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gav-san · 3 days ago

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Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (2/3)

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2/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 12k+ Rating: 18+(This one's not a joke) Warnings: mature audience, 18+, Mdni, Strong Language and Sarcasm, Psychological manipulation, Dubious consent (emotional & telepathic), Stalking/obsessive behavior, Power imbalance, Violence & threat of violence, Telepathic intimacy, Mild coercion elements, Sexual content (18+)

For too long, you've been telepathically tethered to one of the most dangerous, flamboyant, and emotionally unstable men alive: Donquixote Doflamingo. What began as a childhood psychic bond rapidly devolved into a war of soup-based passive aggression, sarcasm, and sexy psychological warfare.

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-X-The War-X-

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut cont.

Age 15:

You’d been unusually quiet that week.

Not because you were afraid.

But because you were furious.

It wasn’t one specific offense this time. Just… everything. The constant psychic lurking. The sound of his voice in your head at all hours. His smug little commentary during thunderstorms. The time he made you hear him getting laid twice in the same night with two different women, just to “remind you who had options.”

It happened on a particularly miserable afternoon. You were rain-soaked, sleep-deprived, and eating what could only be described as emotional broth. Again.

The fourth bowl this week.

It was lukewarm. You were lukewarm. Life was lukewarm.

And then, like mildew in your brain: Doflamingo.

You eat soup for the fourth day in a row, and I’m the unstable one? Sweetheart, if I have to hear you describe another broth like it’s erotic poetry, I will drown us both in consomme.”

And you, without hesitation, replied:

“If you’re going to hijack my brain, at least try not to sound like a hedge fund with abandonment issues and whores on speedial.”

That did it. You felt the bond sputter. Offended. Insulted. And, worse: flustered. Silence. For two whole seconds. You continued with the intensity of a caffeinated raccoon on the verge of violence.

“Your name sounds like a failed cologne brand. Donquixote Doflamingo? That’s not a name, it’s a Scrabble accident. And your coat? Oh my god, your coat looks like it crawled out of a Muppet and asked to die with dignity. You once monologued about world domination while drinking something pink and frothy out of a coconut.”

You had never felt more alive.

“You dress like a fashion crime scene. It’s like every piece of clothing you wear got into a bar fight with taste and lost. Every time I sense you’re happy, I get a sudden allergic reaction to silk and narcissism.”

You imagined he was somewhere, blinking at a wall, horrified. He didn’t reply for days.

Which only made you cockier.

You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d finally shut him up for good.

You were wrong.

So very, very wrong.

It happened at a port town. You were just walking along the dock. Normal day. Fresh bread. Overcast sky.

And then you mentally saw him.

Or rather, you mentally saw it.

In Doflamingo's head.

A flash of pink.

He was standing before a mirror..

It was the exact hue you liked. Your favorite color. A shade you only ever admitted to loving internally, quietly, selfishly. A soft, flushed, rose quartz warmth that made your stomach flutter when you saw it on ribbon, on cloth, on dusk-lit skies.

And he was drenched in it.

Pants, shirt, lapel flower, boots. A full outfit. It wasn’t garish. It wasn’t loud. It was tailored. Fitted. Subtle. Expensive.

He turned slowly and let his mirror do the insulting.

Smirking. Sunglasses glinting. A smug, calculating flame in silk and restraint.

“Something wrong, soup goblin?” he asked, voice smooth as a blade in velvet. “You feel upset. Must be the lighting. Or the fact that I’m wearing your favorite color.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He mentally tilted his head. Listen to you unravel with polite interest. And then, the insult of all insults.

A coat. He shrugs on a pink feathered coat.

“This shade suits me,” he added. “I think I’ll make it permanent.”

That pastel bird-bitch figured out your favorite color and was now using it like emotional napalm.

You had previously mocked him. Many a time. You called him a Muppet. Said his fashion sense looked like a bird got drunk at a textile market and exploded.

You were mad.

You even said—offhand, buried in sarcasm—“Not that it matters, but if you really wanted to get under my skin, you’d wear something in rose quartz or sunset blush.”

You said it like a joke.

He heard it like a command.

And now?

He wears it. Constantly.

Not the same coat, not exactly. He has variations.

A dusky pink with gold-threaded lining for formal executions. A softer, almost pastel version for tea with underworld contacts. A rose-petal embroidered lining inside his cloak is just subtle enough to make your stomach turn every time the wind catches it.

You tried not to react.

You failed.

He saw it.

You looked at him across the mental bond. Another assassination done, blood still cooling under his boots, and he tilted his head with a smirk so slow and sharp it might as well have carved his initials into your spine.

“You like the coat?” he said aloud, too casually, “I had it made. Inspired by someone special.”

Age 16:

This was your foundation year. The broth years.

You trained your brain like a monk with a ladle, cycling through every soup imaginable: alphabetically, regionally, and emotionally. You endured stews. Conquered purees. Survived bone broth. You catalogued cream-based betrayals, whispered to dashi like it was scripture, and gave Pho the reverence of a war hymn.

Bisque was a breakdown in velvet form. Bone broth. Cream-based betrayals. Dashi..

Once, close after his brother's death, you had tried to be the bigger person. You thought, maybe this could be a turning point for him. He had been much quieter and thoughtful.

That was a tactical misstep.

“Sometimes I feel—”

Him: “—like a feral soup goblin hoarding trauma and lentils… You can admit it.”

You don’t. Instead, you begin narrating fake soap opera plotlines in your head like it’s your divine calling. Elaborate affairs. Secret twins. Tearful betrayals over stolen heirlooms.

You cast him in every villain role.

Donquixote Doflamingo, Duke of Deceit, tragically torn between his fiancée and his evil clone. Donquixote Doflamingo, heir to the Flamingo Fortune, weeping as his mother’s ghost reveals she faked her death to become a competitive ballroom dancer. Donquixote Doflamingo, betrayed by his long-lost identical triplet, also named Donquixote Doflamingo.

The man once threatened to drown an island for disrespecting his wine pairing.

Now he’s being mentally reimagined as the mustache-twirling father of three dramatic bastards and one sentient chandelier named Chandré, who speaks only in riddles and falls in love with the gardener every third Tuesday.

You:...and then the evil count said, ‘I only married your sister for the paprika inheritance.

Him, with the weariness of a man betrayed by his own neurons: You are so lucky I’m not bored enough to take that seriously.

You: I already designed your wig.

You cast him in increasingly absurd mental soap operas. Sometimes, as the estranged twin who faked his death to start a spice empire. Other times, as the morally ambiguous cardinal who seduces people with soup recipes and unresolved trauma.

And when you get bored with plots?

You just chant.

“Slurp.”

Until, inevitably—

“SLURP? SLURP?! I swear to GOD if you say slurp one more time I will LEVEL a village. Who even ARE you??”

“Hi, I’m Donquixote Doflamingo, my hobbies include string-based homicide and traumatizing orphans.”

He doesn’t respond. Which only emboldens you.

Because by now, your inner monologue has become a psychic casserole of passive aggression, fictional drama, and a truly alarming obsession with soup. You’re mentally making stock with dreams and disrespect, stirring emotional bouillon with a ladle carved from spite.

But then?

You make a mistake.

A bad one.

You try dating.

It starts innocently. A boy smiles at you in the market. He says something charming about leeks. You flirt back. Lightly. Barely. A flutter, really.

That’s when you learn a critical rule of the bond:

Strong emotions are a direct line to your personal insane asylum.

You barely feel the blush crawl up your neck before it’s hijacked.

His voice—sharp, silk-snarled, and deeply offended—cuts through the bond like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

“Who is he?”

You flinch. Literally flinch. In public.

The boy is still smiling.

You are not.

Because the devil incarnate has decided to open a commentary track in your frontal lobe.

“Does he know you eat instant ramen with chopsticks and a spoon? Does he know you alphabetize soup by mouthfeel? You’re flirting with that sort of attitude?”

You try to pull away, focus, and laugh it off. The boy asks if you’re okay.

You lie.

Meanwhile, Doflamingo is pacing in your psyche like a furious flamingo in couture.

“Who is this worm? Who is this mouth-breathing peasant? I’ll staple his face to the back of his own neck. Tell him you’re taken. Tell him you’re MINE to torment.”

You ran. Full sprint. Half because of Doflamingo’s snarling possessiveness, half because the poor guy had the misfortune of giving you a flower while the world’s most dramatic war criminal was loitering inside your frontal lobe.

Silence followed. Three blessed, golden minutes.

“Smart. You’d die in two weeks without me. Also, he looked like he smelled like mayonnaise.”

You could see it. Not literally, but close enough. The glint of his ridiculous rose-tinted sunglasses, worn indoors purely out of spite. He’d bought them, you were convinced, just to annoy you.

“I hope your sunglasses fog up every time you monologue.”

After that, you developed a series of new psychological conditions. Trust issues. Chronic stress. IBS. A mild soup addiction.

You tried everything: meditation, journaling, white noise playlists. You filled your head with innocuous trivia; What’s the capital of Wano? How many teeth does a sea king have? Do clouds have feelings?

He did not like that.

"Did you just compare me to a cumulonimbus?! I am a divine force of nature, you little brat, not moist sky fluff! Stop thinking about flamingos!"

That, ironically, only made you think of flamingos more.

You began to suspect he could sometimes sense your general aura, not your exact thoughts, but the emotional weather system you carried with you. He never said it outright, but every time you moved cities, his mood spiked. Sometimes it was laughter. Sometimes it was violence. Either way, it was a red flag. Not a romantic one. A get-a-panic-room-and-move-into-the-sewers kind of red flag.

You knew better than to egg him on.

But you tried. You really, really did.

You meditated until your spine locked up. You imagined puppies, clouds, and serene fruit baskets. You learned the entire taxonomy of soup for mental armor.

And then—one day—you slipped.

A single sarcastic thought. Dry. Thoughtless. Petty.

“Wow. That’s healthy, Mr. Flaming-No.

And he hears you.

You feel the shift before the words even come, like a psychic heatwave rolling across your brainstem. Static crackling with smug glee. A sudden, unbearable presence in the part of your mind you usually reserve for private suffering and bad decisions.

"I thought you had joined a convent."

You don’t reply, immediately knowing that to retain sanity, you must not answer the goblin man.

This does not deter him.

"Playing hard to get, huh? Fine. I love a challenge. A pause. Then, more horrifyingly, "Also, those pants you were thinking about? They do nothing for your calves. You have warrior thighs and sad ankles. Balance the silhouette."

You develop migraines. And rage. And a black belt in emotionally repressing everything. He is in your walls. He is in your thoughts. He is in your fashion critique.

And worst of all, he’s kind of right about the pants.

Age 17:

You’re seventeen now. Nearly a decade of resistance. Several years of soup-based psychological warfare. You are battle-hardened. Cunning. Emotionally fortified.

It’s a windy afternoon. You’re tired, mildly dehydrated, and emotionally detached from your alleged soulmate, who has been suspiciously quiet lately (read: plotting, brooding, probably doing unspeakable things with string and charisma).

You're just walking back from the market. Minding your own business, trying to decide if cabbage has a soul or just very boring anxiety, when your eyes drift. A new poster, slapped unevenly onto a corkboard, the corners still curling from damp. The ink hasn’t even dried all the way, smudged slightly where the print was rushed.

It’s background noise. Paper clutter. At best, a passing glance.

Until you see the name.

Donquixote Doflamingo

Bold. Black. Centered like a dare.

You think there’s no way two people are cursed enough for that name.

Underworld freakshow. Flamingo warlord. Thread-Thread Fruit user. Your long-suffering psychic parasite.

Yep, definitely him.

His bounty is astronomical. The numbers alone are enough to make your eyebrows try to retreat into your hairline. But that’s not even the worst part.

He seems tall. Dangerous. The kind of man that feels like a trick, like the kind of mirage that looks better the worse your judgment gets. If you squint too long, something behind your eyes might snap.

And your stomach sinks.

And of course, like a cryptid with the world’s worst timing and a god complex, he noticed.

“Didn’t know what I looked like until now? Tch.”

That voice. The one that had haunted your quiet moments for nearly a decade. The one who once threatened to puppet your kindergarten teacher because you dared to think her socks looked cowardly. The one that had berated your soup choices, hijacked your dreams, and turned emotional stability into a luxury you could no longer afford.

And now it belonged to that.

Tall. Tanned. Ripped within an inch of obscenity. Muscles like he’d been sculpted by someone deeply unwell. Blonde hair tousled like the aftermath of something sinful, and a smirk that didn’t just flirt with danger. It promised it, wrapped in silk and razor wire. A man who looked like a statue lost a bet, fell into organized crime, and liked it there.

He looked like every bad decision you hadn’t made yet.

No mistake. No hallucination. No soup-induced delusion. That ridiculous bastard in pink is real. He’s real, and—worse—he’s hot.

The glasses. The grin. The coat that screams midlife crisis, king of crime. The smile like tax evasion got a face. Golden-blond hair in wild tufts, tousled like he rolled out of someone else’s bed and never looked back. Tanned skin like sun-drenched sin. Broad shoulders, ripped muscles wrapped in silken arrogance. A torso built like it bench-pressed war crimes and did it shirtless.

And that smirk. That deadly, self-satisfied smirk. Like, he knows things. Like he wins them.

He looked like violence, money, and seduction had formed a committee: an exclusive, corrupt, and devastatingly attractive committee. The kind that held secret meetings in cigar smoke and blood-red velvet, made decisions with knives, and always got what it wanted.

You blink.

You look away.

You mentally repeat the phrase ‘he’s probably 80% cartilage and trauma and is hiding a bald spot’ just to recover your dignity. It doesn’t help. Your face burns. Your stomach coils with shame. You scoff at yourself, an internal slap of reality.

Unfortunately, another thought slips through before you can stop it.

His collarbones could start a religion.

The bond goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Like the air before a storm, thick with pressure and the weight of something inbound. You feel it: that split-second pulse behind your eyes. Like thunder curling in your skull. A sharp, electric pause.

And then, like a god waking up from a thousand-year nap, stretching out with far too much interest:

“…Oh?”

You sit down. Right there. On the damn floor. The market bustles around you, but your brain has exited the building. He feels your panic like a shark senses blood in the water, and oh, he revels in it.

You bolt. Not physically. No, your body is frozen in public humiliation. But mentally? Emotionally? You retreat behind every available defense.

Soup. Obscure barnacle trivia. An emergency wall of potato-based imagery. You imagine peeling tubers under enemy fire. Chanting “yam” like a mantra.

But it’s too late. You slipped. He heard everything.

And worst of all, he is thrilled.

“Collarbones, huh?”

The word echoes with amusement, low and sharp like the strike of a match.

“You finally looked at me. Five years of miso and mockery, and one peek at my chest takes you down?”

You consider dying on the spot. But knowing your luck, he’d narrate the whole thing like it was erotica.

You try to lie. To salvage some form of dignity.

“It was a neutral observation. Biological analysis. Very scientific.”

