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dastardly-imbecile · 23 days ago

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A Lesson in Culpability

By the time he makes it home, an hour later, it is approaching midnight. For once, the roles as he slips into bed are reversed—Caroline sleeping, him creeping like a burglar under the sheets—and he almost feels guilty until he gets a whiff of the scent on the sheets, something like mushrooms and ozone, and he remembers watching her meander off towards the fortune-teller’s tent during the fair.

If he’s some sort of sinner, then she is too, broke the inviolable contract of marriage, and Pierre has never been one for unequal bargains. — Five times it isn't Pierre's fault and one time it is. OR Pierre's life sucks and he gravitates the one thing that brings him joy: Morris OR Old Man Yaoi(sad version)

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Wordcount: ~8.4k

The first reason it’s not Pierre’s fault is because Caroline did it first. That’s what he tells himself, anyways, the first time that he gets up in the middle of the night in the guise of ‘going to the bathroom’ and instead slumps against the cold tile and tries to scrub Morris’s face out of his mind. It’s not even bad, a stray—nay, intrusive—thought or two, because he hasn’t done anything other than argue with the man a bit. They’re enemies.

And, in any case, back to that original reason, it’s because he knows there’s a reason Abigail doesn’t need to dye her hair anymore. He remembers those long nights of early, unhappy marriage, in which she’d take off at dusk for long walks down to the tower, not come back until dawn, slide into bed smelling of tea and smoke and fresh rain. Marnie asked him, one time, what Caroline was doing walking past her house at four AM and scaring all the cows, and he had to grit his teeth and spill out some pithy lie, and the humiliation from that is enough to pay for any errant thought ten times over.

Sure, now, a good two decades later, they’re fine, but still, she’s racked up quite a bit of moral debt and so, in turn, he’s earned the right to think, briefly, of the man.

He’s never stepped into a Jojamart—moral obligation, that—but Morris finds some perverse joy in invading Pierre’s corner store, strolling up to the counter and slinging a few remarks back and forth about prices and customers and sales quotas. It’s always bothered him, but it’s never bothered him, not until the recency of a few months past. Wherein even after Morris leaves, he can smell the sharp, artificial tang of his cologne, where sometimes he glances out his bedroom window and sees him trekking up to Jojamart in the morning, down back to his rented house at night, both of which occur at the ungodly hours of five AM and eleven PM respectively.

Pierre’s always been a dedicated man—has to be, ever since he was shafted into the position of reviving a dying corner store—but even that ethic quite pales in comparison to his. It makes him disgusted and envious and curious in equal measures.

In the morning, after another few nightly hours spent in the bathroom—not even doing much of anything with the time, simply leaning against the wall and trying to think and not think in equal measures, breathing in the only Yoba-damned bit of solitude he ever gets—he settles behind the counter once again. Caroline and her aerobics group are back in the living room, and Abigail is off doing something with her friends, and the day of drudgery is punctuated occasionally by the occasional customer.

Usually, the most entertaining thing to happen is that new farmer coming in with four hundred melons or something of the like, but today, even that isn’t here to break up the boredom. Word is that Linus dragged them out of the mines the day before—at least, that’s what he hears from Harvey next door—so they’re probably too busy recuperating to bless his shop with the entertainment of an obscene amount of produce. Pity.

And then, the doorbell rings, and the day brightens by a considerable amount. Elliott, the only other one in the shop, looks up, and exits immediately. Usually, he’d be angered by the loss of a customer, except he swears Elliott does nothing except stand there for four hours and meticulously read the packaging of every single item in the store, and, even then, that annoyance is immediately stifled when he realizes who it is.

Black suit and obnoxiously long coat, obnoxiously large red tie, obnoxiously gelled hair, little glasses perched on the brim of his nose like the greedy capitalist playing at twee aristocracy that he is, Morris walks slowly down the aisle. He takes a deliberately long time, examining the new summer stock, picking up a few packets of seeds and turning them about as diligently as if he was going to plant them himself. That annoyance resparks almost immediately, like muscle memory, and far from hating the feeling, Pierre revels in it—for, before Morris, he has not felt anything as strong as this.

Well, that’s a lie. He remembers the humor of seeing a solid-gold statue of Mayor Lewis in the town square, remembers irritation when Demetrius chases him down at the saloon to ask whether a tomato is a fruit—absurd question, who’s putting that in a fruit salad?—remembers a heart-twisting sort of anguish when Caroline vanished during the Flower Dance and came back with a violet flower tucked behind her ear.

Pierre is not some emotionless machine, far from it, it’s just that this inspires a fire in him that he hasn’t felt since he was trying to be a boxer, before he resigned himself to being a small-town shop owner for life.

“Buying customers only,” he states, when Morris appears to be too engrossed in a packet of corn seeds to come to the counter. He snorts, plucking the packet from the container, saunters to the desk and tosses it upon it.

“How much? Ten gold?”

“One-fifty,” he grinds out. Morris laughs—actually has the audacity to laugh—but he digs into his pocket for a small pouch of jingling coins, carefully counts out the correct amount, piling it into a neat little pyramid upon the counter.

“Highway robbery, Pierre! Joja’s grows faster, is pest-repellant, and we sell it for cheap. No wonder you’re bleeding customers.”

“‘Bleeding’ is a strong word,” he sniffs, “did you not see Elliott, just now?”

He barks out another laugh. “The hermit? Does he buy anything? What would he pay in, seashells?”

The worst thing about this is that Morris is right. Pierre doesn’t deign to respond, instead picking up the single packet of seeds. “Don’t suppose you’ll need a bag?”

Morris takes it straight from his hands, and fingers brushing for the faintest moment, and Pierre withdraws immediately. Still, the man doesn’t turn to leave, a part of him is horrifically happy for that, despite the fact that the only reason he’d stay is to attempt to insult him a bit more.

Which proves true only a second later.

“From my point of view,” he says, leaning back and surveying the space dramatically, “it’s, in fact, rather empty.”

“It’s ten AM on a tuesday,” Pierre snaps back, “not exactly the best of sample sets.”

“When are you busiest, then?” Morris asks.

He hesitates, trying desperately to grasp at schedules, before eventually settling on, “noon. Saturday.”

“I’ll be checking, then,” Morris says, tucking the corn seeds into his pockets, and it sounds like both a threat and an invitation. To what, Pierre’s not sure, but as he turns and ambles away from the store, he makes a mental note of Saturday.

That night, Caroline is nowhere to be found, and he only barely manages to catch Abigail on her way out of the house.

“Where are you going?” He asks her. She fixes him with the flat stare that he’s come to expect means he’s being some form of lame.

“Sam’s. We have band practice on Tuesdays, remember?”

Right. Jodi, as a matter of fact, complains about them quite liberally to Caroline, but it probably wouldn’t do to crush Abigail’s dreams of becoming a rockstar or whatever she plans to do with the band.

“Do you know where your mother is?”

“Dunno,” she says, shrugging loosely, and then pausing, eyes flicking towards the ceiling. “I think Haley said something about seeing her going to the forest?”

“What’s she doing out there?” Pierre asks, though he already knows, deep in his gut. Abigail’s purple hair shines in the dark. He used to bemoan how much money it took, going to ZuZu City every few months to redye her hair, but now he almost misses those days, in which he didn’t have to know the violet came not from artificial substances, but her very own genome.

“Dunno. I don’t like talking to Haley.” She wrinkles her nose. “Probably enjoying nature or something. Or, isn’t there a trader out there sometimes?”

He almost manages to grasp onto the idea of the trader, before remembering that they only come on Fridays and Sundays—another tidbit of knowledge from the Farmer. When he doesn’t respond, Abigail throws up a hand in a casual wave, walking towards the door.

“Bye, Dad. I’ll be back before midnight. Maybe. I’ll crash at Sam’s if we go too late.”

He doesn’t manage a, “bye,” until the door is already shutting softly.

There is nothing in the fridge but leftovers, most of them not even his. A few closed containers of tea, many of Abigail’s half-finished meals, a piece of quartz for some reason. Unbidden, he bends, reaching towards the produce drawer, and from inside withdraws an ear of corn. Stands, shuts the fridge, walks woodenly towards a pot.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. In fact, he hates corn.

Despite that, when it’s cooked, he brings it to the table, examines it under the light. It’s another one of that new Farmer’s crops. They brought two hundred ears, in fact, and he still remembers trying to hold in his astonished laughter as they carefully took each one individually from a backpack that looked far too small. It’s clearly high-quality, round and fat and gleaming.

When he bites down, the kernels burst in his mouth, sweet and hot, and there’s the part of his mind that knows he detests this grain, but the rest is occupied with the question of what, exactly, Morris is planning on doing with those seeds he bought.

He’s already been in bed for a sleepless hour by the time Caroline comes back, slipping in like she thinks he’s asleep. Abigail never did come back home—she and Sam and Sebastian are probably going to be the topic of Jodi’s complaints for the next month. Not that he begrudges her for that. They hosted Sam at their house exactly once, and he left a can of Joja Cola on Yoba’s altar. Sebastian’s marginally better, but that doesn’t mean much.

“Where have you been?” He asks. She rolls over.

“Oh, just around.”

“Abby said you were heading to the forest.”

She hesitates for a long moment. The silence draws out.

“Just looking at some of the plants that grow down there,” she manages eventually, “seeing if I can bring anything back to the greenhouse. Where is Abby? Are you letting her stay out again?”

“Find anything?” He asks, not letting her change the subject.

“No. Look, if she wants to keep living in our home, I think she should-”

“I’m tired,” he snaps, shutting her down. She quiets immediately.

“Goodnight,” she manages eventually.

He doesn’t respond.

The next morning, when he makes the bed, he finds a long strand of purple hair entangled in the sheets.

—

The second reason it’s not his fault is because Morris issued the challenge. He’s pleased, on Saturday morning, to see the shop as packed as it ever is. Harvey poring over the newly imported coffeebeans, Marnie and Lewis chatting in the corner, Elliott mouthing the words on a snack package, Leah picking through the artisan goods, and Gus being the only person to actually buy groceries.

His heart actually jumps a bit when he spots Morris through the window, that familiar fluttery black coat. The doorbell jingles only a second later, and the man steps in. All eyes turn to him briefly, but soon, they return to their previous activities.

Pierre feels the most satisfaction he’s perhaps ever felt, seeing the quick flicker of shock, followed by an unhappy sort of sulk, appear on Morris’s face.

“You just going to stand there?” He asks, when he doesn’t move. Urged by the words, Morris approaches the counter, plucking a small packet of radish seeds from a shelf.

“Color me surprised, Pierre. I might say it’s bustling in here.”

“Empty Joja?” He asks, fake sympathy absolutely coating his voice.

“Not quite.” Morris half-smirks, tossing the seeds down upon the counter, “can’t predict this hubbub will last long. But I might as well pitch in, eh? How much’re you upcharging for these?”

“Twenty.”

He lets out a long, low whistle. “That’s almost reasonable. Full of surprises today.”

Pierre grimaces. “Are you paying, or not?”

Whatever Morris is about to say next is interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. He glances up, over his shoulder, to spot the Farmer stepping into the store. For a moment, he’s quite afraid that they’re about to unload a couple hundred pounds of produce onto his counter, but no—instead, they make a straight beeline for Lewis, pulling from their backpack a single large hot pepper. Then, to Marnie, a whole diamond. Similar stories for Gus, Leah, Elliott, Harvey—a gleaming orange, a paper-wrapped goat cheese, a perfectly-coiffed duck’s feather and, somehow even more astonishing than Marnie’s diamond, a cup of coffee.

He’s equal parts afraid and excited when they approach him. This time, from their bag comes a book, thick and shiny in the way that new things all are. On the cover, in bold letters, it reads Price Catalogue, 5th Edition.

“It’s… it’s perfect,” he manages, staring down at the book, at the immaculate drawings of gold coins running down its spine, “how did you know..?”

“Seemed right,” they reply, shrugging. He—and, everyone else, perhaps—waits for them to turn to Morris, offer up some perfectly-curated gift, but they do not look towards him at all. A silent moment passes, and then two, and then three, and finally, Morris slides twenty coins across the counter, snatching up the packet of Radish seeds with an uncharacteristic quickness.

“I’ll be leaving,” he says. Gus, when he passes, offers him a slice of orange, but he ignores him completely, buffeting out the door.

Pierre stares at the Farmer, unsure whether to address this or not, because on one hand, exclusion is exclusion, but on the other, Morris is Morris. Greedy capitalist come to ruin Pelican Town, the antithesis to this from-the-bootstraps farmer, and he’s probably threatened to buy out their farm more than once, but still, there’s that niggling urge to say, that wasn’t very kind-

And then, they upend their backpack on his counter, sending him reeling back under the force of an avalanche of radishes.

“Harvest came in,” is the only explanation they give.

That night, while he’s cooking dinner, Abigail comes in, takes a single look at the pot, and promptly turns up her nose.

“Radishes? Really, Dad? I don’t like those.”

“Farmer sold me three hundred today,” is his only reply, and she groans, stomping out of the room. Caroline rushes after her, no doubt to give some lecture on being picky or something like that, and he stares down at the pot. Half-truth—three-quarters truth, even, because he did in fact have to count through three hundred radishes that morning, but he also cannot help but remember Morris and seeds and the faint expression of hurt on his face, when faced with no gift.

Something’s wrong with him. They have not done a single thing but exchange a few thinly-veiled hostilities, so why can he not stop the excitement when he strolls into the store, why can he not stop taking long strolls through the town and pausing in front of Jojamart?

Why, when he dreams that night, does he imagine waking next not to Caroline but instead the broadness of a black-cloaked back, face obscured?

—

The third reason it’s not his fault is that he’s slightly drunk at the Stardew Valley Fair. Pelican town has long turned to fall, all its colors darkening and browning and the warmth of summer whisked away by a chill wind. Life is as normal—Abigail and Caroline are still Abigail and Caroline, people brush in and out of the store, Morris pops in semi-weekly, always buying some sort of seed and quipping something obnoxious about the price. It’s the only good measure he has of time, really, those brief moments of entertainment that somehow feel clandestine. Moreso because it seems Morris lingers longer and longer, always finding small nitpicky details to comment on, Pierre, looks like there’s a few scuffs in the wall, or oh, sold out of bouquets? Not very professional of you.

The bouquet absence was, in fact, the Farmer’s fault. He has no earthly idea what they’d need twelve of the things for, but he has noticed that they’ve recently started wearing a rabbit’s foot clipped to their belt. In fact, most of his problems stem from them—from late nights cataloguing dozens of stacks of produce, to the occasional drinking mayonnaise incident, to this new humiliation at the fair—namely, being beaten at the grange display with a fucking display of purple shorts.

Before them, it was ten year streak of victory with superior produce. Briefly almost broken two years ago, when Willy caught a mighty octopus, but that was also the first year to have the title of Grange Display Winner revoked after the octopus managed to suction onto Lewis’s face and required Marlon’s intervention to remove.

