#doomed to suffer for entertainment

[hannibal-is-my-comfort-show]

[aingeal98]

Being a Nat yellowjackets fan is just spending an hour a week watching her suffer horribly while trying to keep her moral compass despite constant impossible situations causing it to crack and falter and you know she's doomed and will forever struggle and is going to be miserable and suffering for the rest of her life and die forgotten by nearly everyone around and all of it will be meaningless and cruel. And yet you stay invested because Sophie Thatcher is so damn compelling.

[eldragon-x-moved]

Ford and Stan and Bill are all characters of all time to me in different ways

[devotedlystrangewizard]

i love writing characters who are fucked regardless of what they do. theres no way out. they were always going to be miserable. pre-destined to suffer.

[shy-writer-999]

Summary: Luffy gets into an alluring tin of mysterious cookies. One thing leads to another, and he ends up in your room, disoriented and distressed. What will it take to help him feel better? ~5k words.

CW: Smut with a bit of plot. Afab reader, gendered language (“princess”), overstimulation, dry humping, begging, aphrodisiacs, penetrative sex.

MINORS DNI. NSFW CONTENT.

Luffy stumbles into your cabin late at night. The door is wide open and it seems like no one else on the Sunny is awake. You’re messing around on your phone, doom scrolling to pass the time and entertain yourself. You wish that you could fall sleep, but it won’t come any time soon. It’s a restless sort of night.

He almost trips over his feet as he crashes onto the chair by your desk.

“Luffy, what’s up? It’s late.”

A closer look at him reveals that he’s sweating and bright red. His eyes look off and he looks sick.

“Are you okay?” You’re worried—he looks seriously unwell.

“I feel funny. I think I ate something bad, my tummy hurts.” Luffy’s brows are bent in the middle and he’s grimacing.

You’ve seen Luffy when he has food poisoning before. He literally turns green and complains non-stop. It’s his own fault, he’s like a racoon. He’ll eat anything, regardless of how questionable it is. Old leftovers wherever he can find them, almost-rotting fruit, poisonous fish, none of it matters for Luffy. If it looks edible, he’s taking it to the neck. He frequently suffers the consequences.

But right now, he’s not green, like he usually is when he’s eaten something spoiled. He looks different.

You get up and walk over to him, placing your hand on his forehead. When your skin touches his, he lets out what initially sounds like some sort of moan, but you shrug it off—that must have been a wail of pain, right? He’s concerningly feverish and sweating bullets.

Does he have the flu? Should you wake up Chopper?

“Luffy, you’re burning up. Like, you have a really bad fever. I’m going to get Chopper.”

“Wait, I feel—I feel weird inside,” Luffy’s voice strains and he sounds like he’s in pain He’s visibly shivering. “It’s like my stomach is on fire, but I feel cold.” He continues almost babbling, so obviously in distress and discomfort, feverish nonsense falling from his lips impulsively.

You don’t realize it yet, but his hand wanders to his crotch and starts to fidget.

“Your stomach is on fire but you’re freezing cold? Did you eat something that went bad again? What did you eat?” You raise an eyebrow at him, vaguely annoyed. He sure doesn’t look like he has food poisoning. Also, there isn’t usually much spoiled food on the ship. Sanji keeps the fridge nice, tidy, and clean.

Why did Luffy come to you, instead of Chopper? He’s distracted, eyes zoning out somewhere and his face wrinkled up. He must not have heard you.

“I said, what did you eat? Luffy!”

“I ate—fuck,” Luffy’s brows furrow and he closes his eyes in anguish. “Ate Sanji’s cookies.”

“You did what? Sanji’s cookies? The ones with the huge note that says ‘do not eat’ on the tin?”

Luffy lets out another wail of pain and shifts in his seat. His fingers squeeze his crotch again. He’s hard, rubbing his massive erection, sliding his fingers over it, squeezing it and playing with himself.

“Luffy, what are you doing?!” You’re incredulous when you realize he’s touching himself. You’ve never seen anything like this before. He’s your captain, for fuck’s sake. What was he doing touching himself in your room, with a raging fever and chattering teeth?

Putting the pieces together, you remember that Sanji had devilish smirk as he brought his special souvenir onto the ship. It was a pretty box, made of metal, covered in some sort of light blue paint, filigreed with gold accents and illustrations of pretty pink ribbons. The chef put an obnoxious “DO NOT EAT SANJI’S COOKIES” sign on the box and slid them to the top shelf of the pantry, almost out of reach. It was, admittedly, extremely naïve of Sanji to expect Luffy to pay any heed to that sign.

You put two and two together. The cookies must have had something in them.

As a response to your indignance, Luffy squeezes his erection harder and gasps quietly. Sweat drips from his temples and down his cheeks. His mouth hangs open, and his pupils are huge. He’s a fucking mess, and you have no clue what to do in this situation.

“’m so cold,” he whines and shakes. “Too c-c-cold.”

This is wildly inappropriate, but… you are kind of turned on, just because he’s touching himself. You have some sort of repressed crush on your captain—how could you not? You usually push it to the back of your mind, though. Pining over him is a waste of time when nothing would ever come of it.

“Fuck,” Luffy’s voice is gravelly and his hand moves of its own accord. “Feels like it’s helping. Feels warm.”

Your heart does a flip. Luffy is palming his cock in front of you, panting with arousal, head thrown back. He can’t help but touch himself. It’s the only thing that’s relieving his discomfort, evidently. You feel awkward, but it’s almost starting to get you going. You feel heat creep up your neck and you're frozen still.

Luffy’s eyes wander to your chest—he’s staring at your breasts, drinking in the shape of them and the outline of your nipples though your shirt. You start to turn red, matching his color rapidly.

“Luffy, what the fuck? Stop! You’re a wreck.” You divert the awkwardness for a second. “No wonder the sign says do not eat! I’m going to get Chopper. You need to rest. Go do that in your room.”

Luffy grinds his palm down his erection and a stifled sound of pleasure gets caught in his throat. You pause, against your better judgment. That sound—the sound of Luffy in pleasure—makes you feel some sort of way. You start to warm up between the legs.

“I want you to do it.” Luffy’s voice gets lower each time he talks. He’s still shaking, freezing, sweating, and unwell. But he’s touching himself, and you had imagined this before. It’s hard to look away.

“What?” You respond reflexively, caught completely off guard. Did you hear him right?

“Want you to touch me,” he whines and continues to rub himself. The friction feels electric. “I think it’ll h-help.”

Luffy’s eyes are half open and glossy, still riveted on your tits. His pupils are really dilated. His fingers grasp and stroke his hard cock through his shorts, and each sound that leaves his mouth goes straight between your thighs.

“You want me to touch you? Are you… Are you sure, Luffy?”

“Need it,” he scrunches his face up. “’m going crazy.”

You bite your lip and pause for a second. If your captain was asking you for help, you might as well assist him… Also, this didn’t feel like that crazy of a request for help, considering the fact that he’d literally die for you (and has gotten close to that on multiple occasions). And you could tell he wasn’t being malicious or predatory about his request—he was just being Luffy, asking plainly for something. If you said no, he would be fine. He may whine a bit, but he’d never genuinely pressure you to do something you were uncomfortable with.

But fuck, was he in his right mind? You shake your head. You want to touch him. But you are genuinely worried about him. It must be 2:00AM, so you need to wake up Chopper. You might want to touch Luffy, but you have to do your due diligence. You care about Luffy. If he’s sick or in danger, you have to make sure he’s okay.

“Luffy, no. I’m going to get Chopper. Just wait here.”

You speed-walk down the hallway, heart racing. What a bizarre turn of events. You didn’t expect that to happen when Luffy initially walked in your room. When you reach the door to Chopper’s cabin, you knock.

No answer. He’s obviously asleep.

You knock again. “Chopper? It’s me. Please get up. Luffy’s sick.”

Another knock. Rustling blankets. You can hear Chopper hobble to the door. He opens it and pokes his little head out, squinting. He’s wearing one of those sleeping gowns and a cute hat. “Mhm? What’s wrong with him?”

“Uh... He has a fever. He’s burning up and he’s shaking. He’s sweating a lot, too.” You figured you’d save the ‘and he’s masturbating’ part for later. Maybe you didn’t have to say it at all?

“Does he have food poisoning? Did he eat anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I don’t think he has food poisoning... But he ate some of Sanji’s cookies.”

“What’s in the cookies?” Chopper is shading his eyes from the dim hallway light. He’s half asleep and you feel bad for waking him up.

“I-I don’t know. Maybe there was something weird in them?”

Chopper yawns. Fuck. He looks like he’s falling asleep again. You can’t blame him, really, it’s way past his bedtime.

“Chopper, can you please come look at him?”

He yawns again. “I’m sleepy. Can you ask Sanji what’s in the cookies and get back to me? I just want to go to bed a little bit longer.”

You huff and frown as Chopper shuts his door. So now you were supposed to play telephone? If it was anyone else you would have chewed them out, but you couldn’t do that to Chopper.

Extremely aggravated, you storm down the hallway to Sanji’s cabin and knock on the door, loudly. It’s an angry knock. A fuck-you knock.

“Sanji. Get up.” Silence for a moment while the blonde jolts awake. “I said get up.”

His door opens just a tad until he realizes it’s you. Then he opens it wider. His hair is all rustled up and he’s shirtless, in boxers. If he wasn’t half-asleep, he’d be blushing and acting ridiculous because you’re seeing him half-naked.

“Oh, hello beautiful.” His voice is scratchy and he’s blinking. “How may I help you? Are you finally going to crawl into bed with me?” He flashes a cheeky grin and you almost slap him.

“No, Sanji. Luffy ate your cookies. He’s a mess.”

The cook’s half-asleep composure immediately drops. “He did what?”

You can tell he’s fully awake now.

“I said, he ate your fucking cookies, Sanji. What is in those things!?”

“FUCK. How many did he eat?”

“How many? How should I know?! He’s in my room with a fever right now. It’s Luffy, we can assume he probably ate the whole box.”

Sanji smirks and laughs out loud. “Well, there’s only one way to fix that. Good night, princess.” He winks and shuts the door in your face.

“Sanji, what the fuck!?”

You knock on his door again, but you can hear him get back in bed. You’re beyond pissed. You’re ready to kick the door down and wring his neck. But… you have a sinking feeling that you know what the cook is getting at. Fuck. The cookies have some sort of aphrodisiac in them.

You trudge back to your room, flabbergasted and defeated. Luffy is still in your chair, letting out wails of “pain” which you are now realizing are just fucking moans. Not to say that he isn’t in pain but… if the placement of his hand is any evidence right now, he’s feeling pretty good.

“Y-you’re back,” Luffy gasps as he grinds his palm on his erection for what is probably the 50th time.

“Fuck, Luffy. What did you get yourself into tonight? You can be such a bonehead. Goddamn.” Your hands are on your hips and you’re looking at him, weighing your options. You could kick him back to his room and tell him to masturbate.

He looks downright pathetic. His face is twisted up in agony and his hand is putting in work. “T-touch me,” he whines. “P-please.”

“Luffy, are you sure?” You walk over to him and place a hand on his cheek in pity.

He opens his eyes and weakly croaks out, “Not there. Lower.”

You tut and frown. “Ohhh Luffy. What am I going to do with you?”

He tries to give you puppy dog eyes and fails. Another erotic sound escapes his lips as his palm grinds on his cock particularly hard. He whispers, one last beg before he’ll do all the work himself. “Please.”

You cautiously reach your hand down and place it on his erection. Luffy throws his head back, hissing in air through his teeth, and fidgets under you.

“Fuck, that feels weird. Feels tingly, like—like it’s on fire,” he whines.

He grasps your wrist and makes you rub his cock harder, widening his thighs. His grip is so tight that it hurts. He’s forcing your palm down on his cock so hard that you can’t believe it isn’t hurting him.

Luffy’s eyes are closed and he’s actually drooling. He’s still shivering, and his cheeks are crimson. Sweat plasters his hair down on his forehead and temples.

The obscene sounds leaving his lips make you hotter between your legs—you squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to mitigate the rising heat, but Luffy’s desperation is making it worse. He’s starting to rut his cock up into your hand.

“Ah, that feels—feels so hot and—fuck—feels funny, like it, it feels good.” You can feel his cock twitching under your fingers. He’s writhing around and whimpering, and fuck, he looks good. “Need more.”

“Y-you need more?” You ask hesitantly.

“C’mere.” Luffy grabs you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up, guiding you to straddle his lap. You freeze up. There’s no way this is really happening.

“Mmmmmm, fuck.” He murmurs in your ear and his hips buck up, cock craving friction through the layer of his pants and yours.

“W-want you to rub on me,” his voice is wretched and depraved. “Feels good.” When you lock eyes, you can see animalistic desire plainly. You’ve never seen him look like this—it’s like he’s a different person; lust is completely driving his movements. It’s like primal instincts took over the second the aphrodisiac cookies went to his stomach.

Luffy dry humps you and it’s starting to feel good. His hands are gripping your hips and he’s doing all the work, dragging you over his cock, pushing you down on it and making your hips roll while needy noises trickle from his parted lips.

As friction builds on your clit, you stifle a moan that threatens to jump out of your mouth. Luffy’s so aroused that he’s panting and slobbering down his chin.

It’s like he’s in heat, the way he humps and grinds on you. Seeing him like this is making you wetter. Your panties must be saturated by now—the friction is already making you buzz, and he hasn’t done much other than rub you on his cock a bit.

“It’s helping,” the words fall carelessly from Luffy’s mouth. He has no clue what’s going on. He’s on autopilot right now, lost in lust and barely cognizant. “Wanna be warmer, ‘m still so—so cold.” His teeth are chattering amidst his moans. Considering how hot his cheek was, he must really be freezing.

Luffy’s hands wander to grip your chest through your tank top so hard you let out a yelp. He pulls it down and starts to greedily squeeze and knead your breasts. Your breath hitches when his fingerpads move back and forth on your already stiff and sensitive nipples.

When he leans forward and wraps his lips around one, you let out a gasp. His tongue swirls around your bundle of nerves and he starts to suck on it hungrily. Luffy is making you wet beyond belief—the suction on your nipple is feeling dangerously good. You’re on the verge of losing it, totally giving in to the nagging animalistic voice in your head that’s telling you to fuck him like crazy.

His erection is huge and hard as it grinds on your core. It feels good—no, he feels good. The noises he’s letting out add to the effect. Your core is throbbing and sopping wet.

“L-luffy,” you moan, finally, as he grazes your clit and sucks your nipple particularly hard. He lets out a muffled hum in response, vibrating your nipple. “Luffy, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum.”

He goes faster. He thinks that if he sees your face contort in bliss and hears you moan some more, it’ll fix him. He’s starting to feel better already with each hump. Maybe if he sees you cum, he’ll stop pulsing and his body will stop screaming at him. Maybe if you cum from his dry humps, he’ll be satiated. Maybe his fever will go away.