His voice purrs through the bond, velvet and victorious.

“Sweetheart, you mentally described the way my shirt dipped below my clavicle with metaphor. You thought it looked lickable.”

Shame hits you like a blunt object. You nearly walk straight into a civilian holding a cabbage.

Somewhere in the ether of your mind, he laughs. Loud. Gleeful. Unapologetically delighted.

“And here I thought I was the obsessed one.”

You scoff. Loudly. Like he’s blowing hot air straight into your synapses.

Because, sure. You’re soulmates. Allegedly. Sure, he’s been squatting in your psyche like a haunted Den Den with a god complex for years. But you’re… you.

A broke nobody with six fake identities, a fugitive ex, and a dependency on pantry soups. He’s the de facto mafia king of the New World. A Warlord of midlife crisis fashion and felony flirtation.

You try to recover. You raise walls. You conjure a protective mental beetle named Gerald, whose entire job is to eat inappropriate thoughts on sight.

He eats Gerald.

You panic. You stammer mentally into your fallback plan: complete gibberish.

“Soup. Rainbows. Shoe sizes. Frog taxonomies—”

But it’s too late.

“I’ve got your frequency now, cariño. I heard thirst. Real, honest-to-god horniness. You finally blinked.”

And you did.

You blinked.

You cracked.

You thought about his stupid neck, and now this deranged flamingo with a god complex has leverage for eternity.

“You little soup-slinging, mind-muting, emotionally constipated goblin—you like me.”

You internally shriek, “NO I DON’T—”

“Yes, you do. You had a whole thought about my neck. And my shirt. You zoomed in.”

You curl up on the ground, metaphorically. Maybe literally. You consider setting your brain on fire. Deleting yourself from your own consciousness. Ejecting your soul like bad software.

“Ten years of lentils and psychological warfare. Ten years of pretending I was some cosmic fungus infecting your thoughts. But guess what—You. Like. Me.”

There’s pressure behind your eyes. Not pain. Something worse, his attention. Focused. Hungry. Triumphant.

You squeeze your eyes shut and summon the blandest image you can: beige wallpaper. The kind you’d find in a forgotten waiting room or a discount dentist's office.

He barrels through it like a tank through a bakery.

“You like the sunglasses. Say it.”

You grunt. Out loud. A merchant passing by flinches and steers his cart sharply away.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, soup girl. You gave me material. I’m never letting it go. This is my birthday now.”

You let out a pitiful whimper. He eats it up like dessert.

“You gonna cry about it? Gonna doodle ‘Mrs. Doflamingo’ in the margins of your little soup journal? I bet you’re mad I found out I’m more than just talk. You picked the worst day to realize I’m hot. You’ve given me leverage for life. You’re stuck in my brain, and now—now I live rent-free in yours.”

You scramble for mental footing. You need a defense. Any defense. Something—anything—before he starts monologuing about his abs.

“It was an accident. A brief psychotic episode. The sunlight hit your collarbones at a deceptive angle.”

He gasps. Mocking. Gleeful.

“Your horny little brain betrayed you again. God, I love your unstable little puberty arc. That’s all it took. I’m gonna get this etched into my sunglasses,” he continues, absolutely basking. “Maybe my coat. Right across the fluff. ‘My soulmate thinks I’m hot.’ Should I get it embroidered in soup alphabet letters? For the brand.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek like it might detonate a failsafe.

It does not. He’s still smiling inside your skull.

You attempt emotional flatlining. Dead eyes. No thoughts. Just the faint buzzing sound of shame vibrating in your teeth.

“I hate you,” you mutter under your breath, unsure if it’s psychic or spoken.

“Mmm. No, you don’t. You simmer. Like broth. Slow and steady. You’ve been cooking in this tension for years, mi amor. Admit it.”

You inhale. Deep. Holy. The kind of breath one takes before committing a crime or hurling oneself off a cliff. Preferably both.

“You are—without question—the worst creature I have ever known.”

“And yet,” he purrs, smug leaking through every word, “you like what you see.”

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

Age 18:

You’re eighteen. You’re alone. It’s nighttime. You’re somewhere safe. Warm.

The kind of warmth that makes your shoulders loosen. That rare, golden hush where no one’s calling your name, no one’s watching. Maybe—just maybe—you let your guard down.

You were letting off steam. A long week. A longer year. You’ve been running, surviving, soup-warring your way through life with a telepathic menace in your head.

But tonight? He’s quiet. Finally, no insults. No commentary. No phantom sunglasses fogging up your thoughts.

So you let go.

Just a little.

A flicker of indulgence. One breath softer than the rest. Just a moment, you tell yourself. A harmless thing.

You’re having a little me time.

Which would be fine. Private. Normal. Human.

Except you forgot one minor, universe-breaking detail. The soulmate bond has a trigger—one liable to activate under very specific, very inconvenient circumstances. Namely: when the universe discovers you are, in fact, attracted to warlord pirates with blond hair and bad manners.

Not hypothetically. Not in a dream journal sort of way. No. Physically. Emotionally. Stupidly.

Far from you, in a bar that stank of sweat, smoke, and the slow rot of ambition, Donquixote Doflamingo lounged across a velvet-backed booth with all the restless menace of a lion in a too-small cage. His coat spilled over the side like a bloodied flag, pink feathers catching the dim glow of the overhead lights.

One long leg stretched out beneath the table, the other bent. His posture said boredom. His eyes—half-lidded behind those ever-present sunglasses—said boredom.

Baby 5 was sulking across from him, arms crossed and pouting hard enough to bend metal. Vergo was mid-monologue, recounting logistics, rebellion rumors, and someone’s suspicious cargo manifest with the droning cadence of a man who believed punctuation was optional.

Doflamingo barely heard him.

He was twirling a toothpick between his fingers, letting it rest between sharp teeth, half-listening until something changed.

A pulse. A flicker. A sharp spike of emotion not his own, but intimately familiar. The bond flared, sudden and hot, as if someone had cracked the seal on a bottle of champagne and all that pressure found a weak spot.

His body jerked.

Just slightly, just enough to make the toothpick snap. He blinked once, slow and reptilian. The glass in his other hand tilted dangerously.

Baby 5 sat up straighter. “What?”

It hit him again like a sniper’s bullet: clean, precise, and devastating.

A white-hot pulse slammed through his skull, down his spine, a psychic lash so intense it stole the air from his lungs. His chair scraped against the floor as he jolted upright, all arrogance gone.

His drink toppled, forgotten. The low murmur of the bar dimmed beneath the ringing in his ears. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, almost exposing his eyes, wide, startled, disbelieving.

“What the—”

Then he saw you.

Not clearly. Not fully.

Just a flicker.

But that flicker was enough.

You.

Glowing with heat.

Breathless.

You, bathing in the soft radiance of lamplight. Skin flushed, chest rising and falling with breathless urgency. The curve of your throat, the tilt of your hips, the part of your lips as you whispered something meant for no one.

Your expression was raw, unguarded. The kind of thing no one was ever meant to see, let alone feel echoing down a telepathic soul tether.

It was not a memory. It was now.

It was real. And it hit him so hard that the room tilted.

The bond flared, hungry and sharp, like a wire pulled taut between two hearts. His breath hitched. His pulse stuttered.

For a moment—just one—everything stopped.

He forgot the bar, the mission, the kingdom poised for collapse. He forgot Vergo. He forgot Baby 5’s question. He forgot the world.

Because you, the voice that haunted his every quiet moment, had just shattered the final wall. And the sound it made echoed straight through his ribs.

His mind, usually a thundering storm of dominance and calculation, went blank.

Didn’t even have a thought.

Just you—arching in soft light, whispering sin like it was a prayer, and him—wrecked.

For the first time in his life, Donquixote Doflamingo forgot how to speak.

His mouth was open. His breath caught. One hand still hovering mid-air, fingers curled like he meant to grab the table. Or maybe the fabric of reality itself, and shake it.

Trebol leaned in, nose wrinkling. “Uh, boss? You good?”

Doflamingo didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then, with the reverence of a man watching prophecy unfold, he rasped:

“She’s legal... she’s definitely legal now. Oh my god.”

Everyone at the table froze.

Baby 5 made a strangled sound. Vergo’s monologue died in his throat.

Doflamingo just stared into the distance like he’d been shot by Cupid and then hit by a train.

Thirty full seconds passed.

Then, laughter.

Low, slow, unhinged laughter. It started deep in his chest and rolled out like thunder, thick with disbelief and delighted menace.

“Oh, cariño,” he said, voice rough with something unholy, “you’re going to regret this.”

Wherever you were, wherever you had just collapsed back against your pillow in sweet, tired afterglow.

Then you felt it.

A flicker. A shift in the air.

Like the temperature dropped a degree, and the static charge of something watching curled at the edge of your consciousness.

Doflamingo was smiling.

Not passive. Not teasing. Real. Awake. Focused. And turned on.

“Well, well, well,” came the purr through the tether of your bond. “Look who’s finally an adult. And doing such adult activities.”

You scream.

Mentally. Physically. Existentially.

It’s a full-body, soul-level meltdown.

“GET OUT—”

“Too late. Saw everything.”

You die. Emotionally. On the spot. Your soul files a lawsuit. Your dignity packs a suitcase.

“Cute little sounds you make. Didn’t think you had it in you. I knew you’d fold one day, but I didn’t expect to get front-row seats.”

You scramble to recover, to bury the memory under seventeen mental potatoes and a Gregorian chant. You imagine beige wallpaper. Tax codes. That one time you stubbed your toe and cried out of spite.

It does nothing. He smirks louder. Emotionally. Telepathically. Spiritually.

“You looked so pretty when you thought I wasn’t watching.” A pause. Sinful. “Spoiler alert: I always am.”

You try to deny it, valiantly.

“That was—private. It was biological. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Sweetheart,” He croons, “it was spiritual phone sex. And you butt-dialed me.”

You vow—vow—never to touch yourself again. You briefly consider shaving your head and joining a monastery. You wonder if monks are allowed to cry this much.

Then he whispers it. Soft. Wicked. Smug enough to black out the sun.

“Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll help.”

You throw your shoe at the wall. It bounces. It hits you.

He feels it.

He laughs for forty straight minutes. Possibly more. You wouldn’t know. You’re already digging your own grave with a plastic spoon.

The bond is buzzing now. You’ve been seen. And Doflamingo? He’s delighted.

You're no longer just hiding from an emotional terrorist. You're hiding from a man who has seen you naked. And he will never let you live it down.

You genuinely consider moving to the Moon. Quiet place. No warlords. No soulbond static humming behind your eyes like a mosquito with a superiority complex.

Instead, you get a therapist.

A fancy one. Specialist in soul bonds, telepathic bleed, and emotional containment techniques. Her office smells like sandalwood and quiet judgment. She has a PhD in psychic hygiene and wears linen robes like a woman who’s never been personally terrorized by a flamingo in sunglasses.

It depletes most of your college fund. You eat instant noodles for six months and barter your roommate’s scented candles to afford the last session. But by the gods, it works.

You learn the ancient and noble art of greywalling. You don’t know how. It’s instinctive like a prey animal flattening in tall grass. You start thinking… wrong.

Not a wall exactly. More like a fog. A numb, soothing, beige silence that makes your inner landscape so boring it repels narcissists like holy water. No thoughts. No feelings. Just the psychic equivalent of elevator music and poorly lit office carpet.

It works.

Doflamingo pings your mind, irritated. Sniffs around the edges. Sends increasingly unhinged mental messages.

“If you don’t stop thinking about taxes and glue, I swear I will fly to wherever you are and start narrating my workouts in detail. I am not losing a psychic staring contest to a gremlin. If you say 'zen garden' one more time, I’ll turn your stupid little frog plush into a hand puppet.”

But you hold. You breathe. You greywall.

This is the year you leave home and all semblance of mental stability.

You packed your bag and ran to become something else entirely: A tactical genius of emotional evasion.

Stone-faced. Steel-minded. Soupproof.

“You know who’d be cute with a little hat? A potato.”

And on the other end of the soulbond, Doflamingo snaps.

“HELLO? What the hell is this? WHAT. WHAT IS THIS? WHY IS THERE A HAT ON THE POTATO? TAKE THE HAT OFF—Why is my head full of... clam chowder? Is this a hostage situation? Did someone scramble you?”

You escalate.

You start doing fake reality show narrations in your head.

“Day six in the hideout. The color-blind Flamingo is pacing again. That’s the third chair this week. He is emotionally constipated and angry at soup.”

“I will find you and stuff a cannonball in your ear canal.”

He’s used to people screaming, begging, obeying, or dying. He is not used to being ignored.

By now, you’ve figured it out. You’re not the strong one. You’re not the clever manipulator. You’re not a warlord with sunglasses worth more than your entire village.

But you are excellent at one thing.

Going silent. Not just quiet— just annoying as hell. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. You learn to layer your thoughts in static, white noise, nursery rhymes. You picture soup. Endless, brothy soup.

“Did you just think about turnip stew for six hours straight?”

Yes. Yes, you did. And you’ll do it again.

You become a master at decoys. You once spent three days mentally reciting the Goa Kingdom’s Tax Code.

“I swear to god, if you say Clause 7-B one more time—”

You start singing internally. Not good songs. Not ballads. You sing “It’s a Small World” on loop. You create psychic musicals about mundane tasks. You give him earworms so potent he starts questioning reality.

“I heard that stupid rat song in my sleep. ARE YOU SINGING ABOUT STUFFED ANIMALS?! HOW IS THIS MY BOND?!”

You imagine yourself as a sentient raccoon with a briefcase.

“WHAT IS IN THE BRIEFCASE?”

You don’t answer. You never do. That’s what makes it art.

He starts trying to reason with you.

“Just show me where you are. We’ll talk. I’ll be polite. No torture unless necessary. I can make you rich. Powerful. Better soup.”

You respond by imagining what a grilled cheese would sound like if it could sing.

He nearly chokes during a high-stakes underworld meeting.

At this point, he nearly snapped. He has restructured crime empires. He has murdered royalty. He is feared across the sea. But he cannot find the little rat in his head who keeps making musical numbers about turnips wearing wedding veils. You won’t even give him your goddamn name.

He doesn’t get it. No one harasses him. No one forgets he exists. But you?

You cut him off. And now he’s fuming. And he’s not an idiot. He’s unstable, but not stupid.

“You’re being annoying on purpose, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer. You’re pretending to be a turnip today.

“You little goblin. You are doing this on purpose.”

You mentally picture a rutabaga in a scarf.

“Oh. Oh, I see how it is.”

He paces his study. Flings a chair at the wall.

“You think you’re clever. You think I won’t burn ten towns to flush you out, but I will.”

And you?

You imagine slow-cooked lentils with fresh rosemary.

“I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You start picking up tricks from watching the news; World Government censorship, Cipher Pol propaganda, even weather pattern irregularities around key islands. You realize if you shuffle your daily routine and keep your emotions scrubbed clean like laundry, you can dip below his radar.