This, though, this is pure humiliation and corruption and horrible and a hundred other words, and he breaks away from Caroline’s conciliatory pats to grab a bottle of saved-up wine and find an uninhabited corner to sulk in. Which turns out, unfortunately, to he behind Clint’s store, with the furnace clagging away and the horrible smell of smoke in the air and unfortunately close to Jojamart.

He only realizes that last detail when someone claps him on the shoulder and says, in that familiar smarmy tone, “heard you lost.”

“Morris,” he groans, taking another swig from the bottle, “fuck off.”

There’s real anger in his voice—not the faux sort of annoyance that comes about in their usual day-to-day banter—and Morris must notice, because he’s quiet for a long second.

“...Really? Got you down that bad?”

“That damn Farmer,” he curses, “it would’ve been- Marnie, or Willy, sure, I’d have congratulated them. But they won with shorts. I know they have good produce, they unload it on my counter every damn week, so…”

Another long moment of silence. Pierre turns, if only to make sure that Morris has not walked off completely- but no, he’s still here, observing him with a gaze that looks almost sympathetic.

“If it makes you feel better, Pierre,” he says, “I just witnessed them eat six of Gus’s burgers. In a row. Seems they were gearing up for more, too, but I left because I could not bear to watch anymore.”

He laughs. It’s undignified, no doubt helped by the alcohol in his system, but he shakes his head. “Not better at all. You aren’t down there?”

“Of course not.” Morris adjusts his glasses, “it’s all so… so, ah, quaint, but not my scene, really. Besides, I doubt I’d be welcome.”

His first instinct, that politeness that’s born from years of hobnobbing with the other adults of Pelican town, the sort where you can’t afford to be anything but cordial, is to say, no, you’d be welcome, I’m sure.

After only a moment, however, he knows that’s not the right answer whatsoever.

“Probably not. You’re not very well-liked.”

Morris shrugs. “Ah, well. Not my intentions, here. All I’ve wanted is to outsell you, and I seem to be quite successful there.”

“You’re a dirty liar. Show me your ledger and then I’ll believe you.”

He smirks. “Well, I’m quite a bit too successful to have a simple ledger, but would you believe I was doing paperwork, before I saw you out here?”

It’s an invitation, hidden behind those irritating words as it is.

Pierre takes it.

Ten minutes later, they are inside Jojamart for the first time. He doesn’t even realize the monumental nature of this step until he’s in Morris’s office. It’s surprisingly cozy, compared to the cold, white sterility of the outside shelves—carpeted, with a bookshelf pushed up against the far wall and a grand auburn-colored desk.

“See,” Morris says, pointing to a line of numbers, and that of course triggers an argument about who’s truly winning. Pierre breaks it only by, eventually, stepping away, clutching his head.

“Yoba, this is depressing. I know you’re the town pariah and all, Morris, but must you do paperwork on a holiday?”

“What else would I do?” He asks, sniffing haughtily. Pierre shrugs.

“Sleep? Travel? Bus was fixed a while ago, you could go anywhere.”

“Ha! I wouldn’t trust Pam to drive a bicycle.”

“Then anything but this,” he says, “I’m- I built my store from the ground up, and I still didn’t give this stuff more time than I had to.”

“Are you saying I didn’t build this up?” Morris asks, raising a single eyebrow. He adjusts his glasses again, leaning back in his plush seat. “I wasn’t always a Joja manager, you know. Started out as a shelf-stocker, built my way up.”

“All that effort for this?” Pierre snorts. This argument, again, is taking on a different tone, one that he doesn’t entirely know how to navigate. “You’re really going to be a manager for life?”

“You’re going to be a store clerk for life?”

“A businessowner.”

“Well-” Morris straightens his bowtie, “then call me a CEO.”

Pierre collapses against the wall. Useless argument, surreal situation. Outside, the fair’s no doubt winding to a close, and he’s still here, in this argument, quibbling about who’s relatively more successful.

“Fine, fine. Be a manager. Whatever. You can still take a day off. Walk through the forest-” his heart gives an uncomfortable palpitation at the words- “or… get drunk. Anything but this.”

Morris looks down at the bottle of wine, left upon the counter, then back at him. “Are you offering?”

“Sure,” he replies, expecting him to balk, because they have not reached this degree of closeness, but Morris picks up the bottle, takes a slow, graceful sort of drink, then proffers it to Pierre.

“As long as you don’t charge me for that.”

Any momentary surprise is washed soon away by the alcohol and the desire to reply, and so he lets out a derisive laugh. “Rich, coming from you.”

Still looking him in the eye, he takes a drink, passes it back, and soon, the tension bleeds away, replaced by another feeling. They talk, actually talk, and Morris is insufferably smug as he tells him of a childhood in ZuZu City, working his way up the Joja ladder, but somehow, it’s all fascinating. And, on his part, he does not look to be faking the interest in his eyes when Pierre speaks of a failed boxing career, of learning how to run a general store day-by-day.

He only realizes how much time has passed when he glances out the window and sees it’s completely dark outside, even the lights of the fair extinguished. The bottle is near-empty, between the two of them, and he jolts up, cutting Morris off mid-word.

“I should go.”

“Oh. I suppose it is dark.”

He moves towards the door, and to his surprise, Morris comes out from around the desk, accompanying him. Upon reaching the doorway, he pauses, turning back to look at him.

“This was… a good distraction. From all that.”

“Rather apt metaphor for your store as a whole.”

The words have no sting to them—in fact, he chuckles.

“Yeah. Say that until we shut Joja down.”

“Who’s we?”

No witty answer springs to mind, so he pauses for a moment, and that instant of pause turns into just…

Just staring. How many times has he thought of Morris on those late nights, how many times has he anticipated his entrance into the grocery store? His eyes are relaxed, coat slightly rumpled, glasses lower on his nose than usual. In the bright fluorescent light of Jojamart, he’s a bit washed out, yes, but there’s a certain…

“Pierre?” Morris asks, brow creasing, “perhaps you really should-”

He leans forwards and presses his lips to Morris’s, cutting off those words, and for a moment everything is stiff and horrible and he’s so acutely aware of the bad judgement on this.

And then, the moment passes when Morris leans forwards, softening, one hand coming to rest on Pierre’s side, large and warm. This, too, bliss as it is, goes on for only a second longer, before both break away.

“I shouldn’t have-” Morris starts, at the same time as Pierre says, “was that okay?”

Both hesitate, staring at each other once again.

“You have a wife,” he states eventually, “a child.”

He laughs. “She cheated on me first. With the wizard, no less. Still does it.”

“What? The- I thought that was a myth!”

“No, no. He’s very real.” Pierre grimaces. “My daughter is proof.”

“Still, it’s the principal of the thing,” he splutters, “I can’t… we just…” it’s the most loss for words that Pierre’s ever seen the man, usually so quick and tight-witted, always some retort bubbling in his puffed-up chest.

“Was it okay?” He repeats, “with you?”

“We’re drunk, both of us. Look-”

“Was it okay?”

Morris hesitates a moment longer before, almost bashfully dipping his head. “Not bad. Still-”

Pierre leans forwards once again, all abandon flying out the window, and despite his complaints, Morris leans into it, both hands now encircling his waist. They maneuver, blindly, towards a wall, until Pierre is pressed against it, encaged by Morris’s arms. When they break, both are gasping, breaths rushing heavily through his chest.

“If this gets out…” Morris starts. Pierre bats the idea away.

“You’re a pariah already. I… can’t say I care about my own standing.”

“You might think different soberly,” he cautions, and Pierre shrugs.

“Then I should take as much advantage of drunkenness as I can.”

If he’s some sort of sinner, then she is too, broke the inviolable contract of marriage, and Pierre has never been one for unequal bargains.

—

The fourth reason it’s not his fault is that it’s all too good, all too hard to stop. For once in his life, drudgery days behind the counter are bearable, for once, it doesn’t sting as much when Caroline doesn’t come home until much past midnight—sometimes because he’s not home by then, either. If Abigail notices, she doesn’t comment on it, which he’s glad for. If anyone could make him stop, it would be her—despite their lack of blood connection, he still raised her, she’s still his daughter in name if not biology—but, then again, she seems all too preoccupied with the band and her forays into the Adventurer’s Guild and, most vexingly, the Farmer.

In any case, she’s past the age where fear of breaking up his family isn’t easily rationizable, and every day he can, Pierre closes up the shop around five, putters around for a few hours, and then makes his way to Jojamart around eight. A good time, because both Shane and Sam have left work, and the only employee left is that orange-haired girl from out of town who seems far too perpetually tired to even question his presence.

It’s routine. Making his way into Morris’s office. Sometimes, they talk for hours about the most banal of things, and sometimes, the minute the door closes, they are upon each other, hands buried in Morris’s thickly-gelled hair, close enough that he knocks his glasses askew.

Winter is nearly upon the valley, chipping at the last of Autumn. Trees losing their leaves in rapid succession, breeze biting at any scrap of exposed skin. It is a Friday night, last Friday of the season, directly before the Spirit’s Eve festival, that he sits in the saloon as usual.

The most crowded night of the week usually, let alone tonight, a night that spirits—of a marvelous three meanings, that of good cheer, alcohol, and ghosts—run high. He’s partaking idly in Willy’s conversation about the best season for fishing, amused more by Clint jolting up whenever Emily nears than the conversation itself. Across the bar, there are the usual subjects—Elliott and Leah getting progressively rowdier, Marnie and Lewis pretending they aren’t infatuated with each other, Harvey ordering a mug of coffee—seriously, it’s eight PM—Shane in the corner, the younger adults playing pool in the side room. Tonight, as with many of the previous few weeks, the Farmer sits near Abigail, both of them chatting up a storm about something.

Apparently, they’ve been helping her get in the mines—mostly to collect ‘things for the Junimos in the Community Center’, a series of words that does not make sense whatsoever. He’d be more concerned for her, but the entire town loves the Farmer, and she’s never gotten too hurt when gathering whatever it is they need, so for now, he lets it rest.

In any case, Willy yammers on about the difficulties of catching Walleye, and then the door to the pub opens, and an unfamiliar figure steps in.

He half-turns, then fully turns, doing a double take upon sighting that familiar black coat. What is Morris doing here?

He doesn’t even glance towards Pierre, instead striding towards the bar. Gus pauses in cleaning out a cup, watching him, and though the saloon doesn’t do anything so dramatic as fall silent, it does quiet a bit, as if in anticipation.

“What can I get ya?” Gus asks, leaning forwards. Morris frowns.

“Just a glass of red wine.”

“Good choice,” Gus says, nodding, turning to grab a bottle and a glass. Just like that, the hubbub starts up again, and it’s all so startlingly normal.

Only once he has the glass in his hands does Morris turn around, make a beeline for Pierre’s table.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, trying not to sound accusatory. Morris shrugs, taking a delicate sip.

“Oh, I’ve been in town… a few years. Never bothered to come. It’s rather charming.”

Pierre knows the man well, too well, if he’s being honest, but in such a new environment, he’s almost like a stranger.

“Look, fellas,” Willy cautions, before he can respond, “I know you have your… ah, commercial disputes, but we’re all friends in ol’ Gus’s saloon, aren’t we?”

Morris brings down a hand to clap Pierre’s shoulder. It burns. Not entirely unpleasantly.

“Oh, I can set aside a few grudges for the sake of a night. What say you, Pierre?”

He smiles up at him, and suddenly, it’s no longer strange, but instead a shared joke.

“Of course.”

Morris slides smoothly into a seat. It is briefly tense, awkward once again, until Willy asks, “Have you ever caught a crimsonfish? Mighty strong, them creatures.”

And then Morris replies, “can’t say I’ve ever fished at all,” and it is once again some new sort of normal.

After eleven, as one of the final stragglers, Pierre follows Morris out of the saloon and—for once—not back to Jojamart, their usual rendezvous, but to one of the rented properties that line the outskirts of Pelican town, all small and delicate and too close to the Farm for comfort.

“Really,” Pierre asks, “why did you come?”

“Exactly what I said. Maybe I can’t sequester myself behind Joja’s walls forever.”

Pierre lets out a mock-gasp. “Really?”

He bumps his shoulder, sending him stumbling a few steps, “really. I like this town. It’ll almost be a shame when the rest of Joja moves in.”

“Keep talking. They’ve been ‘moving in’ for years.”

“Just a matter of time,” he replies, sniffing, as they walk down Morris’s front driveway. Pierre hesitates as he unlocks the door, unsure of whether to leave. The last time he had to deal with a conundrum such as this was him and Caroline’s first date, and that particular problem was rapidly solved when they noticed her mother watching them from the window. Somehow, he doubts that’s going to fix this time around.

“We’re having such a good time,” Morris says, interrupting his internal conflict, “let’s not cut it short.”

He steps in.

The house is just as undecorated as the exterior, spartan, only the bare necessities needed for life—and, most of those necessities look to have come out of an ‘easy install’ home kit.

“You live like this?” He asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Will you be missed?”

He knows what he means by that.

“No. She’s probably not even at home, you know.”

“Then yes, I do. Some of us don’t need… kitsch to survive.”

“It’s called decor.”

“It’s called eye-searing. Please, Pierre—did you make those posters on your walls, or did Vincent?”

He laughs, not deigning to respond, still following Morris—out of the living room, into a long, bare hallway, and then a bedroom. Surprise: also clear of decor.

“Let’s put aside a few more grudges,” he says, and it’s perhaps the worst line he’s used thus far, but Morris doesn’t seem to care—because he steps forwards, lips meeting Pierre’s, and somehow, they are upon the bed, skin meeting skin and hands under clothes and closer than he'd ever thought they’d be.

It changes, after that day, in not in a happily-ever-after, true love met sort of way—indeed, even though he knows Morris in ways that he hadn’t before, they continue as normal. Simply, now, with more meetings in the bedroom, with more late nights and early mornings and a pleasant sort of soreness that keeps him distracted when standing behind the counter.

No, it is a change in the community, and he can’t tell exactly what. Morris has not returned to the saloon, but no longer is he the bogeyman in the night, great bad Joja salesman. It’s an unfamiliar shift, only emphasized when he sees Jas scribbling portraits of every resident in Pelican town and catches one of Morris in her stack.

Winter comes with a sweep that catches them all. Neither him nor Caroline are really pretending at any relationship, at this point—he doesn’t know if she knows who he spends his nights with, but she doesn’t bother to inquire, and he knows who she goes with, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Are you and Mom okay?” Abigail asks, one early night, and he hesitates over a pot of simmering stew. He used to read parenting books, even joined the impromptu Stardew Parents Association when Abigail and Sebastian and Sam were all toddlers. Usually, those meetings devolved into either drunken gossip or some sort of tiff, but even without that, none of them really prepared him for this sort of question.

“...No,” he replies after a long moment, “we’re not. But it’s got nothing to do with you, Abby.”

“Didn’t think so,” she says, “just wondering. No, uh, no pressure, Dad.”

It’s surprisingly flippant, but he’s glad for that. One more load lifted off his plate, even when Abigail starts talking about the rather gorey topic of collecting fifty bat wings and he has to make a quick exodus out of the room before his stew makes a quick exodus out of him.

