#etheric warfare

[heliosunny]

Hello!! hello! i love all your works!!! and how much you post per day???? pls take breaks between writing if you can!

i read the streamer!jing yuan one...

if requests are open can i request sunday with the same scenario?

i imagine he'd never play any otome games on his own so robin would have to coerce him into playing the game. i also see him to be the type of player who'd clear every route and have things down to a T ...

but what if there was one route he never finished? the hardest route to trigger and the one with the most bad endings cause the favourability bar is super fickle?

but the payoff is worth it once he somehow???? manages to trigger a yandere event hehe

Yandere!Streamer Sunday x Reader

Game Loading… Welcome Back.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before settling in for another long night. He still couldn’t believe he was doing this.

When Robin had first forced him to play, he’d scoffed at the idea. Him? A dating game? No way. But somewhere along the way—after countless hours, multiple endings, and way too much money spent on DLC—he’d become obsessed. His competitive streak wouldn’t let him quit until he had 100% completion.

And yet, one route remained unfinished.

Yours.

You were the hardest love interest to win over, your favorability bar more unstable than any other. No matter what he did, one wrong move could send it plummeting. He had watched others fail, seen forums filled with players begging for hints. No one had a clear guide. No one had reached the true ending.

Tonight, that would change.

“Alright, chat” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t care how long it takes—I’m finishing Y/N’s route tonight.”

“Sunday, you’re too deep in, bro.” “At this point, Y/N is your real partner.” “No way you’re getting the true ending. It’s cursed.” “Watch him fumble and lose favorability in five minutes.”

He exhaled, ignoring the teasing comments as the title screen faded, and the game resumed where he left off.

This was it.

Carefully, he selected his next dialogue option, choosing words with precision. Your sprite appeared, and for the first time in all his failed attempts, the favorability bar twitched upward.

[Favorability +5]

“That’s new” he muttered, brows furrowing. Chat exploded with excitement, theories flying in real-time. He leaned in, hyper-focused. The background music softened, replaced by an eerie silence.

Then, the screen flickered.

“What the-?”

Your expression on screen shifted. Subtle, almost imperceptible. The soft smile you usually wore seemed… off. Before he could react, a new dialogue box popped up.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“?????” “This isn’t in the script, bro.” “GOT THE SECRET ROUTE?!” “ABORT. ABORT.”

Before he could click anything, the screen distorted. Pixels warped, the background dissolving into a mess of static. A sudden high-pitched ringing filled his headphones.

Then—darkness.

Sunday had always been good at games. He could grind through any RPG, master mechanics, and break down any system with enough time and effort. But Ethereal Reverie: Fated Bonds was different.

When he stumbled upon your route, he had been hooked.

You were different from other love interests. You're the ultimate challenge. And Sunday loves that.

In the world of Ethereal Reverie, you were the kingdom’s renowned scholar and strategist, sought after by nobles and rulers alike. Your mind was your greatest weapon, and you wielded it with precision. Unlike the other characters—who were knights, royals, and adventurers—you had no need for physical prowess. Instead, you navigated court politics, warfare, and intrigue, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

Most players never even got past your acquaintance phase. Your favorability was infamously fickle—one wrong move and you'd cut ties with the protagonist entirely, locking them out of your story. It was said that only a handful of players had even managed to trigger a romance flag, and none had reached the true ending.

Sunday was determined to be the first.

But now, as he stared up at you—no longer a 2D sprite but a living, breathing person—he realized he had made a grave mistake.

“Sunday.”

His breath caught in his throat. You knew his name. That wasn’t possible. His in-game avatar had a preset name—Caius—the default protagonist. But you weren’t looking at Caius. You were looking at him.

Sunday barely had time to process what was happening before another voice called out from behind you.

“Lord Sunday, you’ve finally arrived.”

What?

It wasn’t just you.

He turned his head sharply, eyes darting around. The grand stone courtyard he had landed in was familiar—ornate fountains, banners bearing the royal crest, and intricate marble pillars. This was the capital’s royal palace, the heart of the kingdom.

He knew this place. He had seen it countless times in the game.

But this wasn’t the protagonist’s usual starting point.

And then the pieces clicked.

His ornate outfit, the way the NPCs were addressing him, the "Lord" title—

This wasn’t his usual avatar.

The game hadn’t just dragged him into the world. It had assigned him a new role.

A dangerous one.

There was only one person in Ethereal Reverie who was constantly at odds with you. One person who stood as your rival in the court’s deadly political game. The one strategist whose name was whispered with both admiration and fear—

Lord Sunday, the Grand Strategist of the Northern Territories.