He can’t read what you won’t allow. And if you act boring enough, he won’t even try.

You move to a new town. Take on a fake name. You’re working part-time cleaning ships. You’ve trained your thoughts to run like a filler arc no one asked for.

He doesn’t even want to harass you anymore.

He wants to understand. He wants to meet the freak who weaponized the word “pink pony yogurt club” against him. He wants to see your face just once and scream into your mouth for five uninterrupted minutes. He no longer calls you a divine punishment.

He calls you “my affliction.”

You replied curtly, ‘Ew’.

You’ve never met. You are just a girl. You have never been kissed. You are the emotional equivalent of a haunted IKEA display.

But he knows your mind like a battlefield, and he is losing.

“You win. You broke something in me. I want to meet you and strangle you and feed you better soup.”

On a suspiciously bird-themed ship, Doflamingo Is Having a breakdown in sunglasses.

It isn’t love. It isn’t longing. It’s rage, confusion, and a slow-dawning fascination with the one thing in the world he can’t find.

“Where the hell did you go. I know you’re not dead. You’re too stubborn. Like cockroach-in-a-microwave stubborn.”

And you are.

You’re in some no-name town with a fake-ass identity, a head full of soup and math equations, pretending to be normal. You’ve erased every trace of your real self like a witness in a mob trial.

Meanwhile, he’s spiraling.

Combusting over a blurry flash of shoulder, like it was a religious experience. Living, laughing, and losing his damn mind over a maybe-nipple like it’s the final boss of his personal sanity dungeon. His usual women aren’t cutting it anymore. Too flattering, too available, not enough psychic mystery or soup-based emotional damage.

And somehow… he can’t get a lock on you.

“Alright then. Let’s see how long you can keep it up. Come on, little soup gremlin. Play hide and seek with the devil.”

You feel it then. The subtle shift.

Before, you were a nuisance. Now? You’re a project. And Doflamingo loves unfinished projects.

You hear him muttering to himself now, sometimes through the bond. Like a shark circling a boat it can’t quite bite. You sit quietly. Eating dry crackers. Pretending to be a sentient loaf of bread. You picture him pacing in his ship’s throne room like a disgruntled flamingo.

You are not a warrior. You are not a revolutionary. You are not a threat. But somehow, you have become the single most fascinating thing in the life of one of the most dangerous men in the world.

And that’s a terrifying achievement.

Age 19:

You saw the news by accident.

It was plastered on the front of a damp bounty flyer, stapled to the wall of a dingy tavern somewhere halfway up a crumbling cliff road. You’d stopped to steal a sandwich and maybe a bar stool.

Then your eyes landed on it:

“DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO — NEW WARLORD APPOINTMENT ANNOUNCED.”

Underneath, a grainy image of him smirking. Arms wide. Coat flared. Pink as sin.

You stood there, sandwich in hand, absolutely unblinking. Inside your skull, the bond buzzed like a wasp nest dipped in champagne.

“Warlord? They made him a warlord? Who looked at that walking Gucci tantrum and said, ‘Yeah, give him state-funded murder rights???”

You knew he knew you saw it. And you knew what was coming next. Sure enough, ten seconds later,

“Sweetheart.”

Your blood turned to soup.

“You’re wearing the pink panties, right?”

Dropped the sandwich. Burned the flyer. Left the town so fast you nearly took the bar stool with you.

You didn’t stop to think.

Because there was no thinking anymore.

Doflamingo—your soul’s biggest mistake—was now a Warlord of the Seven Seas, the Joker of the underworld, and was whispering sweet chaos into your brain like a bedtime story from hell.

He’s in his thirties, and he’s getting worse.

No character development. No healing arc. Just unfiltered rage and an ever-expanding pastel wardrobe like trauma is tax-deductible.

He doesn’t talk into the bond all the time. But when he does, it’s usually after a bloodbath. Or a tantrum. Or a business deal involving a body count.

You’ve gotten good at dodging emotional landmines.

But sometimes he gets weirdly domestic. And those moments are somehow worse.

"You’d like this silk, I think. Soft. Expensive. Bloody, but I wiped it off. What do you eat besides soup?” He snickers, but his voice softens, “I bet you eat like a peasant. Tch. I’ll fix that."

You move again. That’s the third time this year. Send more potato-in-hat images.

You stayed on the move.

Changed your name. Your clothes. Your voice.

You learned how to lie through a Den Den Mushi with a smile.

You stuffed your thoughts with trivia and garbage again; cabbage facts, sock folding techniques, sandwich rankings by altitude.

Even worse, that’s the year you get into a fist fight—and by “fist fight,” you mean a life-or-death brawl with fate, blood, and the violent repercussions of your own hubris.

It happens in a dingy alleyway on the edge of a port town, under lanterns that flicker like they’re in on the joke. You’re not supposed to be there. You’re running a quick errand. You have a bag of yams in one hand and false confidence in the other. Then someone jumps you.

Not metaphorically.

You don’t remember what they wanted. Your coin purse, your life, your identity; it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that you fought back.

And lost.

Spectacularly. Like a heroic cabbage in a blender. You have a bruised rib, a dislocated shoulder, and the sneaking suspicion that you bit someone mid-panic. But the worst part isn’t the pain. The worst part is what happens when you lose consciousness.

Because it turns out, when your soulmate is a warlord of the sea with Haki (You’d discover what Haki was much, much later) strong enough to black out a small country, and when you happen to be unconscious?

The bond fully opens.

And you are dreaming.

Or, you were.

You expect nothingness. Instead, you wake in a place that feels familiar and wrong.

Because suddenly you’re standing in a blood-red room that smells like cigars, velvet, and ambition. The floor is polished marble. The air is too still. And sitting in a throne that looks stolen from a villain-themed opera is him.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Blond. Tanned. Shirt undone like it’s a war crime. Legs spread like arrogance made flesh.

He’s waiting.

Seated on a throne of strings and broken glass. Pink feathers bleeding into the wind.

His expression is the first thing you see.

Not his voice.

Not his laugh.

Not even that unbearable psychic hum that usually announced his presence like a bad omen with designer shoes.

Just his face.

Startlingly close.

Too close.

So sharp and vivid it felt like a vision carved into the backs of your eyelids, like lightning caught behind them. It flashed into being with no warning, no buildup. One moment you getting your ass kicked, and the next, his face was there, burned into your mind’s eye with impossible clarity.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

His eyes were wide open; exposed, unfiltered. The color of dried blood and burnished mahogany, glowing with something old and volatile beneath. Strange and warm and unnerving, like autumn leaves falling into a fire.

They were beautiful.

Offensively so.

The kind of eyes that made people forget to breathe, or think, or say anything remotely intelligent.

And he wasn’t smiling.

That, more than anything, made your pulse lurch.

Because Donquixote Doflamingo smiled at everything: mockery, threats, murder, his own reflection, that grin was his weapon and his shield. A constant, polished sneer that meant he was in control.

But his sunglasses are gone. His expression is bare. His jaw is clenched like it’s trying to hold in the whole damn ocean. And for the first time since the death of Rosinante, he looks… shaken.

“You reckless idiot. You absolute menace. You stupid, stubborn brat—”

His voice cracks like a whip, but not with anger.

It shakes.

“If you think you get to drop dead and leave me with nothing but flashbacks of you insulting my coat, I will resurrect your corpse just to yell at you.”

You’re still half-dreaming. Still bleeding. Your mind floats somewhere between agony and consciousness, but his presence is so loud, so sharp, it slices through the fog.

“Huh?”

He leans closer, fists trembling where they grip your dream-reality like it might vanish again. And his voice, so often smug, cruel, and unbearable, is soft.

Raw.

He stares at you like a man trying to memorize a constellation moments before the sky swallows it. His gaze is fixed, hungry; not with desire, but desperation. The kind that comes from nearly losing something he swore he didn’t need.

“You nearly severed the tether.”

His voice is low, rough. Not angry. Frayed.

“You think I wouldn’t feel that? You think I’d just let you slip away without consequence? Without a word? Without—”

He cuts himself off, breath hitching. Then slowly, deliberately, he rises to his full height. He’s huge, ginormous, terrifying.

The world around him responds, the dreamscape shuddering like glass under strain. Shadows ripple along the edges of the surreal, like the dream itself knows better than to test him.

And for once, he doesn’t swagger. Doesn’t smirk.

There’s no humor left in him.

“You can’t die here,” he says, each word a verdict. “Not now. Not before I get to make it worse for you in person.”

You groan, dragging yourself upright with the exhausted defiance of someone who’s been through hell and still refuses to leave it politely.

“You’re more dramatic than a pigeon in a courtroom,” you mutter, blinking the haze from your dream-vision.

He snorts once. No grin. Just grit.

“I’m more invested than a fucking pidgeon. I was born into power. I lost everything. I clawed it back with blood and strings. But you—”

He steps forward. Closer.

Then he kneels. A fluid motion, calculated but unguarded. He reaches out, his fingers curling under your chin; not cruel, not tender, just firm, like he needs to anchor himself to something real. To something that won’t vanish if he lets go.

“I was eight years old when I watched my father get crucified by the people he thought he could live among,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Watched my brother pity me. Then hate me for killing that selfish old man. Then Corozón betrayed me. I have been hated, loved, despised, and venerated—”

His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw.

“And still, none of it prepared me for you.”

He leans closer just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Raw. Almost reverent.

“You don’t get to leave me. Not unless I say so.”

The words aren’t sharp. They’re jagged. Torn from somewhere beneath his ribs.

You stare at him, heart hammering. Not in fear, but in understanding. Because for once, this isn’t bravado or games. This isn’t performance.

This is real.

He means it. Every cracked, ugly syllable.

Doflamingo leans in, forehead pressed to yours. His breath is shallow. The dreamspace pulses, heavy with heat and gravity, like the air before a storm.

And then, you feel it. The tether. Glowing between you. Not frayed. Not dim.

Alive.

“...You are the only thing in this whole rotten world that can never leave me.” He murmurs. “Even when you curse me. Even when you run. Even when you talk back like a little brat.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“You will not die.”

It’s not a plea. It’s a command. Solid. Blazing. Horrible. Intimate.

“Live, you idiot,” he breathes. “Live so I can keep loathing you properly.”

And then you wake with a gasp.

Blood on your tongue. A gash across your shoulder. Screams in the distance. The world shuddered back into motion.

Age 20:

It’s the year he takes over Dressrosa. Crowned de facto king after what the papers cheerfully call a “peaceful transition of power.” You snort into your tea and accidentally choke.

Peaceful, your ass.

The article is accompanied by a photo of him on the palace balcony, looking like a war criminal in designer shades, surrounded by confetti and terrified nobles. There’s a quote, too, of course. Something bland and regal. You don’t read it. You don’t need to.

Because you already know what he said to you.

You’ve been getting little psychic postcards all week. And by postcards, you mean whispered threats with the cadence of a marriage proposal.

“Did you know I rewrote the laws of Dressrosa? Guess whose name is outlawed now? It starts with yours.” He’s such a smug braggart. “The throne’s missing something. I think it’s you.”

You set the paper down.

He’s a king now.

You grab your emergency mental foghorn.

Time to pretend you’ve never heard of wine, or thrones, or—God forbid—him.

He’s quieter now, which is worse. Before, he was noise incarnate: arrogant laughter and swaggering monologues, honeyed venom laced with entitlement. The man once used magical thread powers to dramatically soliloquize from the top of a castle. Subtlety was not in his vocabulary.

But lately?

He doesn’t scream anymore. He studies you.

The tether hums faintly, the bond never broken, just waiting. He tracks your moods like a cartographer of storms; silent, focused, and unnervingly accurate. He tracks your emotional rhythms like clockwork.

“Sad today. Tried cooking yesterday and got hurt. Maybe a burn.”

He speaks to no one in particular when it happens. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes just into the smoke. He reconstructs your voice with surgical precision. Imagines the expressions you’d make. Catalogs the things you hate about him, and commits them to memory like a prayer.

The bond has become something of an altar that he’s decided is holy. And you are extremely concerned about what a man like Donquixote Doflamingo qualifies as holy.

"I’ll find you eventually, cariño. You’re the only good thing the world gave me. You’re mine. You know that, right?"

And the worst part?

You feel it.

That subtle tug in your chest. That phantom ache whenever he’s angry. Or restless. Or, God help you, lonely. It drags through your ribcage like ghost wire, cold and aching.

“Speak to me. Scream at me. Hate me. I’ll take anything. Just don’t go silent.”

He sends thoughts now like love letters. Each one is worse than the last.

“Today, I stabbed a man for snoring. Thinking of you.”

They arrive unannounced, like bad weather. No lead-up. No apology. Just violent declarations scrawled across your sanity.

“Put something nice on. I’m fantasizing.”

You eat plain soup with the fury of someone at war. You meditate like it’s a hostage negotiation. You sob quietly into Pancake, your frog plushie, the noble, bug-eyed witness to your ongoing psychological siege.

He hums. Softly. Like this isn’t deeply unhinged.

Pancake stares with you. Both of you silently scream.

You won’t give in. You are almost certain of that. But he is utterly convinced that one day you will tell him your name and location.

Because in his mind, you are his one and only buddy, his unfortunate soulmate with amazing thighs and a frankly heroic capacity for ignoring him. A rare combination of mental fortitude, dry wit, and bottomless resistance.

You will not break.

You are not okay.

But you are very, very stubborn.

And that? He loves it. Horrifically. Loudly. Forever. Whether you like it or not.

Age 21:

The bathroom mirror had seen better days. So had you.

You scrubbed at your face with a rag that smelled faintly of mildew and mint, the water in the basin lukewarm and flecked with soap scum. Another bad day. Another town. Another name that wasn’t yours.

You were tired. Tired of hiding, tired of fake papers and muddy boots, tired of planning your meals like military operations. Most of all, you’re just tired of him.

It had been quiet lately. No jeering laughter in your skull. No flippant commentary on your soup obsession or your thoughts about frogs in hats or emotional potatoes. No psychic eyerolls during thunderstorms. Just... silence. The kind that made your skin itch.

So, naturally, your guard was haywire. You weren’t thinking. That was the problem.

You were just muttering to yourself under your breath as you scrubbed your teeth, watching your own reflection with the dull detachment of someone who hadn’t slept properly in three nights.

You’ve been mentally torturing him for years with soup, barnacle trivia, and passive-aggressive Gregorian chants. You once forced-fed him an hour-long internal monologue about sock fabrics while he was bleeding out in a back alley.

You assume—correctly, logically, reasonably—that Donquixote Doflamingo does not care.

About you.

Not in the way that would suggest softness or sentiment or any of the dangerous, thorned things that curl beneath skin and root themselves in a soul. No, he couldn’t possibly. Because you, regrettably, have heard him.

All of him.

It had started years ago, quiet at first, like a radio signal caught on a wind current. A glimpse. A murmur. Then, louder. Uninvited. Unfiltered.