“We’re almost done with the community center,” she protests at his retreating back, and he wonders how, exactly, dissecting twenty-five bats helps with that.

—

The fifth reason it is not his fault is that it’s a goodbye, in a way, and it all starts near the end of winter, after the season crushes by at a staggeringly slow pace. He receives a letter from Lewis in the mail, customary, bearing the name of his Winter Star gift recipient. Last year, he got Alex, and he got so fed up with trying to find a gift for the boy that he asked Abigail to ask Haley what he’d like, which was returned with an apparently verbatim message of, I dunno, he likes protein, I guess.

Eventually, he’d settled on wrapping up a carton of eggs, and Alex’d seemed overjoyed, so that was a job well done.

This year, he expects it can’t possibly be worse, except it when he opens his letter, there on the back, it reads Morris.

The gift itself isn’t the hard part. Abigail lets it leak that she has the Farmer, and that results in a bedroom she won’t let him nor Caroline enter that emanates quite the concerning smell. Caroline gets Shane and agonizes for days about what to get him, before eventually settling on crocheting a small chicken.

Pierre digs through stockrooms of old seeds, gathering up many packets of corn and radish and all the other various one-offs that he’s sold Morris and still has no idea what he did with, and because a couple dozen seed packets is a horrid gift even by nostalgia-standards, also a bottle of fine wine. Farmer-provided, in fact—apparently, they have a whole winery going, and Lewis says that it’s a lot more pleasant picking up than twenty pounds of dead fish from their shipping container—and despite his distaste for them, he can’t deny that the alcohol is high-quality.

He is ready, completely ready, for the Feast, until, two days before, there is a commotion. Abigail pauses by the shop only to yell, “Dad, we did it! Come on!” Before rushing away again.

Slowly, cautiously, he proceeds out, following the flow of the townsfolk up the hill and towards…

Towards that old, abandoned community center, which, as he crests over the hill, is… neither old nor abandoned. The planks lining its outside are burnished and bright, windows clean glass, all as if it had been built only yesterday.

“Did you..?” He asks, turning towards Robin, the only logical explanation, but she shrugs.

“Nope. Nice craftsmanship, though! I need to meet whoever did this.”

He surges through the crowd, into the building itself, the interior of which is in fact more impressive than the exterior. All full of furniture, bright and clean and new, a grand fireplace the centerplace of the room. He doesn’t have many memories of the center—it’s been nigh-on a decade and a half since it fell into disrepair—but even in its heyday, it looked worse than this.

At the front of the crowd, before Lewis and Abigail, stands the Farmer, a proud look on their face.

“This is marvelous!” Lewis exclaims, and for once, he’s right. He doesn’t know how they did this, but it is something that’s gathered the entire town in fascination. Elliott runs through the books upon a newly-built bookshelf and Clint’s exclaiming something about a boiler room and Penny comes out of a brightly-colored side room with a dazed, happy sort of look upon her face.

“Had to fix it up,” the Farmer replies, shrugging, “couldn’t let Joja get its hands on this place.”

The joy rapidly rising in his stomach turns to ice in a moment, falls and shatters. Joja.

There’s one person that’s not here.

He turns, pushing back through the crowd. Behind him, Lewis says something about a Stardew Hero Trophy, but his eyes are fixed upon the door, and as he watches-

It opens.

And in steps a swishing black coat, a bright red tie, round glasses, and behind those, eyes that rove around the space.

“So this is where everyone is,” Morris says softly.

Nobody speaks in reply. Pierre’s throat has closed up.

“You won’t be buying it from me, Morris,” Lewis says eventually, after clearing his throat.

“No? I can fetch a very high price.”

All those days, this half a season of goodwill, is crumbling before Pierre’s eyes, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, “isn’t it?”

Morris meets his eyes. Smirks. “Joja craftsmanship can do it better.”

It’s the type of reply that would make him laugh, were they alone, but in this full space, it’s simply arrogant, echoing about. Morris evidently realizes that, before the smirk falls immediately.

“You’re leaving,” someone says from the front of the room, the voice that he’s come to fear and despise and admire—somehow—in equal measure.

The Farmer.

They push through the crowd, past Pierre, until they and Morris are face-to-face. “Community center’s fixed. Joja’s not going anywhere. Get out of Pelican Town.”

There’s been less emotion in their voice when recounting stories of near-death on Friday night saloon meets—indeed, they’re always calm, but now, there’s venom in those words.

“Oh, I’m sure Joja could-”

“Out,” they hiss, “or I’ll make sure the lightning hits you too, tonight.”

The statement makes no sense in the logical world, but the Farmer is anything but—from the way they say it, Pierre absolutely believes that this nebulous lightning will hit, will do anything they command it to. Morris holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. Couldn’t pay me to stay in this backwater anyways.”

He turns, leveling one final glare at the crowd, and leaves. All is still for a long moment-

-And then Pierre runs after him. Completely uncouth and the whispers start even before the door closes, but he doesn’t care because he’s actually leaving.

Morris is already gone, far. He doesn’t run towards Jojamart, but instead towards Morris’s house, near the bus stop and the Farm. Only makes one final stop, darting into his store to grab an unwrapped box, before he’s out in the chilly air once again.

They meet as Morris is locking the door to his flimsy little shack, carrying only a single thin suitcase.

“Morris!” Pierre calls. He turns, raising an eyebrow, unsurprised.

“Pierre. Seeing me off?”

“You’re actually leaving?”

He shrugs, laughing mirthlessly. “What else can I do? You heard their threat. Nothing left for me here, anyways.”

“Nothing?”

The wind rustles through his air. He’s silent for a long, frightening moment, before blowing out a breath.

“Truth is, I was leaving anyways. Joja promoted me. Regional Overseer in ZuZu City.”

“You weren’t.”

Another laugh. More humor in it.

“You can read me so well. Well, yes, they did promote me, but I… I thought I might stay a bit longer.”

“You can stay,” he pleads, taking a step closer, close enough that they could link hands if wanted. “I’ll… I’ll call- I’ll get Abby to call them off. And then you can get a job-”

“I’m not wanted here,” he says firmly, taking a step forwards as well, “I never was. Pierre, I… I’m glad I met you here. But this isn’t my place.” He hesitates, before, “you know, you could accompany me to the city. If you wished.”

For a brief, glorious second, it’s tempting, the idea of running away with nothing but Morris’s company and the box in his hands, but then, real life comes crashing down. Things like your family, and your store, and the sheer fact that ZuZu City is not his place either. He tried, back when he wanted to become a boxer, lived out half a decade there, each day more stressful than the last. He’s tied as solidly to Pelican Town as Morris is not—could not imagine a day without seeing all these familiar faces and knowing, immediately, everything he dislikes about every single one of them.

Besides, he would not have brought the present if he didn’t know that this was when they would split.

He extends it towards Morris. “I can’t. But… I was your secret gifter. For the Feast.”

Morris laughs, and this one, finally, is the one he knows, boisterous and full.

“What an absolute coincidence.”

From the inner pocket of his coat, he takes out a small, paper-wrapped item, passes it to Pierre while taking his gift in turn. Damn Lewis. Must have rigged something. This is just like how he always makes sure Gus is ‘coincidentally’ his gifter for those free meals.

“Is this it?” Pierre asks. Morris tilts his head.

“You can walk me to the bus stop.”

“You’re taking the bus?”

“No, no. Pam, bicycle, remember? I called a car.”

He begins to walk, and Pierre falls into stride next to him, clenching the gift tightly in his hand. After a moment, Morris speaks again, answering his previous question.

“Maybe. Pierre, I don’t know. I’m not omniscient.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“...I hope,” he murmurs, “it’s not, then. I don’t know, but perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Pierre whispers. All too soon of a walk, and they stand there, before the old bus and the empty stretch of road. Morris leans closer, and he does as well, lips meeting. Though the world around them is cold, he is warm.

The moment is broken by the rev of a car. Morris breaks away. Pierre’s lips follow for a moment trying to recapture that, but it’s a futile attempt.

“Goodbye,” he says. “You’ll see me on the news one day. CEO, I’m sure.”

“And I’ll still be outselling you,” he replies. Morris laughs—he tries to commit that sound to memory—before, sliding into the backseat of the sleek black car.

Only when it is long-gone, vanished down the darkness of the tunnel, does Pierre remember the gift still in his hand. He brings it up immediately, fumbles at the wrapping paper with numb fingers, slowly unpeeling it from whatever it is within.

The first thing he sees is a bright blue Joja Membership Card, which he audibly laughs at, plucking it up and tucking it into his pocket. Not that he’ll ever use the thing, of course, but he’ll keep it.

Under is a book. Quite familiar—orange, and upon the front cover, it reads Price Catalogue, 6th Edition.

A small slip of paper upon it, in Morris’s distinctive handwriting, says, more modern than Farmer’s. May it bring you much use.

Pierre hugs it to his chest, smiling and crying both at once, the great expanse of gray sky over his head and fleck of snow drifting down to fleck softly in his hair like the tears of many Gods overhead.

—

One last thing. And this one, surprisingly, is his fault.

Mid-spring, which comes with new buds and a sheen to Pelican Town that only lingers directly post-defrosting. The end of winter was, as can be predicted, quite depressing, lightened only by the fact that Lewis gave himself the Farmer as a gifter. Perhaps a smart strategy, given their penchant for producing expensive wine and many different gems, except when it came his time to open his gifts he got a pair of purple shorts and ended the entire celebration then and there.

Still, spring is here, and things are new, relatively. Kent returned from the war, different from Pierre remembers, but it’s good to have a new face in the village, even if he sometimes can’t help but think it doesn’t come close to replacing the old face that left. Abigail left on her first trip to Skull Caverns and came back coated in monster goop and as happy as he’s ever seen her. The old Jojamart was indeed struck by lightning in the night, to the surprise of somehow nobody, and now it sits dilapidated, abandoned, and sometimes he goes and stands outside it, just to watch.

It’s on a windy Thursday that Penny races into the store, flushed red. “I’m so sorry,” she says, “but some of the wind took Jas’s drawings and, uh, scattered them, and I was wondering if you could help..?”

“Of course,” he says, stepping out from behind the desk—he had no customers today anyways—and into the town square, where most of everybody seems to be occupied in helping with the scavenger hunt. He finds a drawing of Demetrius snagged onto a garbage can and one of Emily caught in a tree and barely manages to save a rather amusing mock-up of Shane, who’s dressed in a tutu, from the river, but it’s the last one that gives him pause.

By fate or circumstance or magic or whatever, he spots a slip of paper blowing into the abandoned Jojamart. Faced between old building and Jas’s tantrum, he decides on old building, ducking inside under the hole in the door.

Within, all is dark, but he manages to spot the slip of paper illuminated by a sliver of light that fights through the slats in the windows, makes his way over the rubble to grab it and quickly leave the building.

Only once he’s out in the sun does he get a good look at it, and then, it drops his stomach to the soles of his feet.

There, upon the paper, is a rather crude drawing of Morris. Probably, he couldn’t even recognize it as such, if not for that outlandish red bowtie, and two clumsy circles that seem to be glasses perched upon his nose.

For a long moment, he simply stands there, staring down at the recreation, aching deep in his chest for a memory, a future that could have been.

Later, when he returns to Penny, he hands her Demetrius and Emily and Shane, the folded-up drawing of Morris burning a hole in his pocket. Friday night, at the Saloon, he hears Shane grumbling to Emily.

“-back’s aching because she had me searching for it all day. Don’t know why she wants his drawing so bad, anyways. Asshole’s not even here anymore. And Yoba, I’m glad for that—no more hell at work.”

So perhaps he’ll take fault for one thing, for being the source of some of Shane’s pain and probably a small tantrum from Jas. The rest, that’s all circumstance and coincidence and the rest.

That night, he sits at his counter, all the world dark and silent around him. Pulls out, from under his desk, a book, flips through the pages that are already managing to look well-worn.

Soon, it will be summer again, and there will be no more Morris coming in to bargain for seeds. When the Farmer somehow manages to beat him at the fair this year, he will be left to sulk alone, and Friday nights at the saloon will be uneventful and at the Feast of the Winter Star, he’ll probably get the Wizard or someone similarly horrid for his giftee.

Bleak future ahead. For today, though, he has the drawing, the book, the gift card, a few months of memories, and the world is brighter than it was last Spring, so he cannot complain too much.

#stardew valley #sdv #sdv pierre #sdv morris #everyone appears in here a bit #pierre x morris #sdv pierre x morris #morris sdv #biblically accurate farmer #morris x pierre #sdv fanfic #stardew valley fanfic #old man yaoi

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ahollowgrave · 6 months ago

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Friend, I know you did not reblog the 22 Dawntrail ask game! So I would like to humbly request more Selenite lore in the near future. Also, what do you think Odette and Selenite would think of each other?

(Teehee after they sent this I DID reblog the dawntrail ask game mentioned. Like a scamp.)

Man, Selenite is still so new she is truly just rolling right along in the rock tumbler! So while I have some ideas many of them are subject to change. Since her first appearance here I’ve already made some changes to her looks and more will probably come! And since S9 as a whole is still so new with limited lore I imagine bits and pieces of her will change as we play more of this expansion. Such is the life of an RP character, tbh, especially an AU version of an RP character!

I have another ask for how Selenite’s readings work, so I’ll save her work for that one.

Anyway:

Her full name is Selenite, friends call her Nite. Does she have a surname??? Probably. Not that you need to know it.

She doesn’t wear a regulator anymore. Like many of her fellow citizens, Selenite wore a regulator from a young age. It wasn’t until the loss of her parent and the gnawing feeling of missing someone important -- and a few frank conversations -- that she removed it. She’ll never get the memories of her parent back but she hopes to honor them by feeling any fresh grief.

Selenite’s parent was probably None’s S9 shard. Details pending.

Unlike Odette, Nite is 100% alive! Wow! A normal heartbeat and body temperature!

She’s def had some augmentations done! Probably out of boredom. I imagine boredom is a big problem in S9.

The one I’m 100% sold on is her hair not being…. Fully hair anymore. To emulate Odette’s hair’s iridescent sheen, Selenite has fiber optic lights woven throughout that emit a low glow. Practical? No. Cool? Very.

Also since I keep trimming Odette’s hair I think Selenite gets to have the long fantasy hair. You understand.

The other one is her eyes. Odette can see souls/ghosts/spirits out of one eye and I think Nite could as well (this is from their shared ancient) but maybe had her eyes removed in favor of optics upgrades. IDK!! I just think…. Cool eyes. You underSTAND!!!

I hesitate about these only because she doesn’t wear a regulator and I feel like they are def tied to regulator usage, but this is why she’s in the rock tumbler. Maybe she got them before she took off the regulator and they still work just maybe… not as well. Much to think about!!

Nite makes a lot of her choices based on Boredom. It's not her greatest trait!!! but it's fine.

She sleeps a lot -- almost like she’s sleeping for two. Always tired. As a result, she’s always got an energy drink in her hand and she’s usually looking for additional stimulants.

Personality wise she is just so chill. She’s too tired to be worked up, man.

