changes the tempo; he does as he likes and you only follow as best you can. he searches through your mouth like if he’d stayed there long enough, he’d be rewarded and pull away with a pearl. when he finally does so, he stares at your lips for a second, watching them glisten in the dark lights; he turns his head, places his tongue over your mouth and licks from one corner to the other like a dog and smacks his lips again like he's wine tasting.

at that point, you can’t stop yourself from asking even though you know the answer will undoubtedly make you cringe. “lufs,” he hummed, “did you brush your teeth this morning?”

he stops moving, his face buried in the dip of your stomach and near your bellybutton— his eyes look up at you, wide before his lips pulled together and he resolutely looks away. "yeah, uh–huh, i did."

that's a no, you sigh. "and last night?"

"totally, brushed 'em so hard!" a whistle in his tone with his lips puckered from the lies. "anyways, shush!"

it's a childish command but a command nonetheless so you suck it up and your head falls back down. turning away the thoughts of luffy's very concerning personal hygiene should not be as easy as it is; for a man who finds his intentions after his body's already moving, he touches like it's been a life–long plan of his to do so. your skin squelches when luffy's teeth scrape over the jumps of your ribs, a sickly sweet that only comes from rotting fruit under his tongue; he hums, happy and content.

his touch burns, sticky like the sun is melting down into your skin; you know it's going to scar, there's going to be a part of your flesh that's going to run a little lighter than the rest. he opens windows in your body, turning it into a haunted house that his love will forever lurk in; his tongue drags a new colour onto walls, nails tearing down at the wallpapers, pushing around furniture— doing as he liked.

never quiet about it either, always murmuring things to your skin like he's talking to it with the intention of keeping you ignorant— some kind of praise that makes your head weigh heavy; a flawed movement full of unbridled freedom as his mouth opens over your side and he leaves the markings of his teeth wherever he can.

[diejager]

Just the boys and König finding sh scars on reader, and/or helping them stitch a wound? Platonic, if possible

I’m gonna make the assumption (I might be horribly wrong about this…) that sh means self-harm???

Cw: Self-harm, blood, scars, protective behaviour, helicopter parent (Price and Laswell), angst?, fluff?, stitches, tell me if I missed any.

There’s a certain level of… panic in their eyes, the rising waves of fright until it threatened to drown them in a thick and dark abyss, swallowing their minds whole at the single fear of losing you to something they could have stopped; prevention they thought, a plan B in case plan A failed, but if they didn’t know, how could they have time to set it up? König almost had a heart attack when he broke the door at Gaz’s call, finding you slumped against the bathroom door, one hand on the door knob and another - the bloodied one - limply clutching your phone, eyes blinking blearily at them, clouded in confusion and fatigue. 

It didn’t take them long to call the rest, rushing you to the infirmary after your accident, cutting too deep and risking death from your slight slip of the hand. Laswell and Price were called, finding the four of them seated beside you after they stormed into the sterile room. You looked ashamed, not about the act of cutting yourself to feel more than the depression and darkness in your heart, but the act of being caught, letting them know of your… ways to refresh your mind. The shameful tilt of your head downwards, staring with heavy eyes at your bandaged wrist, cleaned and stitched up. 

Ghost had forced your sleeves up, rolling them until your biceps to show the extent of it, the many lines, crisscrossing in old and jagged lines of paler skin, standing starkly from the usual flush. He wasn’t disappointed at you, never, from a person who cut themselves to another, he was more so disappointed in himself from not catching the signs —a dark omen of pain and sorrow, forgetting that he was blinded by your happy smile to catch the tired gleam in your eyes. 

Both he and König knew the pain, the new scars that no one asked for, but kept adding and adding until it would eventually tear your arm off, limb from limb, piece by piece until you lost the will to keep on. He took on smoking instead, as self-destructive as cutting was, but the thicket of nicotine would calm his loud mind, and König had a therapist, someone he was… willing to talk to when things got too hard. They understood and felt, but failed you all the same, despite everything they vowed, they almost lost you because they were too blind to see past your thin mask. 

It was a feeling shared by the two sergeants, the more sensitive and sympathetic of the bunch, more in tune with heartfelt affection and human socialisation than the others, and the two weren’t afraid to voice it. The anger at themselves, the rage that crossed Soap’s face when he curled his fingers, bleeding his palms in the same manner you bled your feelings, hidden and alone in your dark room, bathroom and floor stained in the iron-rich ichor. 

Gaz made a face, lips pulled down, brows pinched and eyes wet, tears fluttering at the edge of his lashes. He was a soft man, feeling and sympathetic, nearing empathetic whenever he wanted to feel what you felt, but in a crisis like this, where the thought had crossed his mind once or twice, but never acted it, he was lost. Confused and afraid, a daze where he thought that - perhaps - was how you felt when he wasn’t there to ease your pain, ignorant of the subtle signs of agony in your heart, screaming for help when your mouth wouldn’t utter a single word. 

Price and Laswell hovered, combat helicopters roaming around you for any danger, watchful and worried, confident in their helping hand, but worried you would need help. Wanting to help, but afraid that needing it would mean something much deeper, and today was just the boiling point of it, the discovery of your sorrow and their dread and disgust at their inactivity. Laswell had made a few phone calls, her voice hushed as she spoke, eyeing Price for corrections and agreements until they came to the same consensus. 

If you hadn’t known any better, you would have considered them your parents, loving and caring, tender and affectionate, just as the rest of them, all friends and teammates you considered brothers. Yet, there was a stigma to it, one imposed by normal people that made you feel a certain way. Perhaps that why you hadn’t spoke about it, the dreadful need to keep it hidden until it was forced into the light. 