You learned quickly that soulbond telepathy had no dignity. That whatever cruel cosmic force tethered you to him had zero concept of personal space. Because sometimes, far too often, his mind was a midnight broadcast of sins, and you were the poor soul caught holding the receiver.

He had liaisons. Frequent. Loud. Ridiculously vivid. And you? You had trauma.

There were nights you sat rigid in bed, pillow over your face, trying not to hear the way he rasped breathless curses against someone else's neck. Days when your tea cooled untouched, as laughter and heat flooded your senses without consent. You once hurled a ceramic vase at the wall with such force that it cracked the plaster. He’d been particularly loud that morning. Your earlobes burned for hours.

So yes.

Of course, you assume he’s not all that committed to you.

You are the unwanted intrusion, the irritating frequency in his head that he forgot to mute. Background static. A parasite in his private thoughts. The gremlin soulmate who haunts his subconscious like a tax he never agreed to pay.

You’re just a loose thread in a coat he can’t burn. He’s only mentally present to torment you. To twist the tether. To punish you with psychic echoes of things that were never meant for you. That’s what you tell yourself. Over and over.

The moment you think that thought, clear as day, halfway through brushing teeth, a little smug even:

“Thank god he doesn’t actually like me.”

Oh, sweetheart. If your future self could reach across time, she would gently touch your shoulder, look into your wide, blinking eyes, and whisper:

“You poor, sweet dumbass.”

Because you really believed it, didn’t you? That you were just a blip. A glitch in the psychic system. That Donquixote Doflamingo, flamboyant, feral, deeply unstable, disturbingly hot, was soul-bonded to you solely for the cosmic comedy of psychological torture. That he hated you. Loathed you. That his theatrics, his possessive taunts, his fixation were just funny little threats on the wind.

And sure. Fair. Who wouldn’t think that?

Turns out, you were wrong.

Because the second that thought escapes your brain and the traitorous spark of relief formalizes, it happens.

You feel it. That awful, molasses-thick psychic presence slithering in like tar. Familiar. Claustrophobic. Saturated with heat and silk and something unhinged. He’s there.

Not in body. In mind. Sudden. Vivid. Uninvited. Like someone kicked the door to your soul off its hinges and waltzed inside, horrified.

A stunned silence stretches across the bond.

Then, his voice. Low. Icy. Coiled with disbelief.

“…Excuse me?”

You froze mid-brush, hand hovering near your mouth, foam dangling precariously from your lips. You blinked at your reflection like it had betrayed you.

Then came the second blow:

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Not playful. Not smug. Not even his usual theater-kid villain tone. No. He sounded offended. Personally. Existentially.

“You think—after all this—you think I don’t want to have sex with you?”

Your stomach dropped. The toothbrush slid from your fingers and bounced off the sink like it was abandoning ship.

“You think I’ve been putting up with you—you—for eighteen goddamn years, because I don’t want to fuck you?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He wasn’t finished.

“You soup-brained, nightmare-spitting, telepathic sewer imp—I’ve been edged for YEARS. You think I like being haunted by the one person on the planet who moans over lentils and emotionally blue-balls me with Gregorian chant every time I so much as breathe horny?”

“You’re insane,” you whispered, horrified.

“You’re gonna find out just how insane.”

You scrambled, desperate for deflection, decency, distance. You conjured oatmeal, the blandest thought you could find. You tried to imagine beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige feelings.

He bulldozed through it like a freight train made of silk and sin.

“Oh, baby. I wanted you to hear.”

You sputtered something unwell. Something about revenge. About him being a melodramatic megalomaniac. About loud, pornographic payback that starred women who weren’t you.

Your mind flinched to the image he’d wanted you to see:

Him sprawled across a massive bed, silk sheets rumpled and half-ruined. A woman tangled around him, moaning, gasping, her nails dragging down his chest— And he wasn’t even looking at her.

He groaned for you.

He was achingly loud now..

Loud in that specific, dangerous way that meant he was pacing. Shirtless. Furious. Possibly throwing furniture. Possibly hard.

“You don’t think I’ve noticed?” he hissed, sharp and unbearable in your skull. “How your thoughts stall when I’m mid-thrust? How you go weirdly quiet when I face-fuck someone else? Like you’re trying not to care?”

You fought it. Clawed your way toward denial. You summoned soup. Rats in hats. Potato Fashion Week. You mentally described an entire monologue about barnacle society hierarchy.

He burned through it like God’s wrath in Gucci sunglasses.

“Every time you tried to tune me out, I got harder,” he growled. “You’ve been teasing me through sheer neglect, you evil little hellspawn.”

You clapped your hands over your ears, as if that would help. It didn’t.

“You thought you were winning. You thought I was suffering.”

A pause. A dangerous, inhale-through-the-nose, hands-on-hips kind of pause.

“You were right. But now, we are going to fuck. Hard.”

You tried to flee. You slammed mental doors. You summoned the cabbage soliloquy. The potato sock puppet. The ancient barnacle god of taxes. You tried to think of Law doing taxes in his hat.

He crushed it. All of it. Left nothing but the echo of silk sheets and chaos.

You curled up like a dying spider. “We are not—”

His voice slithered back in, slow and thick and molten:

“Yes, we are. On principle. Out of spite. For science. And because I’m going to make you say my real name while you cry about it, you mouthy little headache.”

You fell off the bed.

Audibly.

Painfully.

He laughed. Deep. Loud. Triumphant. A king reclaiming a throne made of your shame.

“You don’t get to deny me for half a decade and walk away,” he purred. “Congratulations, cariño. You’re the most effective form of torture I’ve ever known. Now tell me where you are and I’ll ruin your life properly.”

You stared at the wall like it had betrayed you. Like it knew.

The tile didn’t answer. It offered no help.

Doflamingo pressed harder. Slower. With the precision of a sadist and the flair of a poet.

You snap.

“You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’m not lying.”

There was a pause. You could feel the smirk stretch across his words.

And then, Oh. Oh no.

You felt it.

A vision slammed into your mind like a lightning strike: His body pinning yours to a bed that smelled of sea salt and ruin. Your mouth swollen, your throat bitten raw, his coat long discarded and forgotten. His voice—low, ruined, reverent—rasping against your ear:

“Still think I don’t want you now?”

You gasped. Out loud.

You slammed into the sink. Everything fell. Everything betrayed you. You clutched the counter like it might save you.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You’re mine, cariño. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

The words slithered through your thoughts like silk dipped in sin; warm, invasive, and slow.

Heat flared at the base of your spine, sharp as a struck match, then climbed, curling upward in a slow, unbearable arc. You felt it before you could brace for it: phantom fingers beneath your chin. Telepathic, but too detailed. Too real. Too practiced.

He was in your head, and he was enjoying it.

“Let me clarify, cariño. I want to destroy you. Gently. Then humiliate you. Slowly. Then maybe tie a pretty little bow around your throat and make you say ‘mine.’”

You tasted static. Your thoughts short-circuited.

“POTATO SOUP. POTATO SOUP. POTATO SOUP—” You screamed it mentally, like a desperate exorcism. He laughed.

Low. Rich. Cruel.

He purred.

The bond vibrated, pulsing like a live wire too close to water. You slammed every mental door you could think of, but now, it didn’t quite close right. Something lingered. A thread, frayed and glowing. Still connected. Still feeling.

“You fucking String Cheese Menace! I’m being mentally violated by your interpretive telepathy porn.”

He laughed again. Louder. Prouder. Like you’d just handed him your diary and dared him to read it at a gala.

“String Cheese Menace? That’s new.” His voice oozed amusement. “You’re more obsessed with my name than I am, cariño. Keep going. I like it when you think about me.”

God, you were going to need stronger soup. Soup infused with holy water. Soup boiled under a blood moon and stirred with the bones of your dignity.

Because now, every time your mind even drifts near him, you hear it:

“Make sure you stretch— I’m big.”

And you do. Oh, you do. Too well. Too clearly. Too viscerally.

You will never emotionally recover from the sheer unholy clarity of that lesson.

And worse, no one else will ever understand.

Not a single soul on this cursed, spinning rock has woken up to the sultry, baritone voice of a wanted war criminal calling them “darling” before listing six assassination techniques like bedtime affirmations. They don’t dream of velvet-draped throne rooms, where their trauma lounges like a king in mirrored sunglasses, sipping wine and smirking like the devil’s prom date.

And all you can do, all you ever seem to do, is sigh. The long-suffering kind. The kind of sigh someone makes when told their spine could straighten if they just imagined choking a monarch.

Somewhere—far away but never far enough—you feel him lean back. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just satisfied. Coiled like a serpent. Smiling. Plotting.

“Goodnight, cariño,” he says, soft as sin. “Dream of me.”

Age 22:

It was supposed to be a quiet stop. Just a sleepy little port, the kind that existed in soft sepia, where sea salt clung to the windows and everything smelled faintly of fish and too-sweet tobacco. A place full of rusted signs, loose cats, and old men who argued over card games they'd long since forgotten how to win.

You ducked into the crooked little newspaper shack half out of habit. The man behind the counter didn’t look up. You flipped through the headlines with the disinterest of someone who’s seen too much already; another Sea King attack, another explosion in the Grand Line, another scandal involving a Yonko’s lover and a talking bird.

And then you saw it. One name. Bold print.

“Rising In the North Blue: TRAFALGAR LAW of the Heart Pirates!”

You stared at the paper.

Your hand stilled.

No. No, that couldn’t be.

You remembered him. Not in color, not in clarity, but in blips of memory. Through Doflamingo’s thoughts, years ago. Blurry. Raw. Half-digested with fury. He had a fatal disease or something.

“The brat. My brother’s final, pathetic pet project.”

You’d seen fragments of Law. A coat wrapped too large around too-small shoulders. A boy shivering in the dark, his breath visible in the cold. The way he hid behind Corazón like the sun was too bright, and the world too cruel.

You close the paper gently, fingers trembling just a little. And you whisper to the wind, like the secret might vanish if you say it too loud:

“Interesting.”

Later that night, curled up in the narrow bed of your too-small rented room where the walls are thin and the blankets smell like soap and sea, you try not to think.

But the bond stirs anyway. It’s not loud. Not demanding. It creeps in softly. Like a slow, stalking tide. Like blood blooming beneath bandages.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He hears your thoughts anyway. He always does.

“You heard, then.” His voice slides in; velvet and acid, sweet and scalding in the same breath. “The little roach crawled out of the grave after all.”

You flinch. Not at the words. The way he says them with that half-smile. That gnawing, sick amusement laced with something older. Sharper.

You’d been thinking about Law more than you meant to. Not constantly. Not in the big, bold thoughts Doflamingo could pounce on.

But in the spaces between. The pauses between breaths. The quiet just before sleep. Little thoughts. Half-formed. Careful.

A boy in the snow. A brother’s shaking hands. A ghost that chose to live.

You didn’t mean to send that thought through the tether. You really didn’t. It had just slipped out, quiet and instinctive, like an exhale after too many years holding your breath.

“Is he okay? He made it farther than anyone thought. I should find him.”

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even fully formed. Just a passing flicker of concern in the fog of your own mind, a warm memory brushed with frost. But the bond caught it anyway. Like static on a line, it jumped the circuit and lit up something you had tried for years to keep buried.

The response was immediate.

The world around you—brimming with late market noise, fish vendors shouting, tarps flapping in the ocean wind—seemed to pull back, muffled like cotton stuffed in your ears.

And then, with a slow, dangerous precision:

“What?”

The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It slithered into your mind like smoke curling under a locked door; sweet, poisonous, and possessive. You froze, mid-step. One hand hovered over a basket of oranges.

You didn’t say anything aloud. But he felt your stillness. And that was enough.

“Say it again.” He demanded.

You clenched your jaw. Willed yourself to breathe. The market moved on without you, unaware, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. A bell rang. A gull screamed over the dock. The sea went on breathing.

“You’re thinking of finding him.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a blade against your ribs, too casual to be anything but deliberate.

You resumed walking, slow and even, like you hadn’t just had your mind cracked open like a chest. The tether burned faintly behind your eyes: hot, expectant.

“You think he’d want to see you?” His voice curled around the thought like smoke around a blade; low, bitter, brimming with something too sharp to be jealousy. “My brother’s betrayal? The boy who ran from everything?” A pause, thin and cruel. “He wouldn’t know you from a toadstool.”

You kept walking. But the words sank their claws in.

Those were memories Doflamingo never meant to share. Too soft to hold onto, too vivid to forget. And they’d stayed with you, lodged in the back of your mind like splinters that never stopped aching.

His voice slid back in, cruel and smug.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Looking for my strays? Trying to replace me with a broken little pirate in a hat?”

Ah.

That made you stop right in the middle of the street. People moved around you like water, like you weren’t even there. You exhaled slowly. Then, with deliberate cheer:

“Bet he’d let me join his crew. Trauma solidarity. Anti-Doflamingo Alliance. He seems serious. Has a hat.”

The tether snapped taut.

And on the other end, Doflamingo seethed.

For a moment, you almost believed he was gone, until the pressure returned, sharp and glittering like glass ground into your spine.

“Don’t joke.”

He didn’t say it with humor. Not the usual oily lilt. This was raw. Unfiltered.

You felt it in your teeth.

So you doubled down.

“Why not? He looks like he has a dental plan. Bet he’d give me a crew jacket. Maybe even a title. ‘Executive of Not Taking Your Shit.’”

“You think this is funny?”

The fury came first—searing and immediate—but underneath it, curled like smoke in a cold hearth, was something quieter. Older. It wasn’t anger. Not really. It was fear. That sharp, desperate edge only someone like him could mask beneath silk and swagger.

You felt it. Not just through the bond, but in your ribs, in the subtle ache of your sternum. A pressure. A presence.

You tilted your head inward, tone clipped with practiced nonchalance.

“Everything’s funny when you’re not the one screaming in my head about ‘mandatory silk dresses’ and outlawing my name. Law already feels like a better conversationalist.”

The bond stuttered. Not frayed, not fragile, but destabilized. Like a tightrope in high wind. For a split second, the air around you changed; thick with salt, with ozone, with the kind of tension that cracks before a lightning strike.

“Are you out of your soup-stained, morally confused, freeloader mind?” His voice whipped through your skull, raw and incredulous. “You’re thinking of joining him over me?”

And there it was. The truth of his upset.

He was jealous.

Instead, you looked up at the overcast sky, let the wind brush your cheek, and replied flatly, “It’s just a thought.”

He snarled.

“It’s betrayal.”

You shrugged, walking through the crowded street like your chest wasn’t being hijacked by an overgrown warlord having an emotional meltdown.

“It’s a job application.”

“You think that little cretin could protect you?” Doflamingo’s voice dropped lower, venomous now. “He’s playing pirate. I am a Warlord.”

You exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t whisper in my brain when I’m trying to sleep. He doesn’t threaten potential boyfriends with crucifixion. He doesn’t refer to himself in the third person like a shirtless megalomaniac. Also, he has a doctor’s license.”