Another reason she’s on the very fringes of a lot of groups like Oblivian, she doesn’t have the passion to join something like that fully but she supports in ways she can. Like convincing people death isn’t that bad, isn’t that scary.

Chill but also prone to pranks and jokes. Big fan of teeheeheeing over here. She loves a bit.

She’s only left S9 twice and nearly died both times, without her regulator, so she does NOT leave the city anymore. For all her talk about death not being scary it is very much very scary but that’s okay, she just doesn’t talk about those trips. No worries, haha!

Beautiful fat lesbian <3

I do not think she and Odette will ever meet. Maybe in the background of each other's shots or something, so to speak. That said I do love a what if!!!

I think they'd get along great. I think they'd fit together so well they were long lost twins. Not without hurdles, of course. Nite is freaked out by the ashkin thing, Odette is freaked out by Nite's freak out because are you serious? Mostly I think it's a lot of bickering. They'd change each other for good.

#answered #oh no bullet points got FUCKED by tumblr #i like her so much you guys #SO HERE IT IS #a loose collection of Selenite “”“Facts”“” (subject to change)#I've been collecting crimes for her #but also I have not been playing FFXIV at all because I bought myself a new video game and had to replay the first one #(legally)(so I could see it in good graphics)(holy shit.)#anyway #ahem #THANK YOU IRON FOR THE ASK #BLOWING YOU 100 MILLION KISSES FOR EACH CHEEK #mwah #(Also ty to anyone who read it all and these tags)#(blowing you 100 kisses for the top of your head)#Selenite of S9

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definitelynotafurinasimp · 2 years ago

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"Difficult to please"

"Focalors with a reader that can switch bodies"

Characters: Focalors x gn!reader

warnings: none

a/n: The obvious things right away: I've never written for Focalors before nor do we have much information about her yet, so I wrote her mostly from my gut feeling after seeing her in the Fountaine trailer.

Anyway, I love Furina as you might have guessed by me changing my theme for her. She's such a little gremlin and her design is so beautiful. I can't wait to see her and how she changes (well, hopefully somewhat to the better at least) in the story.

I’m going to use “Focalors” and “Furina” interchangeably, since I’m 99.99% sure they’re the same person, but hey, if Hoyoverse somehow pulls a huge twist on us and I get it wrong it would also be kinda funny.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Focalors

To say that you were nothing more than a glorified babysitter for Fountaine’s Archon would have been a massive understatement. Once a young law student aspiring to one day become a judge, it didn’t take you long in your position as lawyer to attract the attention of your archon. Not in the “have a vision and beat up the bad guys” kind of way, however. Instead the weird clients you represented never failed to deliver her a somewhat entertaining spectacle, causing the Chief Justice to “volunteer” you as the Archon’s advisor… a role that, while sounding nice, de facto only had the responsibility of keeping her entertained enough to not sully any more court hearings than necessary with her cries of boredom.

When you found out about your powers to switch bodies, you knew better than to tell anyone other than your closest companions… especially Furina. While she got away with her attitude in her own body, you didn’t even want to fathom how many friends she’d be able to alienate or from how many shops she’d get you banned from if she did the same while running around in yours.

However, all of your hard work of keeping it a secret eventually turned out to be futile, as the Archon would eventually figure it out one way or another. After all, the reason she got so little done was not for a lack of ability, she simply didn’t care about most cases and delegated them to whatever judge crossed her path first, but when you began acting a bit stiff around her, the challenge of figuring the reason out was more than enough to keep her on your case.

If it weren’t for the fact that a small voice in your head worried about where to start a new life after having your entire image destroyed by the one currently occupying your body, you would have found the day in your Archon’s body amazing, you got to attend as many court cases as you wanted without anyone batting as much as an eye, got to have your first experiences as a judge and even didn’t have to pay for any of the most delicious food and drinks Fountaine got to offer. The stares you received from the other officials, probably wondering what could have happened for their notoriously difficult Archon to have such a good day, were a bit much at some times, but it was not like you were complaining.

“I want to change back!”, Focalors demanded the moment she stepped into her office, swinging the door behind her shut with as much force as she could muster and not even wincing in the slightest at how loud it was. Beelining towards the couch as she let herself fall onto it, letting out a groan of annoyance loud enough to make any bird sleeping outside fall out of its nest.

“Can’t handle being asked out all the time?”, you tried to crack a joke, knowing all too well that answering earnestly would only earn you a bored sigh.

“Ha!”, Furina let out a loud laugh before turning her face towards you. “Remind me to make you my court jester the next time we are in need of one”, she stated sarcastically before looking back at the ceiling. For your and Fountaine’s sakes however, you decided to disregard her order and to not to remind her of how she had just fired the last one for “being boring”.

“Aren’t you humans supposed to have interesting lives? What happened to ‘live every day like it's your last one’? Or is doing *this* what you all desire??”, she asked while extending her arms and wildly signaling into the air.

“What did you do all day?”, you asked, trying to sound as casual as possible even though your mind was starting to panic about what you might be greeted with tomorrow. But instead of answering your question, your Archon ignored you and continued to complain about how boring your life was, causing you to start worrying even more.

“I bet you loved this day, watching boring court cases, getting any food you desired for free, being asked for your opinion… eugh”, she let out yet another groan, making you wonder how easy it was for her to read you.

“Furina.”

“Anyway, I want my body back. So give it to me”, she continued to ignore you as she stated her earlier demand once again.

“What did you do while in my body, Furina?”, you asked one last time, grabbing both of her shoulders to force eye contact with her.

“You’ll probably have some explaining to do. I honestly want to see it all play out, it’s going to be the most entertainment I’ve had in months”, she answered off-handedly, causing you to bury your face in your palms as she continued on as if nothing happened.

“I’ll make you a judge as compensation, it’ll be a win-win. You’ll get to do what you always wanted to do and I may get one or two interesting hearings out of it”, Furina stated before pulling your hands away from your face and placing her forehead on yours, prompting the two of you to finally change bodies.

Yet, her offer caused you to feel even more conflicted than you already were. Finally, it was your time to let out a groan.

“That’s Nepotism.”

“I don’t care”, she responded bluntly, forcing you to use all your self control not to fall into the deep pit of hopelessness for your nation currently seeming to open in front of you. “Didn’t you want to become a judge?”

“Yes, but I want to earn it!”

What followed were a couple of seconds of silence before Furina turned around, walked over to a different couch, sat down, let out a long sigh and spoke a sentence so laced with irony that you didn’t know whether to cry or laugh at it.

“Fine. Geez, you’re so difficult to please.”

#genshin x reader #focalors #focalors x reader #focalors x y/n #focalors x you #furina #furina x you #furina x reader #furina x y/n

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panic-in-the-multiverse · 2 years ago

Text

Sleep Little Angel, Sleep

Pairings: Castiel x Winchester!teen!reader

Imagine: you can’t sleep but Castiel is there to help

Warnings: angst?, sleep deprivation, mention of depression, mention of possession by a demon (not really), I think there’s one mention of the f-word, idk what else, mention of y/n if that’s a warning I have no clue if I’m honest

A/N just a short comfort fic for all you sleep deprived supernatural fans out there *cough* me *cough*, writing this actually helped me sleep so + to that I guess, bc this is kinda how it have been for me lately except I don’t have a Castiel to help me sleep. Which is why I haven’t posted/written anything in a while :) anyway hope you guys like it bc idk really and I hope you all have a good sleep tonight <3

As usual I put it down as teen reader but the reader can be older and Cas might be a bit OOC

You layed in bed, staring up at the ceiling, but at the same time nothing in particular. The sound of silence filled your ears and the occasional cars that drove past outside the window was a refreshing sound. Your tired eyes dropped but you couldn’t in any way sleep. It was for some unknown reason impossible.

For once your head was empty of thoughts. Nothing ran through your head. You didn’t have the constant race between hundreds of thoughts competing to be heard the most. Everything was silent.

The other people in the bunker were quiet, not even a sound from your brothers was heard, and they often stayed up longer than you did. It was too quiet. The cars only came one by one each hour or so in the unhealthy times of the night.

Sometimes you thought you were possessed by some demon making you feel this way, but you were pretty sure a demon possessing you would be more fun than the boredom of the night was giving you.

The tiredness that went through your whole body did nothing to help. You were exhausted, but still you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. It wasn’t intentional, you’d tried to sleep many times, but nothing seemed to ever work. So instead you continued to stare up at your sealing, there wasn’t much else to do at this time anyway.

It took another three hours, before you completely gave up. Turning on your side you checked the watch. Two in the morning. You didn’t entirely know how you could function by now, you hadn’t slept in three days, except for the one nap you accidentally took in the car while Dean drove to the store to pick up some pie if you remembered correctly. But that was days ago, maybe it had been more than three days ago, you didn’t quite know. The only thing you knew was that you were bored to death, sleep deprived and probably in one of your depressive episodes. But you could never be sure about the depression, it always lingered around the corner waiting to strike you down.

You wanted to go up and maybe take a night snack but it would wake your brothers up and you knew it wouldn’t help either. So you stayed in your laying position, still staring at the apparently interesting sealing. You noticed some new shapes that you swore hadn’t been there before, but maybe you notice more things the more you watch something. It was like when you watched a movie for the hundredth time and noticed something new. Except it would be more exciting to watch a movie than your sealing.

A few hours later, or maybe it was just a few minutes a flapping of wings was heard. Your eyes were still unmovable from tracing every dent and dusted corners of your sealing. It was most probably an angel who’d appeared in your room, and you couldn’t care less of who, if you were honest, maybe you could get an excuse to get up and do something exciting. However it turned out to be your favorite angel.

“Y/N, you need to sleep” Castiel’s voice rang out making you look at him, it was strange to hear something break the silence. Your irritated eyes were a bit glossy from not sleeping and Castiel noticed that the dark bags under your eyes were more prominent than ever. He and your brothers knew of your problem with sleeping but it seemed you never tried to get help from them, or to even get some of those sleeping pills. You’d always shrug it off saying you were fine, that you weren’t tired, or for those occasional days you told them you were tired they’d make sure you slept in the car, but those rarely happened anymore. Castiel had sensed your tiredness, and when he’d have to save you from a vampire he knew he needed to help you, but you had shut him out. The angel didn’t want to force you to sleep but if that was what it took to make sure you were sleeping and taking care of yourself he would.

“I know Cas, I just, I can’t” you paused before your voice cracked a bit at your next words “I’m so fucking tired Cas, I, I don’t know what to do”

Castiel walked closer to your bed until he was right next to it. A bit uncharacteristically of him he bent down and tilted his head while he took in your appearance from a closer view. “Let me help you” his blue eyes stared into yours and you closed your eyes for a second, which caused a new wave of tiredness to crash through you.

“Will you stay here” why you asked you weren’t quite sure, but you did anyway and got a nod from your favorite angel. You knew what he meant by helping you. You’d seen him do it to Dean a lot of times, but you had never brought yourself to ask Cas to do it on you. It felt strange and wrong, but at the moment you didn’t care, you were too exhausted. Sleep would be your only release and nothing in you seemed to be willing to give it to you. Maybe that’s why you wanted him to stay, so that he could protect you when you were in a deep sleep that you wouldn’t wake up from in a while. So that he could wake you if anything went wrong.

“I will stay, I promise, I’ll be right beside you when you wake up” with that you gave him a nod and he gently put two of his fingers on your forehead. It didn’t take long for sleep to take over you. Exhaustion and tiredness took over your whole being in one sweep and your eyes closed. You could finally get your release from the life you lived. You could finally rest for a while, You would for once not be exhausted when you woke up.

However before you fell asleep you heard Castiel softly murmur in a whisper “Sleep little angel for nothing will come your way tonight, sleep and dream of sweet dreams”

True to his word Castiel stayed by your side, he made sure no nightmares came your way, and you slept peacefully for the first time in a while. You slept for the first time in a while, and Cas woved he wouldn’t let it go further than this again. He would protect his baby angel if it so was the last thing he did, and to make sure you slept was only one part of it.

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floral-comet-whump · 2 months ago

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May I suggest some Walenty whump??

I think they'd look beautiful tied up in a pretty stress position. With the nicest glittery ropes and ribbons, maybe flowers in their hair!

Just leave them like that until they collapse, and only the ropes are keeping them in place...

wowie...

contents: minor whump, stoic whumpee, signs of past obedience conditioning, stress position, manipulative whumpee, looking at camera (not vidualised)

this is. like. amazing. awesome. woa

I needed to ponder on this cause like. that would NOT happen to walenty in daffodil. stress positions? yes absolutely!! but they wouldn't be getting all dolled up for it, the goal is to inflict desperation from the loneliness rather than dehumanization from being used as a decoration

but this is an ask box, not their canon circumstances. so we can do it anyway >:)

theyyyy do not struggle, they let themselves be maneuvered and stare. might chat while they're still getting tied up to try and gather information about what makes you tick in hopes they can placate you better in the future. internally they think you're a sick freak but like. you're tying them up they're not gonna say that.

if you tie them too tightly or loosely they're gonna let you know. not even with disrespectful intent, just a small comment. they shut up if this is not well received and go "oh" if you say that's the point

I don't really have a stress position in mind for this, but they keep their head up for having flowers put in their hair. flowers hold a lot of significance in flos(lmao)'s culture so they're analyzing the fuck out of their meanings and trying to come to a conclusion about what sort of person you want them to be

if you're looking for a conditioned whumpee type, they're gonna very quietly ask to not be left alone. this is deliberate deception. otherwise they're just gonna shut up and stare at you. unless you tell them not to stare I guess. so they keep their head down

cameras do not exist in flos but this is some weird void au so if there are cameras they're staring straight at them once you leave! probably fidget a little too, test the give and wriggling room and how they can shift their weight before it all becomes heavy. purely out of curiosity!

uhhhh and uh. yeah. darkness. discomfort. cold. boredom. very familiar stuff, nothing much to say. they go over the bits of information they have and build plans, are a little annoyed they don't have their notebook but make do, and generally fidget (drumming the air, rotating ankles or wrists) but don't resist. they're slumped, there's no reason to waste physical energy. the decorations are creepy. they're telling too. and it hurts, but that's the point.

if this goes on for more than six hours they're gonna try to doze off a bit. which is easier said than done but they'll try to fall asleep. normally walenty sleeps like a rock but the second there's noise they wake up. a little bleary, but they're alert quickly.

they barely catch themselves from hitting the floor when they're untied. they're tired. they look at you and try to gauge your reaction, probably also rub their wrists or pull their knees to their chest. and if they do that they're hugging their knees. unless they figured out that they're expected to do otherwise, they look at you. chin propped up on knees/arms, full eye contact.

they're waiting for orders. if you help them up, great. they're gonna lean on you for support and... be clingy, since that's obviously what you want. if it's just an order to get up, they do. they're standing as trained. They're shaking. They have been since before you entered.

they thank you after.