Luffy can hardly form cognizant, coherent thoughts like this, though. His mind can only focus on two things. First: you. Your pleasure. Your cunt. Your tits. Your smell. He wants to devour you. Second: he’s freezing cold. He needs warmth—twenty blankets, a cup of hot tea, a heating pad, something. He feels like he’s in a vat of ice water.

“Can’t stop,” he chokes his words out with effort, somehow picking up the pace of his cock humping your cunt through your pants. “Need more.”

He grinds your clit just right and it sends you over the edge of orgasm. As you spasm over his clothed cock and soak your panties in ecstasy, he never once lets up the pace. He pushes you back and forth on his erection and doesn’t pay attention to your whimpers from overstimulation.

You collapse forward into him, resting your head in the crook of his neck while he uses his grip on your hips for leverage to rut harder into you.

“Wanna put it in,” Luffy groans and his voice is deeper than usual. “L-lemme put it in. Wanna feel you. Need it. N-need you to—to help me feel better.”

You whisper a hum of affirmation in his ear and he picks you up. Fuck it. He already made you cum. He’s begging for it. You decide to let him ravage you.

Luffy basically throws you on the bed and rips your clothes off. You realize that the door to your cabin is wide open—anyone could walk by and see this. You don’t have the willpower to care right now.

You’re lying on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Luffy grabs your wrists and holds them over your head with one hand, pinning you down on the bed. His other hand steadies his cock flat on your inflamed, wet folds. He starts to thrust forward a bit, rubbing himself on your cunt, teasing himself before he finally fucks away the ice-cold blood in his veins and stokes that roaring heat his belly.

His cock gliding over your clit feels too good. If he keeps it up, you’ll cum a second time. “Luffy, fuck,” your whimper makes his heart pound. Reality fogs up more and he can’t think straight. He rubs his cock flat on your lips until you’re arching your back, then lines his tip up with your weeping entrance.

When Luffy pushes his cock into your slit slowly, he groans the whole time. “So fuckin’ tight, ‘s like you’re swallowing me whole, fuck. Y-you’re so warm, feels good.”

He’s shaking and shivering still. After a moment of being bottomed out, he starts to fuck you at a measured pace. He’s entranced by the way your tits bounce. He’s still drooling shamelessly, his pupils are blown with lust and he’s sweating. His free hand gropes up for your tits and plays with your nipples. Every time you moan his name, he feels like he’s an animal.

“Nnnnggghhhh, fuck, fuck, you’re—you feel so slippery,” Luffy feverishly grinds his hips into yours, hitting your deep and sensitive spots just right. “Feels weird and hot in my stomach, like s-something’s gonna happen.”

“Luffy, it feels too good,” you keen his name and squirm. “’m gonna cum soon.”

“W-wanna see,” he chokes out an answer between breathless thrusts.

He brushes your hot and soft spot, and you once again are drowning in pleasure, toe-curling and delicious. You cum, squeezing his shaft and milking out as much precum as possible.

He sounds like he’s hyperventilating. He’s truly going crazy. He keeps fucking you through your orgasm and you start to squirm. The sight goads him on.

“More,” he groans. “Please, more.”

Luffy rocks his pelvis into yours. His abs and arms are muscly and defined, his hair is sweaty, his eyes are totally dilated, and he’s looking at you like he’s going to fuck you for hours.

When he feels your walls clench down on him, he starts to cum. He seizes up and his cock plunges into your cunt. “F-fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m cumming, it—feels too good, feels so good, fuck.”

His thrusts are erratic while he pumps ropes of cum into you. He pauses and looks down at your cock-crazed face, closed eyes, and slack jaw. His cum is currently seeping out of your slit, coating the base of his shaft.

But even though he just came, his cock is already starting to pulse again. That one orgasm? It isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He feels better than he did before, but still not back to normal. The fire and ice in his veins still runs strong, he feels like he's buzzing, like he’s an animal looking for a mate.

You think that he’s had his fill until he starts thrusting again, just as hard as before. After a minute, he shifts you. Luffy pulls out and picks you up again, maneuvering you so you’re laying on your bed with your stomach touching the covers. He gets on top of you and—fuck, he’s heavy. And his skin is boiling hot. You can feel the sheen of sweat on his chest when it presses on your back.

He has you in prone bone now, spreading your thighs wide with one of his hands. When he finally presses his cock into you, your back arches. It feels much deeper than before—is he using his devil fruit powers, or is his cock just this big?

“Fuck,” he’s rasping in your ear. His husky voice goes straight to your throbbing core—god, he sounds hot right now. You can feel his hot breath. One of his hands is braced next to your head as his cock rolls into you. He’s hitting the perfect spot and it’s starting to feel so good that you’re seeing stars. “Your pussy—feels so, so warm and good, I think it’s working.”

You lose track of time while his cock caresses your sweet spots. Before you know it, you’re cumming again. You hardly have the energy to let him know what’s happening. Is it the aphrodisiacs making his performance this good, or does Luffy just know how to fuck? How is he this good in bed?

When you squirm and cream on Luffy’s cock for the second time, he reaches a hand under you and thumbs your clit. He draws circles on it and presses it like a button. It feels like an electric shock—he has neglected it until now but still managed to coax three orgasms out of you. And while you are mildly overstimulated, when his fingers start dancing over your clit it turns up the notch of pleasure inside of you.

“Luffy, fuck that feels good,” a sort of guttural moan escapes your lips and you can’t help but buck your hips up and back onto his cock. “Don’t stop. Fuck.”

You’re keening through the waves of pleasure that he’s pulling out from you while he rams you with his cock. His heavy grunts are like music in your ears—feral, low, and ravenous. Your captain is absolutely railing you right now, and you like it. He more than likes it.

“So tight and, ah, so warm inside, like—aaghhhh fuck—like you’re made for me.” He groans and his thighs shudder. Is he cumming again? How many times is this? Second? Third?

Your mind is in a haze. He’s devouring you like a rabid animal. How many orgasms will it take to fend off his fever? How many hours until the aphrodisiac cookies wear off?

In your haze, filth starts to slip out of your mouth.

“F-fuck me harder, captain—please,” you mewl, and you can feel just the slightest pause in Luffy’s thrusts, barely noticeable. “Your cock feels so fucking good.”

After his pause, he starts pressing his weight harder on top of you, moving his hips at an angle so his cock is literally ramming into your cervix. The sensation is overwhelming, to say the least—painful but so, so good. You’re gasping for air and it’s hard to breathe because he’s on top of you. He’s literally fucking you like he’s in heat.

“Say that again,” he grunts and thrusts with each word but he’s struggling to get them out because he’s barely breathing. “Say it.”

“Captain, fuck, y-your cock feels so good. Fuck, captain.”

He’s somehow going faster, bringing you to another cliff, another ledge of euphoria from which to free fall. His cock bullies your bundles of nerves and your cunt squelches with each pass.

“C-captain, Luffy, please, fuck.” You’re spasming under him again, cumming on his cock for, what was that, the fourth time? Maybe it was the fifth. You’ve lost count. You didn’t know it was possible to cum this many times. You’ve also lost track of what words are coming out of your mouth. “Cumming, I’m cumming, y-your cock ‘s too good, captain, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’s right after you, jerking his hips deep into yours and cumming inside again. There’s so much cum leaking out of you that Luffy’s shaft is obscured by milky white goop. There’s a sizable puddle of it underneath of you. It’s going to leave an unfortunate-colored stain on your bedsheets. You’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

His hips are still bucking though. His cum just keeps… coming. It’s a visceral orgasm. It’s the final orgasm (for a brief refractory period). When he’s done shooting seed into you, he collapses on top of you.

It’s like you’re under a weighted blanket except its Luffy, he’s heavy as fuck, and his cock is in you. And damn, he’s sweaty.

But somehow this is the best sex you’ve ever had. And you have a sneaking suspicion that the night isn’t over yet.

When you protest and Luffy rolls off your back, you use all your strength to open your eyes and check on him. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace, his eyes are closed, he’s still drooling but he looks decidedly better.

You bring a hand to touch his forehead again and he lets out another quiet whimper. He must be so sensitive still. Poor thing. But his fever is considerably better.

Sanji must have been right when he said there’s only one way to fix this aphrodisiac frenzy. You wonder what Sanji was saving those cookies for. The day you finally crawled into bed with him?

Pfffft. No, thank you. After round six or seven with Luffy, you’ll never look back. You truly didn’t expect your captain to fuck like this. Or to like being called captain when his cock is in you.

“Luffy, are you doing ok?”

He hums in response.

“Use your words. Luffy, are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Feels a lot better.”

When his chest slows, he starts to sleep. You’re left on your bed with a puddle of cum under (and inside) of you, and your captain sound asleep like a rock next to you. And fuck, the door is still open.

Hopefully no one heard that. Even if they had heard, oh well. Too late now to stress over it.

You close the door and turn off the light. Then, you get cleaned up and put your pajamas back on.

Luffy may be sound asleep, but you shove him around so he’s at a decent angle. You fall asleep together on your bed, cuddling, and sticky with sweat (and cum).

Of course, no more than two hours later, Luffy is awake and his cock is throbbing again. He tries to touch himself and make the heat go away but it isn’t working. So… he wakes you up. And that’s how rounds eight, nine, and ten go.

When his fever finally goes away, he’s left with a long-lasting craving that he can only satiate one way: you.

It should go without saying, but the next day you literally cannot walk. You hobble around, trying to play it off like you slept weird or something. Sanji rubs the whole thing in your face.

“How was last night, angel?” His smirk is sly and smug, teasing and suggestive.

“Sanji. Please. Not right now.”

“Do you want me to get more of those cookies sometime? Maybe we can eat them next?” He winks and you balk.

“Fuck off, Sanji.”

The chef chuckles and saunters away. He’s never going to let you live that down.

thank you for reading!!! ive been feeling a certain way about luffy recently. its just his fucking muscles in wano that have me in a chokehold. muscle make brain go brrrrrrrrr.

here's my masterlist and my posting schedule for october!

i'm posting every day from now until halloween!

finally, trick or treat? (tumblr links)

[theodorenmyth]

Little Loveboy

Pairings; Mattheo Riddle x GN!reader

Summary: Mattheo Riddle has been hopelessly in love with you since third year, but he refuses to admit it. He dates around, flirts with random girls, and scoffs whenever his friends bring you up—but he just can't shake his feelings. His jealousy is uncontrollable, and his friends never let him hear the end of it. Eventually, even professors start teasing him, much to his dismay.

A/n : starting from today to the 16th of February, I'm gonna make Valentine themed fanfics so no angst.

Warnings ; none

Word count ; 900+

Mattheo Riddle was, as Theodore put it, fucking doomed.

He had been doomed since third year, when he first saw you absolutely wreck the entire class during a debate with Snape about the properties of Amortentia. The way your eyes gleamed with passion, the way you sat so effortlessly confident, the way you were just so fucking smart—it made his heart do something weird. Like it wanted to jump out of his chest and roll across the floor.

And that? That wasn’t normal.

So, obviously, he did the only logical thing—he ignored it. For years.

Instead of admitting that he found you painfully attractive, he spent his time flirting with girls, dating left and right, pretending like he wasn’t being driven up the wall whenever you smiled at someone else.

But the problem with having a hopelessly obvious crush was that Mattheo’s friends were absolute menaces.

“You’re staring again, Little Loveboy,” Pansy sang, flicking his forehead.

“I’m not staring,” Mattheo grumbled, leaning back in his chair, definitely not still looking at you.

“Right,” Blaise drawled, looking over at where you were sitting by the window, absorbed in a book. “That’s why you’ve been looking at Y/N for the past—what? Fifteen minutes?”

“I don’t like him,” Mattheo snapped, but the moment he said it, he glanced at you again.

And just like that, Theodore fucking grinned.

“Oh, mate,” Theo laughed, shaking his head. “You are so gone.”

Draco, sitting beside him, smirked. “It’s honestly embarrassing at this point.”

“You know what’s embarrassing?” Mattheo scoffed. “The fact that you all have nothing better to do than bother me.”

“You make it too easy,” Lorenzo snickered. “Little Loveboy.”

“I will throw you out the fucking window.”

And then, as if the universe hated Mattheo, you looked up from your book. Your eyes met his for half a second, and you smiled at him—a simple, small thing, but oh my fucking God.

Mattheo nearly choked on his own tongue.

His friends exploded into laughter.

“Oh, he’s red!” Pansy gasped. “He’s actually blushing!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mattheo hissed, yanking his hood over his face.

But the teasing didn’t stop there.

No, it got worse.

Because apparently, his suffering was entertainment to not only his friends, but also his professors.

During one particularly terrible Potions class, Mattheo had spent a good portion of the lesson staring at you. Not that he noticed. It just kept happening..

And Snape, ever the observant bastard, took full advantage of this.

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape drawled, interrupting the entire class, “perhaps you would find this lesson more engaging if you spent less time gazing longingly at Mr. Y/L/N and more time focusing on the assignment?”

The entire class turned to look at him.

Mattheo’s jaw dropped.

Even you looked over, blinking in surprise.

“Oh, fuck me,” Mattheo muttered under his breath as his friends burst out laughing.

“Bloody hell,” Draco wheezed, gripping the edge of the table. “Even Snape’s in on it.”

“I hate all of you,” Mattheo gritted out, slamming his book shut.

Snape smirked. “Detention, Riddle.”

Mattheo groaned.

But it didn’t stop there.

Because McGonagall got involved too.

During Transfiguration, Mattheo had, once again, found himself subconsciously staring at you instead of his assignment.

He was trying—he really was—but you had this habit of biting your lip when you were focused, and it was distracting as fuck.

“Mr. Riddle,” McGonagall said, sighing dramatically, “if you’re quite done swooning over Mr. Y/L/N, perhaps you’d like to contribute to the class?”

The Gryffindors howled with laughter.

Mattheo buried his face in his hands. “I’m actually going to die.”

And, of course, the final nail in the coffin was Hagrid.

It was during Care of Magical Creatures. You were partnered with some random Ravenclaw—too close, too friendly, and Mattheo hated it.

He stood there, arms crossed, glowering at the poor guy.

“Merlin, that’s a death stare if I’ve ever seen one,” Theo muttered.

And then, loudly, Hagrid chuckled, “Oh, don’t be jealous, Mattheo, ‘s not like Y/N’s runnin’ off to marry ‘im.”

You turned to look at Mattheo.

Mattheo, absolutely horrified, turned and ran into the fucking woods.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

After that, Mattheo’s denial crumbled like a cheap pastry.

He liked you. He liked you so much it physically hurt.

And after weeks of torment, he finally decided—fuck it.

So, he found you sitting by the Black Lake one afternoon, reading as always, and he sat down beside you.

You glanced up, surprised. “Hey, Mattheo.”