Doflamingo went disturbingly quiet, like a parent realizing their credentials weren’t quite as shining as they hoped. You’d learned long ago that his silence meant he was either plotting murder or branding. Planning. Wounded, maybe. Plotting revenge, definitely.

When he spoke again, it was quiet. Too quiet.

“He wouldn’t even like you.”

You smiled at a passing bird, the gesture almost sweet.

“We’re both tired, emotionally repressed, and have the same war criminal ex. We’d get along great.”

The bond hissed.

Then—like steam escaping a long-forgotten vent—came his voice, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You little gremlin. You manipulative, soul-linked, absolute goblin. You want to use my trauma bond to run away and hide. You’re trying to network through my villain arc.”

You grinned.

“Glad you’re catching up, Doffy.”

You said it with a smirk, like a wink through the static. You could practically feel him pacing somewhere. Probably high on that gaudy throne of his in Dressrosa, rage-fluffing his ridiculous feathered coat like an over-caffeinated bird, trying to figure out if he could legally declare war on your intentions.

“I’ll kill him.”

“You say that a lot.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Okay, bet.”

Silence.

Sharp-edged, sulking silence.

Which, frankly, counted as a win.

You kicked your boots up onto the windowsill of your rented inn room, letting the afternoon sun warm your ankles while you mentally drafted your pirate résumé. Just in case. Because if Law would let you aboard? You’d be packed by nightfall. You had stolen pineapple bread, sourced from a dubious window seal.

Of course, you’d make it poetic.

“Dear Captain Trafalgar, handsome Law—please find enclosed my trauma credentials—”

The bond twitched.

And from wherever he was—in a tower, in a throne room, in the pit of his own frustration—Doflamingo swore.

Low. Measured. Dangerous.

“…You're not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” you said airily, licking pineapple glaze off your thumb, “and your coat agrees. I bet Law agrees as well.”

Another pause. And then, something quieter.

Doflamingo exhaled.

Low. Long. Final.

Like the sound a monster makes when it decides it’s done playing dead. Like a beast surfacing. Like something ancient remembering its hunger.

You froze.

The bond didn’t shiver—it shifted, like something had turned to face you from the dark.

“Okay.”

That was all. Just that. With enough conviction to be concerning.

The bread went slack in your fingers. Your stomach dropped like a cannonball.

“Okay, what?” you asked, slow and suspicious.

“It’s time,” he repeated, voice syrup-slick and filled with rot.

“Pardon?” You stopped chewing.

“Run. Hide. Cross the Grand Line backwards for all I care. I am going to hunt you down.”

Mid-bite, mid-thought, mid-life crisis. The pineapple bread turned to sawdust in your mouth.

“Nope.” You said aloud, with the conviction of someone denying reality on principle. “Absolutely not. We don’t belong in the same sea, much less the same island. I have boundaries. And brain rights. And possibly a strong future in privateering—”

“You did this to yourself, brat. You’ve refused to meet, refused to even give me your name. You just threatened to share pillow talk with another man. Prepare yourself for the consequences of your actions.”

A beat.

“You’re near the Red Line, aren’t you?”

You grabbed the pineapple bread, your coat, and your dignity (what little remained), and ran. But it was too late. You felt it deep down, threaded through your spine, your heartbeat, the air around you, like barbed wire laced through every bone in your body.

-X- End Part Two -X-

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ilovejb · 3 days ago

Text

| Bag Duty |

Pairings : G!P Billie Eilish x female!reader

Summary : Billie tags along on a shopping trip and ends up with a reward that doesn’t come until you’re alone.

Warnings : g!p Billie Eilish, public teasing, car head, oral ( Billie r! ) dirty talk, begging

Authors note : both my lips are wet after making this. a tear rolled down my leg

“You’re gonna make me carry that, too?”

Billie’s voice drips with dramatic disbelief as you hand her another shopping bag. She’s already got two on one arm, one in the other hand, and a visible pout blooming on her lips.

You raise your brows. “You offered.”

“That was before I knew we were doing the entire mall,” she mutters, shifting the bags. “I feel like your human coat rack.”

You grin. “You look cute like that.”

“I look used,” she deadpans.

You’re not even trying to hide your amusement. Billie’s dressed in the usual: oversized hoodie (green), black sweats, chain barely visible under her collar, and her signature “you’re lucky I’m here” attitude.

You’re in Sephora now—final stop, supposedly. The lighting is bright, Billie’s already been sprayed with three perfumes, and you’ve just asked her to hold out her arm so you can test another lipstick shade.

She sighs, extending her wrist with all the enthusiasm of someone donating a kidney.

You hum thoughtfully, swatching coral pink on her pale skin. “Hmm. Not the one.”

“I could’ve told you that without sacrificing more skin,” she grumbles.

You lean in close, like you’re gonna whisper something cute. Instead, you murmur, low and soft against her ear:

“If you stop whining and be patient for, like, twenty more minutes… I’ll suck your dick until your legs stop working.”

She freezes.

The shift is immediate. Her whole body goes still, lips parted, eyes flicking to yours like she misheard—except she knows she didn’t. Her tongue runs over her bottom lip slowly, and that smug smirk starts to curl in place.

“Oh yeah?” she says, voice lower now. More dangerous.

You pretend to swatch another color like you didn’t just nuke her brain. “Mmhmm.”

Her fingers tighten around the shopping bags. She licks her lips again—pure instinct this time—and leans in behind you while you examine a new shelf of lip oils.

“You’d really suck me off for being good?” she murmurs, voice thick with heat.

You nod once, still casual. “If you make it to the car without complaining, I’ll get on my knees the second we’re alone.”

A pause. Then—

“Well, in that case…”

Suddenly she’s a model girlfriend. Holding your bags without a word. Opening doors. Asking if you want a bottle of water. She even compliments a random lipstick shade, completely out of nowhere.

You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about lip color?”

She smirks. “Since you promised to gag on my cock.”

Your knees almost buckle.

She notices. Oh, she notices.

The car ride home is painfully quiet. Billie’s tapping her fingers against the wheel, shifting in her seat, glancing over at you every two seconds like she’s trying not to explode. Her joggers are sitting a little lower than before. You swear her thigh is flexing on purpose.

By the time you pull into the driveway, Billie throws the car in park and exhales like she’s been holding her breath since Sephora.

“I was good,” she says, eyes on fire. “I earned it.”

You swallow hard. “You did.”

She turns to you slowly, leaning back in her seat, her legs spread just slightly—enough to make your brain melt.

“Good,” she growls. “Now get in the backseat and show me.”

She barely waits for the door to shut behind you before she’s pushing the seat back, spreading her legs wide, and tugging her sweats down just far enough to free herself.

You glance up from the floor, heart pounding as your eyes land on her cock — hard, flushed, thick, already twitching. Your mouth waters.

“You said you’d show me,” Billie murmurs, cocky as ever but breath already hitching. “So do it.”

You smirk and crawl forward slowly, hands sliding along her thighs.

The second your tongue touches her tip, she groans — sharp and loud, head thunking back against the headrest.

“Oh fuuuck…”

You flatten your tongue and lick a long stripe up her shaft, slow and deliberate. Her hips buck, hands flying to your head immediately.

“Jesus—baby—fuck, that mouth…”

You take her in deeper, wrapping your lips around her and starting to bob, slow and steady. Billie lets out a strangled noise — somewhere between a growl and a moan — and her fingers tighten in your hair.

“I knew you’d be good, but I didn’t know you’d be like this,” she pants. “Holy shit, holy—fuck—slow down, I’m gonna—fuck.”

You don’t slow down.

You hum around her instead, eyes flicking up to see her completely unraveling — flushed, mouth open, jaw slack, hair falling into her face. She’s gasping your name now. Loud. Desperate.

“Fuck—baby, don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop—”

You swirl your tongue under the head and she screams. Literally. Hands slam into the seat, her thighs tensing around your head.

“I can’t—I can’t—holy shit, I’m gonna come—”

You pull back just enough to tease, stroking her with your hand as you speak:

“Already? Thought you were experienced, Billie.”

Her head snaps forward, eyes wild. “Don’t test me.”

You smirk and sink back down, taking her even deeper now — throat relaxing, tongue working, your hands gripping her hips to keep her still.

She can’t stay still.

Her legs are shaking. Her voice is echoing off the car windows.

“*Fuck, fuck, fuck—don’t stop—oh my god, baby—I’ve never—fuck, I’ve never had anyone—”

She’s full-on whining now. Loud, choked sobs of pleasure with every stroke of your mouth.

“You’re too good at this,” she gasps, voice breaking. “*What the fuck—where did you even—shit, I’m gonna fucking—”

She tries to warn you, tries to push you back, but you hold her down and take it — moaning around her, stroking her through it as she completely falls apart.

She comes hard, loud, shaking, cursing your name like it’s a prayer and a threat.

And you don’t stop until she’s whimpering.

Her hand slips from your hair, landing on the window with a breathy, spent thud.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You just… killed me.”

You rest your cheek on her thigh, licking your lips. “Worth being patient?”

She lets out a weak laugh. “I’d carry ten more shopping bags for that.”

You grin, kiss her thigh, and help her pull her pants back up while she’s still recovering. She’s flushed, twitchy, her cock softening slowly against her belly, and her voice hoarse from how loud she got.

“You good?” you ask, genuinely.

She nods, breathing steadying now. “Yeah. Just need like… three business days to recover.”

You giggle and crawl up beside her, nuzzling into her hoodie.

She wraps an arm around you, presses a kiss to the top of your head, and says — voice scratchy but full of awe:

“Best fucking head of my life. No contest.”

#female!reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish #g!p billie Eilish #g!p #billie eilish smut #billie eilish imagines #billie eilish one shot

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nialovessatoru · 1 day ago

Text

False Heaven

apollo!gojo x naiad!reader x hades!geto

two | chapter index

content: mdni! smut, oral f receiving, dependency, sickness

word count: 3k

archive

The harmonic sounds of a lyre’s strings being pulled, paired with the hypnotic, soft sounds of his voice sounded through your ears.

Your eyes were closed, while your head rested in his lap, blocking out anything aside from him, something you noticed happened automatically in his presence either way.

But this time, it was deliberate.

He wanted you to only focus on him, he always seemed to be pleased when you did.

The discomfort that had increased even after you tried to rest, had long eased.

Ever since he returned, coincidentally barely any later than after it had started to become unbearable.

“You love me so much, my absence leaves you aching.” He cooed, running his hands through the soft strands of your hair. “Don’t worry, my lovely nymph, i’ll make sure you won’t have to be separated from me again. Soon, i promise, we’ll be able to be together forever.” The more he spoke, the deeper the dark edge in his voice seemed to become, despite the still present softness. If you opened your eyes, you imagine you would see his blue ones shining darker than usual.

A darkness that you just noticed seemed to become more present within him the more he was with you.

Or had it been there all along?

Lifting your head from his lap, your voice serious but losing all severity when your eyes found his radiant, blue ones.

“Satoru.”

Your hands cupped his face, looking into his eyes that seemed to pierce right through you, as you reluctantly decided to voice the concerns that circled your mind ever since the visit of the man, who was not your lover, but invaded your mind as if he belonged there.

You didn’t mention Suguru.

You didn’t have to.

By the words you used to explain what was on your mind, something about the balance, the consequences, even if reluctantly, he could tell who put those thoughts in your head. He knew that there was one man who’d try to sabotage the sacred connection you shared with him.

It agitated him. You felt it in the way his hands gripped yours that were cupping his cheeks, wrapping his fingers around your wrists, keeping them where they were. His eyes wide, pupils blown, pretty lips parted in a shaky exhale before he spoke, almost as if he was afraid you’d disappear— or worse—leave him out of your own volition.

Was your decision to bring it up to Satoru influenced by him? Yes.

Did you even only start paying attention and lifting your rose colored glasses because of his warning? Also yes.

But did that mean he was trying to manipulate you? Trying to pull you away from Satoru? That he wanted to keep you to himself instead? Or any of all the other things Satoru had claimed to you he was doing? Insistent on not believing him, that you shouldn’t be fooled.

“You’re not made to hide in the shade, my love. You’re mine. You belong in the light. My light. Only mine. With me. We’re meant to be together. And he’s trying to ruin us. Don’t let him do that to us. Don’t don’t do that to me.” He’d told you, hands cupping your face, close to his own, making sure you saw nothing but him, with a tight grip on your cheeks, but easing up when he noticed how harsh his grip was.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought he was scared, desperate even.

You could not find an answer for any of these.

All you knew, was that he didn’t lie to you. It didn’t seem like manipulation or coercion, when, by paying the slightest amount of attention, you could see the signs yourself.

The only thing that might have been an indicator of Satoru’s claims being true, were the things Suguru had said about the falsehood of your shared love with the former.

And that was something you knew wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. You refused for it to be.

He loved intensely, yes.

He may be obsessed.

But his love was not poisonous.

It definitely wasn’t the reason for the headaches that became more frequent after this encounter.

It didn’t make your skin feel feverishly hot and your hands shaky.

It couldn’t have. He was healing what was wrong with you, if anything.

And he made sure to show you once again that he was only able to make you feel good, when he buried his head between your legs and coaxed multiple blissful orgasms out of you. Lapping up your essence with passion, letting it drip down his chin, which you gently wiped with a thumb when he came back up to kiss you, making you taste yourself on his lips.

He filled all your senses with himself, intoxicating you.

You tangled your legs around his waist, as his hands gripped your hips and pulled you closer, sunk deeper into you. Your bodies were pressed against eachother, fitting perfectly into one another, as if it really was meant to be.

He couldn’t stay endlessly, you couldn’t leave your lake for too long, so you couldn’t be together constantly.

Yet.

He left your thighs, collarbones and breasts littered with dark lovebites, marking you up deliberately.

As if he’d anticipated exactly who would visit your lake during his absence.

Suguru, tall and imposing, yet not threatening figure stood at your lake once again, a few days had passed since you’d seen Satoru.

In that time, you seemed to have developed a fever. You were hot all over and couldn’t seem to think straight. The water of your lake was just as warm, so the only refuge for you was the surface, where occasional wind helped ease your body and mind.

That’s what you did, sitting on a stone, eyes closed as you felt a light breeze fan your skin under the radiant sunlight.

You noticed Suguru by the way his shadow blocked the sun from you, keeping your eyes closed. At first, you’d thought he was Satoru, but he wouldn’t just stand there.

“To what do i owe the pleasure?”

You opened your eyes slowly, seeing his ominous, dark frame in midst of lush grass and vibrant flowers.

Somehow, he didn’t seem out of place here.

“Let me guess actually.”. A playful smile formed on your lips, which you then repressed, putting a hand over your forehead dramatically and leaning backwards. “You must have sensed another disruption of divine balance, something about me that is progressively getting worse and oh— my wretched self that’s pestering the world!!”

He didn’t need to even listen to your words, the tone and mannerisms were enough of an indicator for him that you were making a mockery of him.