#daffodil asks #walenty daffodil #walenty #daffodil academy #whump #whumpblr #whump community #minor whump #what a chill whumpee tbh

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deliciouskeys · 9 months ago

Text

Cozy Corner Domaystic prompt #12: Sourdough starter

Hughie, Homelander. 1.5k. Gen (sorry guys, not this time). Crack. I maintain this counts as a domestic fic but ymmv.

It was only going to be for 48 hours, Butcher said. As if having to host Homelander in his apartment for a couple of days was a reasonable request in any universe, something that was going to be easy. Hell, he didn’t even manage to have complete control over a washed up porn junkie like Lamplighter. How the hell was he going to manage keeping Homelander entertained enough that he won’t get inspired to leave?

It was a simple enough deal. Homelander would get Ryan if he stayed out of Vought Tower for a crucial 48 hours. Butcher never explained what he was going to do with Vought Tower, but Hughie has the feeling this is going to be an explosives kind of gig. The man isn’t all that subtle. With him it’s explosives, machine guns, or, rarely, the occasional verbal negotiation. Usually coupled with threats of violence anyway. He’s creative in the improv, not the planning stage, and maybe that’s why there’s no grand plan. How Mallory convinced Butcher to execute this plan, and how they decided that dangling Ryan would be enough to persuade Homelander to stay away from Vought Tower, Hughie doesn’t know. Frankly, he has his doubts that if Butcher decides to stage a fifth of November type of event, Homelander won’t bolt out the window and come to his employer’s rescue. Not like Hughie can do anything to stop him. He doesn’t even know what Butcher has planned. But what else is new? He was charged with the babysitting, and everything else is on a “need to know” basis.

“You’ll sleep better if you don’t know the details, lad,” Butcher said, winking, and Hughie objected that no, no he wouldn’t, at ALL, after hearing that kind of reassurance but he knew his objections were going in one ear and out the other. Homelander likely knows more details than he does, and that feels insulting. Hughie wonders if they’ll get to a point in these 48 hours where Homelander would explain it to him out of sheer cabin fever boredom. Right now he’s behaving quite normally- eerily normally, Hughie might say. He’s been planted on the couch for hours, not requesting anything even though Hughie tries to be a good host and offer things periodically. Maybe the supe doesn’t even eat or drink. Homelander just watches Vought News at a slightly obnoxious volume, and takes a slightly suspicious number of bathroom breaks, especially for a supe who may not need water to survive, for all Hughie knows. Hughie goes in to the bathroom just to check if something has been rearranged in that room or if there’s a secret phone Butcher hooked up in there, or maybe a portal to Narnia. He can find nothing remarkable. At one point, and against his better judgment, Hughie creeps closer to the bathroom door while Homelander is in there, to try and overhear if he’s doing some kind of communication, maybe to Vought, right under Hughie’s nose. If he was texting it’d be silent anyway. All Hughie can make out is something that sounds suspiciously like very short moans of effort or pain. Was he listening to Homelander straining to take a shit, right now? Is this what his life has become? Hughie feels the blood drain from his face when it dawns on him that Homelander might be seated on the toilet facing the door and might be staring right him.

“What’re you doing, Hugh?” A gruff voice from inside the small room, echoing off the tiles, right on cue.

“Uh… you okay in there?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be okay.”

“Just- just checking. Sorry, didn’t mean to… well, never mind.”

Hughie staggers back into the living room, trying to will the color back into his face.

Homelander walks out, after running the faucet, Hughie notes thankfully. He wonders if Homelander even takes his gloves off in the bathroom or just washes them like skin.

“You think I’m gonna bolt out of your tiny bathroom window? Trust me, I wouldn’t leave out that way if I had a mind to leave.”

“But… you’re staying because Butcher promised you Ryan?” Hughie just can’t help himself and wants to verify.

“Yeah. And if he has any plans to renege on that, trust me that I’ll take you as first hostage. Butcher seems oddly fond of you. Not to mention our resident blond ditz.”

Hughie thanks his lucky stars that Annie bailed out of keeping him company during this sit-in, just on principle. She would be escalating the situation right now. Hughie sighs. “Not sure Butcher will care about me as much as you expect.”

“Oh he’ll care. He talks a big game about not caring about anyone, but I’ve seen how he talks to you at HQ.”

“Wait, you … you know our HQ?”

Homelander rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t need X-ray vision to know. Vought Analytics has it bugged.”

“Wait, seriously?” Hughie blanches.

“Yeah, what do you think? I’m telling you because you’re all are so pathetic it’s just not a fair fight at all. Consider it charity.”

And yet you’re sitting here waiting for Butcher to decide to hand over Ryan to you, Hughie thinks. “Wait, so… do they have my place bugged too?!”

Homelander takes a cursory look around. “No. Nope, don’t see or hear anything. You’re just not consequential enough, I guess.”

I’m pretty high up in the FBSA! Hughie’s brain protests, but thankfully he keeps his mouth shut.

“So…. does it seem to you like I’m going to the bathroom a lot?” Homelander suddenly asks, and Hughie shakes his head in disbelief.

“What?”

“You asked if I was having trouble. Did you think I was going a lot?”

“Uh…” Hughie can feel sweat that’s broken out earlier start to actually trickle down his back. He tries not to think about the fact that Homelander might be able to see this. “I just… yeah I guess I thought so, but we all have days. Drink a lot of water, need to go more often, right?….” Now he’s just babbling nonsense, and laughing weakly at nothing funny, but in his defense it’s a nonsensical question that he’s answering.

“Sure,” Homelander says in a strange tone and turns back to the TV but looks like he’s lost in thought.

“Can I- get you something? I might start making dinner soon, and I don’t know what your preferences are. We can order in or—“

“Do you have milk?” Homelander interrupts him, sounding strangely urgent.

“Uh… yeah, yeah, I think so, it’s just…”

Homelander brushes past him to go into the kitchen and Hughie trails off.

Great, now he’s actually acting strange. Should he be alerting Butcher? It’s not like he can even say much. He has a code word that basically means ‘come quick, Homelander is in process of killing me,” but nothing less dire than that. He’s not about to start describing that Homelander’s acting weird about the bathroom when the supe will hear him even if he travels over to a different a borough.

“WHAT THE FUCK???!”

Hughie’s entire spinal column gets tense as he hears that voice and then glass breaking somewhere outside. He cautiously approaches the kitchen and just sees Homelander standing there, breathing hard and looking angry.

“W-what happened?”

“YOU FUCKING TELL ME. You had some milk in a jar or whatever it was, but when I cracked it open it smelled like the vilest shit on earth!”

Hughie looks around, thinks for a moment, then buries his face in his palm, not knowing if he’s going to laugh or cry, and worrying that either reaction is going to earn him a lasering.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS IT, HUGH? You trying to poison me or something? Heard I like milk?”

“What? No… no… wait where is it…”

“I chucked it out the window! Don’t tell me you needed that, it smelled about forty days expired!”

“It’s…”

“WHAT.”

“It’s not milk. It’s … a sourdough starter. Fren- um a friend gave it to me. To make bread. It’s not milk at all.”

“Fucking vile,” Homelander says, but a bit more quietly, and a bit more defensively, realizing the error may have been his. “Don’t just leave that out on the counter.” He throws the fridge door open violently enough that Hughie is nervous that he might tear it off the hinges, but he finds the real milk, inspects it very suspiciously, uncaps and smells it. If Hughie is being honest, he’d probably not going to drink this milk after seeing Homelander sniff it cautiously, from a distance, then bury his nose into the opening to huff it, way more deeply than anyone in their right mind should.

“1% huh.”

“Uh… yeah, Anni- we like the 1%.”

Homelander eyes him up and down critically. “You can probably afford to grade up. But your girlfriend, yeah, stick to the 1%.”

Hughie sighs and shakes his head ever so slightly, trying not to process what his charge is saying. Homelander walks past him back into the living room, back to being glued to Vought News. At least he’s not watching porn. And it looks like Hughie won’t have to worry about making sure to throw out that 1% jug after all, as Homelander drains what is most of a quart in about fifteen minutes.

(AO3 link)

#cozy corner domaystic #homelander #hughie campbell #the boys #the boys tv #mystuff

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ladyantiheroine · 3 months ago

Text

From Bludhaven, With Love

Summary: Late one night, Selina gets a call from Gotham City. Read on AO3.

Pairing: Selina Kyle x Bruce Wayne

Warnings: Explicit sexual content.

Word Count: 4.1k words

Tags: Phone sex, mutual masturbation, voice kink, sweet/hot, set after the movie

Selina returned home just before it started to rain. After dragging her weary body up the rickety stairs past the broken elevator, she let her apartment door shut and lock behind her. All noises were muffled, and she let out a long, airy sigh.

It had been a long day. A long day of scoping out the city, looking for new targets. She came to Bludhaven hoping to con some hedge-fund types, but it seemed like all the rich guys had taken their money and fled further from Gotham, which meant there were fewer opportunities for her.

So far, she’d been getting extra cash from guys she’d scam at bars when she wasn’t working her regular job. It was a trick she learned while working at the Iceberg Lounge. Get them drunk enough to not remember anything, but sober enough to sign a check. It was all cheap tricks, but it was all the city had to offer her since she showed up.

Selina rested her back against the door and rubbed her face. Between her new day job and trying to find some thrills, Bludhaven was draining her, both with exhaustion and boredom. She needed some sleep.

Her apartment was dark and cold this time of night. Spring was getting close, but the chills of winter were still lingering behind. She didn’t bother turning on any lights as she sauntered toward her bedroom.

In her room, Selina changed out of her day clothes and into her pajamas, which were really just a dark hoodie and cotton shorts. Her apartment was still a haphazard mess from her sudden move. Clothes were scattered around, groceries still sat in their plastic bags. She was still settling in, but all of that could wait until tomorrow.

Selina set her phone down on the bedside table and then collapsed onto the bed. Her warm, soft duvet caught her and she let her back sink into the thick mattress. Her new apartment wasn’t the fanciest place, but she got a great deal on the bed. She wanted to burrow inside it like a hare into its den.

Outside, the drizzle turned into a downpour beating against her window. Selina closed her eyes, but despite how exhausted she was, she couldn’t sleep. Ever since she got to Bludhaven, sleep had become more elusive to her. She was never great at keeping still, keeping her eyes shut, but somehow Bludhaven unsettled her more than Gotham did. Gotham was hard, but in a perverse way, it was still home.

Selina glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table. The glowing red numbers blared 2:56 AM. She sighed then turned her eyes to the ceiling and listened to the distant sounds of the city beyond her window. Bludhaven was quieter than Gotham, but the quiet did little to soothe her. As dangerous as Gotham was, its noise was familiar, like a reliable lullaby that came every night.

Selina lay still in the dark silence of her bedroom. There was hardly any light except for the faint amber glow of the streetlight beyond her window blinds. The rain was pattering harder against the window and kept the room from total silence.

She shut her eyes, ready to let sleep take her away.

And then, she heard a buzz.

The sound startled her, snapping her from her sleep and her eyes opened. She turned to see her phone alight on the table, buzzing with whoever was calling.

Selina was tempted to ignore it. Who the hell called at this ungodly hour? It wasn’t like she had many friends. At least, none that were alive and knew her number, anyway.

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore it. But something kept pricking at her head. She couldn’t remember the last time she got a call from anyone. The last person was Annika, and, well, it wasn’t for a good reason.

Selina sat up and reached for her phone. The bright screen hurt her eyes in the dark. She didn’t recognize the caller ID. It wasn’t a number she recognized from Gotham, meaning it likely wasn’t the police. Still, she couldn’t sleep, and she was just as curious as the proverbial cat of her name.

She slid her thumb across the screen to answer then brought the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” she said.

“Selina?”

As soon as she heard her name, Selina recognized the voice. That low, gravelly, chill of a voice that spilled down her back like ice water.

Selina slowly sat up.

“Vengeance?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”

It had been several months since they last spoke to each other. Several months since he escorted her to the edge of the city before she left. He frequented her thoughts and dreams, but it still felt surreal to hear him now. His voice was familiar, like the echo of a ghost from beyond the grave, and it sent a shiver across Selina’s skin.

“Hi,” she said. Her mouth scrambled for something to say. “How did you…get my number?” She let out a chuckle. “Have you been stalking me?”

“You handed me your phone during the investigation,” he said. “I saw your number on it.”

Oh right, that. Selina had tried her best to not think about the Mitchell investigation too much. The last thing she wanted was lingering thoughts about the time her best friend was killed by her father. More specifically, the voicemail of her being strangled.

“I’m sorry for looking at it,” Batman said. “I just…I thought it would be good to have on record. In case I ever needed to contact you.”

Selina wasn’t exactly sure what he would need to contact her for. The case was long over, and she hadn’t been back in Gotham to stir trouble. A part of her knew the real reason he’d memorize her number when he saw it, but she didn’t say anything.

She pursed her lips.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I thought of leaving it to you anyway before I left. I guess I figured you wouldn’t need it.”

There was a pause on the other end. Selina could tell Batman had a response on his tongue, but he kept it between his teeth.

“Why are you calling me this late?” Selina glanced at her clock again. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I know,” Batman said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I thought maybe you were…out.”

Selina grinned.

“Thought I was out on the street beating up assholes?” She leaned back on her pillow, one hand behind her head and the other holding the phone to her ear. “I have to say, I’m almost flattered you’d think that.”

“What have you been doing in Bludhaven?”

Selina sighed.

“Found some work at another club,” she said. “Nothing fancy, but better than working for Oz.”

Another pause. When Bruce spoke, his voice was so soft Selina almost didn't hear him.

“And what do you really do?”

Selina smirked and fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

“You want to know if I’ve been getting into any trouble?” she asked. “Stealing from safes? Terrorizing cops? Swiping money from under rich guys’ noses?”

“Are you admitting to those things?”

“I’m not admitting anything, because a lady never tells.” Selina smiled. “I’ve been scoping the place out. Making plans. Settling in.” She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you want to know? Are you going to drive down here and arrest me?”

Selina said it as a joke, but a part of her didn’t hate the idea. She imagined the Batman riding into town on that motorcycle, showing up at her door, maybe without the cowl…

Selina’s wandering thought was interrupted by Batman’s voice.

“Bludhaven isn’t really my jurisdiction,” he said.

“Jurisdiction?” Selina teased. “I thought you were a vigilante, now you’re a cop?”

On the other end of the line, Selina could sense a small smile on Batman’s face.

“And how’s Gotham?” she asked to break the silence.

“Still flooded,” Batman said. “Bella Reál is working on repair plans.”

“I guess that’s a start. And you?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

There was a long pause. Batman wasn’t exactly the chatty type, but the way he measured his responses always made Selina’s ears prickle. She wanted to know what words he was considering before he spoke. She wanted to take needles and a board and pin down his elusive thoughts.

“What I’ve always done,” he said. “Anything I can.”

Another long pause stretched between them. Selina listened to Batman’s breath on the other end of the phone.

“Why are you calling me, baby?” Selina asked. “Why are you up this late talking to me?”

Selina listened to the sound of his breath for several minutes before he responded.

“I can’t sleep either,” he said.

“I guess that makes us both night owls.”