He had become your greatest enemy.

Why the hell did the game slot me into the villain’s role?

“Lord Sunday. I hope you’re ready. We have much to discuss.”

He had spent a month obsessing over you, trying to understand your thought process, learning every intricate detail of your route. He knew how dangerous you could be.

And now, he was trapped inside the game—forced to be your rival.

The tension in the grand hall was suffocating.

Sunday sat at the long, polished table, hands clenched into fists against his lap as his brain scrambled to keep up. Across from him, you stood poised, arms crossed, your expression carefully neutral—yet he could see the sharpness in your gaze, the unmistakable glint of contempt.

You hated him.

Which was funny, considering he had spent weeks trying to get you to like him.

“This is reckless” you said coldly, turning away from him to address the gathered nobles and military officers. “If we march our forces north under such a thinly-veiled deception, we risk stretching our supply lines too far. It’s a fool’s errand.”

Sunday barely heard the murmurs of agreement that followed. His mind was still caught on the fact that you were speaking to him like he was an actual person. Not a scripted character, but as though he had always been here—as though this world had been real from the start.

And worst of all?

His name, his role in this world, had come with pre-existing relationships—and every single one of them pointed to you absolutely despising him.

He could feel the weight of the stares on him, waiting for his rebuttal. He had no choice but to play along.

“Stretching our supply lines?” he scoffed, leaning back into his chair, “What, do you think my forces can’t handle a simple flanking maneuver? Or do you just enjoy opposing me on principle?”

A flicker of irritation crossed your face. “I oppose stupid ideas on principle.”

There it is.

You had always been like this in the game—blunt, tactical, calculating. You didn’t suffer fools, and apparently, he was a fool in your eyes.

Fine. If that’s how this world saw him, he’d use it to his advantage.

“The southern front is already stabilizing” he continued smoothly, gesturing to the map. “If we strike before the enemy fully regroups, we force them into a defensive position and eliminate their supply routes. You can’t tell me you don’t see the logic in that.”

You narrowed your eyes, and for a moment, Sunday swore he saw something flicker across your expression.

Then, your lips curled into a humorless smile.

“Oh, I see the logic. I also see the arrogance of a man who plays at war like a gambler throwing dice.”

A collective oof rippled through the court. Even Sunday felt that one.

The tension between the two of you was so thick it could be cut with a blade.

“Tell me, Lord Sunday” you continued, “when was the last time one of your little schemes didn’t end in absolute disaster?”

That was a loaded question.

And one he definitely didn’t know the answer to.

Because he had no idea what his past self had actually done in this world.

What the hell did my predecessor do to make you hate me this much?!

Sunday knew when to back down. He had spent the past month failing your route over and over again, watching his choices backfire, and seeing your favorability bar plummet to zero in an instant. Pushing you wouldn’t work.

So, he changed tactics.

For the next few weeks, Sunday did what he did best—he studied you.

Not in the obsessive, love-struck way he had before. No, this time, he played the role the game had given him—your rival. A nuisance at court, a persistent thorn in your side, someone you could never quite get rid of.

But somewhere along the way, he started slipping into your life.

When you left the palace on a diplomatic mission, your caravan mysteriously found safe passage through bandit territory—unaware that Sunday had bribed the local mercenaries to keep them away.

When you spent long nights buried in military reports, a second set of documents would appear on your desk—already summarized with the most critical information highlighted.

When an assassination attempt nearly succeeded in the dead of night, your would-be killer was found dead in an alley the next morning. The guards claimed they had no idea who had done it.

And your favorability bar?

It didn’t move.

No matter how many times Sunday secretly lent a hand, no matter how much effort he put in, you remained completely indifferent to him.

It was infuriating.

It was addicting.

But then, Kristiana betrayed you.

And Sunday knew—this was it. This was where he had to step in.

Kristiana—your most trusted friend, the one person you had allowed yourself to rely on—had sold you out.

For what?

Power. Influence. A higher seat at the table.

Sunday had seen the signs before you did.

But even he hadn’t expected it to be this cruel.

By the time you realized, it was too late.

The palace was in an uproar, whispers spreading like wildfire. You had been accused of treason. Fabricated evidence, falsified reports—all of it meticulously crafted to erase you from power.

And it would have worked.

If Sunday hadn’t stepped in.

When you were dragged into the throne room, stripped of your titles and power, the nobles stood like vultures, watching your downfall with thinly veiled amusement. Kristiana stood at the front, her expression unreadable.