With an unwavering gaze that merely held his sharp eyes and slight frown, he answered. “You are putting words into my mouth, i don’t appreciate it. Though you’re not entirely wrong. You are an anomaly. And whatever effect your current… state has on the realms, is indeed progressively getting worse.”

At your unimpressed look, he sighed.

“And… while i could not care less about that pompous man’s well-being, he’s been nothing short of obsessed with you. He’s losing himself.”

That got your attention. It almost annoyed him how your attention only seemed to get perked when he mentioned him.

You never took him seriously from the first time he saw you, it made him wonder. Was that just your personality? Did you deep down actually care more than you let on? Was it some sort of defense technique? Was it personally aimed at him?

Did you take Satoru seriously?

A part of him wondered how you acted around him.

You weren’t defensive when challenged about your relationship, merely curious in your own way.

You liked to tease him, tempt him even, it seemed.

“So you fear he might drown. Well, what about you?”, your lips curled into the same teasing smile you always had and it widened, when he tilted his head at you as if trying to figure you out. One of your hands was running over the surface of your lake’s water, producing ripples on it.

“Are you tempted to submerge yourself to the water? Don’t you want to prove to me and yourself that you’re stronger? Strong enough to swim? Or perhaps, you yearn to drown in me just as he apparently does.”

“I rather fear for you to dry out.” He answers bluntly, eyeing your flushed skin. “You’re burning up.”

“I am fine.” Your response came quick, smile faltering slightly.

“He is too radiant, too consuming. He is purifying a place that never needed cleansing.”

A quiet huff escaped your lips as your eyes flickered back to his narrowed ones. “Didn’t you look at my lake with disdain, not too long ago? Why are you concerned for it now?” A small pause. “Or are you just concerned for me?”

“There is balance, even in what’s wrong.” He started, you knew he wasn’t going to give you the answer you were pushing for, he never did. “Mistakes and anomalies are a part of nature.”

While his tone was gentle and his stance towards you had shifted to neutral, there was a small part of you that felt like it got stung, while he referred to you as something ‘wrong’ a ‘mistake’. Anomaly was fine, it was true, your lake was oddly connected to the Styx, even though it wasn’t supposed to. But the other words held a certain judgment that was elevated by the fact that he was dutiful and always tried to be reasonable.

“But Satoru—“ he continued, “—consumes, he overwhelms. I can’t tell you what he is doing and i suspect he cannot either. As if he’s not in control of it himself.”

You said nothing, entering your lake again, your skin was getting dry and you had cooled down along with the water, so that it was comfortable enough to be in again.

The aforementioned man didn’t dim his efforts and affection for you one bit. He’d be there with you whenever he could, all over you and you’d be the same with him. He was addictive, even though you recognized whay Suguru said might be much more true than you wanted to admit.

He really was like a drug, made you feel incredibly good when he was with you, clouded your mind and reasoning, but when he left you on your own, the after effects of him lingering, you felt sick, yet couldn’t get enough.

The best way to stop withdrawals was the drug itself, you supposed.

As much as you longed to let yourself indulge and be careless, a certain god of the underworld’s words kept repeating in your mind.

The way he spoke, without judgement towards you, more like he was trying to protect you.

It was definitely foolish to think so, he was merely doing this to keep the order he was always mentioning.

But something about it him, the way he’d kept visiting after, claiming he was just inspecting the area around your lake to try and figure out why this was happening, yet kept glancing more at you than the actual surroundings, fueled your… intrigue? admiration? feelings? and whatever else thoughts you had about him.

You didn’t want to stay ignorant to it either. You had an obligation, more or less.

Since Satoru had brushed you off the first time you had voiced your concerns, and even seemed almost anxious, you decided on a more subtle approach.

Sitting with him on the grass, you trailed your hand over the purple petals of Asters.

“Did you notice?”

His hand caressed your waist in gentle circles, relaxed and smiling. “Notice what?”

“These usually only bloom in mid to late summer and yet it’s early spring and they’re in full bloom.”, you explained to him, chewing on your lower lip.

“Amd what do you make of that, sweetheart?”, he brushed a strand of hair out of your face.

“They’re not the only ones that are early. And it’s warm. Really warm.”

“It’s spring. The warmth is good, it’s comforting, isn’t it?” The way he looked at you, as if wanting confirmation, made your heart ache and you pulled him into you.

“It might be…”

But maybe it isn’t.

“Don’t worry, my sweet girl.”

One of his hands stroked your hair, the other held you close by your waist.

“I’ll protect you.”

Nodding, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. You believed him. Found comfort in it. Even if it might have been frivolous. If you really were drying out, what could he even do?

He was the god of healing, amongst other things.

Logically, he should be healing whatever is wrong with you. And maybe he is.

Maybe this fever, this heat, was part of recovery.

Not to mention that you hadn’t sensed any lost souls arriving here and only rarely remaining ones in limbo.

Satoru must have been healing their spirits, help them moving on somehow.

And that could only be good.

If they found peace, your mind soon would too. You just had to let go of these worries like you did before.

It was easier said than done though.

Especially with Suguru occasionally appearing. He seemed to be more worried with each time he came.

And as time passed, their visits began to push and pull your mind around between different directions.

Satoru came almost every day, even if he could only be there for a short moment. He wanted to spend every possible free minute with you and he made it very clear that overtime, you’d only be stuck together more closely. He would make sure of that.

You wondered what he meant, how he was going to do that. You hadn’t missed his constant allusions of never having to leave eachother again, in due time.

As much as you wanted to love him freely, unrestricted and eternally, the future he seemed to be so certain of for some reason, your worries were fueled, and your skin was indeed drying out.

Not exactly, but you noticed that the time you were able to spend outside of it without your skin starting to slowly get rougher, has shortened significantly.

You didn’t know why or how. It was fine with Satoru, everything was.

But when he was gone…

The other man visiting your lake, provided a stark contrast from Satoru’s radiant warmth. Though he was comforting in his own way.

Lately, he’d made an effort to ease your feverish temperatures, as well as, very much surprisingly so, reassuring you, with actions or implications rather than saying it aloud, that you had your place too and he wanted to prevent you from harm.

It’s something both of the men, running around your mind relentlessly, tried to achieve.

Though their actions— and probably also intentions behind it— couldn’t be more different.

Satoru wanted you to be healthy, of course. But he wanted to make sure you were healthy and happy, only with him, by his side, engulfed in his presence, his hold. He loved you, only you. Your spring was secondary to him, despite you technically not being able to exist without it.

And that was the only reason he bothered to value it too. He could not care less if your lake dried out and some balance was thrown off, as long as he got to have you.

A selfish reason, but that didn’t make you love him any less. You knew he was intense.

Unlike Suguru. He wanted you and your spring to live, to flourish. He knew you were connected and in essence the same and cherished that, made sure to preserve that.

“You’re warm.”, he assessed, with a strong hand, gently brushing over your forehead.

“And you’re cold.” you replyed, managing a cheeky smile, despite the headache his hand was currently easing. “You know, i’ve never been touched by death before. It’s not what i expected.”

“I am not death.”, he almost chided.

“But you’re close enough to make me feel what it could be like. I’ve been wondering what it’s like.” What he’s like. You’d wanted to pry his head open and inspect every single thought of his to figure him out. More than that. You wouldn’t admit that though.

His tone shifts to something almost worried. “Why would you want to know what death feels like?”

“Hmm. Why do people want to feel anything at all? Why do people strive to experience things? Where does the urge to satisfy one’s curiosity come from?” You mused, placing a hand on your chin and looking somewhere into the distance, where the refreshing breeze of wind ruffled the trees behind him.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, mouth opening to give you an answer to your purely rhetorical questions, but you’d changed the topic.

“What’s it like?”, your voice was soft, airy, as you looked up at him again. “Being able to roam around freely and all…”

He paused, blinking at you for a few times, his cold hand stilling on your forehead briefly. “Free? I am not Satoru, who doesn’t care for duty. I may have more freedom than you do, but i am not free.”

“You could be. You’re here.”

“Because i have to be. Not because i am free to do so.”, he kept his voice steady, even when his gaze softened.

You hummed, “So i’m your obligation? Not wanted?”

“It’s both. With you, it’s both.”, it surprised you, he didn’t avoid your question, his tone was soft, caressing your aching mind almost like a lullaby.

“Stay then. For a while longer.”

You shouldn’t ask him to.

For multiple reasons.

But you did.

He should refuse.

But he wasn’t able to.

He already submerged himself in your waters and he felt that he couldn’t fight the currents.

“The first time i came here,” he sooke up unprompted, quietly, almost a whisper, as he looked down at you conflicted. “I came to rid the world of an anomaly, but i found something worse.”

“Worse?”, you mumble, unsure what to make of it, but indulging in too much of his comfort to overthink it.

“My own inability to stay consequent.” Or maybe he found the one person who was able to make him push his duties aside.

divider by @/saradika-graphics art from pinterest, creds to the artist(s)

part one is here

taglist (please comment if you want to be added!)

@lily-bisque @serendididy @goonforgeto @aminekun009 @sureconfused

@heeheehee1805 @myradiaz @sanzzxd @gojousatoruswifey @poetic-painee @qvecu @mushroombabyfairy @astralservantwanderer

@brokenassylum @writtenbyawomen @nocturne-cloud @vivilaviva @whats-a-queen-without-a-king

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littlelamy · 2 days ago

Text

the bright red motorcycle was parked in the driveway—glinting black and chrome under the sun, and the colored finish shimmering just a little from the wax you’d insisted the dealership apply twice. it looked cool and sexy.

you were standing next to it in your cropped jacket and shorts with your sandals dangling from your hand, and freshly manicured toes curling on the hot cement, waiting for rafe to get out of his car to see your surprise. rafe hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet. he was just sitting in the driver’s seat, one brow raised, arms crossed, already suspected something.

you bounced once on your heels, “surprise!” he got out slowly, sunglasses on, a confused look reaching his face, “what is this?”

“you’re looking at it.”

“whose bike is that?”

“yours.”

he blinked. “excuse me?” you did the bounce again. “happy random friday! or early birthday .. or just because i love you.”

“that’s a brand new ducati.” he says, with a confused tone.

“isn’t she pretty?”

“how the fuck—baby—how the fuck did you afford this?”

you beamed, “i had savings.”

rafe gawked at you like you’d grown a third tit, “what savings? you spend five hundred dollars on lip gloss a month.”

“i was saving for something big,” you said, twirling a curl around your finger. “like a big girl purchase.”

he stared. “for what?”

you sighed, dramatically, “i was gonna buy that vintage chanel flap .. the one with the silver clasp.”

he blinked again, “the one you showed me a screenshot of last month and said you’d kill for?”

you pointed a finger at him. “yes! that one! but then when i went to the boutique last weekend it was gone, and the salesgirl said some touron from florida bought it and i almost cried but i didn’t ‘cause i had my freshly done lashes on.”

“so instead of a purse,” he said, very slowly, trying to process everything, “you bought me a fucking motorcycle.”

“yup.”

“with your allowance?”

“yup and some of my money from my online business.”

he scrubbed a hand down his face. “baby .. you didn’t have to do that.”

“i know i didn’t have to .. i wanted to, silly.”

rafe walked over to the bike like it might vanish if he got too close. he crouched, ran a hand over the seat, over the tank, his fingers tracing every line. you watched the way his jaw tensed, brows knit together, and his plush lips parted just a little. you swore you saw an erection, straining hard against the fabric like his cock was turned on by it too.

you stepped beside him, hands behind your back, not going to bring up the hard-on. “i know you’ve been talking about getting one again. and i thought .. since someone else snatched the bag i wanted, i could do something cooler.”

he turned, looked at you, eyes unreadable behind his shades. “babe,” he said softly. “this is insane.”

you shrugged, with a smile, messing with the promise ring necklace he gave you. well it wasn't specifically a promise ring, it was his mother's ring. “you spoil me all the time.”

“you suck my dick whenever i breathe.”

“that’s not a transactional thing!” you laughed. “i like doing that.”

he pulled his glasses off, finally meeting your eyes for real. “you shouldn’t blow your money on me.”

“you blow your money on me constantly,” you said, stepping into him. “you buy me everything i point at. you make me breakfast anytime i stay over even when you stay at my house. you drive across town just to bring me a smoothie when i say i need a 'pick me up'. and my favorite part is that you eat me out like you enjoy my pleasure.”

he smirked. “i could go pro.”

you poked his chest. “so let me do this .. just once, okay?”

he went quiet again and looked over his shoulder at the bike. “you love it?” you whispered, coming out as more of a question than a statement.

he didn’t say a word—just turned, slid his arms around your waist instantly, pulled you in flush against your chest, and held you there. “i love you,” he muttered.

you smiled against his neck. “i know.”

“no, like .. i really fucking love you.”

you pulled back just enough to kiss his chin, “and i love you more.” he looked down at you, shook his head once. “God, you’re a fuckin’ maniac.”

“a sexy maniac,” you corrected. he kissed you, pulling you into him, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, fingers splayed possessively over your back. when he pulled back, he wiped under his eyes fast. “God this sand,” he said gruffly.

you blink in shock, “were you crying?”

“shut up.”

“you were!”

“i’m not crying over a bike,” he said, voice cracking just a little, eyes welling with so-called nonexistent tears.

you giggled, hugging him again. “you’re such a softie with me. i love it.”

he squeezed your ass in retaliation. “gonna take you on a ride later.”

“is that a threat or a promise?”

he kissed your cheek, “both.”

you looked over at the ducati. “do i get to name her?”

“only if you’re the first thing i ride on it.”

“ugh, gross.”

“you love it.”

“yeah,” you said, kissing his mouth again. “i really, really do.”

❤︎‬ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @@ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @wintercrows @st8rkey @nemesyaaa @sturns-mermaid @drewswife

#my readers!𐔌´⠀ ᩙᩙ `๑꒱#chichi 𐙚˙⋆.˚#soft!rafe #chichi!reader #chichi x rafe #rafe #rafe imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe smut #rafe fanfiction #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb

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charmedreincarnation · 6 hours ago

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My success story (fucking finally)

I’ve been using your lucid dreaming challenge, and couple of days ago, I had another lucid dream. I used both the MOAB and SSILD methods you provided, and I also created my own subliminal using CapCut AI and YouTube modifier.

In the dream, I was being chased by a killer. That’s usual tbh, my dreams are usually nightmares. In the dream I was climbing buildings, even though I’m terrified of heights and not a climber at all. So I became lucid. I realized the whole thing was just a dream because I can’t climb lol and in that moment I had that awareness, I slipped and began to fall. Out of nowhere, this bird thing appeared. It caught me mid-air and saved me. I remember spinning in circles quickly on purpose, to stabilize myself so I wouldn’t wake up like you said. As I was spinning, I looked at the creature thing and said pls, take me to my guardian angel and it did.

It brought me to a woman who had long blonde hair, wings, and a godly presence. She was beautiful. Her name was Helena. I don’t know if she’s really my guardian angel or if I created her in the dream, but either way idgaf but she felt familiar. She told me she’s been watching over me. I asked her to make the dream more beautiful, and instantly, the entire scene changed. She created colors I’ve never seen before shades that don’t even exist in waking life. It looked like a rainbow field, but more cosmic and way more surreal.