Mattheo almost short-circuited.

Your voice. Your fucking voice.

“Hey,” he muttered, trying to act casual, even though his entire body was buzzing with nerves. “So. Uh. I—uh.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You okay?”

Mattheo exhaled sharply. Just do it, Riddle.

“I like you, okay?” he blurted out.

You blinked. “You—what?”

Mattheo groaned. “I like you. I’ve liked you since third year. I tried to ignore it, but—Merlin, you’re just so fucking cute and smart and perfect and I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your face slowly turned red.

“Oh,” you said.

Mattheo stared at you, heart pounding. “Oh?”

And then, after several painfully long seconds, you smiled.

Smiled.

“That’s funny,” you murmured, “because I’ve liked you since third year, too.”

Mattheo’s brain broke.

“…You’re kidding.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to suppress a laugh.

And then, without thinking, Mattheo grabbed your face and kissed you.

The moment your lips met, his entire world tilted.

You kissed him back, smiling against his lips, and everything felt right.

When you finally pulled away, Mattheo was breathless, staring at you like you hung the bloody moon.

“Little Loveboy,” you teased.

Mattheo groaned. “Not you, too.”

You just laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder.

And for once, Mattheo didn’t deny it.

[another-fantasy-world]

PLAYED

→ dark!wandanat x demon!fem!reader

word count ~ 1.2k

summary: desperate for some reprieve from your office job in hell, yes as in bible hell, you answer the call from a summoning ritual. you don’t even doubt the way the summoning ritual is done perfectly. you emerge from hell, only to find your own doom.

authors note: another wandanat fic??? i’m floored. please, have mercy on me, i’m still trying to get my creative juices out and this might fucking suck... anyone want a part 2?

content warning(s): non-con, smut? (not really), definitely smut, some fluff, chains made of magic, claiming via marks, summoning ritual, blasphemy, wuhluhwuh!!!, kinda pathetic reader, reader acts like a wild animal, reader is regarded as entertainment, reader is a pet, blood, brainwashing.

═════════════

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Blessed land dwellers of this era aren’t supposed to even have the knowledge of your kind. At least not this much. Not enough to make you want to flee. 

And you did. 

You tried everything to go back home, your realm, your safe haven despite it being the literal hell from the bible. 

Demons aren’t supposed to be frightened by those who walk the Earth, and yet you’re downright terrified. Realizing you can’t go back home, you scurried into the shadows, running like an insect. You ran through forests, cities, tundras, fields, everywhere just to escape them. Yet no matter how far you run, their presence prick your skin; searing hot, painful, and anxiety-inducing. 

Damn it. You should’ve let any other demon answer the damn summoning. What you thought was a simple way to pass time and escape your office job for a few years, ended up with you running away for your damn life. Lady Death was already a pain in the ass to deal with behind the desk, you can’t even begin to imagine the shame you’ll feel when she comes to get your soul for the second time. 

“Fuck!” You cursed loudly, narrowly avoiding something that made your instincts go crazy. Risking a peek, you saw that it’s wrapped in a scarlet hue that only made your blackened heart beat faster than it did. 

You feel your fiery lungs burn than ever before, as if the hellfire within burned brighter. Every painful breath fueled the punishment heaven gave, the roaring fire within your body flickers with glee the more you suffer. The grass you tread on feels like spikes stabbing you with every hurried step you took, the tall trees you weave through feels familiar, as if you’ve seen them before, the only difference is that they felt more ominous. It was then you realized it. 

Everything has a slight scarlet hue. A glow your desperate eyes didn’t register. A detail that made your breath hitch. A mistake that made you stumble, falling right into their trap. 

“Over already?” The slightly bored drawl sent shivers down your spine down to your tail, the appendage lifting right up like a startled cat, its sharp edge pointed towards her as if acting like the last defense. 

“Feisty thing.” Another chuckled, the sound ringing in your ears, the ringing is louder than God’s trumpets. It sends you spiralling down the abyss. 

Your teeth are clenched, bared right at them as you feel a resounding growl rumble in your chest. The trees bristle before they go still, as if all the air was sucked out. You feel goosebumps crawling over your skin like phantom insects, their gaze feel heavy, the scent of rain, peanut and gunpowder mixed with orange peels, ash, and something metallic. Their smell alone violates your whole being, you feel as though you’re being devoured whole despite them still being quite a few inches from you. Your senses tingle, sensing the danger lurking in those mesmerizing orbs of theirs. 

With a deep breath, you will yourself to get up. Fucking get up and run. Run. Run until hellfire swallows you whole. You’d rather the natural law of Hell burn you than perish by their hands. Your arms tremble with fear, your legs shake with exhaustion, your sweat drips down, as does your tears, they drip down and land on the land beneath, searing the soil like acid. 

You tried. You tried so desperately. Yet, like a quivering wild animal, you wind up bound and lifted up like a prize. The scarlet wisps feel ice cold on your hot skin. You sobbed, feeling the redhead’s hands on you. Her hands seemingly unaffected by your temperature as she inspects you, appraising you carefully. 

“Lyubimiy, are all demons this pathetic?” The innocent question makes you bristle, your indignation flares up even more as the brown haired witch chuckles darkly, the darkhold appearing before her, the pages flipping automatically, as if the book responds to her will.

“No, but this one is.” She smirks, leaving the corrupted book suspended in the air as her blackened fingertips reach out to grip your chin.

“Perfect.” She whispers, as with a flick of her wrist, you’re back to where you ran from. It’s as if you never left.

“Because you never did, Zayka. You just thought you did. I never tampered with a demon’s mind before, I’m satisfied to know that it’s not much different than ours.” She muses, her lover by her side as you’re trapped within the confines of an ancient spell. The spell manifests as shackles, scarlet red and inky black in color. It binds your body to the wooden floor, your heat makes the material black yet it never fully burns through. You struggle fruitlessly, your body wriggling desperately yet it only makes the spell stick more, chains burst out from the characters etched on the wooden fibers, wrapping around you like a deadly cocoon as you gasp for air, which only made the fire burn more, leaving you crumpled and weak. A heaping mass of sin, ash, and flesh on the floor. 

You lifted your gaze, your eyes landing on them, their figure looming over you as if you were a mere pet. If circumstances were different, you could definitely see yourself fawning over them. Yet that dream was long over. It was over before it started. It was over as soon as their mark was branded on your skin. 

They offer you no words as they treat you like entertainment. The witch conjures up a comfortable couch in front of you. Pulling the assassin down to sit on her lap, their bodies flush against each other as they drown in each other, as they drown you out, ignoring your very existence. They touched each other with such fervor that it makes your body heat up more. You hate that you now crave their touch, their affection, their approval. You hate that the hellfire burns within you, burning more and more as your arousal grows. Your suffering upon seeing them get lost in each other without you. Their blatant neglect over your presence has your mark pulse with need. You whimpered when they pulled away from each other, an instinct pulled from you by the mark that scarred your skin. You find yourself biting your lip, blood drips down your chins, dripping down to the chains binding you before pooling on the floor. You panted, growled, and thrashed against your binds. No longer knowing whether you want to escape it to flee, or to please your captors. 

The lines blur when desperation and lust mix, you noted. The lines blur when your eyes glow red. The lines blur when you realize you’d rather stay than to go back to your mediocre demon life of punishment. The lines blur when you realize your sentence doesn’t get shorter even if you work your ass off for the heavens above. The lines blur when they touch your skin tenderly. The lines blur when they smirk against your skin. The lines blur when their fingers dance across your features. The lines blur when their curious hands brush against the spikes protruding from your spine as well as your tail. The lines blur when you find your growls turn into whimpers. The lines blur when the shackles free you from their hold and the first thing you did was crash your lips on theirs.

You’ve waited your whole life for a chance at heaven, yet they effortlessly brought you there.

[michanvalentine]

I don’t remember where, but I think it was right here on Tumblr that I read about a sort of challenge a while ago—to say why we like Spawn Astarion.

Well, since I think it’s a really nice thing to do…

Here are all the reasons why I love Spawn Astarion.

He’s an elf. I’ve always had a weakness for those elegant, slender, and ethereal creatures (no, not you, Halsin, lol). High elves, wood elves, wild elves, drow—love them all. And Astarion is a high elf with the most wonderful stuck-up attitude. I adore him.

He’s a beautiful man. Or at least, I think he is. I love his physicality. Sure, he’s got a great body, but what I especially adore is his angular face. Sharp ears, cheekbones, nose, jawline, chin. I love the elongated and captivating shape of his eyes, and those curls on his head. His hair is gorgeous, and even if he hates poetry (well, after having one carved into his back by Cazador, it’s understandable), I find it absolutely beautiful how his curls wrap around his ears! And also at the nape of his neck and on his forehead! xD

The way he moves and speaks. Of course, this is also thanks to the brilliant performance of Neil Newbon—props to him! I could watch Astarion for hours, talking about this or that, gesturing with those elegant hands and tilting his head from side to side. And when he puts his hands on his hips? Aww. And how can we not mention the expressiveness of his face, shifting incredibly between moments of vulnerability and defensiveness, especially in Act 1. In any case, he’s hugely entertaining, as well as just visually stunning to look at—he truly belongs on a stage, as Shadowheart would say (though maybe not the one with the noose, please!). And those abandoned puppy eyes? End of the world. I can’t resist him.

His sarcasm and dark humor. Lol. He kills me. Sometimes he’s inappropriate, idiotic, or downright an asshole—but apparently, I’m a terrible person because I laugh anyway. He’s such a fun companion, and he never fails to entertain me during the game, especially in his banter with the other party members, which is often hilarious.

His disapproval. Oh yes. I still remember my first playthrough— the more he disapproved, the more I wanted to understand why. And I felt personally attacked, thinking: “Look at this bastard, nothing ever pleases him.” But it added just the right amount of spice to my adventure and my relationship with him. It pushed me to ask questions, to want to engage with him, to understand his reasons and have him understand mine. Like a real person you disagree with. That dynamic always fascinated me—our differences.

Our arguments. I loved arguing with him, even when we saw things differently. I enjoyed playing along when we joked about how we’d prefer to die or which of our companions to feed on. It was fun. And it was even more engaging when things got serious—when we talked about Cazador and how cruel he was, or Astarion’s hunger for power, about bending others to his will, the heroes who never saved him, his willingness to deceive and doom his siblings… I loved every word, every clash, every sharp line, every time he made me grit my teeth. And I especially loved how it made me feel—the patience, the attention, the caution with which I picked every single reply, never backing down just to please him, contradicting him whenever I felt it necessary. And at the same time, the fear of losing him for good if I made the wrong move—because I had sensed how fragile he really was.

The surprise! Yes, when he proposed spending the night together despite all the times we had been on opposite sides. I didn’t expect it, and it made me curious. And sure, at that point in the story there’s a personal motive for Astarion—but we know that the offer only comes if he trusts Tav/Durge enough.

The contrast between the monster and the elf. I think this is one of the most beautiful aspects—his duality. The unbearable dichotomy he’s trapped in. Astarion suffers from being seen and treated as a monster. On one side, he leans into his vampiric nature—his thirst for blood and power (the latter driven by fear as well). But on the other, there’s this deep desire for redemption, for connection, to be understood and accepted, for real intimacy, to belong, to have a place in the world. And all those internal battles make him incredibly dear to me.

He’s morally complex. His view of the world—and the people in it—is very dark, especially early on. Personally, I’m not a fan of the spotless hero type—I usually find them flat and boring, especially when they’re not well written. The Gary Stu kind is just unbearable. Thankfully, that’s not the case with Larian’s characters—the writing is top-notch. But when you combine a well-written character with moral grayness, that’s my perfect character. Again, I love the contrast between good and evil, right and wrong. And Astarion is always walking that razor’s edge, constantly pulled between those two forces that often leave him conflicted. And to be honest, I also believe sometimes the ends do justify the means. Within limits, of course. xD

His backstory. I love characters with tragic, tormented pasts—especially when they manage to reach some form of a happy ending. And even more when they’re written as well as Astarion, with such deep themes and psychological complexity that make him feel incredibly real.

Projection. I won’t go into details, but I’ve been to dark places too, and I’ve had even darker thoughts. I’ve hurt people as well—even if I didn’t know or wasn’t able to do better at the time. I just didn’t have the tools. The positive note is that, like Astarion in the Spawn ending, I’ve managed to accept a whole series of unpleasant events, emotions, and feelings—and learned to live with them. Whether I like it or not, they’re mine, they make me who I am, and I keep them with me. And now I’m in a much better place—safe, loved, and seen for who I am, flaws, strengths, and all. And I love being able to offer my pixelated vampire boyfriend that same opportunity.

The breakdown after Cazador’s death. My God, that scene. That release. The moment where Astarion stabs and screams is already powerfully raw—you feel the rage, the tension, the bottled-up hatred. But then—he collapses to the ground and cries. Fuck. That moment is everything. A whirlwind of emotions so deep and intense I could almost feel them as my own. A cathartic release of everything he had held in for too long—pain, sorrow, grief, relief, hope. God, how I love that moment. And I wish I could hug him, wrap him up, comfort him—but it wouldn’t be right. Because that moment is his. He earned it. And he needs it. Anyone who has suffered that much deserves a moment like that—when it all comes out and slips away, leaving emptiness in its place, as terrifying as that may be.

“This is a gift. Thank you. I won’t forget it.” What can I say? This is a conversation that begins in Act 1, with the first act of trust Tav/Durge offers Astarion, and concludes at the end of his quest—in the good ending. Tav/Durge never saw him as a monster. They always trusted him. They knew he still had so much to give—he could be different. Better than Cazador. And the way I played it, constantly clashing with Astarion from the start over our differing worldviews—hearing those words wasn’t just satisfying. It was everything. Because just as I wanted to know him, understand him, and he became a part of me—he also knew me, understood me, and I became a part of him. And we met in the middle. That, fuck, is the perfect simulation of a healthy relationship between two people. And it’s beautiful. Just thinking about it makes my heart race.

“I feel safe with you. Seen.” It’s pretty self-explanatory, but I’ll say just a couple of things. These are powerful concepts. Especially when we’re talking about someone who has been through everything, and finally finds someone who makes him feel safe. Someone who won’t hurt him. That’s huge. And the concept of being seen? I think that’s the most fundamental desire every person on this planet has. And Astarion waited 200 years to feel that. It’s moving. And so deeply fulfilling to hear.

Spawn Astarion’s kisses. The sweetness. That soft side of him that comes out. The way he looks at Tav/Durge as he leans in—his face relaxed, his eyes shining, that smile on his lips. Love, in its most tender form.