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore, luv,” Price promised, his low and rumbling voice that exhumed calm tenderness.

That was all it took you to sob, a dam creaking and breaking, letting your tears flood outwards while you clutched at the lapel of his jacket, hiding away in the familiar musk and cologne of his parental figure.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[biribaa]

can i... Can i request Yandere! Dandy X reader who is his old friend?"

Yandere!Dandy x reader who was his old friend

TW/CW: Yandere behavior/themes, stalking, threats(to other toons)

Dandy, despite his very obvious, questionable and murderous actions, and short tamper about... Gaining tapes, genuinly have a good personality. He enjoys to socialize, and help his friends! He just, have some not common beliefs...

In short words, Dandy is synic. You, or anyone, can point out a murder whenever you want, and that big smile with a innocent face will still stand in front of everybody.

Being the charismatic friend that Dandy is, and you being his favorite person ever around Garderview, results in Dandy giving you some discounts some time or other! It was questionable the first time, for you and the other Toons, but you just assumed he wanted to get back to your old friendship.

His smile tremble a little when you abuse of your exclusive discount to give the others what they need/want. But that's okay!!! Everybody are friends : ) ig

Despite everything, Dandy is always trying to push some dialogue with you, kicking his feet and that large smile being a spotlight in his expression. If you suspect from that or not... Its up to you. Because he could listen to you ramble for hours, which is nice coming from someone like

What isn't nice of Dandy, is his jealousy. What Astro or Tisha does that he can't do? Support you? That's the bare minimum from a friend. He could do that and much more if you just let him enter your life again.

Ok, yeah, maybe he stalks you when you are in some floor searching for Ichor. But its for your own protection, he can't let his dear friend move around with his other clumsy friends and hundreds of twisteds out there!

It doesn't take too long until you start to suspect of Dandy for suddenly wanting to join your life again. But for him, he was always there with you, for you.

I can imagine Dandy doing silent and not-so-silent threats to other toons for getting too attached to you. We all know how Dandy is when hes angry.

Before you know it, there's only you in the elevator, and Dandy is more than happy to see you and help you with some sales for his best... friend.

[arathain]

Seams

Stone walls screeched in song as the light parted open, metallic footsteps softened by the contents of the reservoir. The roiling shadow stood directly beneath the Great Charter Stone, waiting. Expectant. As the figure approached the centre, the facade of the their discontent melted away, to give in to a pointed, relaxed smile.

'You have misbehaved much, haven't you?' happily said the figure, admiring the frankly unacceptable state of their surroundings.

Mouthpiece snarled. 'I know what you're here for. Get on with it.'

The figure's eyes snapped to them, while their head remained perfectly still, stilted at an awkward angle.

'And what would that be?'

The ghost's eyes narrowed.

'You fucking know what it is, you-'

Their throat froze in place, as the figure continued to examine them. Snapping their head to face Mouthpiece, they walked up to stand immediately before them, the clothed being towering over Mouthpiece as still as a statue.

Mouthpiece dropped to their knees, their body straining in flickers as they attempted to move. A soft whimper escaped their lips, a strange, dissonant sound.

'*Please*'

Piercing, burning eyes snapped down to the kneeling ghost.

'You still haven't voiced your wish, though.'

The creature reeled.

'END THIS' they spoke, the timbre of their tone splitting into disconnected things. Voices.

'FREE US- ME- FROM THIS. FROM EVERYONE. LET ME GO AWAY.'

'Oh, that.' the figure mused. 'I can do that.'

The Augur descended in an instant, water splashing as the two figures fell to the reservoir floor. Sharpened claws tore into spectral insides, all of a sudden growing less and less ephemeral. The ghost screeched in pain, voices separating, straining to break free.

Faces broke through the inky mist, only to sink into oblivion again; a half-mask, a square head, a rat mask, yellow glasses. Having ripped the rib-cage open, the Augur began gorging on the entrails, blood splattering as they savoured the flesh. Fat, muscle, and bone unravelled in stringy pieces, as the figure continued to scream in agony, limbs and joints splitting, contorting, and merging; orange and black skin, woolen hands, blue shirt, red sweater, and ink - so, so much black, bitter ink. Remnants of the Mason oozed in taloned hands for brief moments before being consumed - countless, immeasurable, spiteful voices. The Augur's smile grew a little, gazing lovingly at the flailing soon-to-be corpse.

'I get it, I really get it. The brightest light hurts when all you know is darkness. But it was not your choice, and I'm rather sad I could not witness them before the fall myself. You were far too selfish, my beloved - all too fitting, so consider this your reward.'

Mouthpiece's vision grew hazy, as their parts were chewed and swallowed one by one. Ugly; so, so ugly. The Augur's tongue wrapped around Mouthpiece's head as they bit down, mist crumbling into golden ichor. It hurts, hurts to see yourself; always, everywhere. Sensing the hurt, the pain, the Augur smiled in exultation. Two bodies intertwined, a lone, gleeful fire consumed the hateful, bitter remnants of everyone, everything. Sorry. I couldn't take us all down together.

No time at all later, the Augur stood up, licking their teeth and lips clean with their forked tongue. Looking around, they wrapped their arms around themselves to contain the sheer ecstasy of all that they now witnessed, all the hatred and pain now swallowed and digested. Standing up, the Augur's wide, wild grin calmed down into a controlled, innocent smile.

'Well' the Augur mused to themselves, looking up at the uncut aqueduct walls 'I believe there is work to do.'

They say the misfortune of others tastes like honey; but that is not the whole story. It is the struggle, the potential for happiness, that sweetens the pain - for the utmost showcase of power, the greatest mastery of the flame, is to smother it.

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”