“I’ve been thinking about the last few months.” He let out a sigh. “And then I started thinking about you.”

Selina felt a warm trickle in her chest, one that was strange and unfamiliar. No one ever thought about her. No one ever gave her a passing thought. The only people who did were both dead.

A long stretch of radio silence passed between them, louder than the rain pattering on the window.

“Selina?” Batman said.

“Keep talking, baby,” Selina said. “I’m still here.” She crossed her ankles. “Why were you thinking about me?”

Selina heard a small sound on the other end.

“I guess I was worried,” he said.

“Worried about what?”

“I just thought when you left Gotham…you left alone for upstate very suddenly, and I…”

Batman ran out of words, which was strange even for someone as monosyllabic as him.

Selina couldn’t help it. Her face broke out into a playful grin.

“It’s okay, baby,” she said. “You can say you missed me.”

She listened for his response, but the other end was just the crackle of static.

“Baby?” Selina said. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said.

“Something wrong?”

“No, I just…”

Batman was never an easy man to read. In the times they spoke in person, Selina had to get close to try to pry anything from him. His eyes, his mouth, his body language. Most men she met were easy, open as a book, and happy to open wider for her. Everything Batman did seemed to hide something. Even his voice was cloaked in shadows.

“Just what, baby?” Selina said, then smirked and rolled onto her side. “It’s getting late, you can’t keep me waiting.”

Batman exhaled through the phone.

“It’s good to hear you again,” he mumbled. “It’s good to know you’re okay.”

Something warm bloomed in Selina’s chest. She parted her lips, not sure what to say. She pictured him standing in her apartment right now. A tall, cloaked figure in a mask and cape and layers of armor to protect himself.

“I wish I could see your face,” Selina said.

She meant two things by that. She wanted to see him right now, but she also wanted to see his face under that mask. It had been a question rolling around in her head longer than she cared to admit. She thought about that masked avenger she met in the city, wondering who was hiding under all that leather and metal.

“I wish I could show you,” he said.

“Are you wearing a mask now?”

A long pause. Selina listened to the subtle shift in his breath.

“No,” he said.

Selina felt something warm rush down her body. If only she could look at him right now. His real face was just out of reach on the other side of the phone, and that thought drove her crazy. No way he’d turn his camera on and show his face. Still, there was that temptation in his voice. She could practically feel him in the room with her, yet she couldn’t imagine what he looked like under that cowl.

“So you’re home,” she said. “No crime fighting tonight?”

“No,” he said. “Just…focusing on other things.”

“Like some girl living miles away from you?”

Selina swore she could feel Batman blush on the other end, and it made her giggle. As much as he loved to put on a stoic face, Selina got around enough to know the bigger a guy’s bravado the more he had to hide.

“I just wanted to see if you made it to Bludhaven,” he said. “I wanted to know if you were safe.”

“Well, I’m in Bludhaven, and I’m perfectly safe.” Selina bit her lip. “I told you already, baby, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he said. “I just...“ His next words came out as soft as a breath. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you since you left.”

His voice was low like a confessional. Selina’s heart lurched against her ribcage. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to say. She never exactly made her attraction to him a secret, but it still felt strange to hear him say that to her.

“I keep thinking about everything you said to me before you left,” Batman continued. “I looked back, you know. I took my eyes off the road to watch you drive away. I thought I saw you at Mitchell’s funeral on Falcone’s arm and…it just scared me.”

This was the most Batman had said to her at once. His words were droning out in a sleepy, late-night ramble. Selina listened closely.

“I thought about when we met in the Penguin’s office,” he continued. “When you delivered those dropheads. I thought about us on that sky tower…”

That’s when his voice trailed off. Selina’s lips alighted with the memory of their moment on the roof together. The moment she asked him to help her find Kenzie, she couldn’t take it anymore and kissed him. She remembered how cold yet soft his mouth was, the prickle of his whiskers on her upper lip, the way he smelled like rainwater and leather.

Selina’s voice softened, and the corner of her lips quirked into a small smirk.

“So that’s why you called me?” she said. “Can’t get the taste of me out of your mouth?”

Batman was silent on the other end. Selina smiled and rolled onto her back again.

“No need to be embarrassed, baby,” she said. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been thinking about you too. For a guy who doesn’t seem to get out much, you’re a pretty good kisser.”

Selina’s face flushed hot and her lips tingled remembering that kiss. The way she took his face in her hands, the way her heart and stomach bolted at the contact. Kissing was nothing new to her, but with Batman, it felt like a force she could feel in her bones.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he said. “Right before you left the city.”

“Why didn’t you?” Selina asked.

Another long pause.

“If I did, I would have left with you,” he confessed. “I knew I couldn’t make you stay in Gotham. If I kissed you, I would have followed you out of the city and never came back.”

Selina’s body surged hot and her heartbeat picked up.

“Really?” she said.

“I can’t leave Gotham,” he said. “And if you kissed me before you left, I wouldn’t have been able to stay.”

Selina felt warm all over, and she felt a particular heat creeping from between her legs. It didn’t help that Batman’s voice was like dark velvet, pouring from the phone. The back of her neck prickled and there were goosebumps along her back.

“That’s…” Selina said. “That’s sweet, Vengeance.”

“I wish we met differently,” he said. “Without the investigation, without all the mayhem. If the circumstances were different.”

“What if the circumstances were ‘different’?” she asked.

“If neither of us had been pulled away by other things. Not the Riddler, not Annika, not the investigation and GCPD.” He paused. “I know you think Gotham is hopeless. But things are changing here. You’d be surprised what can happen in this city.”

As Bruce spoke, as his voice whispered to her from miles away in the dark, Selina felt a warm, curling feeling fill her body.

“Maybe,” Selina said.

Without much thought, Selina’s hand moved slowly down her stomach and down the front of her shorts. Her fingers slipped under her underwear and over her folds. Her breath hitched as her fingertips made contact with her clit. A sound that Batman seemed to hear.

“Selina?” he said.

God, even the way he said her name made her blood rush hot.

“I’m here,” she said. Her voice came out low and breathy.

“Are you…?”

Selina paused her hand. What was she doing?

“Nothing,” she said. “I just…has anyone ever told you you have a nice voice?”

Batman’s response was a puzzled silence.

“I guess you don’t talk much,” Selina corrected herself. “It’s just that I don’t think you’ve spoken this many words to me before. And it’s quiet where I am, and…I just like listening to you.”

Selina bit her lip, wondering if maybe she said too much. She was about to pull her hand back out when Batman’s toe-curling baritone came crawling back through the phone.

“You like my voice?” he said.

He wasn’t teasing her. Nothing in his tone suggested that. But there was an enticed curiosity in his tone.

“Yeah,” Selina said. “I mean, I don’t really know what you look like, so your voice is all I have to go off of.” She chuckled. “That, and your mouth, I guess.”

Selina’s face went hot, remembering her fingers running along his jawline just below where the leather of his mask ended. She heard Batman let out a long, hot breath from his lips.

“I’ve missed your voice too,” he said. Now his voice was different, coming out in a low, breathy tone. “Keep talking, I love the sound of it.”

Selina lay completely still in bed. The darkness of her bedroom suddenly felt hotter. She couldn’t see anything, even with her eyes open, but she could hear his voice hot in her ear.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked.

“Anything,” he said. He sounded almost out of breath, like he was talking while running. “Say anything you want.”

Selina’s heart hitched when she realized what was happening. Her voice was having the same effect on him as his voice had on her.

“Vengeance,” Selina said carefully. “Where are you right now?”

It took him a second to respond.

“Home,” he said.

“Are you…lying down right now?”

She heard a small gulp from deep in his throat.

“Yes,” he whimpered.

Selina couldn’t quite believe it. All it took was her speaking to get this man groveling for her. And having that kind of power over someone like Batman sent an excited surge through her.

Selina shoved her hand down the front of her shorts again, with no hesitation this time. Her finger fumbled down into the dark until they found her opening, wet and hot.

She pressed two fingers inside and let out a small gasp, one she was certain Batman heard.

On the other end, she could hear his measured yet desperate breathing. Batman was a man obsessed with control, but right now his grasp on it was thread-thin. Selina released a warm, sultry sound into the phone and right into his ear miles away.

“Selina,” Batman moaned.

Selina bit her lips to keep herself from keening. Her hand worked between her thighs. He sounded exquisite. The deep, thunder-like gravel of his voice, but punctuated with the high-pitched whimpers of a man coming undone.

“Baby,” Selina said. “If you keep moaning like that, you’re going to make me do something. You’ve already got my fingers in me.”

Those words sent something off in him. Batman’s breathing became louder, gruffer, his moans hungrier. Selina closed her eyes and tried not to let the phone slip from her grasp. Her fingers pressed deeper and faster over her clit, sending waves of pleasure up from between her legs. She imagined him in that pitch-black bedroom with her, hovering over her with his ungloved fingers inside her and his warm sighs in her ear.

“I wish you were here,” Selina breathed into the phone. “I want you in this bed with me.” Her voice came out in breathless wisps. “I want you on top of me. I want to be on top of you . And I want you without that damn cowl on .”

There was a feverish rush to her demands. On the other end, Selina heard every breath flush hotly from Batman’s throat. She imagined his lips parting, his Adam’s apple moving, his pale face going red. Her fingers moved quickly over her clit, the thoughts of him sending her body into a hungry surge.

“I want to show you my face too,” he said. His words fumbled thoughtlessly from his lips. “I want to show you, so I can lay on the bed, and you can ride it.”

Those words sent shock waves through Selina’s body. Her hands worked faster in her pussy. Her lips parted as she let a low moan percolate from her throat to the phone. On the other end, she heard Batman suppress a groan that came out as a grunt. She imagined him in a similar position as her, lying on his bed, with the phone in one hand and his cock in the other.

“Baby…” Selina cooed into the phone. Her voice grew higher and louder as her body started rushing hotter. “Baby…I’ve missed you so much…”

“Selina,” he whimpered. “I…need you here…I can’t stand being away from you…”

Selina’s back arched over the bed as every nerve in her body burned. His voice was so close she could practically feel him next to her, beneath her, on top of her. She could feel his body heat and his hot breath on her neck. They were miles apart but they may as well have been rolling around in that bed together.

Batman’s breathing was getting louder, growing from a groan to a whimper. Selina felt herself getting close too. Each breath from the one brought her closer to the edge.

“Tell me your name,” she said. “Tell me your real name so I can say it.”

Batman’s heavy breathing paused.

“I…”

“Vengeance, I’m so hot and I’m about to burst, tell me your fucking name so I can scream it into the phone.”

Selina wished he was there with her more than ever at that moment, so she could slap him across the face and then bite his lip.

Batman was quiet in the other line, but she could still hear his ragged breath grow more desperate as he continued to work himself. She could hear him panting in time with her.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

Her body was rising to a climax, and based on the sounds he was making, he was too.

Batman groaned on the other end.

“Bruce,” he said. “My name is Bruce.”

“Bruce,” Selina repeated. Then she repeated it again. “Bruce…” Then louder. “ Bruce… ”

His name on her lips sent him over the edge. Selina heard him shiver from the other end.

“ Selina ,” he whimpered. “Fuck…I’m gonna…”

The two of them came at the same time. Selina’s chest rose and fell with every breath as her body ricocheted into a burst of pleasure. She let herself fall apart on the bed, uncaring if her sleeping neighbors heard her. On the other end, Bruce let out a shuddering moan. Both of them were quiet for several minutes, save for their heavy breaths, sitting together in the heated silence between them.

Selina sighed then grinned.

“You really missed me, didn’t you?”

Even through the phone, Selina could sense him blush. Selina pulled her hand out from her shorts.

“So,” she said once she caught her breath. “Your name is Bruce?”

“I’m…” he said, his voice still shaking. “I didn’t…” Pause. “I’ll…I’ll call again in the morning.”

And then, he hung up. Selina lay quiet in the dark for several minutes. Batman—no, Bruce’s —voice seemed to linger in the air like a scent. After a few minutes, she set her phone aside and then curled up under the blankets. His name turned over in her head. Bruce. Where could she connect that name in Gotham? It was right at the tip of her tongue, but she was exhausted and her brain was still warm and soupy from everything that just happened.

Selina closed her eyes and pulled her duvet up to her chin. Her body felt warm and light now, and she could feel sleep finally creeping its way under her skin.

She made a note to visit Gotham again soon.

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icon-cloud · 11 months ago

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Sleep Helps

Sometimes you wake up feeling like shit.

Includes: Sick character, Overall, pretty soft

WC: 946

Waking up, Swiss didn’t feel right. He wasn’t usually someone to stay in bed for long, aside from of course, the fun activities. There were just too many things to do, and too many people to annoy and launch himself dramatically at. Why would he stay in bed and willingly subject himself to boredom when there was something to do?

Today felt different though. His eyes felt dry, a little crusty. It stung a little to open his eyes actually. His skin felt a little more sensitive than usual he supposed. Like it was stretched a little too much.

Sitting up, he took a deep breath and groaned loudly, while rubbing his hand harshly on his face. Slouching forward, he pulled his arms close to his lap before doing a cursory look around his room and decided to take a shower.

Showers usually helped. The steam opened up his nasal passage and rehydrated his eyes significantly. Plus, it always helps to just start the day clean, it felt nice and it was a good way to wake up in his mind.

Stepping out the shower he got dressed relatively quickly and shuffled his way into the kitchen, to the coffee pot.

Rain soon found Swiss glaring at the coffee machine, almost as if it spoke to him, and accused him of being a eunuch. Slowly, he approached before asking softly, “Hey wisp, are you alright? You’re usually up earlier than this… and more coherent.”

Squinting, Swiss turned his gaze towards Rain and replied in a scratchy voice, “The da-” his voice cut off harshly as he turned his face to cough into his elbow. Closing his eyes, Swiss angled his head to the ceiling. Methodically, he took a few shallow breaths to calm his breathing before continuing, “The damned coffee is empty, and my head hurts too much to fix it.”

Rain winced at the multi ghouls voice. What was usually a low timbre, had morphed into a dry hoarse mockery of his usual tone. All around Swiss didn’t look like his usual, bubbly self.

Frowning, he approached Swiss and gently grasped his arm to pull him softly, before saying, “Come on my wisp. You don’t sound too good. So, let's get you laid down and I can bring you something warm.” Looking to Swiss, he tilted his head before giving a shy smile and said, “I don’t think coffee is what you need at the time being anyway.”

Swiss didn’t protest when Rain pulled him closer. Instead, he chose to lean his head onto his current partner’s shoulder when he wrapped his arm around him, allowing the water ghoul to lead them both back to his room.

Opening the door to his room, they shuffled to Rain’s bed. “Alright Smiles, give me a second and you can lay back down. You wanna strip down or have some PJ’s?”

Grumbling he replied hoarsely, “Skin hurts. Don't want anything.” Stiffly, he worked his way out of his short worn outfit of the day until he got to his boxers.

Hunched awkwardly, he smiled gently to himself as he watched rain worry over the state of his bed before he whispered, “The bed is fine the way it is Lilly, lemme get in please.”