Unique dialogues from Spawn Astarion. I’m referring in particular to the confrontation with the Gur after Cazador’s death, and to the moment when Durge wants to leave him out of fear of causing him harm. I find the way he handles these situations absolutely beautiful—it perfectly shows how much he’s grown, and how willing he is to open up to others, to consider their feelings. Even those he once saw as old, despised “enemies,” to whom he spares the pain of watching their children turned into ravenous vampire spawn. That line always moves me—I think it hits incredibly hard, especially given the context and his history with the Gur tribe. And then, of course, there’s the confrontation with Tav/Durge after the betrayal involving Mizora, which again shows how much he’s grown—even in terms of self-perception, understanding his limits, and asserting his right to say no. And what he says at the top of the Netherbrain, when Durge tries to claim it for Bhaal, perfectly reflects how his priorities have shifted since breaking free from Cazador’s mindset.

Self-acceptance. It's such an important, healthy concept. Astarion is perfect just the way he is. He has nothing to fear in that regard—he can simply exist and express himself. He doesn't need more power; vulnerability is okay, being fallible is okay, being full of flaws is okay. Being afraid is okay. You're still worthy of love. And the world isn't this terrible place where you have to crush others to survive—you can find your place among others, with others, and live with others. And it's beautiful to see how Spawn Astarion begins to internalize these ideas.

Facing his fears instead of indulging them. I’ve done the opposite for so long that I can honestly say—it’s usually a terrible idea. Because most of the time it means running away and giving something up. But Spawn Astarion doesn’t do that—he fights. He chooses the hard, uphill path of self-discovery and acceptance. With all the consequences that come with it—no matter how painful, like losing the sun or dealing with the gnawing hunger. It’s an act of immense strength and courage.

He takes responsibility and makes amends. That’s called redemption. And yes, he couldn’t refuse to obey Cazador’s orders—he had no choice—but when the ritual is within reach, the choice is entirely his. The lives of his former targets and his brothers and sisters are in his hands—an enormous burden on his shoulders. And in the moment he gives it up, he rights a wrong both suffered and inflicted. He saves himself and all the other vampire spawn, freeing them from Cazador’s influence and from the path the vampire lord had laid out for them.

He becomes an antihero. Yes, Astarion is better than Cazador. He’s become kinder, more open toward others, more willing to help, and more optimistic about life. But he hasn’t become a saint—he’s still a bloodsucker, and deep down he’s still the lovable rogue I fell in love with, always ready to say something inappropriate, foolish, or even cruel. And to take advantage of situations when he can. I adore him! But he’s still a charming scoundrel with a whole world of possibilities to explore, and plenty of room to grow—both in his relationships with others and in the one he has with himself.

There’s probably more, but I think I’ve written plenty already—and I’ve got a real life and a family breathing down my neck, lol. Let’s just say these are the main reasons why I love Spawn Astarion, why my relationship with him has become so precious to me, and why it’s so damn hard to romance any other companion in camp when that damned vampire is around. Lol.

[spencersmopbucket]

Tides of Venom | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: During the Tribute Parade of the 3rd Quarter Quell, Finnick meets an infamous female tribute from District Seven. She's just as interesting as everyone says.

The people of Panem knew your name as well as, or maybe better than, they knew their own. You were Y/n L/n, or better yet, The Snake of Seven. The victor who had turned the 67th Hunger Games into a masterclass of strategy and survival. At sixteen, you were reaped from the sawdust-strewn streets of District Seven—a girl who looked too small, too quiet, too fragile and too beautiful to survive the bloodbath. But you had fooled them all.

You didn't survive by brute force, God no. You didn't have the size for it. You survived by being smarter, colder, and crueler when it mattered. You waited, watching from the shadows, letting the other tributes tear each other apart. When you struck, it was precise, calculated, and lethal. You weren’t just a fighter; you were a predator. You turned the arena into your hunting ground, weaving snares from vines and luring enemies into deadly traps. When you got them captured, like a rabbit in a trap on the snow covered ground, you quickly and efficiently did away with them.

By the time you’d reached the finish line of success, the area was soaked in blood — close to none of it yours. You had outlasted them all, and not just through skill, but by ensuring that every single thing you did was deliberate. Every alliance you made was temporary manipulation, every smile a well-placed mask. When the final cannon fired, it wasn’t just because you had survived. You had conquered.

The Capitol adored you, of course. They polished your image until you gleamed like the blade that had won you the crown. They said your name with awe and fear: The Snake of Seven. To them, you were the perfect mix of beauty and terror, a creature that captivated even as it threatened. Of course, your biggest fan was President Snow. But for all the Capitol’s praises, you knew the truth. The arena hadn’t just taken your innocence; it had carved out pieces of your soul and left them to rot in the jungle where you’d won. The nightmares came often, visions of the traps you’d set, the image of you slitting a throat, the screams that followed, and the sickening silence afterward.

Even still, you played the role you’d been given. It was that or die. It was that or lose your family (an ultimatum given by Snow.) The Capitol needed you to smile in your interviews, to look stunning in gowns designed to look like snake skin, to sip champagne with Snow’s favorites. You did it without flinching. You’d learned through the experiences of others before you that defiance came with a life ruining price. And so, with snake-like venom aimed inward at yourself, you were poisoned until only steel remained.

The 3rd Quarter Quell was nothing like any previous Hunger Games. It was a reminder of the Capitol's absolute power, and this year, they chose to mark it with a brutal twist: the victors, those who had already been crowned, would now be thrown back into the arena. Every single one of them—a brutal celebration of their own suffering. And you, The Snake of Seven, were no exception. When you'd been Reaped, you stepped forward, ever confident, your e/c eyes the sole vision of determination, focus, and bloodthirst. But you were always so good at keeping people at arm's length, never letting them see how you truly felt.

You were devastated. You felt doomed — but the worst part? You'd always known you were from the start. This was just the confirmation.

Today was the Victor Parade.

The streets of the Capitol buzzed with an unsettling energy. The crowd, with its eager eyes and gleaming teeth, watched as the tribute chariots rolled down the grand avenue, a parade of former winners paraded as if they were just another form of entertainment. The Capitol was reveling in their cruelty, and you knew, deep down, that it was more than just the games this time. The Capitol wanted to break the victors, to make sure they knew they were never free, never truly safe. You had survived the Games once, but this time, survival would come at a greater cost. You were by far the most thrilling tribute to watch, solely because they knew you'd do anything to win.

Your district partner, a tall, athletic and somewhat shy Victor named Reid, stood beside you. He was a few years younger than you, but his respect for you was evident in every glance. He had a crush on you. It was easy to see in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice caught when he spoke your name. But, much like everyone else in the Capitol, you weren’t here for love or affection. You were here to survive—and if you had to, you’d use Reid’s infatuation to your advantage. But, you’d never admit it aloud.

Reid was a good fighter, but he wasn’t built for the Games like you. His focus was too soft, too sentimental, which made him vulnerable. He wanted you to recognize him as a friend rather than just a district partner. Rather than just an ally that you'd eventually have to turn on. But you? You knew. Reid would have to be the first to go. You'd put him out of his suffering before any other Victor could get their hands on him. In a cruel sense, it was you being kind. If anyone else got him, his death would hurt much more.

Your outfit, designed by Capitol stylists, was as extravagant as it was deadly. You weren’t just a symbol of beauty; you were a living weapon, and your outfit reflected that. The stylists had draped you in a shimmering black gown that hugged your form, slithering down your body like the skin of a serpent. Silver, delicate scales shimmered along the bodice, almost seeming to ripple as you moved. A thin, sharp line of emerald green ran across your eyes, reflecting the coldness that had taken root deep inside you. Your hair was twisted into a sleek, tight braid that framed your sharp features, the tendrils of the braid curling at the ends like snake’s fangs. The design was meant to evoke fear. To show that beneath your beauty was a creature that could and would strike. The Capitol admired you, but they feared you too.

As the chariot lurched forward, your eyes scanned the crowd—thousands of faces staring back at you, each person either adoring or shocked. The screams, cheers, and jeers mixed into a cacophony that only heightened the tension in the air. It was a celebration of blood, and your life was the prize. But you didn’t need their approval. You didn’t need their affection. You were here to survive—nothing more, nothing less. You forced your cold eyes forward, staring at the person that continued to ruin your life, over and over again.

Snow.

He gazed down at you with a lukewarm smile, one to say, 'welcome back, Snake.' You simply glared back, fighting the snarl that threatened to develop on your lip.

As the chariot rolled forward, you could feel Reid’s nervous energy beside you. His hands gripped the edge of the chariot so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his broad shoulders stiff as though he were bracing for an attack. His unease was palpable, and while you could sympathize with it, you didn’t have time to coddle him. This wasn’t his first Games; he should know better than to show fear in front of the Capitol. Weakness was blood in the water, and the Capitol’s sharks would circle the moment they saw it. It would draw attention to the two of you, something you didn't need more than you already had.

“Relax,” you muttered, your voice low enough that only he could hear. Your eyes remained fixed on the glittering horizon, refusing to meet his. “You look like you’re about to jump out of the chariot.”

Reid’s head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“Sure you are,” you replied dryly. “Just remember, they’re not cheering for you. They’re cheering for the show. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re the opening act.”

Your words cut sharper than intended, but it was necessary. Reid needed to toughen up, and fast. This was no place for soft hearts or shaky hands.

The chariot came to a halt in front of President Snow’s viewing platform, and the crowd’s roar reached a deafening crescendo. Snow himself stood like a vulture on his perch, his thin smile radiating smug satisfaction. His presence was suffocating, a reminder that every move you made was under his watchful eye. You held your head high, refusing to let him see the disgust simmering beneath your carefully constructed mask. If he wanted a performance, you would give him one.

You stared at the other Victors. You knew who they were, of course, since you'd been paraded around with them before. The most notable ones were the ones from the Career districts -- and District 12. You saw Cashmere and Gloss looking disgustingly gleeful. They were District 1 Careers, always loving the attention they were getting and the idea of getting to put up a fight. Brutus and Enobaria, District 2, were the same way.

Your eyes lingered on the Careers for a moment longer, taking in their smugness, their overconfidence. Cashmere’s sharp laughter cut through the murmur of conversation, a high, shrill sound that grated on your nerves. She and Gloss stood close together, their matching golden armor glinting under the Capitol’s harsh lights. Their every move screamed superiority, a reminder that they had been bred for this, groomed for the arena like thoroughbred horses. You didn’t doubt their skill, but you also didn’t fear them. They were predictable, and predictability was a weakness.

Your gaze swept past them to Brutus and Enobaria, whose confidence bordered on feral excitement. Brutus’s bulk made him look more like a battering ram than a man, and Enobaria’s predatory grin, with her infamous sharpened teeth, was a haunting sight. They thrived in the chaos, their bloodlust an edge that couldn’t be underestimated.

But it wasn’t just the Careers you had to worry about. Your eyes flicked to Beetee and Wiress, District 3’s champions. The Capitol often overlooked them, mistaking their quiet demeanor for weakness, but you knew better. Their minds were their greatest weapons, and they could turn the arena itself into a deathtrap.

Then, blurring out the other Districts, there was District 12.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark stood together, the Capitol’s golden pair, their unity a sharp contrast to the division around them. Katniss’s stormy eyes locked with yours for a fleeting moment, and you could see the fire smoldering behind them. She didn’t trust you—good. Trust was a luxury none of you could afford. Peeta, on the other hand, exuded a calm that was almost disarming. Almost.

And then there was Finnick.

He sat casually in his chariot, his trident resting at his side, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes roamed the area, sharp and calculating. His sea-green outfit, designed to evoke the beauty of District 4’s oceans, only served to heighten his allure. Beside him, Mags sat with quiet dignity, her frail form a stark contrast to his vibrant presence. Yet, there was strength in her weathered gaze—a reminder of the resilience that had carried her through her own Games decades ago. The Capitol adored Finnick, just as they adored you, but his charm was a weapon, honed and deadly, and Mags was his anchor, her mere presence a testament to the bond between them and the wisdom she carried into the arena.

His gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. His lips curved into a faint smile—not the easy, flirtatious grin he reserved for the Capitol’s audience, but something quieter, more genuine. It was unsettling, that smile, because it felt like he saw through you, saw the armor you’d worked so hard to construct.

You broke the connection first, turning your attention back to Reid, who was fidgeting nervously at your side.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and apologetic.

You sighed, the weight of his unexpected inexperience pressing down on you. If he didn’t toughen up soon, he would make you look foolish too. He didn't act like a Victor. And the rest did.

Snow’s voice crackled over the speakers, his tone smooth and syrupy as he addressed the gathered victors. “What a spectacular display,” he said, his words dripping with false sincerity. “You are all reminders of the strength and resilience of Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The room fell silent as the announcement ended, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud.

Reid leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “What now?”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Now?” you said, your voice cold. “Now we wait. And when the time comes, we fight.”

Finnick’s laughter rang out suddenly, drawing your attention. He was talking to another Victor, his posture relaxed, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment. There was something in his gaze—challenge, curiosity, maybe even understanding.

You turned away, refusing to engage. Whatever Finnick Odair was playing at, you had no intention of getting caught in his game.

As the outro anthem of Panem played, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Your gaze flickered to the chariot beside yours, where Finnick Odair stood, resplendent in a sea-green ensemble that glittered like sunlight on the ocean. His golden hair caught the Capitol lights, making him look every bit the god they believed him to be. But his expression wasn’t one of triumph—it was of quiet defiance, a subtle rebellion that only those who knew the arena could recognize.

When the anthem ended, the victors were led to the holding area behind the parade route. The Capitol’s cheers faded into a low hum as you stepped off the chariot, your gown shimmering with each calculated movement. Reid stayed close to you, his presence a reminder of the responsibility you didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. Capitol stylists swarmed you both, fussing over stray folds and imagined imperfections. You barely acknowledged them, your focus already narrowing on the other tributes gathering nearby.

"Reid," you muttered under your breath, your tone sharp but quiet enough to keep Capitol ears from catching it. "Stand tall, and stop looking like you're about to bolt."

He straightened, though his hands still twitched at his sides. You suppressed a sigh.

Before you could step further into the mingling chaos of tributes and Capitol elites, a voice laced with sugar-coated steel sliced through the noise.

“Well, if it isn’t the darling of District 7. You’re just as intimidating as they say.”

You turned to see Cashmere gliding toward you, her golden locks framing her face like a halo, though the icy gleam in her eyes was anything but angelic. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, every inch of her radiating Capitol-perfect elegance. But there was no mistaking the predator behind the polished façade.

“Cashmere,” you greeted, keeping your tone neutral, even bored. “You flatter me.”

“Oh, it’s not flattery,” she replied, her smile sharp enough to cut. “It’s admiration. You play your part so well. Cold, dangerous, untouchable—it’s a wonder the Capitol isn’t already throwing parades in your honor.”

Reid shifted uncomfortably beside you, his unease a palpable presence. Cashmere’s gaze flicked to him briefly, her smirk widening as if she found his nervousness amusing.