Then I asked her to Please, help stop my suffering. Even if I don’t shift right now, please wake me up in a reality where I don’t feel this way anymore, so I can finally focus on my journey She said okay and right after that, I fell off the bird and woke up.

Then i had another false awakening. I knew immediately that I was still dreaming. It was a false awakening, and I could tell unlike the first few times this happened to me. In this dream version of my room, my mom had a lottery ticket. It was dated March 2025. In the dream, it was the winning ticket and then I remembered Neville Goddard’s story about dramatizing the wish fulfilled in a lucid dream and waking up holding the physical item from your dream. So in my false awakening, I decided to do the same. I held onto the ticket tightly and laid back down in the dream bed still holding it as if I were going to sleep with it in my hand so I could wake up with it in real life.

I still can’t believe it actually worked. I woke up with the lottery ticket in real fucking life. It was a real, physical ticket and not just any ticket, but one dated from March like in the dream. I showed it to my mom, and told her it was one of her old ones I forgot to check and she told me to go ahead and check it, just in case. Honestly, I didn’t think anything would come of it. It felt too wild to be real. But it was the winning ticket.

It was a large amount. I won’t say the exact number because I know you can trace things like that online, but just know it’s enough that I don’t have to work. At all. My parents even texted me that morning telling me to just go get my master’s degree, which is literally all I wanted. I didn’t want luxury or fame or anything wildI just wanted time. I wanted freedom. I wanted to not suffer and stress about surviving while trying to shift. the craziest part is that same night, I went to bed and woke up in my dream life. I didn’t even use a method. Just knowing I had money now was enough to trigger the shift I had been chasing for years. And when I say years, I mean it. I’ve been trying to shift since 2016, even before I knew what shifting actually was. I didn’t have the language back then, hut I knew I wanted to explore realities and be apart fk books and movies I’ve been watching and reading. I’ve been consciously trying since probably since 2022 and now, it finally happened.

I had a detailed list of everything I ever wanted down to the tiniest details and I’m still in shock because it all manifested and even more than I asked for. I revised my family dynamic, I revised my appearance, my mental state, my location, my lifestyle, my confidence, and my bank account. I copied Jay @heliosoll and I created my own WR to be my “home reality”and now it’s where I spawn anytime I die in places I will shift to. I manifested everything I wanted. It’s actually overwhelming in the best way. I’m not even going to list it all because it would take forever, but I no longer have anxiety. I no longer struggle with depression. My parents, who used to be strict, emotionally distant, and dismissive like a lot of traditional African parents are now revised to be loving, emotionally present, supportive, and woke. I’m so gorgeous now. And I have real friends and so many of the when before, I was just mid (and very insecure) and surrounded by fake people who only kept me around to feel better about themselves. They just wanted someone to compare themselves to, someone to use for easy validation.

Now I have hobbies, passions, and interests that actually make me happy. Before, my only “hobby” was honestly just surviving my depression. Now I will read, l paint, cook, Work out, journal, write, and travel. My house is clean, spacious, and beautiful. Before it was small, cluttered, and dark. honestly, I used to think it was haunted. I have pets now, even though I used to be allergic. I have so much money like real, life-changing money. Generational wealth level even more than the lottery and I’m already thinking of what kind of business I want to start. I’m leaning toward something luxurious maybe creating my own high-end purse line or maybe something more scalable and simple like e-commerce. I don’t know yet, but I finally have the time, resources, and peace of mind to explore it. Right now, I don’t want a boyfriend But when I am ready, I’ll be manifesting someone tall, rich, attractive, and deeply in love with me. A respectful simp with range, loyalty, and no ego issues. Someone emotionally intelligent and obsessed with me, in the healthiest way.

I even left a few things open-ended, just to let the universe surprise me. For example, I didn’t script a specific car model I just asked for something beautiful and rare. I ended up with a matte black Bentley Bentayga, fully wrapped in metallic lavender detailing with a custom interior from Mansory. It literally looks like a concept car. We also have a yatch and it’s a Sunseeker 100 Yacht I didn’t even know what that was 2 days ago!

But yea….First of all, I want to thank myself, you, and @gorgeouslypink even though, at one point, I genuinely thought you two were the same person. Sorry about that. And also, thank you to @sugarcoatedcherry . You guys really helped me stay focused and hopeful.

I wasn’t even going to post this because im not gonna lie I hate this app sometimes. The drama, the performative advice, the endless paragraphs of recycled nonsense… it made me want to log off for good. But I promised a few friends I’d share what actually worked for me, especially on here and Tumblr, because there were some genuinely helpful people who kept it real.

So here’s what I did one last timefor the girls and gays:

1. I made my own subliminal.

I used CapCut and layered my affirmations over this sound:

https://youtu.be/60o-pNwOmCE?si=KmE52FM6eb_hziL3

To create the affirmations, I took all my doubts and anxieties and put them into AI and asked it to reframe those fears into positive, subconscious-language affirmations. Then, I recorded them in my own voice, because your subconscious responds more deeply to your own tone and rhythm.

2. I used the MOAB sub in the morning and then I listened to my subliminal all day and night

3. I ordered galantamine.

It was supposed to arrive that day, but clearly… I didn’t even need it, LOL. That said, I did research it, and I’ve heard great things especially for lucid dream induction. It just takes forever to ship.

4. I went to bed with a clear intention and naturally woke up around 4 a.m. and did SSILD, super lazily.

5. I read @charmedreincarnation post about dream character control.

This was a game-changer for me. One of my biggest struggles used to be chaos in my dreams characters acting wild, not listening, or turning on me. That post explained how to keep dream characters in line and reminded me that it’s my reality. My rules. Keeping things emotionally stable in the dream really helped me shift with clarity.

Thats it, either way, I’m free. And so are you. I won’t be answering DMs. I’m not even planning to post on my account anymore. I’m choosing to finally leave and live my life now. I really believe that using my own voice for my subliminal was the key that changed everything for me.

My only advice is this a lot of people on here are stuck. They argue over methods, obsess over drama, and waste time fighting on Tumblr instead of actually shifting. Stay far away from that energy. Focus on your life lol. Focus on your self. And don’t fear the world. With shifting, you’re no longer bound by it. When your consciousness is aligned, nothing outside of you can control your experience. That’s the real freedom.

Hey sorry I just saw this but idk if it will post bc the format is too long but that dream sounds wild, and now I’m seriously intrigued by the Neville Goddard lucid dreaming method. I’ve never tried it before, but I’m definitely interested now. I’ve also used the Hemi-Sync theta waves and I 100% recommend it. It works incredibly . I’m so happy the lottery win ended up being a gateway to something even bigger: stepping into your dream life.

I’m so happy for you!!!you truly deserve all your success. The commitment and patience you showed throughout the process is such great part of every success story. It’s always inspiring to see someone stay dedicated and trust the timing. Wishing this and so much more to everyone on their own journey. Thank you for sharing all the details it was inspiring to say the least and I’m going to try some of these techniques myself!

#lucid dreaming #sucess story #manifesation

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midnight---hollow · 1 day ago

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MY LITTLE TWISTED PONIES!! Friendship is… not gonna happen with this group of little shits-

Last night i had the urge to draw twst characters and ponies thanks to @hopeluzromantic (whos sona is on here, next to malleus ^^) and despite never having drawn ponies before i did it anyways. Im quite proud of it i think they all look very silly. Clemot from pokemon is also there just ignore him i call him “freaky pony”

Under read more i yap about why i picked that type of pony and their cutie marks and stuff

Vee: earth pony blank flank but they have their shark features. They are a blank flank because their whole story in nrc is them finding their purpose in life. They spend their whole life following orders and not thinking for themself. Vee doesnt have hobbies, talents, skills, not even morals. Their time at nrc is to have that freedom and i imagine once they learn their passion it would probably changed to a paint brush or something architect-y since they decide to become an artist and architect at the end of their third year

Azul: unicorn, his tail has his tentacles and cutiemark is based on its a deals contract. His horn is swirled to imitate a tentacles aswell. I think he would use magic to hide his tentacles tail since he is def ashamed of it. That’s also why its all bunched up.

Malleus: allicorn. His flank is covered in thorns cus yknow thorn fairy briars type shift. Under the thorns is probably malificents wings less cus it makes sense for him more cus i thought its be cool. Maybe we can take it as his future being one of power buy also one where he must practice restraint. Dragon tail and two horns which means double the power. His wings are crow wings cus of his dad so no matter his coat color his wings will be black

Luz: alicorn. In the tefiti form flowers grow through his hair and wings. His cutie mark trails down his legs. When he becomes te ka his flowers wilt and his mark is instead replaced with soot and smoke to represent the withering. I also imagine his coat color turns into a sooty withering shade aswell when he is in teka form

Riddle: tiny ass unicorn. Riddle and rose height difference is even more than in og. Cutie mark is a half painted rose with a heart snd crown in the background. I wanted it to represent the queen of hesrts and her rules yes but moreso how riddle is more than just that perfect example (hence the badly painted rose which i think hed be ashamed of before ob) he probably painted over the rose or used illusion magic to give it the impression of being perfectly red. Despite being tiny and having a tiny horn he is still a very powerful unicorn

Rose: originally i made her an earth pony because yuu isn’t supposed to have powers yknow but i decided fuck that because in every other universe i put rose in she has bird imagery and she would def be a Pegasus. Flowy hair, still blind but she is slaying the house down and trying to keep riddle from burning the house down. Her coat is white but i imagine she still dyes her mane that pastel blue. Her cutie mark is ballet shoes with some roses and clouds in the back, ballet was and still is her passion, its what she wants to do even is she has given up on her dream. While i imagine she still ends up becoming a doctor/scientist in the end her true calling never leaves her and like in twst she probably still practices when she has time to

Jade: unicorn with eel features. They got freaky fish bits to them aswell cus these fuckers are never normal no matter the universe. His mark is based on his um shock the heart since its his um and i cant think of what his or floyds passions would be. how do you make a cutie mark that says “fuck around and find out”? I cant make it based of the family business either because lets be fr thatd probably be a gun. So i based their marks off their ums. Jades is based off that one bad ass shot where there is a spiral behind him as she says shock the heart and of course there would be lightning there aswell cus he is shocking them… in the heart

Floyd: pegasus eel freak. Same thing as jade but his mark represents bind the heart and hes got weird fin wings. I think hed find a way to fly tho idk how. Same thing with jade i based his off his um so his is a heart being wound up. I put bubbles around it because in the manga… he is drowning someone when he says it???? I dont get it either but slay. Both him and jade have a pattern of an eel wrapping around their cutiemark leg. While i got the sides wrong in the drawing, the leg would of course be on the side with their yellow eye and black strand of hair

Clemot: freaky horse that stands on two legs idk i just really wanted to draw him yesterday the demons where calling me and xyzs been my comfort show as of late

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slut4sugu · 5 hours ago

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Hey!!!!

Saw your requests are open...

Sooo can you write a x reader about Kunigami in which when his gf is the most adorable in the world and does and wears cute things and that makes him hard

(ignore if you want btw not forcing!!!!)

ooo I love this idea, thank you for requesting!

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 - (kunigami x fem!reader)

including: established relationship, obliviously flirty sweetheart!reader, dressing room tension, fluff to smut, heavy pining, public teasing, praise kink, semi public sex, soft dom kuni!, p in v, cunnilingus, ⤷ synopsis: kunigami is and has been the best boyfriend a girl could ask for! He's more of a gentleman than any of your boyfriend's were and he always put your well being above even his own at times. Though...lately you've been noticing he gets this almost hungry look in his eye when you model clothes for him. ⤷ word count: 4.5k

Shopping with you had always been a test of endurance for Kunigami.

Not because he didn’t like it—god, no. He liked it too much. Liked watching the way your face lit up when you spotted something cute on the rack, how your pink sparkly nails danced over the silk like it was something sacred. The way your heels clicked against the tile.. you were the definition of a doll. Always dragging him into every boutique on the strip just to ask, “Do you think this shade would complement my eyes kuni?” even though the answer was always yes.

You were sunshine in the middle of sterile, fluorescent lighting. A little too perfect in every mirror you passed. And Kunigami… was losing his damn mind.

Today had been no different. You were on your fifth store, bouncing ahead of him in kitten heels as your sage green skirt rode up with each hop. A mesh bag full of impulse buys slung over his arm, he followed you like a loyal guard dog—hands in his pockets, heart in his throat

“Kuni,” you sing-songed from between two racks of cropped sweaters. “What do you think of this color on me?” You held up something pastel, soft and floaty, and tilted your head in that way that made his brain short-circuit. It was baby blue. Sweet. Innocent.

Kunigami cleared his throat. “Looks… nice.”

“‘Nice’? That’s it?” You pouted, eyes wide, before tossing it over your arm anyway. “You gotta give me more to work with than that sweetie.” He was trying to be helpful. Trying to be the respectful boyfriend. The one who didn’t think sinful thoughts about his girl in the middle of a dress rack, secretly wishing she was bent over in the dressing room whining and moaning as he bullied his cock into her.

But then you tried things on.

And that’s when things got harder. Literally.

The curtains of the fitting room swooshed open, and you stepped out, spinning slowly. The baby blue sweater clung to your curves in all the right places, dipping just low enough to hint at the swell of your breasts. You paired it with tiny denim shorts that showcased endless legs. Kunigami’s gaze traced the line of your spine, the gentle curve of your ass, and the way the fabric stretched taut across the swell of your chest as you lifted your arms to adjust your hair.

“So?” you asked, a playful glint in your eyes. “Better than ‘nice’?”

His throat felt like sandpaper. He could practically feel the blood rushing south, a desperate throb starting behind his zipper. He wanted to rip that flimsy fabric right off you, to bury his face in your neck and breathe you in.

The striker managed a strangled sound that was meant to be a positive affirmation, his hands still jammed deep in his pockets, knuckles white. You just smiled, a knowing, mischievous curve of your lips that made him wonder if you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

You did. You always did.

Ever since you started dating, you had noticed how easily flustered rensuke would get whenever you wore certain things. Tank tops, denim skirts, jean shorts, heeled sandals, pajama shorts, the list went on. Though over time it started becoming everyday things, like a worn sleep shirt or even a basic pink baby tee.

It was a cute little discovery, something you quickly learned to exploit. His stoic, serious demeanor would crack just slightly, a tell-tale blush creeping up his neck, or his eyes would dart away a little too quickly. You'd catch him staring, then pretend not to notice as a low groan escaped his lips when you stretched.

It was a fun game, though you always wondered..what outfit would break him? Lingerie was always the obvious choice, though you wanted to save that for his birthday. You actually asked him one night what outfit he liked best on you and of course, like a perfect boyfriend he said, "You look stunning in anything sweetheart."