Turning to Swiss, he bit his lip softly as he observed the sick ghouls slouched figure. “Alright, yea go on and get comfortable.” Leaning against the bed, he tilted his head while he watched Swiss gingerly climb into the bed. Once he got to the center he flounced forward, sighing in relief.

Gathering the blankets around him, he asked Rain where Aether was, frowning when the other answered displeased. “Aether was called away this morning. Apparently a different location needs a skilled Quint to help train some newly summoned. Aeth is gonna be away for a little bit.”

“Ah well, he’s always lecturing us about how we can’t always rely on him. I suppose it was bound to happen,” was the scratchy reply given by Swiss. Whining he asked in a small voice, “Can you just… I feel real crappy Lils, can you just hold me a little?”

Squinting mirthfully, Rain snorted before saying, “Is that not the exact reason why I shouldn’t get in bed with you at the moment?” Laughing he said, “Move over ya big lump, you’re taking up all the room!”

Swiss gave him an impish grin and said, “Scuse you, I’m sick. I don’t need to move at all. You can make room.” As he said this he playfully turned his head away from Rain with a small grin, only to give a short squeal when the other began shoving him to the side.

Rain grinned down at him, causing small wrinkles to form around his eyes. Haloed by the golden light coming in through the sheer curtains of the room, he appeared to be almost celestial to Swiss.

Unable to help himself, Swiss hooked an arm around the other's neck to gently pull him down. Settled on top of him, Swiss cupped Rain’s cheek, and nuzzled him gently before giving in to kiss Rain.

Closing his eyes, Rain smiled against the other, before turning his head and leaned into Swiss’ neck. Hugging himself against the other’s body, he pulled them both onto their sides and whispered, “Go to sleep Wisp. There’s always the chance you’ll feel better in the afternoon.”

Sighing quietly he replied, “Yea, you’re right. Thanks Rain, love you.”

It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep. He couldn’t quite breath right, and his throat hurt, but he knew he was safe. Should anything happen he knew Rain would look after him while he slept.

#the band ghost #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #rain ghoul #sickfic #my fics

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pampushky · 6 months ago

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Creature (Both Haunted & Holy)

Vinsmoke Sanji/Reader - Chapter 18 - 6.1k

As the night brings unexpected guests to your ship, you find yourself in your worst nightmare, while Sanji realizes just how hard he’s fallen.

ao3 | series masterlist | masterlist | next part

The ruckus of the town throwing a celebration for your crew is audible from whatever tavern they’ve holed up in. You feel one of your ears twitch, when you hear another loud cry, followed by laughter. There’s no one on the pier now, yet you can smell something in the air.

It’s not the faint scent of your pod, which hangs forever around the ship. It’s wonderful, the way they’ve all melted together to form something cohesive that almost smells unified. There are hints of rubber, tangerines, and tobacco, all mixing to form something so unique that it could only be described as the Straw Hats.

Your sunglasses had been slipped to rest on top of your head, no longer needing the cover from the sunlight. It’s a calm night, besides the occasional rowdy shout from the town. Nothing on the ship has changed, and it still sways sleepily in the water. Part of you regrets not joining your crew, but the logical side argues that it was necessary. You didn’t like crowds, and you weren’t a people person. The fact you hadn’t fully panicked in Loguetown was a miracle, honestly.

Quietly, you hum as you walk around the ship, not focusing on watching it so much as you are staving off your boredom until the crew comes back to sleep for the night. The storage room had been reorganized and the logs were up to date now, and more dry goods had been dropped off by a few townsfolk.

Something had been… off, though. Their smiles were much too wide, and their greetings too excited when they realized you were a selkie. You had made a note, just out of caution, to keep the goods you had gotten all separated from the main storage until you had Sanji back here to make sure they were safe to eat.

Sanji. You wondered what he was doing now. He had a fair amount of people hanging off of him, and you really couldn’t blame them, he was attractive, if not a bit flirtatious with most people. It wasn’t like you were committed to him, anyway, despite what Nami had pointed out to you. Or that he had a reason to commit to you, or showing interest in you.

The women and even some of the men who had been vying for his attention as he was leaving the pier certainly looked better than you did on a given day. Subconsciously, you did look down at yourself. Gray, speckled skin, dashed with pink scars. The inner skin of your thighs had lightened as you had grown, just like any other leopard seal selkie. But they certainly didn’t have the same amount of scars or bony shoulders and thin arms. But even then, with you gaining your lost weight back, and slowly having your muscle loss reversed, could you be considered beautiful?

Leopard seal selkenfolk were not meant to be beautiful. They were not ringed, harp, spotted, or ribbon selkenfolk, with delicate patterns that drew the gaze of admirers, and gentle singing voices that would put even the most fussy pup to sleep in seconds. Leopard seals were warriors and builders, the workers of the isles they inhabited, and fierce protectors of the pod. They were large, and awkward, with clashing pelt colors in seal and selken form, with eyes that were dark as night and reflected light like a predator would.

You were not pretty. This you knew. You saw it in your teeth, made for ripping apart prey, and understood it when your claws would unsheath themselves when you hunted fish for your pod. There was no beauty in your patchy-furred seal form when you tried to bask in the sun on the deck. So why should you try at this point?

As you passed by a window, you were surprised by your reflection in it. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t seen it since your liberation, but you… just hadn’t studied it in detail.

There were those dark eyes. No whites, only chunks of basalt with flood-water irises. Dark hair that was slowly growing back out to the length it had been before you cut it, wild as kelp and refusing to be tamed into a bun. Chapped lips and a scarred cheek, with baby fat that would never leave. Dark gray speckles splattered themselves like coal dust down your nose and around your eyes and forehead. Your chin was the same pale gray as your inner thighs, and that color trickled down your neck and chest.

The only thing that you did like about yourself was the small white freckles that danced along your skin, cutting through the dark gray. That was not a leopard seal. That was your mother, Sion, the only trait of her ringed seal lineage you had of her.

You were no beauty, but at least you had your mother's freckles. You could live with that.

A creak of someone walking on wood drew your attention, snapping you from your mildly self-deprecating observation. Whoever was trying to be sneaky, they were failing, and probably depending on how dark it was to mask their failure. Unfortunately for them, you could see as clearly in the dark as though it were day, and the small group that was making their way to the Going Merry’s gangplank was not aware that they were already spotted.

You could be nice here, and just call the ocean to knock the gangplank down, sending all five people into the water. But you wanted to know more. So you waited, hiding in the shadows as they came aboard, and searched the deck.

“Where is she?” One man hissed, swinging his head wildly as if that would help him see any better in the dark. They were talking about you, for some reason. It didn’t help that the sounds of merriment had died down as well, making a chill run down your spine, a warble wanting to make its way past your lips.

“I don’t know! She’s probably asleep!” A second man snapped.

A grumbled agreement fell over the group, and you carefully moved around them, watching and listening. One woman started poking at the door to the galley, trying her best to look in through the window. Clearly, these were not master thieves.

“I can’t see her in here!” She hissed to the group and you watched as another woman, and the first man who had spoken carefully went up the stairs to look in the door, before just pushing it open.

“She’s not in there,” The man spoke again, sighing. “Search for any doors, we still don’t want to use any light.”

“That makes this even harder!” The final person spoke, their eyes wide and frustrated. “It’s one selkie and there’s five of us, I think we can take her!”

“Do you, now?”

Five pairs of eyes whipped towards you as you spoke and struck Tide against the deck, the trident letting out a long, low ring, and shockingly, glowing as it did so. You were no beauty, yes, but in that moment, you were utterly terrifying as you seemed to disappear into a deep, heavy fog as you charged at the closest, that same person who had so confidently said that five of them could take you.

As if on instinct, that small part of your brain that had been picking, nay, nagging at you silently ever since your crewmates had left. Touch them with your claws, it whispered, and you agreed, free hand twitching as you brought Tide down in an arc. So you did, roaring as your claws unsheathed themselves, and your brain fogged, the thrill of the hunt making your adrenaline soar.

You thought of how you had caused frost to climb the walls back in Arlong Park and had intermittently since caused the water to change into ice and fog. It was natural, even as your claws only brushed against the person’s cheek. Their scream of pain was evidence enough for you if the sudden drop in temperature hadn’t made it clear. Before they could have a chance to recover, you brought Tide forward, slamming the flat of the points into their head, knocking them out cold.

Well done.

“What the fuck was that?!”

“Holy shit!”

The next man charged, and you sidestepped, narrowly missing his strike. The nape of his neck– sink your claws in.

“Frostbitten Claw! ”

There was an odd satisfaction when his entire body turned to ice, shattering when it hit the ground. The fog that had hidden you sunk low to the deck, but the temperature had dropped. You could feel it, chilling your skin, causing your breath to come out in clouds as the three remaining combatants stood in a triangle around you, unsure of who would go next. The first man to speak charged, along with a nearly identical woman, both wielding curved blades.

“You’ll pay for that!”

Their attacks were merciless, keeping you on the defensive, as you countered against them, bits of ice and water exploding from Tide with every strike against the metal. Or was it made of ice itself? Either way, it wasn’t taking any damage, and it never warmed under your touch.

Another splash, and it gave you an idea. I could use this against them if I just get the chance to strike back, you glanced down, briefly, eyes widening. Right before the woman was going to attempt to strike upwards, the man would stumble a bit. It was consistent, too, happening with each strike. If you could get him to trip– perhaps on a chunk of his frozen ally, however grim that sounded– this fight could be over.

“Getting tired? I’ll make sure you’ll pay for what you did to my friends! ” The woman sneered, pulling back her lips, as you continued to let yourself get backed up, waiting for your chance. She flipped the blade in her hand, making it go up, and right when she was about to hit Tide’s shaft, her partner stumbled, and fell into the arc of her attack, catching himself on her blade as she screamed, cutting into his belly.

Quickly, you twirled your trident and brought the butt of the weapon into the woman’s face, grimacing when you heard the crunch of it making contact with her nose, before knocking her unconscious by bringing the shaft to hit the back of her head. By now, the temperature had dropped significantly around you, though you didn’t notice.

A snowflake fell in front of the last woman, and she screamed, making for the gangplank. And oh, how your mind howled. To give chase, to remind her that it had been her group to come into your territory. Even as you charged after her, something felt wrong. Your humanity screamed for you to stop, while your instincts bayed for blood.

What manages to yank you from your instinctual haze is a sharp pain in the back of your neck, the woman shaking in your ferocious grip, growling and baring your teeth. You don’t know what you were going to do originally, but decide it probably would be better to just toss her in the water, already frustrated by the fog that clouded your thoughts. It felt as though you were coming up from a deep dive, gasping for air as you looked around the deck. There was the shattered man and the half-frozen person. The couple who had been fighting you were slumped unconscious near the entrance to the anchor deck. It was a bloodbath, and your stomach churned. Had it really been you, who had done all that? Who had taken another person’s life?

The only thing you could hear was yourself getting sick over the side of the railing, vomiting into the ocean as you realized what you had done, calling for the water to wash away your terrible, terrible deeds until the deck was cleared.

There was still that stabbing pain in your neck, and as you brought your hand up to touch it, your fingers made contact with a hard plastic, pulling out a bright green dart. You stared down at it in horror and felt your breath hitch. That had been… what, a few minutes ago? How much time did you have left, if any at all? What had you been hit with? A low growl near your ear makes you freeze, turning to look behind you, as the last remnants of your battle are swept from the deck.

Unwillingly, you let out a low warble, feeling terror seize your heart as a familiar shadow overtook your vision, with a sharp nose and furious eyes that you would know anywhere approaching. Only, it isn’t a shadow. It’s him, physical and real, with purple-gray skin, and greasy hair, towering over you.

Sanji cannot help but miss you, even as there is a woman practically throwing herself across him. He honestly wonders if he’s broken, because in another life, this would have been a dream, to be loved on and have all sorts of beautiful people hanging off of his very breath. But you aren’t here, and it makes him ache, fiending for you like an addict. Your gentle smile, and the delicate colors of your pretty skin, he misses you so desperately it scares him. Every part of you, he sees in someone here at the party. In the freckles of a beautifully tanned man who slides up next to him, purring praises. In the low, rumbling rasp of an older woman who plays with his hair.

They’re not you. They don’t have your soft curves or bony joints. And though others would think those features unappealing, they’re real, and they’re human. It’s a sign you are still healing, and still growing. And that Sanji, by some miracle, is a part of that process. You trusted him to help you through that, to help your stomach readjust to a healthy diet, and to help fix the beating your body had taken in the two years of your captivity. It’s only been around three and a half months, he knows this, but he’s seen the progress you’ve already made. Sinewy muscles on your biceps and your thighs growing less plush and more cabled, along with your form filling back out, the softness of your cheeks returning to you, rather than the hollowed-out pout he had met you with.

You were, in Sanji’s humble opinion, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He tells this to Zoro, who looks incredibly done with his shit at this point, annoyed with how he’s managed to wax poetic for long periods about how wonderful you are, sighing your name, and looking longingly at the door.

“It’s just that…. Ott’s so wonderful,” Sanji puts his chin in his hand, his cigarette pinched between his fingers. “How could anyone ever think to do such a thing to a woman, much less a teenager… how could anyone have done that to her and not wanted to rip their eyes out of their head?”

“Because people are bad sometimes, twirly-brows.”

“I know that, mosshead! It’s just….”

Sanji thinks of how you had taken care of his cut on his hand, and the sweet words you had spoken to him. Your genuine concern for the entire crew as you watched them so carefully, healing tiny wounds and taking the night’s watch the most often.

“Will you please stop sighing dramatically? I’m going to gag if you get any more lovesick,” Zoro groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palm. “Grow a pair and… do the seal dating thing. I don’t fucking know, man!”

“You think I should?” Sanji is tipsy, looking at Zoro with his mouth in an ‘o’ and wide-open eyes.

“If it gets you to shut up, then yeah,” Zoro leans back, and the chef is still looking at him. “You’d better treat her right. Don’t cheat on her, or nothin'— I’ll cut you open if you do.”

“I want to show her nothing but love,” Sanji sighs dramatically, “D’you know she doesn’t think she’s pretty?”

“How do you know that?”

“I can feel it. Like, this deep sadness,” Sanji furrows his brow, and puts his hand over his heart, trying to will himself to feel it again, just like he had the first time. “I— I dunno, it happened after last night.”

“What happened last night?” Zoro cocked an eyebrow, setting his drink down. “What’d the seal do?”

“There was this spark—” Sanji begins, only to be interrupted by a woman throwing herself across his lap, a manicured hand sweeping down his chest as she dragged him to dance.

Zoro is even more puzzled than before, watching as Sanji tries to think of a polite way to turn down the girl, and even when it grows later, and the swordsman pretends to sleep, he’s still confused by just what Sanji meant by feeling how you had felt. Just as Zoro thinks he is about to fall asleep, he hears a distant roar. One that sounds both terrified and fearsome at the same time, and hears the townspeople start to murmur. The mayor turns to face the door, swears loudly, and has an entire change in character, harshly whispering orders to people and shoving them out the door, only sparing a loathing glare for the Straw Hats.