“Who’s your little shadow?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does he speak, or is he just here to look pretty?”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but before he could stammer a response, you stepped in.

“He’s my district partner,” you said coolly. “Focus on yours.”

Cashmere arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tension. “Protective, are we? How sweet. Though I can’t imagine there’s much point. If he’s anything like my dear Gloss’s partners, he won’t last long.”

You took a deliberate step closer, your gaze locking with hers, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, here you are, wasting your time on him—and me. Be careful.”

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, the crack in her composure almost imperceptible. But then she laughed, a light, airy sound that somehow felt more menacing than genuine.

“Always the sharp tongue,” she said, tilting her head. “I suppose it’s what keeps you alive. Just remember, darling—words can only cut so deep. Out there, it’s the blade that matters.”

“Thanks for the advice,” you replied, your tone as biting as hers. “I’ll be sure to remember it when the time comes.”

Cashmere’s eyes narrowed slightly, the playful mask slipping just enough to reveal the steely determination beneath. “Do that,” she said, her voice a whisper of warning. “I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turned and strode away, her golden gown catching the light with every step.

Reid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his voice low. “What was that about?”

“Don't worry about it,” you muttered, watching her retreating form. “Everyone’s playing their own game. Hers just happens to be gilded in gold.”

The energy in the Capitol’s holding area was electric, each victor carefully eyeing the others, feeling the tension rise with every passing second. The air was thick with power and the weight of what was to come—the 3rd Quarter Quell was unlike any other, a twisted reminder of the Capitol’s dominance, and each victor knew they were not only fighting for their lives but for their dignity as well.

Reid stood close, his nerves still apparent, his eyes darting from one tribute to the next. You could feel his discomfort radiating from him, and though you didn’t have time to indulge him, you found yourself slightly irritated by it. This was supposed to be a place for cold calculation, not weakness.

“Take a breath,” you muttered again, your eyes scanning the crowd of tributes. “You’re making us stand out.”

“I—sorry, I can’t help it,” Reid replied, the sincerity in his voice mixed with frustration. “This place... It’s too much. I never imagined I’d be back here, much less be facing them again.”

You took a deep breath, letting the noise of the Capitol’s elites wash over you. It was a dull hum compared to the chaos of the arena, but the stakes here were just as high. You weren’t just a Victor anymore; you were the prey.

“I get it,” you said, your voice colder than before, but not unkind. “But you need to act like one of them. We’re not here for anything other than survival. And in case you haven’t realized, that means playing their game better than they do. Don't let them think you're weak, even if you think you are.”

Reid nodded, his jaw set in determination, though the unease still flickered in his eyes. You didn’t think he’d ever truly understand. His idealism would be his downfall, you could already see it. The Capitol’s games had broken you, stripped away your humanity, and in the end, it had made you stronger. You knew better than anyone that to survive in this world, you had to be willing to kill what remained of your soul.

As the seconds ticked by, the other tributes continued to mingle—some more comfortable than others. A few whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting in calculated glances, while others stood proudly, basking in their newly cemented fame. You didn’t join them. You had no need to.

A moment later, a voice rang out in the distance, one that cut through the tension in the air like a blade—soft, melodic, but with an undeniable edge.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Snake of Seven.”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His voice was unmistakable, like the sea itself, deep and quiet but filled with a hidden strength. Finnick Odair.

You met his gaze, not surprised to see him standing at the edge of the crowd, his trident at his side, the shimmering blue of his outfit contrasting with his golden hair. His green eyes gleamed, mischievous yet sharp. His dimpled smirk only deepened when he noticed the way you studied him—cold, calculating, as always.

“Finnick,” you replied coolly, your voice betraying no emotion, even as your insides clenched. “I didn’t realize the Capitol was still fascinated by my name. I thought they’d moved on to the next little toy.”

His smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, they’ll never tire of you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, almost like a whispered secret meant only for you. “Not with your reputation. It’s not every day that the Snake of Seven steps into the arena, is it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Finnick’s tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made the words feel like a challenge. “The odds of you making it this far... I’m curious how you’ve done it.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the curiosity in them. There was something in his gaze that felt like he wasn’t just talking about the Games anymore. His eyes raked over you, not in the way the Capitol admired his victors, but like he was trying to peel away the layers and understand the person standing in front of him.

“Survival,” you answered simply. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. If you’ve got the right instincts, the right drive, you can make it through anything.”

“And you’ve got both,” he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably admiring. “I can see it. But I think there’s more to you than that. More than just the survivor everyone sees.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, just holding his gaze as the crowd around you continued to buzz with their typical Capitol energy. There was something about the way he looked at you, though. Like he wasn’t just sizing you up as a potential ally or foe, but like he was seeing through to something deeper. And it unsettled you.

“You’re not one to mince words, are you?” you asked, your voice sharp, trying to redirect the conversation, but you could feel the pull of it all the same.

“Why bother?” Finnick’s expression softened just the slightest bit, his eyes glinting in a way that made you wonder if there was something he wasn’t saying. “This game’s already full of lies. We don’t need to add to it.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “And what would you suggest, Finnick? That we just lay it all bare? Is that what you think is needed to win this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Maybe. Or maybe the truth is the only thing we’ve got left.”

The words hung between you, a quiet tension settling in. His gaze didn’t waver, but something in his stance softened, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, you saw past the Capitol’s golden boy, the victor who had charmed his way into the hearts of millions. You saw the man who had fought in the arena, who had survived the same twisted game that you were now part of. And for a fleeting second, there was a vulnerability in his eyes, something raw and unspoken.

“You know the game better than anyone,” you said quietly, your tone softer now, the challenge gone. “But we’re not all playing by the same rules, Finnick. I don’t think you understand that.”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head. “Oh, I understand more than you think. But you’re right. Not everyone is playing by the same rules. And that’s why I’m curious about you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something in the way he said it that made you feel like a puzzle he was dying to solve. But you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Curious about me?” you repeated, stepping closer to him, your voice low but firm. “Why? Because I’m a challenge? Or because I’m something you can’t control?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. If anything, he took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. “I don’t want to control you,” he said, his voice steady. “I want to understand you.”

The words were simple, but they carried an undertone of something that felt more intimate than anything you’d heard in a long time. His eyes searched yours, the playful mischief replaced with something darker, something more serious.

You almost faltered. Almost.

"Then understand this," You lean in, boring your eyes into his. "When you lean into the face of a snake, it sinks it's teeth in."

Finnick’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of admiration dancing in the depths of his gaze. His smirk only deepened as you leaned in, the challenge clear in your words and your posture. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down—if anything, the tension between you only seemed to grow.

He paused, taking a slow breath before responding, his voice low and even, carrying a hint of something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, I’ve always been a fan of a good bite,” Finnick said, his tone smooth, but there was an edge to it now, like the words themselves were an invitation, a dare. He stepped just a fraction closer, narrowing the distance between you with a kind of quiet, deliberate confidence. “But don’t mistake my curiosity for weakness. If you sink your teeth in, be sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

His eyes never left yours as he said it, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy in the air, and for a moment, you could almost feel the pulse of something dangerous, something thrilling, between the two of you. Finnick Odair wasn’t afraid of a fight. But neither were you.

Finnick’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, his lips curving into a more playful smirk as he took another slow step back. But the mischievous glint in his eyes told you that he wasn’t done with you yet.

“I have to admit,” he said, his tone lighter now, but no less charged. “You’ve got grit that I wasn’t expecting. Most people would’ve backed down by now, but not you. No, you’re… interesting.”

He took another step, the air around you thick with an undeniable pull. “You know, I like a good challenge. But you,” Finnick continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you’re something different. Something… unpredictable.”

He leaned in just slightly, his breath a faint whisper against your ear. “I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what else you’re capable of.”

You glare at him as he leans away.

"Curiosity killed the cat, now didn't it?"

Finnick’s grin only widened at your sharp retort, the gleam in his eyes turning into something almost predatory. He didn’t seem offended—if anything, your challenge made him more interested.

"Maybe," he mused, his voice soft, playful, but still with that underlying edge. "But I’ve never been one to shy away from danger. And I’m not the type to get caught in a trap either." He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game between you two.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his green eyes flickering with amusement. “You’re quick with your words, but I have a feeling you’re not just all talk.”

His gaze traveled from your eyes to your lips, lingering just long enough for it to be obvious, before returning to your gaze, the tension between you thick enough to slice. “Tell me, what else do you have up your sleeve, hmm? Because I’m starting to think you’re not just some venomous snake. There’s something else there… something more.”

He stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, but not quite enough to touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with each word, with each look, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Finnick wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was genuinely intrigued.

"You’re right," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but satisfaction, well, that’s what makes it all worth it, don’t you think?" He let the words hang in the air between you, daring you to respond, to challenge him once more.

Finnick was getting closer to you now, but there was no rush in his movement—he was taking his time, savoring the moment. The air between you felt charged, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore.

“Just remember,” he added softly, his lips yet again dangerously close to your ear, “you started this game. And I’m not the type to lose."

With that, Finnick Odair strode away, looking over his shoulder to give you one last dimpled smile.

[chenya-my-love]

Fictional Yuu

I see a lot of people basing Yuu off of characters on TV and in games. They'll have characters (usually Idia) make refrence to this fact but usually in just a throw away line. But nobody really leans into the idea of Yuu actually coming from some fictional media in Twisted Wonderland.

Like imagine some character like Cater, or maybe Vil while advertising the VDC, posting a photo with Yuu in it. Only for some random account to comment "That's an amazing cosplay, it looks so much like the character". And of course they're confused, they keep looking for who in the photo is cosplaying but nobody is there. Eventually just asking the commentor who was being cosplayed. The comment is simple.

"Right next to you. That's Yuu from (insert anime/game name here)". They don't believe it until they look up the listed media and sees the character they think Yuu is cosplaying and are shocked. They look identical to Yuu (except animated). Their name, looks, and personality are all identical to Yuu. It is Yuu.

I see two (techincally three) routes this could go. A RomCom route and an angst route.

The romcom route revolves around Yuu having a canon love interest making the boys jealous (regardless on whether they entered a relationship yet or the plot was still building it up) and trying to imulate them.

Like all the wikis say that Yuu's feelings blossomed after the love interest nursed them back to health when they were sick, so the moment Yuu gets sick the boy is just rushing to Ramshackle to take care of them. Or if Yuu caught feelings first and it was some romantic moment, the boys try to emulate that scene so Yuu will fall for them too.

But than we have the angst routes.

A scenerio where all the boys decide to watch the anime/play the game that Yuu is from. Only for Yuu to catch them, quickly learning that they're fictional.

Yuu realizing that all their memories were made up, and if their a playable character all their actions were being controlled. That all their suffering was pointless, that it was done simply to make them more interesting or to entertain a bunch of other worldly beings that Yuu didn't know existed.

Yuu having an breakdown over everything. Their life isn't even their own.

Or

While learning about Yuu's world and story, they learn Yuu dies. And not just a shock value death that could be removed from the plot without care, their death is important. Their death leads to the ending whether that be Yuu sacrificing themself for the greater good or Yuu's death motivating the protag to take down the villain.

All that matters is that Yuu dies and Yuu needs to die. The story can't progress without Yuu there.

The boys realizing that if they send Yuu back to their world, their pretty much signing Yuu's Death Certificate. And Yuu doesn't know. The boys now know that Yuu is doomed by the narrative and is destined to die in the end, but Yuu doesn't. They can't even tell Yuu cause Seven only knows how Yuu will take the news that not only are they fictional but they're also destined to die.

[novaursa]

Legacy (tomorrow)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There is an unspecified time jump.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: of the past

- Next part: across the dream

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The flicker of candlelight filled the room as you sat at the long dining table, a goblet of wine resting untouched before you. Across from you, Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative as he swirled the deep red liquid in his cup.

“You know,” he began, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you, “I do sometimes miss the days when we shared lighter conversations. You were always far too clever to suffer fools, and yet you tolerated my incessant rambling.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “You were not so insufferable, Tyrion. And you always made for an entertaining dinner companion.” Your eyes softened, but there was an edge of caution in your voice. “Though I suspect you did not call me here to reminisce.”

Tyrion chuckled, though the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Straight to the point, as always. You haven’t changed a bit.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “And you’re right. I didn’t summon you here simply for pleasantries.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Then what is it?”

He set his goblet down, his expression turning serious. “Daenerys,” he said simply, his voice weighted with meaning. “Your sister. My queen.”

The room seemed to grow quieter at the mention of her name, the distant crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound that filled the space.

“I’ve spoken to your husband about her situation,” Tyrion continued, his tone firm yet edged with frustration. “Her supplies dwindle. The sea is frozen over in parts, making trade and resources nearly impossible. She’s isolated on Dragonstone, hemmed in by the dark. And I fear that if no aid comes, it won’t be the Others or her enemies that destroy her—it’ll be starvation.”

Your brows furrowed as you absorbed his words. “You’ve spoken to Tywin?” you asked carefully.

“Many times,” Tyrion admitted, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face. “And you can imagine how that’s gone. He doesn’t see her as a queen, nor does he believe the realm should support her claim to the throne. He sees her as a foreign invader, and worse—he sees her as a liability.”

You sighed, your fingers tracing the rim of your goblet. “And now you’ve come to me.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion said, leaning back once more. “Because if there is anyone in this world who can sway Tywin Lannister, it’s you. He listens to you. He respects you. And, dare I say it, he loves you in a way I doubt he’s ever loved anyone else.”

The weight of his words settled heavily over you. “And you believe I should convince him to aid her?” you asked quietly.

“I do,” Tyrion said, his voice unwavering. “If not for her claim, then for the fact that she’s your sister. If not for the crown, then for the people of Dragonstone who will surely die without help. Whatever reason you can find in that sharp mind of yours, I implore you to use it. Because she will not survive this winter without aid.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your thoughts swirling. The image of Daenerys, proud and defiant, came to your mind. But so too did the memories of Tywin, steadfast in his resolve, his mistrust of your sister deeply ingrained.

“You ask much of me, Tyrion,” you said finally, your voice soft but firm. “Tywin does not change his mind easily, nor does he make decisions lightly.”

“I know,” Tyrion said with a faint nod. “But if anyone can plant the seed of doubt in his mind, it’s you. If anyone can make him see reason, it’s you.”

You fell silent, your gaze dropping to the table as you considered his plea. Tyrion watched you carefully, his expression tinged with a mixture of hope and desperation.

Finally, you looked up, meeting his gaze. “I’ll think on it,” you said, your tone even. “That’s all I can promise.”

Tyrion exhaled slowly, a hint of relief crossing his features. “That’s all I ask,” he said simply, raising his goblet in a silent toast. “Thank you.”

As the two of you sat in silence once more, the weight of the decision ahead loomed large, casting a shadow over the flickering candlelight.