Sweet as always . But not what you were looking for, so explaining to him that you genuinely wanted to know just for giggles he confessed, "..The outfit you wore to my birthday dinner." Bingo. The outfit in question was one of your favorites. A ruffled pink mini skirt that bounced like layers of frosted chiffon, and a white corset-style top trimmed in pink lace and ribbon, laced up the back like candy.

It was a fun night, everyone had dressed up and brought gifts for him and made jokes into the night. Though before you could even give your own special gift when you got back to your shared apartment, Rensuke ended up pulling over and fucking you silly in the backseat, your nails digging into his bicep as his mushroom tip bullied your g-spot.

So you needed something lacy for sure, not too slutty but not too innocent to where he could even stand to look away, after hanging the clothes back on their respective hangers. You stepped out of the dressing room once more in deep thought, "You okay pretty girl?" Rensuke asked softly, looking up from his seat on the bench.

You paused, running a hand through your hair. The dresses and outfits you'd tried on were cute, but nothing felt perfect. Nothing screamed 'you'd be insane not to fuck me right now.' "I'm fine baby, just looking for something." You stated, eyes flickering back from the empty wall you had been staring at back down to the display window.

Yellow, not playful enough. Ribbed, no, Red and backless..tempting but too obvious- your eyes nearly flickered to the next dolled up mannequin but then you spotted three girls peering through the shop window like they had found Atlantis. Your head tilted in confusion until you realized they weren't looking at the dresses, they were looking past all the clothes and staring at Rensuke.

Who you clearly didn't mark up enough today, with the way they were carelessly oogling him from outside the shop. You rolled your eyes, your gaze now flickering down to the striker.

He is kind of famous makes sense in a way- wait Is he getting hotter?

You swear your eyes are playing tricks on you with the way you can't tear them off of your boyfriend, his veiny hands currently scrolling idly on his phone, the strong lines of his biceps straining subtly against his white shirt. His sharp jawline and pretty eyes, framed perfectly by the tousled mess of his fiery orange hair. The slight furrow of his brow, the way his bottom lip jutted out just barely in concentration— you were no better than those girls outside.

You seemed to often forget how hot your boyfriend was.

You swallowed, your train of thought completely derailed as you watched him scroll. Seemingly unaware of the chaos he caused.

"See something you like, pretty girl?" he asked without looking up, voice low and warm—so casual, it made your stomach twist. Or maybe not. You blinked, before smiling playfully, "Always, hi handsome." You said in a sing-song voice, waving at him.

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he put his phone aside, “Hey gorgeous,” he said, eyes finally lifting to meet yours—and fuck, the way they raked over your figure sent heat rushing straight to your cheeks.

He leaned back a little, arms spreading casually across the bench behind him like he was trying not to combust. "Didn't think you'd noticed me,” you teased, arching a brow. “I notice everything when it comes to you angel,” he said simply, like it was a fact.

That made you falter for half a beat, but you caught yourself with a playful smirk. He leaned back a little, arms spreading casually across the bench behind him like he was trying not to combust. His gaze didn’t waver.

"Well I noticed,” You walked back over, slow and deliberate, the swish of your skirt catching just slightly on your thighs. “That someone is sitting here looking like the ad for a model agency, all broody and sculpted. And now there's girl's outside drooling over you through glass, kinda unfair kuni."

Rensuke huffed a laugh, leaning back slightly on the bench as his eyes swept over you again. “You know I'd only ever have eyes for you gorgeous, but I think you forgot who’s the unfair one here.”

“Oh?” you teased, settling yourself gently on his lap like it was your designated throne, arms looping around his neck. “You mean the girl who’s been dragging her sweet, patient boyfriend to five different stores today?” He gripped your waist instinctively, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your top like it was second nature. “I mean the pretty girl who’s dressed like temptation incarnate and keeps asking me if she looks good in something, when you always do."

A slow smile tugged at your lips. “Poor baby.”

“You have no idea.”

You leaned in close, lips just ghosting over the corner of his mouth, close enough to feel the way his breath stuttered. “Well then I'll make it up to you, once I find the outfit I'm looking for we can get out of here and go home and have some fun.” you whispered.

His fingers tightened just slightly on your hips. “..You sure pretty?"

“Mm,” you hummed. “Or, you could 'help me out' in the dressing room after I try my stuff on.” And just like that, his patience—already fraying—nearly snapped. You giggled, featherlight and wicked, brushing your nose against his before pulling back. “But only if you’re good,” you added, voice syrupy sweet.

Kunigami’s jaw flexed, the grip on your hips betraying just how not-pure his thoughts were. Looking up at you like he was seconds from forgetting the store had walls—like one more word from you would have him dragging you behind the nearest curtain and proving just how dangerous your games could be.

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You slid off his lap with practiced grace, straightening your skirt and fixing your hair like you hadn’t just threatened to dismantle his entire self-control in thirty seconds flat.

Kunigami blinked up at you, dazed, pink blooming across his cheekbones and the tips of his ears like heat had nowhere else to go. “I’ll be back,” you sing-songed, turning with a playful sway in your step. “Don’t miss me too much, handsome.”

He watched, with an unreadable expression as he watched your hips sway to the next item rack. Fantasizing about how prettier they'd look bucking up into his hand instead.

You slid between racks like you belonged there—past the cotton cardigans and floral baby tees, past the rhinestone-trimmed camisoles and strappy sandals on display… until you reached the far corner of the boutique. A blush-toned nook tucked away from the main lights, haloed in soft pink and gold, where something caught your eye.

There. Hidden behind a row of pale silk dresses and gauzy skirts.

It hung on a delicate satin hanger, tucked away like it was waiting just for you.

A soft blush-pink dress—short and sweet, with a ribbed, almost cotton-candy texture that practically begged to be touched. The bodice was snug, sweetheart-cut and kissed with dainty lace along the top. A pale satin bow sat perfectly at the center, so sweet it almost hurt.

But it was the skirt that made you gasp a little under your breath.

Two tiers of soft ruffles spilled out from the waist, airy and light, like petals caught in a breeze. With every slight movement, they swayed gently, whispering promises of stolen glances and bitten lips. And at the back, soft ribbons crisscrossed all the way down in a corset-like lace-up, tied into a trailing bow at the base of your spine.

It was perfect.

You reached out slowly, running your fingers over the hem with a reverent touch, like anything more would make it vanish. This was it. The dress you’d been hunting for all afternoon. The one you were going to ruin him with.

With a slow, victorious smile, you took it from the hanger, cradling it against your chest as you turned back toward the fitting rooms—already picturing the way Kunigami’s jaw would lock up, the way his hands would twitch like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Game on.

You peeked around the display, catching a glimpse of him still slouched on the bench, one arm draped over the backrest like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just been five seconds from combusting.

He looked up just in time to see you grinning like a girl with a secret.

And that’s when you lifted the dress ever-so-slightly, just enough for him to catch the lace and ribbon detail, before winking and disappearing behind the curtain.

You practically squealed as you put it on, quickly but purposefully—slipping the soft fabric over your skin like it belonged there. The lace hugged your chest, the skirt swished when you turned, and the satin bow at the back? Criminal. You did a slow twirl in the mirror, adjusting the straps, letting your hair fall over one shoulder just so.

Then you pulled back the curtain.

Kunigami was already looking—his gaze snapping up the second he felt you move—and the moment he saw you, his mouth parted slightly. Like he forgot how to speak. Or breathe.

“Holy… shit.”

You giggled, giving him a coy little spin. “Too much?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn't. His eyes dragged down the slope of your neckline, the cinched waist, the hint of thigh that peeked out each time the ruffles bounced. His hands flexed on his thighs, fingers twitching with restraint he no longer had.

You stepped closer, mock-innocent. “So… this the one, you think?”

“Off,” he said hoarsely. You blinked. “Huh?”

“Take it off.” His voice was sharp. Commanding. And there was something in his eyes—pure heat, darkened want—that made your breath catch. Feeling brave, you bit back a smirk saying, "Come take it off me handsome."

Kunigami didn’t say a word. Just stood up in one smooth, heavy movement—like a beast stretching after being caged too long. His strides were fast and sure, and before you could blink again, his hand wrapped around your wrist and he was leading you—no, dragging you—back into the fitting room. The curtain swished closed behind you, and then—

Click.

You barely had time to react before your back was against the mirror. Giggling, you opened your mouth to say something—but you didn’t get the chance. Rensuke’s lips crashed into yours, swallowing the sound and the smirk alike.

It was heat and hunger, all rough edges and the kind of kiss that made your knees buckle. One big hand slid up your side, splaying against your ribs, while the other gripped your thigh and hitched it around his hip like he needed you closer. He pulled back, just inches from your face, his eyes dark and dilated with desire.

"Such a pretty little tease." he rasped, his voice rough. Before you could answer, his lips were on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone. You gasped, head falling back against the cool mirror, giving him more access. His mouth hot, wet, suckling lightly, sending shivers down your spine. "You know I can't say no to you princess, never could. Not to this."

He moved lower, big hands coming up under your dress, fingers hooking around the bands of your panties about to pull them down when you stopped his movements. "Wait, suke, there's so many people out front, and we're not too far from the heel racks, what if someone—!"

Slightly chapped lips crashed down on yours, a swift, silencing force that swallowed your words despite the mischievous smile splayed on your lips. "Should've thought of that before you started this game with me, doll," he rasped. Hands, still hooked in your panties, resumed their relentless downward journey.

He sank to his knees in front of you with a look that made your breath stutter—like you were something holy. Something he’d worship at the altar of. Your panties were peeled down slow, reverent, like he was unwrapping a Christmas gift. And when Kunigami's lips brushed against your inner thigh, your hands shot out to grab the edge of the mirror behind you for support.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice all honeyed grit as he kissed higher, closer. “Already shaking, where did all that confidence go hm?” You tried to respond—tried to say something smart—but then his tongue flattened against your slit and dragged up in one long, eye-rolling lick. Your knees buckled. He didn’t stop.

Groaning low against you, he wrapped his arms around your plush thighs to keep you spread and steady. “So fuckin’ sweet,” he muttered, mouth already glistening. “Bet you’d cum just from me tasting you, wouldn’t you?”

Your answer was a broken moan, your hips twitching when he licked into you again—slower this time, deeper, tongue curling just enough to make you cry out softly. He looked up through thick lashes, expression dark with devotion and intent. Your heart fluttered in your chest at the sight, with a playful smile you stated, "Mmm, your so-hah handsome kuni." Your voice taking on a teasing lilt.

Fuck.

The strain in his pants had already been an issue most of this little shopping spree, but now? When you were on shaky knees, lashes wet, thighs trembling around his head as you giggled down at him like a goddamn angel?

It was unbearable, your teasing had been unbearable the entire day. Though you knew that, you had to with the way you would purposely walk infront of him with that short skirt on, practically flashing him when you would bend over to look at a cute display item. Or when you would hug his arm, pressing your tits against him like it was the most natural thing in the world—soft, warm, and so deliberate.

It was unbearable.

Your teasing had been unbearable the entire day.

You had to know. You had to.

So with one final lick up your cunt, slurping up your slick, he pulled away, leaving you whining at the sudden loss. "Nooo, baby why'd you stopp—"

zippp.

Oh. Your eyes shot open, and your breath hitched.

His hand went straight to his waistband, the sound of his zipper echoing loudly in the quiet boutique. Your eyes widened as he pushed his pants down, his boxers following, revealing the hard, thick proof of his arousal. It sprang free, already glistening with pre-cum, practically throbbing as it rose to greet you. The sight of it, combined with the raw hunger in his eyes, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs.

He reached down, his strong hand grasping your thigh. Before you could even register his intent, he lifted your leg, wrapping it firmly around his waist. The press of his mushroom tip against your dripping entrance, made a soft gasp escape your lips. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

"You wanted to tease me so bad today, so now you'll deal with what you started." he rasped, his voice a low growl of pure desire. You shuddered, with a playful smile, slinking your arms around his neck. "Yes sir."

Then, with a guttural roar, he pushed forward. You cried out, a pornographic moan falling past your lips as the head of his cock slipped in past your opening, stretching you. "Shit, so fuckin tight." He cursed under his breath as his slipped deeper inside, the thickness of his shaft filling you up at just 5 inches.

"Too much, Suke!" you gasped, your voice thick with a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure. You could feel every inch of him, stretching you painfully good. He paused for a breathless moment before whispering, "You can take it." before burying himself to the hilt you with one powerful thrust.

Your back arched against the mirror, a loud gasp tearing from your throat as he filled you completely. The sudden, overwhelming fullness was dizzying. You wrapped both legs now tighter around his waist, clinging to him as he began to fuck up into you. The drag of his cock along your walls already making your brain turn into mush.

The sound of skin slapping filled the dressing room as Rensuke began to pound into you, each thrust deep and relentless. Your walls squeezing his dick like a vice, as your whimpers and moans just further stoke the fire in the striker.

He buried himself deep in your gummy walls, only to pull out and thrust in again, faster, harder. Your head lolled onto his shoulder, hair now frizzy and messy as you panted. The delicate dress that started all of this now rucked up around your waist, a forgotten cut of pink fabric as your hips met his with every delicious thrust.

Each one sending shockwave of pleasure through your core, a blinding flash of white hot pleasure that made your vision swim. You were a mess of gasps and pleas, every muscle in your body taut with anticipation, your nails digging into his shoulder as you quivered. The dressing room seeming small, as it filled with only the wet, insistent sounds of your bodies colliding and ragged breaths.

"That's it, pretty girl," he grunted, his voice raw and strained, a deep growl rumbling in his chest. "Let it out, lemme hear you. Don't you dare hold back." He drove into you one more time, a particularly deep thrust that hit your G-spot with crazy precision, and you cried out, a loud, scream that echoed off the boutique's plush walls.

"Ooo shit right there kuni! right there—yes! fuckk m'gonna cum! you gasped, your voice breaking as you clutched his shoulders, your nails digging into the hard muscle. He pulsed inside you, groaning your name, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge, spilling thick ropes of cum deep within you. The orgasm ripped through you, shattering every nerve ending, leaving you trembling and utterly limp in his arms.

He let out a low, satisfied growl, his breath ragged against your neck. He slowly pulled out, the wet schlorp of skin separating echoing in the small dressing room. You almost whimpered at the sudden emptiness. "You with me pretty?" He asked, voice softer, pressing a kiss to your neck.

You nodded, still a little dazed, your body thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You reached out, gripping a metal rail to steady yourself as your legs finally met the floor. Rensuke then reached for your discarded panties, which lay in a rumpled heap on the floor. With an almost casual grace, he picked them up and, without breaking eye contact, slowly began to pull them back up your trembling thighs.

"What—suke, no!" you protested, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks. He just chuckled, letting the delicate lace slide over your wetness, trapping his sticky cum inside.

"Oh, yes," he purred, securing them fully. "You started this, pretty girl. Now you get to carry a little reminder of your stunt you pulled." He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "Think you can hold it all the way home?" The challenge in his voice was clear, leaving you breathless and aching with a new kind of anticipation.

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