There’s another roar, and this is when Zoro takes this as a sign to leave, quietly opening a window and swinging out of it, climbing the wall to get onto the roof as quickly as possible, staring down at the crowd of hundreds before they even know he’s there.

Back on the ship, you are in a panic.

Arlong towers over you as you back away from him. One of his giant fists slams into the deck where you had just been, destroying it and leaving a giant hole. You screech, sprinting down the deck and jumping up onto the railing to leap to the pier. The fishman follows you, with a roar of your name. The moment your feet made contact with the wooden planks of the pier, you felt the temperature lower, the ground frozen underneath you covered in ice. That shouldn’t have been possible, especially with your lack of training, but that wasn’t exactly at the forefront of your main concerns.

Eyes blown wide, teeth bared, claws out. Tide humming dangerously in your hand, the perfect image of a leopard seal warrior, primed to attack. But here you were, standing in the center of a perfect circle, the air growing ever colder around you as Arlong stood on the deck of your ship, glaring down at you.

So you fled. Arlong alone couldn’t move the entire ship, even if he was using fishman karate. You let out another cry, trying your best to awaken your pod mates to what was happening, but all that came out was a high, reedy warble. Please, pod, help, unsafe! Terror clouded your mind as you ran ever faster.

Arlong hurled a plank of wood into your head, roaring in fury as he missed you completely. All you wanted was to curl up in your nest, deep under a blanket, with your pod around you. You let out another cry, pleading with whatever gods were out there to take some mercy on you.

Sea Mother, please! Your chest started to ache. How long have you been running at this point? It was getting cold, too. That certainly wouldn’t help if you were just huffing and puffing the entire time, choking on cold air as you struggled to get away. But for every corner you turned, every time you thought you had gotten away, he was always there. And now you were caught somewhere between three buildings.

“My little selkie has left me such a wonderful trail,” Arlong purred, and you felt your stomach drop. How could you have let yourself get cornered? “Did you miss me, sweet thing?”

“Please, leave me alone,” You take another step back, looking down at the ground, trembling. And there it was. The damned trail of frost and ice, coating the cobbles of the town. Your gift, your undoing. “Please don’t touch me, please just go away–”

“I’ll be doing much, much worse,” Arlong took another step forward, and you wailed, your hands over your ears, and claws sinking into your scalp as you did so, a rush of arctic air exploding forth from you.

Where there had once been a visage of your captor standing over you, ready to pounce, was now a wall of ice, jagged and enormous. And you were tired, so, so tired. You could only hope that your podmates would find you, as you let yourself slump, letting out a sleepy warble for Sanji as your eyes fell shut.

Sanji wakes up with a start aware of two things. The first, is that you need his help, right now, and the second, is that something is deeply, deeply wrong. Zoro is gone, as well as Nami and Luffy, and Usopp is dead asleep on a couch near him.

Cautiously, he shakes the sniper, who lets out a groan, slapping at his hand.

“Fuck off, Luffy… s’to early….” Usopp turns and shoves his face into the couch cushions, groaning when Sanji shakes him again, finally cracking open one of his eyes, his sleepy expression turning confused when he realizes it’s not Luffy shaking him awake, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but you need to get back to the ship and get it ready,” Sanji looks at the door when he hears a shout and several thuds. “I’m gonna find the rest of the crew.”

Usopp lets out a nervous sigh, and nods, making his way to a window to get out of the building. Sanji opts for the door, cracking it open to look outside, eyes widening as he looks at the carnage before him. Hundreds of people are tossed about like rag dolls, many bleeding out, dead, or groaning in pain, while down the street, he can see the unmistakable shape of his captain and swordsman being held by Nami, all looking up at the gigantic glacier that had definitely not been there when they had been lead into town.

It’s monstrous, engulfing half the town, with a deep fog rolling off it from the drastic temperature difference. A trail of ice and frost leads the way up to it, and somewhere deep in Sanji’s head, something aches and whines. You were there. Somehow, you were there, and you had gotten involved in whatever mess this was. Sanji doesn’t know how he knows this, but he’s certain of it. He can still feel the ache, though it’s not painful. It’s like a phantom pain, nagging at the back of his mind, pulling at his heart, searching for some missing half he’s only just noticed is gone.

And then it hits him, your scent washing over him as he sprints forward towards the fog. Rotten leaves and a storm-churned sea, with a hint of blood that makes his skin prickle. He doesn’t know where you are, but he knows that he has to help you, and needs to be able to tell you how he feels. He doesn’t care that Nami shouts at him to stop, or that Ms. Wednesday is standing in shock behind his crewmates.

There’s a tug at his mind again, and through flickers of panic, he sees you, lying on the ground, sleeping. Then there’s the panic. The way your blood felt like syrup in your veins. And him. Arlong, chasing you, always just a half step ahead or behind you to never let you have a movement to think.

“I’ll kill him,” Sanji stops for a moment, letting himself be still, heart pounding in his chest, as he calls your name, cupping his hands around his mouth as he does so. The little itch at the back of his mind flickers, and it’s like he knows exactly where you are as he takes careful steps, guided by that small tug. The fog gets deeper, and he can feel the drop in temperature. The ice path turns to snow, crunching under his shoes.

The snow you lay in is soft, not too cold for you. It reminds you so much of the time you had spent outside as a child, watching as human sailors on the docks grumbled about the chill in the air, while selken pups were running around barefoot, unbothered by the weather. You can almost see Sion and Feann chasing your younger twin brothers, while an old friend, some red-haired man, watches with a cackle, clearly amused.

There’s a gentle hand on your head, and you can feel the pins and needles sensation that was being healed. You only want to sleep, but the prickle against your skin gets more insistent, and the touch slightly harsher. It doesn’t hurt you, nothing even close to pain, but it instills an urgency to rise and open your eyes.

oh my small one what has happened to you all these years ?

It’s familiar, just fuzzy enough in the back of your mind, and makes you think of the grandmother you had only heard of in stories. Sweet, loving Coth, who had left her home island of Neath to be with your grandfather. Feann’s mother, who you looked so much like, and who you had been held by only once as a newborn. But it’s not mortal, it lacks the tone and drawl that you would expect. But it’s sweet and loving.

The sweet voice hums, and you feel as though the touch travels down your face, tracing your chin. It’s warm, and it makes you whine and lean into the touch.

your other soul searches for you pup . you must answer him my small one .

As if on cue, you hear it, or rather, feel it first, a gentle pull that makes your eyes flutter open. The world is blurry for the first few seconds, and the touch fades.

i will be back soon my small one . never fear that i am away from you for long . i have always been there to guide you .

Around you is a cloud of fog, hanging low and almost hiding you completely as you sit up with a groan, your entire body aching. Everything smells of your distress, tinged with freezer burn. You shudder, feeling a stabbing pain in your ribs, as if there was a knife lodged between them.

Somewhere to your left Sanji calls your name, loud and desperate. You groan as you try to get up, looking over to try and find him. You feel the pull again, letting out a warble to hopefully help him. Your vision blurs again as you manage to push yourself up onto one of your knees, falling onto your stomach as you do so.

Sanji hears the crunch of snow as you fall forward, and watches as the fog puffs upwards slightly as you disturb it. He’s by your side in a second, and you let out a low whine, flinching when his hand brushes against your shoulder.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know,” your ribcage throbs and you tuck your pelt around yourself tighter, gasping as you try to sit up again. “I– Sanji, Arlong was here, he was hunting me!”

The cook stiffens, and helps you stand, letting you lean heavily on him as you wince in pain, closing your eyes tightly as you try to take a step forward. Sanij sees how your legs wobble, and picks you up, one arm looped under your torso and the other under your legs. You let out a small squeak in shock, looking up at him. For a second, there’s a bit of fear in your eyes, before one of your hands grips his suit jacket tightly, bracing yourself against him.

“Sorry, I should have asked before I did that,” He looks around carefully, surveying the area as he starts to jog, keeping you safe in his arms, though he looks at where you hold one of your hands over your stomach. “What do you mean, by that, was it like last night?”

“N–No, he was actually here, I could smell him, he was able to touch me,” You shudder, and unconsciously tuck yourself closer to his chest, staring at your hands, “I swear, he was right there! ”

“I believe you, I believe you, you don’t have to prove anything,” Sanji soothes, and you let out another warble, closing your eyes again. The world was getting blurry again, and it hurt to breathe. “I should have stayed on the ship with you, I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay,” You felt exhausted, letting yourself go limp, ‘Y’here now, Ji.”

“Hey, hey, keep those pretty eyes open for me,” Sanji looks down at you and then looks back up. He can see the rest of the crew now, getting lectured by Nami.

“Y’think my eyes are pretty?” You blink, voice slurred.

“They’re gorgeous,” He manages to laugh a bit, looking down at you with a smile despite the gravity of the situation. The crew looks up at him, a bit confused especially considering that you’re in his arms. “C’mon, we’re almost there, we’ll get back to the ship–”

“Oh gods,” You start to shake again as the crew realizes you’re the one in Sanji’s arms.

“Sanji, what’s going on?” Nami takes a step forward, looking at you with shock, before quickly pulling your pelt aside after she sees a bit of red on your shirt. “You’re– you’re bleeding, oh my gods–”

“Oh.” You look down and find that the pain in your ribs is from a shard of the glacier embedded in your torso, some of your blood frozen to it. Sanji lets out a distressed noise, unable to look away from it. “That… hah, that explains a bit.”

“I’m getting her back to the ship, now,” Sanji holds you a bit tighter, and looks at Ms. Wednesday, who looks utterly devastated by this sudden turn of events. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he does know one thing. Something happened, and she played a part in it, and as such, is one of the reasons you’re injured. “We need to leave, there’s something seriously wrong here.”

“I can explain it all,” The woman looks shaken, looking at the glacier, and then back at you. “I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t know this would happen … I’m so sorry.”

You scent the air, thick with confusion and anger, and Sanji holds you just a bit closer, frowning at the woman deeply as he makes his way to the Going Merry without so much as looking back, sprinting as quickly as he can without jostling you.

“How'd you even get out there?”

“Some people ambushed me,” You lean against his chest, starting to feel tired again. “I think I killed people, Sanji. I think I killed someone.”

There’s a heavy silence as Sanji lets out a heavy breath, a bit shaken by your statement.

“You were defending yourself,” His hands squeeze tight enough to keep you awake and you whine, flinching. “Sorry– did that hurt?”

“Everything hurts.”

“Just keep your eyes open, we’re almost home.”

“Home?” You blink sluggishly, confused. “I don’t have a home.”

“You do now,” Sanji slows as he comes to a stop near the gangplank. Usopp is rushing around the deck, as quickly as possible to get the ship ready to go. “Remember? You’re my pod, you have a wonderful pod now.”

You let out a low hum, fighting to keep your eyes open, one of your hands falling to your wound. “I need water, I have to heal this…”

“I can do that,” Sanji jerks his head to Usopp, sharply whistling to get his attention as he rests you on a crate gently. “Watch Ott, she’s hurt–”

“I’ll be fine,” You almost fall off the crate, saved by Usopp, who’s shaking as he holds you up, swallowing thickly when he sees your wound.

“Stay,” Sanji looks at you for a second, holding his hands up at you. “Don’t move… do not… move, Ott, I’m serious.”

“I’m fine,” You look at him with a challenging look, but stay where you sit.

Sanji crosses the deck quickly, looking down only when he steps on a bright green dart, eyes widening as the pieces of the story all shift into place. But he doesn’t have the time to do much besides remind himself to pick it up and save it in a little baggie after you’ve been treated. He grabs a pitcher, fills it up to its brim, and rushes back out to you, relieved to find you still sitting on the crate, though you don’t look happy about it.

He sets it next to you, and as you move to sit up a bit more, he helps you, a hand on your shoulder to help you. When your handshakes, he hesitantly places his over it, and you trill weakly, leaning into him as you start to focus on the water, letting it swirl from the pitcher, and then splash across your torso, weaving its way over your skin, knitting it back together by moving the energy back and forth, back and forth.

Some part of Sanji’s mind twitches, and it’s as though he can feel your exhaustion, silently trying to will some of his own energy to go to you. Your gaze flutters up to him, and he weaves his fingers through your own, helping to guide your hand through the motions, keeping the water moving. You wince, especially when the chunk of glacier melts away, and the hole left starts to scab over. That’s when you collapse, utterly spent, leaning heavily against the cook. He’s left feeling empty again, as though a part of his heart is missing, but you’re back on the ship, and he has you, safe and sound in his lap.

An explosion rocks the island, so much so that the Going Merry shakes in the water. You let out a groan, and Usopp swears under his breath, going back to getting the ship ready.

“Go help him,” You gently push on Sanji’s chest, “I’ll be right here.”

“Y’sure?” Sanji studies your face, and he doesn’t like how your eyes droop.

“Mhm,” You delicately push yourself off his lap and prop yourself up on the crate. “I’ll be here, promise. Won’t move at all.”

The two of them manage to get the boat nearly ready when Zoro, Nami, Luffy, and Ms. Wednesday approach the boat, the bluenette hugging herself tightly. Sanji is gathering up the pieces of the dart when the sharp smell of the drug it had contained hits him, making him recoil and drop it again, looking over at you, and at his crew as they walk up the gangplank. He doesn’t breathe in as he bags it up, holding it delicately. Some of the liquid, a bright yellow, pools in the bottom of the baggie.

The ship pushes off, slower than usual without your aid, and Sanji makes sure to sit behind you, never taking his eyes off of Ms. Wednesday as the rest of the crew starts to look at her, one by one. Zoro takes his place beside you, only briefly making eye contact with Sanji before looking back at the woman in the center of the deck.

You lean forward, interested, despite the pain in your torso, and then the scent hits you. Deep, deep shame, and a refusal to meet your eyes as you stand very slowly, making your way to her, and looking at the dart in her hands, realizing the part she played in your injury.

“What did you do?” You whisper, and Zoro carefully guides you back to the crate, where Sanji has to hold onto your arm, “No– What did you do? You– what did you do to me?! ”

Luffy is the one who gets the boat to quiet down. He quietly explains, uncharacteristically serious as he does so, and you feel your world crumble slightly.

“We’re helping her,” Luffy looks at you, and you feel your stomach sink, anxiety thrumming in your veins, “That doesn’t make you getting drugged okay, or the fact that they planned on killing all of us okay either. She’s going to make it up to us,” He looks at Vivi, who’s actively staring at you in horror, “But we can’t let a country die, Ott. We can’t just sit by and let that happen.”

Luffy doesn’t go after you when you make your way down to the girl's dorm, shrugging off any help offered by Nami or Usopp. Sanji goes to follow after you, only to have Zoro grab his shoulder, shaking his head at the cook who lets out a loud shout of ‘putain’ and storms into the galley. The deck is left in silence, with Vivi starting to cry as the crew disburses to run the ship, Karoo cuddling up beside her as the sun rises in the distance.

#black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji x you #one piece insert #one piece x reader #one piece x you

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