The sun never rose in these endless days of winter. The sky above Casterly Rock remained a deep, starless black, the wind howling like a beast clawing at the fortress walls. Inside the castle courtyard, the great gates groaned open, and Beric Dondarrion rode through, his men trailing behind him. Their cloaks were thick with frost, their horses haggard from the journey.

Beric dismounted swiftly, his face grave as he handed his reins to a stable boy. The moment his boots hit the stone, he was already moving with purpose, his one eye darting across the yard as though searching for someone. His men followed closely behind, tense and silent.

Up on the steps leading to the keep, Damon Lannister watched. His young face was still half-hidden beneath the bandages wrapped around his left side to prevent infections, the skin beneath raw and slowly healing from where dragonfire had claimed him. The wound still ached, but he bore it without complaint, standing with the rigidness expected of a son of Tywin Lannister. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy crossed his arms, his aged but keepn eyes narrowing at the newcomers.

Beric was alarmed—that much was clear. He had ridden hard to return to Casterly Rock, and whatever news he carried was dire. Damon felt a shiver crawl up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Go inside, my lord," Barristan murmured, his gaze flickering between the boy and the approaching men. "This is not a matter for you."

But Damon did not move. His feet stayed planted firmly, his curiosity outweighing any lingering pain from his burns. He knew enough of war councils and hushed conversations to understand that something was wrong.

Thoros of Myr, Beric’s red-robed companion, noticed the boy lingering on the steps. Unlike Beric, who had already disappeared into the keep in search of Tywin, Thoros did not rush forward. Instead, he strode toward the child, his expression softened with something close to amusement.

"You have the look of a boy who has too many thoughts in his head," Thoros remarked, stopping a few feet before Damon. His voice was warm despite the tension thick in the air.

Damon blinked up at him. "You bring bad news," he said simply.

Thoros chuckled dryly. "That is all we ever bring these days." He tilted his head slightly, studying the child. "You were watching Beric like a lordling waiting for a battle report."

"I am a lordling," Damon replied, his voice small but firm.

"Aye, that you are." Thoros crouched slightly to meet his gaze. The flickering torchlight cast a glow over the priest’s weathered face. "And you bear a mark of fire. Dragonfire, no less. I see it's still healing."

Damon tensed. His hand instinctively twitched toward the bandages covering the left side of his face, though he did not touch them.

Thoros noted the movement. "I have seen men burned by dragonflame before," he continued, his voice measured. "Most do not live to tell the tale. And yet, here you stand, hale and whole."

"I am not whole," Damon said sharply.

Thoros sighed, rubbing a hand through his unkempt beard. "No," he admitted. "Perhaps not. But you are alive. And if there is one thing I have learned in all my years, it is this—when fire takes something from you, it leaves something behind in return."

Damon frowned. "Leaves what?"

"A gift. A curse. A reminder. It is different for every man," Thoros said cryptically. "And for you? Well, that remains to be seen." He gave the boy a meaningful look. "But I do not think your story is over yet, little lion."

Damon looked away, his jaw tightening. "I don’t want a story," he muttered. "I wanted a dragon."

Thoros smiled ruefully. "Then you have more in common with your mother than you know."

Before Damon could respond, the heavy doors to the keep burst open once more, and Beric re-emerged, his expression dark. Whatever news he had brought to Tywin, it had not been well received.

"We should go," Thoros murmured, rising to his feet and patting the boy lightly on the shoulder before turning back toward Beric.

Damon watched as the men gathered once more, the weight of whatever storm was coming settling in his gut. He did not know what had been said behind those doors, but he knew one thing for certain.

Something terrible was coming. And soon.

Meanwhile, What Happened In The War Room

Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the long oaken table, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression carved from stone. Around him, his most trusted men stood—Kevan, Barristan Selmy, Maester Aldren, and Varys, who lingered near the fire, watching with unreadable eyes. At the other end of the table, Beric Dondarrion stood, his face drawn and grave.

"You are certain of what you saw?" Tywin’s voice was steady, but there was something colder beneath the surface—an edge of calculation, of restrained fury.

Beric nodded, his one good eye shadowed with exhaustion. "I do not know how many, my lord, but the numbers were unlike anything we’ve seen before. Dozens, hundreds… thousands." He exhaled slowly. "They are not just wandering aimlessly anymore. They are gathering."

"A proper army, then." Kevan muttered, arms crossed over his chest. His frown deepened. "But why have we heard nothing from Winterfell? If these creatures are on the march, Jon Snow should have sent word."

Tywin’s sharp gaze flickered toward Varys. "I assume you have agents in the North. Why is there silence?"

The Spider’s lips curled in the faintest of smiles. "I have not had ravens from Winterfell in weeks. The last word I received was that the Starks had secured the castle, and that Snow was preparing for… something. But this?" He gestured lazily toward Beric. "This is new."

Barristan Selmy leaned forward, his voice a low rumble. "What if they never had the chance to send word?"

The table fell silent at that.

Tywin’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. If Winterfell had fallen… if Jon Snow and his Stark kin were already dead… No. He refused to entertain the thought. Not yet.

"Tell me everything," he ordered Beric.

The lightning lord inhaled deeply before speaking. "We rode north through the abandoned roads. First, we found the watchtower your wife spoke of, the one with the creature crawling over it." He hesitated. "We burned it. It reeked of something foul, something old. And the voices…"

Kevan stiffened. "Voices?"

Beric nodded. "They call out to you, my lord. Names of the dead. Old ghosts with old grudges. If you listen too long, it unsettles the mind. Lem nearly turned his own blade on himself before Thoros snapped him out of it."

Tywin’s face remained impassive, but the stiffness in his shoulders did not ease.

"And the creatures?"

Beric’s fingers twitched. "We killed one, but more lurked in the dark. They are not mindless like the wights, but something… worse. They move like spiders, clinging to the walls and ceilings. And when they whisper, you feel them in your bones." His gaze darkened. "But they were not the worst of it."

Tywin motioned for him to continue.

Beric exhaled slowly. "Beyond the watchtower, toward the Frost Fangs, we saw them. A host of the dead. Thousands, marching as one. I have fought wights before, but these ones did not wander aimlessly. They marched with purpose. They had direction."

"A commander," Varys mused softly.

Beric nodded. "Aye. Someone—something—is leading them. This is not just a mindless scourge. It is an army."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Tywin’s expression did not shift, but his fingers drummed against the table, a slow and deliberate rhythm. His mind was already working through the implications. If this army was real—and if it was truly on the move—then Westeros was in greater peril than he had imagined.

"How long," he asked at last, his voice measured, "until they reach the South?"

Beric hesitated. "A few moons. No more than that. If they are moving toward Winterfell first, they may already be at its doorstep."

Kevan inhaled sharply. "And if Winterfell falls, there will be nothing to stop them from marching further south."

Tywin’s gaze flickered to the fire, his thoughts racing. The Wall was gone. The North had been their last true barrier. And now? Now, he had no choice but to face the truth.

They were running out of time.

After a long moment, Tywin looked up, his gaze locking onto Beric’s. "We need to confirm this with our own eyes. I will not move this kingdom based on whispers and shadows. You will lead a second scouting party. Take more men, take supplies, and bring me proof."

Beric nodded, but his face remained grim. "And if I do?"

Tywin’s expression darkened. "Then we prepare for war."

Varys sighed softly. "A war against death itself. How… poetic."

Tywin ignored him. His gaze flickered to Kevan. "Send a raven to Winterfell. If they are still alive, we will have answers."

Kevan nodded.

The meeting was over.

As the men filed out, Beric’s voice lingered in Tywin’s mind. They had direction. They had a commander.

For the first time in years, a deep unease settled in Tywin Lannister’s chest.

And he did not like it.

You moved through the dimly lit passageways with purpose, your thoughts heavy as you sought out Tywin. The weight of Beric’s report, of what you had seen yourself, and the truth that could no longer be denied, settled over you like a storm cloud.

You found him in the solar, standing by the great table that held maps of Westeros, the pieces of his war strategy meticulously arranged. The firelight flickered against his features, illuminating the creases in his brow as he studied the parchment before him. He did not look up when you entered, but you knew he had sensed your presence the moment you stepped inside.

"You're troubled," you said, your voice gentle but firm as you closed the door behind you.

Tywin finally lifted his gaze, eyes as keen as ever but carrying something deeper—something heavier. "I do not have the luxury of being troubled," he said coolly. "I have the duty to keep my House and this realm from falling into ruin."

You crossed the room, placing a hand on the edge of the table, mirroring his posture. "Then hear me, Tywin," you urged. "If Beric is right, if the creatures he saw are truly gathering, then it is no longer about just our House. It is about survival."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking to you with thinly veiled impatience. "I have already sent men to confirm the reports. I will not risk my forces on the word of outlaws and zealots alone."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, pressing forward. "And what if their word is all we have? What if Winterfell has already fallen? What if Jon and the Starks are cut off from the rest of us, and we simply do not know it yet?"

Tywin did not answer immediately, his silence thick with contemplation. His fingers traced the hilt of his dagger, the only outward sign of unease.

You took a breath and softened your tone. "I spoke with Tyrion."

That got his attention. His eyes flickered up to you with a flash of irritation. "Of course you did," he muttered.

"He has been trying to convince you to send aid to Daenerys. You have ignored him."

"Because it is a fool’s notion," Tywin said, his voice measured. "She is not our ally, nor is she necessary to our plans. She is a foreign invader who still believes she has a claim to a throne that is beyond her reach. I will not give her the means to challenge us."

You straightened, your jaw tightening. "She is my sister."

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. "She is a fool who commands an army of savages."

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. "And yet, she has dragons, just as I do. And whether you like it or not, she is a Targaryen, a trueborn heir of our house, and she will not stand idly by while the Long Night swallows us whole."

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And you believe she will stand with us instead of against us?"

"Yes," you said firmly. "Because she is not mad, no matter what you want to believe. Because she has fought for years to reclaim what she believes was stolen from our family. And because, whether you see it or not, we will need her."

Tywin’s jaw clenched. He turned away from you, pacing toward the fireplace. "Do you believe she would fight this war with us?"

"Yes," you answered immediately. "Because this is bigger than the Iron Throne. This is about survival, Tywin. And if we do not stand together, we will fall separately."

He was quiet for a long moment. The only sound in the room was the distant howl of the wind outside.

Finally, he turned back to you, his expression still unreadable. "You are asking me to extend an offer of peace to a woman who sees me as her family’s murderer."

You met his gaze, unwavering. "Yes. Because if you don’t, there may not be a realm left for either of us to rule."

His silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Then, at last, Tywin sighed, a sound more wearied than you had ever heard from him. "I will consider it."

Relief flooded through you, but you knew better than to press further now. Instead, you stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "Thank you," you said softly.

He studied you for a long moment, then reached up, his fingers brushing your cheek in a rare show of affection. "You are still reckless," he muttered.

You smiled faintly. "You knew that when you married me."

His lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he pulled away. "Go. Get some rest. I will send for you when I have reached a decision."

You nodded, squeezing his arm once before stepping back.

As you left the solar, you prayed he would see reason. Because if he didn’t, you feared there would be no future left to fight for.

Damon sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking wooden knights in formation, his left hand trembling slightly from his burns but his focus unwavering. Maelor, meanwhile, sat nearby with a small stuffed lion clutched in his arms, humming softly as he watched his older brother’s movements.

You sat by the window, gazing out at the snow-covered landscape beyond Casterly Rock. The darkness had swallowed the sky whole, the endless night still offering no hint of dawn. You could hear the wind howling against the stone walls, a chilling reminder of the world outside your sanctuary.

"Look, Mother," Damon said suddenly, his eyes flicking up toward you. "The knights are ready for battle."

You smiled, but there was a heaviness in your chest. "A fine army," you murmured, moving to kneel beside him. "And who are they fighting?"

"The darkness," Damon answered simply, shifting his pieces into formation. "Like Father says we must."

Maelor, still clutching his lion, looked up at you with wide, innocent eyes. "Will we win?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smoothed his pale hair. "We will do everything we can," you whispered.

The door creaked open, and you turned to see Tywin enter, his crimson cloak dusted with frost. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was enough to still the servants and cast a hush over the room.

Damon and Maelor immediately straightened, sensing the shift in the air.

"Father," Damon greeted him, his tone carrying the weight of a boy trying to be a man.

Tywin gave him a brief nod before stepping closer to you, his eyes flickering toward the children. "Leave us," he commanded, his voice low but firm.

The servants hesitated for only a moment before bowing and ushering the boys toward the side chamber. Damon hesitated, casting you one last look before reluctantly following.

Once the door shut behind them, you turned fully to your husband. "What is it?"

Tywin exhaled, his hands clasped behind his back. "There is no word from the capital," he said, his voice measured but laced with unmistakable tension. "None at all."

Your stomach twisted. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, stepping closer, "not a single raven has come from King’s Landing in over a fortnight. No messages. No decrees. No reports from Mace Tyrell, who I left as Hand in my absence."

You frowned, your mind racing. "Surely that’s impossible. The capital does not fall silent."

Tywin’s expression darkened. "No. It does not." He paused. "Which means someone is ensuring no word leaves the city."

A chill far colder than the winter outside crept down your spine. "Who could do such a thing?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "If I knew that, I would not be standing here speculating."

You crossed your arms, your mind pulling at the threads of possibility. "Could it be Cersei?"

Tywin’s jaw tightened. "Perhaps. Or perhaps something else is at play."

You studied him, searching for the depth of his thoughts. "You believe something has happened to Tommen."

His silence was answer enough.

The thought of him—once a sweet boy who marveled in your presence—alone in the capital with no word reaching beyond its walls made your stomach churn.

"We have to do something," you said firmly.

Tywin’s gaze was heavy as it settled on you. "We will."

You placed a hand on his arm. "We need to know what we’re dealing with before we act. If we send riders, they will be intercepted. But I…" You hesitated before inhaling sharply. "I could fly to King’s Landing myself."

His eyes flared with instant rejection. "No."

"Tywin—"

"I will not have you throwing yourself into a potential trap," he said sharply, his voice laced with iron. "If someone is controlling the flow of information, they will be expecting someone to come looking."

"But I am the fastest way," you countered. "Viserion can—"

"Viserion will not shield you from a poisoned dagger or an arrow in the dark," Tywin snapped.

You clenched your fists but did not argue further, not yet. The air between you was heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of fear neither of you would voice.

After a long silence, Tywin spoke again, quieter this time. "We wait for now. We prepare. But we do not act blindly."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. "Then we need to send scouts to the edges of the Crownlands. If no one can enter or leave, they will see the evidence of it."

Tywin studied you for a moment before giving a small nod. "I will see it done."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "And if we confirm that something is wrong?"

Tywin’s gaze was cold steel. "Then we prepare for war."

A shiver ran through you, though not from the cold.

The silence of the capital was an omen. And you feared what it meant for the fate of the realm.

The library of Casterly Rock was a place of refuge from the unrelenting winter that consumed the world outside. The scent of parchment and old leather lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of a time when knowledge held more weight than swords.

You sat alone at a long table, a heavy volume opened before you. The words blurred together, your mind too preoccupied to absorb their meaning. The quiet should have been comforting, but instead, it felt oppressive, a reminder of all that was left unspoken.

The door creaked open, and you glanced up just as Tyrion stepped inside. His eyes swept the room before settling on you, his mouth curving into a small, knowing smirk.

"I suspected I’d find you here," he mused, stepping further in. "You always did have a fondness for books."

You closed the tome in front of you with a quiet thud and arched a brow. "And what of you, Lord Tyrion? Are you here to read or to drink?"

Tyrion chuckled as he pulled out a chair across from you and sank into it. "A little of both, if I’m being honest. But mostly, I came to thank you."

"For?"

"For speaking to my father," he replied, resting his elbows on the table. "You may not realize it, but Tywin Lannister never truly listens to anyone—not Mace Tyrell, not the high lords, not even my dear departed mother, if Jaime is to be believed." He paused, studying you with quiet amusement. "But you… He listens to you."

You held his gaze, surprised by the remark. "Tywin is not an easy man to sway."

"Which is why it fascinates me that you manage it so effortlessly," Tyrion said, tilting his head. "A woman who was raised to be a princess of the realm, but became a wife to a lion instead."

You let out a quiet breath, your fingers tracing the edge of the book before you. "I spoke to him because I believe Daenerys may be needed in what is to come. But I would not call it effortless, convincing him of anything is a battle in itself."

Tyrion hummed in thought. "Yes, but battles are easier when the enemy wishes to please you."

You shot him a look, but there was no malice in his words, only curiosity. "You think Tywin acts to please me?"

"Perhaps not in the way a poet would write of it," Tyrion admitted. "But my father is a man who values control, and yet with you… there is something else. He does not tolerate defiance in others, but he allows you your arguments, your disagreements. And more than that, he takes them into consideration."

You studied him, unsure of how to respond. Tyrion, ever observant, had picked up on something even you had barely acknowledged aloud.

"I think," Tyrion continued, swirling an imaginary cup in his hand, "that my father never expected to love again. But here he is, with you, and two sons born of that love. A fate he never would have envisioned when he first plotted your fate all those years ago."

You inhaled deeply. "And what of you, Tyrion? What do you envision for your own fate?"

Tyrion smirked, but there was something tired behind it. "I envision myself in a world that does not want me, doing what I must to ensure it survives. A tragic tale, really, but one I find myself unable to escape."

Silence stretched between you for a long moment. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth failing to chase away the heavy weight of reality.

"You are still my stepson," you said softly after a pause. "And despite all that has transpired, you are still a part of this family."

Tyrion blinked, clearly taken aback by the words, before offering you a small, genuine smile. "That may be the kindest thing anyone has said to me in years."

You exhaled slowly. "I did not say it to be kind. I said it because it is the truth."

Tyrion chuckled, shaking his head. "You truly are wasted on my father. He does not deserve you."

You smirked, standing and closing the book before you. "And yet, here I am."

Tyrion sighed dramatically. "Yes. Here you are, making the impossible seem inevitable. Do try not to undo all the progress you’ve made with him before I leave, will you?"

You gave him a knowing look. "No promises."

Tyrion chuckled again before rising from his seat. "One more thing," he added, pausing at the door. "If my father listens to anyone, it will be you. Remember that when the time comes."

With that, he bowed slightly and disappeared into the hall, leaving you alone once more.

The fire crackled, the warmth suddenly feeling insufficient.

You glanced toward the door where Tyrion had left, his words lingering in your mind.

Tywin listens to you.

You weren’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

[spread-the-influence]

Sorry for the Cain rant. I didn’t realize he was my favorite until you put him in this position 😭🙏🏾 Noooooooooo. I feel so bad for Cain. He dosent know. Ragathas blaming Cain for their suffering but the fact is that he’s an ai. To him, players showed up and haven’t been able to leave, so he TRIED. Made accommodations like the rooms, and the adventures. He’s oblivious but that’s bc he isn’t human, imagine being stuck with something you can’t fully understand. Zooble said it herself, Cain can do much worst but dosent bc He likes them. He wants them to love his adventures and have fun. He tries for them despite everything. It’s far from perfect and he’s flawed. But he tries. So I feel so bad for him bc waking up to everyone corrupted . After he tried so hard.

caine's my second favorite so while he's not going to go through pomni levels of trauma here he Is going to be beaten to the ground and shot at

what i find fascinating about caine is that he's put in a situation where he's Doomed to fail . he can try as much as he wants but he will always fall short . and it's just out of his control .

he's meant to be entertaining players with fun games , not play therapist to a bunch of traumatized adults with complex problems . he's not Meant to deeply analyze human emotions and problems — it's just not in his neural network . he has not been trained to do that . he said it himself ; making adventures is the only thing he's good at .

and i'll say this , he's not bad at making adventures ! they are juvenile , yes , but i feel like they are intended for a player putting on the headset for a short amount of time . everyone aren't a fan of them ( i like to think ragatha likes the adventures to an extent , though ) because they're jaded adults that are in the game for More Than A Day and are slowly being broken apart by the monotony of the circus . and that's something he cannot grasp .

so yeah . silly guy (: i have a lot planned for him here and it'll be fun (:

[libraryraccoon]

I saw the Floyd request and I thought of rook hunt in hasbin hotel.

Rip Alastor his privacy he now became the hunted the both speaking French .

Imagine rook talking about angel dust his inner beauty is making him feel loved every day saying something positive.

And Charlie and vaggie getting put on romantic dates by rook and lucifer and rook seeing them ta about how beautiful love is.

Gender : GN

Pronouns : no real pronouns used(sometimes they/them)

Character : Alastor, general headcanon

Message from Raccoon : I was also thinking of a rook!reader while writing the Floyd!Reader tbh.

TW : ROOK!READER, a little suggestive

The Demon Of Hunt, a very strong overlord who knows everything about everyone. A predator whose prey are doomed to die.

They aren't a demon you want to mess with, you don't want to be their prey.

In their lifetime a very famous hunter living in a small village, in their death The Demon Of Hunt, the hunter everyone is afraid of.

Alastor

He met you when he was still killing overlords.

“Now, isn’t that a rather crude way of killing ?” You asked behind him.

How long have you been behind Alastor ? He has no idea.

“Oh ! And what a beautiful deer tail you have there ! C'est magnifique !” You say, touching Alastor's deer tail; ignoring the fact that you had just seen him kill an overlord.

He straight up hated you.

But he also found you interesting, especially when you could see through all his attacks.

Boring, but entertaining.

After that, you didn't let him go.

You followed him, stalking him, wherever he went.

Like a predator with its prey, observing it before killing it.

When he left for 7 years, he finally thought he had lost you…

You followed him.

For 7 fucking years he had to stay with you.

Even 8V>× didn't want to make a contract with you after seeing how weird you were.

Not to mention all the times you talked about love…

*add a disgusted Alastor*

You interfered in his life and never left, even though he tried to reject you.

And let's not even talk about your strange comments…

"Oh ! I wonder what red deer would taste like for dinner ! Or maybe a red wendigo ! Qu'en pense tu, Alastor ?"

“Red deer ?” *remembers that he is, technically, some sort of red deer/wendigo as a demon.* "Ha ha ! Stay 100km/h away from me."

When you arrived at the hotel, Alastor finally felt free ! After all his years of being the stolkant, you finally left him alone !

Well, not always, after all you would never leave your prey friend alone for too long, but you weren't with him all the time.

Alastor won't lie, not being with you 24/7 after so long was weird…

He finally had privacy-

100% complained to Rosie about you.

“And they never gave me space !” -Alastor

"Really ?" -Rosie

"Well, I'll give him some time alone. For the bathroom." -Rook!Reader, arriving out of nowhere behind Alastor.

Although Alastor considers you as a menace, there are times when he is grateful to you and to be your friend.

Like those rare times of weakness, when you helped him feel better, reassured him. It was the rare times he was grateful to have you as a friend.

I just know that when you want to talk about something private/you don't want others to hear you, you speak French.

Although sometimes you just do it to piss off other people.

"Mon cher cerf préférer ! Al' ! Je viens de découvrir quelque chose sur Vox, tu vas pas y croire !"

"Je vais préparer le thé, après tu me racontera."

You turn all Overlord meetings from boring to interesting meetings.

During meetings, you had the habit of telling everyone's secrets (except Alastor's secrets, bestie privilege), and always the most interesting ! Like this time you said you saw Carmilla decapitate an exterminator !

*After the song Respectless.* "Actually, mes chers amis, it is possible, or not, that I saw Carmilla decapitate an exterminator with her shoes. C'était un combat splendide !"

General Headcanon

You don't let anyone have privacy.

They know it, but they can't say anything.

Angel Dust suffered the most of that, he saw you during one of his shoots watching him in the shadows.. It was terrifying.

“Just try to be sexy.” -Valentino looking at Angel Dust during a shoot.

"Oh, mais mon cher, he's sexy enough like this ! Take off the underwear and people will love it !" -Rook!Reader behind Valentino, coming out of nowhere.

"MOTHERFUCKER-" *Add Valentino's scream of terror.*

You comforted Angel after each shoot, cheering him up in a more or less suspicious ways.

You call Angel Dust by his real name, Anthony. You are the only one in the hotel who knows his real name and calls him like that.

Angel Dust is sort of happy that someone thinks of him as Anthony and not Angel Dust.

Valentino hates you, as do all Vees and all the demons.

Lucifer found you weird the first time he meet you, and knowing your reputation, it was normal, but in the end you got along really well.

You 🤝 Lucifer = make Charlie and Vaggie have romantic dates by candlelight.

“Ah, youthful love ! Que c'est beau !”

“I miss the love of youth..” (in a dramatically way)

Did I mention that you and Lucifer are and always will be drama queens ?

You and Lucifer are just THAT bestie duo that everyone wants to be.

I can so see you having these dinners for two in fancy restaurants while being platonic. You say the most romantic things, speaking in French, and Lucifer joins you in those moments, doing the same.

"Oh, mon chéri, you look beautiful tonight ! Even more brilliant than usual !"

"Oh, I should be the one to tell you that ! You look beyond stunning tonight in that costume !"

You are trending on the networks.

Every. Fucking. Days.

On the networks, there are 3 teams; those who ship Lucifer x Rook!Reader, those who ship Alastor x Rook!Reader, and those who say you are a hopelessromantic and/or aromantic.

They have hilarious debates that you love to join for just fuck all and everyone.

"Well, it's true that Monsieur Alastor is quite handsome, but Lucifer ? Oh, je ne sais même pas ou commencer a son sujet !" -Rook!Reader on the networks screwing up between the teams, always changing the place between Lucifer and Alastor.

You are a star in all the circles of hell fr.

One day, Charlie asked you if you were dating her father after seeing what you were doing/writing on internet.

You answered some shit like "As much as I would love to be with him, je ne pourrais qu'en rêver. He is far too good and handsome man for a simple sinner like me."

Vaggie doesn't trust you, not in a million of eons.

Sir Pentious asked if you had a death wish after he saw you touch Alastor's deer ears…

"Oh, to die by the hand of such a magnifique et servant gentleman ! What an honor that would be !"

Sir Pentious has never seen Alastor back away from someone so fast before-

Niffty like you. You regularly complimented her on her work and her beauty.

Husk, on the contrary, doesn't like you.

He had to endure you and Alastor's shit for too long, 7 years without both of you wasn't enough.

You intrude into people's intimate moments.

And by people, I mean Husk and Anthony.

Imagine Husk and Angel Dust, just being quietly alone, a super romantic moment, and then, you pop in between the two…

But sometimes when you compliment them (one time per day), they like you.

I like to think that the Tik Tok hell version is like the one of the living, with people doing random ship. And Rook!Reader live for that.

[greeniscosmic]

MY UNORGANIZED THOUGHTS ON THE TOMMYINNIT SURVIVAL TOUR:

⚠️ SPOILERS BELOW ⚠️

before the show, i saw a technoblade cosplayer walk in!!! they weren't part of the show or anything, they were just an audience member, but, GOD it was awesome. i just wanted to give a shout out to them bc i genuinely thought their cosplay was really cool :)

someone held up a schlanket, some other people held up rammies, and other people held up tommy's merch. we all cheered when this happened. peace and love on planet mcyt ❤️

now onto the show itself:

tommy had a fake invisible girlfriend throughout the whole show. i think it was actually a commentary on The Voices in Le Head, but my friend thinks it was more of a spongebob bubble buddy scenario. (now that i think about it, i feel like she might be right)

a lot more audience interaction than i was expecting!!! i was half expecting tommy to walk around the auditorium and quip with people individually, but i was SO FUCKING GLAD he quiped with the audience as a whole. i would've killed myself in front of him if he ever even attempted pointed a microphone in my face.

(he did quip with people individually, but only with the people in the very front. everyday i thank the Lord.)

"im half white. other half? also white." PEAK CINEMA ✋️😑🤚 WORLD CHEERS 👏👏👏 EVERY DISASTER ENDS

"i'm asain. caucasian!" WHITE BABY YOU CANNOT BE SAYING THESE THINGS

side note, getting a crowd of people to cheer for a white boy on the second day of AAPI month is crazy fucking work. sick and twisted of tommy for stealing the show and we should cancel him immediately. slash j as the kids say.

DEAFENING CHEER FOR SCHLATT HOLY SHIT (im guilty of this too lmao)

schlatt repeatedly called us all gay and woke. baseball, huh?

the guy that shouted "bababooey" and got noticed by schlatt himself 😭😭😭

speaking of heckling, THE ACEDENTAL MINOR JOKE??? DID ANYONE CATCH THAT ON CAMERA OR IS IT DOOMED TO DETERIORATE SLOWLY IN MY BRAIN

here's what i remember about that joke specifically: tommy asks something (i forget what). someone in the crowd shouted "MINORS" and tommy goes "ye- NO 😨". crowd laughs, and tommy says something like, "that's gonna make this next part real awkward lmao"

schlatt flirts with a chair. i'm sure some people in the audience creamed their pants.

tommy made schlatt do what was essentially The Pacer Test on stage. go white boy go!!! (i have footage of this btw. i heart watching him suffer for my entertainment ❤️)

that's all i remember for now. i'll post more if i remember anything else!!!

at one point in the show, schlatt and tommy just started chugging water bottles and popping the caps off while the whole crowd cheered them on??? that wasn't even in the script btw. they just started doing that shit 😭😭😭

[pukefactory]

ˏ-ˋ✷ PUNT-ABLE PURPLE RABBIT ✷ˎ-ˊ

✸ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Jax X Reader

✸ Character(s): Jax (The Amazing Digital Circus)

✸ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

✸ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

✸ Image Credits: @seraphmaws

˗ˏˋ If Jax really likes you, you’re doomed. He’s relentless with his teasing—expect sarcastic remarks, pranks, and just enough genuine compliments to keep you from outright decking him. He’ll casually slip in a “You’re kinda cute when you’re mad” after messing with you, just to see your face go red.

˗ˏˋ Jax does not do sappy. At least, not in a way that’s obvious. But if you pay attention? You’ll catch him standing a little closer when you’re uncomfortable, tossing a spare key your way “just in case” (even though he has keys to everything), or mysteriously shoving an extra pillow onto your bed without explanation.

˗ˏˋ Jax won’t say he’s worried about you, but if someone or something so much as looks at you wrong? Oh, he’s having fun with this. Way too much fun. “Ohhh, you poor thing,” he mocks the thing threatening you—right before utterly wrecking it with a little too much enthusiasm. “Oops. Looks like I overdid it. My bad.” He grins. He is not sorry.

˗ˏˋ He hates the idea of being jealous. Despises it. So instead of, y’know, processing his emotions, he’ll just be extra annoying if he sees someone getting too close. Suddenly, he’s all over you—slinging an arm around your shoulders, whispering something just loud enough for the other person to hear: “Y’know, we have a thing, right, sweetheart?” And he’s smirking. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

˗ˏˋ Jax will not outright admit to liking physical affection, but he’s weirdly good at slipping it in under the guise of something else. He’ll lean against you because he’s “bored,” ruffle your hair just to mess it up, flick something off your face and call it a “favor.” If you catch him getting comfortable and call him out on it? His ears flick back and he scoffs, “Ew, don’t make it weird.”

˗ˏˋ There are moments—rare, fleeting moments—where Jax isn’t being a menace. Like when it’s just the two of you, sitting in some quiet corner of the Digital Circus, the usual snark dialed down to a murmur. He doesn’t go into detail about himself, but he listens when you talk. He won’t even joke about it—just nods, hums, maybe offers an occasional dry “Yeah, that sucks.” The next day, he pretends like it never happened.

˗ˏˋ “Hey, I have an idea.” Six words you should never trust. Jax loves dragging you into his schemes, whether it’s pranking the others or messing with Caine. And when it inevitably backfires? He’s somehow never the one getting caught. “Wow, you really got yourself into a mess, huh?” He smirks as you glare at him. But before you can suffer any consequences—poof. He’s already unlocked a way out. “C’mon, let’s bail before they get really mad.”

˗ˏˋ One day, you find a centipede in your room. The next, it’s an old radio playing distorted circus music. Jax has way too much fun leaving you random “gifts,” just to mess with you. But every now and then? You’ll find something actually nice—like a candy bar, your favorite snack, or a blanket mysteriously appearing when you’re cold. He will never admit to it.

˗ˏˋ Most people bore Jax, but you? You keep him on his toes. Whether it’s because you can banter back, or because you’re just so easy to fluster, he never gets tired of messing with you. He laughs for real around you—sharp, delighted, genuine. And if anyone else notices? “Nah,” he scoffs, waving it off. “They’re just really easy to entertain.”

˗ˏˋ Jax doesn’t do sentimental, but if you ever start breaking down? If you start slipping toward abstraction? He’s there in an instant, dropping the smug act like a stone. “Oh, no. Nope. We’re not doing that.” He grabs your wrist—firm, grounding, real. “Hey. Eyes on me.” And he stays until you come back. No jokes. No teasing. Just Jax, refusing to lose you.

[circeyoru]

Collection of Overlords _ Part 11 = Requested

[Alastor x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 1.5 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9  — Part 10 — Part 11 (here) — Part 12 — Part 13 — Part 14 — Part 15 — Part 16 — Epilogue

Like dominos, one thing led to another as predicted

With Alastor motivated to do his absolute to please you, Husk’s hellish training and push to be a worthy Overlord reached its heights. Though, to not cause suspicion to the other residents of the hotel, namely Angel, Husk made appearances here and there just so no one would claim that Alastor was being unreasonable

As for Velvette, she was being mentored by Rosie and Carmilla. It started with just exploring her new title as a ‘Threater Demon’. Her eye in fashion, her want to command, and her presentation skills were strong. Her role in your collection was to project information and messages you want Hell to know about

Because with Hell’s win over Heaven, big changes were bound to come. Not to mention, Trick would be wanting some action on their side and not just to watch their realm fret over yours. You understand the sentiment, after all, you enacted the system for Overlords for that sole purpose in the first place

Now, it was a lucky thing that the Vees actually divided territories before Velvette went solo, because those served as her base of operations and her new home. With Carmilla’s help in construction, Velvette has her own building to call home and workplace. With Rosie’s pointers, Velvette was capable of recruiting talents of worth to her growth

As an Overlord should, Velvette gathered souls to her side through contracts and slowly started to build her own base and support. Just as Alastor was supporting Husk in such a task, albeit it was more complicated since Husk was still under Alastor’s leash at the moment

Her souls comprised of individuals from the fashion and entertainment industries, not too different from her former work associates, so she was able to handle things all on their own. However, there was one thing that she made clear to her people or demons, which is; she was no long part of the Vees and when they sign a contract with her, it’s only to her service

That was something you’re quite proud to hear her say. Even when she is technically starting from rock bottom, she is not using anyone’s name to give herself a boost to start strong and fast, she was using her own. Granted that you allowed Carmilla and Rosie to help, but they were only serving as guidance and giving her advice on what direction to go in. After all that, they took a backseat and watched

To see her rise from the ashes of her own burnt flame was a spectacle and what you have been aiming and doing with your Overlords since the beginning. It was what you have designed when you took initiative to lead a group of overpowered Sinners. They were more than souls doomed to suffer in Hell

In your dark and cruel eyes, they were so much more. While around the majority of the deceased are destined for Hell, their crimes when living define their powers in Hell and their authority in a sense. You being the puppeteer behind your Overlords shows their potential but also their limits because they can never amount to anywhere above Hellborns of great destruction

You have your Overlords their domain of special title. Zestial of Fear, Carmila of War, Rosie of Dismantlement, Zeezi of Violence, Alastor of Domination, and now Velvette has joined their ranks. Velvette of Recreation. So you never let anything destroy or interrupt Velvette’s growth

It’s funny to watch was Vox’s panic over Velvette’s absence and silence. You had given Alastor a power boost to interfere with Vox’s persistent surveillance. The last thing you wanted was for your two new rising stars to have a stalker that will ruin plans and hard work. So now all Vox could do was try to make more public appearances to hypnotize others into staying relevant

Though it wasn’t like you were going to do anything about it. You did, however, receive information from your other Overlords that Vox has been asking around as to where Velvette was. Well, you have to give him credit of being bold enough to ask others where his former associate was at, even though it showed his stupidity

“M’re tea, mine own Liege? (More tea, My Liege?)” Zestial offered with the hovering items. 

“Zestial, this is a redemption lesson.” You politely and indirectly declined his offer.

“Th’re is barely anyone h’re. (There is barely anyone here)” Zestial laughed, still offering you your drink to which you accepted. “And I am listening to the princess’ lesson, m’rely… multitasking. (And I am listening to the princess’ lesson, merely… multitasking.)”

Currently, you were sitting in a lesson of the Princess in her endevours to make her hotel a success. While you admire her dedication, you can hardly see her plans succeeding and that’s what you show her despite knowing of Sir Pentious’ arrival to Heaven

As you were attending her class, it just so happened that Zestial was stopping by for tea with you and joined you when you said you were busy attending Charlie’s little class. Needless to say, Zestial saw no use in such efforts, labelling Charlie’s dream as ‘flight of fantasy’ rather than a goal to strive towards

Zestial taken great offence when Charlie was promoting her aim to him when he first passed through the doors of the hotel, claiming that he never wish or dreams of leaving Hell so long as you permitted him to stay by your side. He saw Charlie’s gracious offer to be good as an insult to him and his devotion to your services, going as far as to see it as a betrayal of your mercy had he paid half a mind to Charlie’s words

It was only because you’d be free after Charlie’s lesson does he stay at the hotel. As for why he was also attending the lesson? It was because it didn’t want to waste a second away from you when he can. Unlike the other Overlords, Zestial was the one to have known you the longest and that has given him some unique privileges 

For example, he could contact you physically or mentally while others have to wait for you to contact them. That was why he suggested for Carmilla to contact you about the matter of the angel’s death instead of waiting for your summons

Another was his authority to stand in as you to a certain degree while you were absent among the gathering of Overlords, that’s why he had that level of say and respect from the others (apart from the Vees, it would seem)

“Hey, Princess!” Vox’s robotic voice boomed through the doors to the room’s doors behind they slammed open unceremoniously to reveal a frantic technology demon. “Princess! I know you’re a good and kind person, er, demon, so I want your help—”

“Help in what?” You questioned but your tone made it sound like a challenge in it of itself.

The moment Vox heard your voice within the room behind him, he froze and like the technology he is, he robotically turned around to meet your eyes. “Ma- I mean… You’re here…” His eyes looked away then back to you and away again, repeating this as though it was a shy schoolgirl with their crush in a love confession. “What a coincident… Haha…”

“Charlie dear.” You got up and Zestial follow suit, indirectly sending a chill down Vox and everyone else’s spine.

“Yes?” Charlie tried her best to keep an unaffected expression, but the way her body trembled and her hands gripped at her sheets of papers till they were all wrinkled up was evident that even she was shaken up.

You smiled back with a small tilt of your head, “I’ll be leaving my leave and bringing Vox along, do continue your lesson on boundaries.”

Zestial followed behind you, “I too shall beest taking mine own leaveth, has’t a pleasant day, princess. (I too will be taking my leave, have a pleasant day, Princess.)”

Vox grudgingly followed along behind the two of you with his head down.

While walking down the halls of the hotel, the mere appearance of Zestial made any demon near you fear for their lives and left with screams and shrieks. Some wondering why such a fearsome character was even in a hotel for redemption and some wondering if such an irredempable demon can be sent to Heaven with Charlie’s help

At those demon’s whispers, Zestial was quick to show why he was still feared even after the emergence of newer and powerful demons that joined the ranks of the Overlord. You reminded indifferent as you continued onwards to your room while Vox held himself back from flinching at Zestial’s more violent and unseen side

Your head turned to the side as you stole a glance at Vox. He was still straightened up, but that was all a facade to hide his fear and anxiety. You internally sighed while Zestial was quick to make work of the disgrace he faced from the shadows and joined her side once more

As clear as day, you recall when there was a time where Alastor spoke praise of Vox and his powers. How he captivated your interest with the potential growth and rise his powers could bring, the thrill you felt when Alastor listed out all the things that he saw Vox could do

The only reservations Alastor had with Vox was his dependence on Alastor as they were sharing a partnership. While Alastor took credit for what he has down, Vox was eager to share his achievements and accomplishments with Alastor’s name, advertising that he was nothing without the help of Alastor who was already an Overlord

Alastor did tell you that Vox wanted and aimed to be an Overlord, but it was to be on the same level as Alastor. As anyone could see, Vox was doing his all to be on Alastor’s equal and to you, that was disappointing. Here Alastor was, recommending Vox to be within your collection when all Vox wanted was to be by Alastor’s side

Oh how you wanted to crush Vox and stuff him into one of your Cages. But you held back, instead, it was more pleasing to see him suffer and rise from the ashes of pain and torture. You gave Alastor a simple suggestion

Break ties with Vox and let him tred his own path

Followed your indirect order Alastor did. Within the minute Alastor broken any and all relationship with Vox, a battle broke out. One where Alastor showcased his power and strength to be leagues above what Vox had in mind

You were perched atop your throne while your other Overlords watched Alastor’s victory and Vox’s defeat within the space you’ve created for them all. The smile you had on you was so wide that your cheeks hurt afterwards when Rosie pointed it out

Then it wasn’t long before Vox seemingly bounced back from his reality check and came back into the spotlight. To your disappointment, Vox used the media in a poor attempt to push Alastor out of power. The little cat and dog fight was entertaining for only a moment’s time as Vox was biting out more and more of Alastor’s time and attention from his rightful duties

The excuse for your intervention only came when Vox claimed to have an Overlord title. Immediately, you brought him into your domain for such a daring claim. Contrary to your expectations, he fell a few feet down, but out of your favouritism for Alastor and trusting in him, you gave Vox a chance. You did need someone to fill in Husk’s place after all

While his offer to share his Overlord status was a unique and intriguing one, his choices were poorer than a human’s foolishness. At the time, there was promise in Velvette, but Valentino was another matter entirely. Still they did work well together, you’ll give them that. So for the first time ever, there was a group of three sharing the title of Overlord

Now that you look back on it, it was a misjudgment on your place. Trusting in Alastor’s words when vouching for Vox was one thing, trusting in Vox’s choice of companionship was another. Still, you see the issue and that somethings could never be changed no matter what

You lost counts on the chances you gave the Vees. If they were any other Overlords in your collection, they’d be long disposed off, but you let them stay out of the goodness of your nonexistent heart

It was a lie

Within your collection, you needed someone at the bottom to be the receiving end of your fury and for someone to be an example to when things don’t go as you please. There needs to be a system of rewards and punishments and who better than the Vees? They have their uses and they wanted to stay. Whether or not they see through your intentions is another story, but you like that they were naive

Before the Vees was Husk who was royally kicked out and still suffering today. Of course he’s aiming to change now with the help of Alastor. Before Husk was a few others not even worthy of your memory. Though the first and successful one? 

Zeezi, your perfect stress toy

It was through her that you realized the need for a bottom rank within your collection. What better to have something dull and trashy to better showcase your most prized ones? Just like now, Vox compared with Alastor. It’s obvious who’s better. The comparison and competition made you ever more pleased with your top favourites

So far, Velvette has been the only one that seeked help to break away from her consequence. You would bet Valentino still sees nothing wrong and would continue as he always had. The question remains… Will Vox change too?

In doing so, put Valentino up for elimination?

You chuckled darkly as you entered your room, taking a seat by the window. “Come on in.”

Vox followed in with a shiver while Zestial closed and locked the doors behind them. The room thrusted into darkness before their surroundings resembled the galaxy appeared before their eyes, something a Sinner can never witness again after their fall. 

“Now,” You smirked, Zestial taking his place by your side and poured you a cup of tea he magically made appear. Your melodious voice played like a record but your words were sharp as knives. “Why did you seek out the dear Princess of Hell?” Vox gulped as much as he wanted to stare at anything by you, he knew it was a death sentence. “Instead of looking for my assistance?”

Note: Been a while since this series was updated. Not sure how many of you still read this. I thought of dropping this series a lot of times because of the writer's block, but here's the next part. I enjoy the asks, ideas, and trivia you guys sent me! What you think would happen now?

Hope you enjoyed this one~

Circe Y. 

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