And then—

Sunday spoke.

“...What an interesting turn of events.”

His voice was lazy, amused, and every single person in the room stiffened. Because Sunday never spoke at these gatherings unless he had something dangerous to say.

You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What are you playing at?”

He ignored you.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but are we really accusing the kingdom’s greatest strategist of treason?” He chuckled. “How convenient. And Kristiana, of all people, is the one bringing it forward?”

Kristiana lifted her chin. “The evidence is irrefutable.”

Sunday tilted his head. “Is it?”

Then, before anyone could react, he threw a stack of papers onto the table.

“What—” Kristiana’s eyes widened.

Sunday grinned. “Because I have evidence too. And mine says you’re the traitor.”

Kristiana paled.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he said, “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

He turned to look at you “I told you, didn’t I?” His voice was quieter now, softer, just for you. “You don’t have to fight alone.”

And for the first time since you met him, since he arrived in this world, your favorability bar moved.

All eyes were on Sunday. It was infuriating how effortlessly he controlled the room.

He had just turned your execution trial into his own personal stage.

Kristiana’s hands trembled as she stared at the documents he had thrown onto the table. Papers filled with her secret dealings, her correspondence with enemy factions—detailed proof that she had orchestrated everything.

You didn’t know whether to feel furious or relieved.

Kristiana quickly schooled her expression, regaining her composure. “This is absurd” she said sharply, eyes flicking between Sunday and the king. “Lord Sunday has always opposed Y/N. He has no reason to support them now unless—”

Her gaze snapped to you, then back to Sunday.

“…Unless he’s playing a game of his own.”

She was right. Sunday was known for strategy, deception, manipulation. He wasn’t a savior. He was your rival. You thought.

This wasn’t kindness—this was tactics.

Kristiana latched onto that, her voice rising. “Your Majesty, can’t you see? This is just another one of his ploys! He—he’s aligning with them to further his own agenda!”

Sunday let out a low chuckle.

“Now, now, Kristiana.” His tone was almost mocking. “If that were true, wouldn’t it make you the fool for not realizing it sooner?”

Kristiana’s face burned red with rage.

And you didn’t know what to believe.

Sunday’s interference had saved you. But why?

You weren’t friends. You weren’t allies. You were enemies.

“Your Majesty” Sunday finally said, turning to the king with that same, insufferable confidence. “With all due respect, I think it’s clear who the real traitor is.”

The king’s gaze flickered between you and Kristiana. The weight of the court’s murmurs filled the air.

“Guards” the king ordered. “…Take Kristiana into custody.”

“Wait—!”

The guards moved instantly, seizing her arms before she could react. She thrashed against them, screaming your name—screaming that you would regret this. That Sunday would betray you, too.

And maybe she was right.

You didn’t even notice how tightly your hands had curled into fists until you felt the sting of your own nails against your palms.

The moment the doors slammed shut behind Kristiana’s struggling form, the tension in the room finally snapped.

“What do you want?” you asked him, voice carefully neutral.

Sunday smiled.

“I’m resigning from my position as Grand Strategist.”

The room erupted.

“You—”

Sunday’s smirk didn’t waver as he turned his back on them all. “Figure the rest out yourselves. I’m done.”

And with that, he walked away.

Sunday had abandoned his entire career.

For what?

You didn’t know.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

The tavern was dimly lit, the scent of alcohol and warm food hanging in the air. It was quieter than usual—most of the patrons had already retreated to their rooms or stumbled home.

Sunday sat alone in the corner, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass of dark liquor. He wasn’t drunk, but there was a sluggishness to his movements.

His fingers tapped idly against the table as he swirled the drink in his hand. Resigning had been necessary. The position was a leash, binding him to forces he had no control over. And if he wanted to truly be close to you— if he wanted to get everything he desired—

He had to start over.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His eyes snapped open.

You stood at the entrance of the tavern. Unlike in the palace, where your every movement was calculated, here, in the dim light of the inn, there was something… different about you.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, “What, no gloating? I thought you’d be thrilled to see me jobless and miserable.”

You sighed, stepping forward. “I don’t have time for your dramatics.”

You pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Kristiana was a problem,” he said simply. “I dealt with it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

For a moment, he considered telling you the truth. That you were the reason. That, in another life, he had spent weeks chasing after you, memorizing every dialogue choice, failing and failing just to see you look at him with something other than cold indifference.

That this was all a game to him once—but now?

Now, it was his reality.

“Would you believe me if I said I was just tired of playing the role they wanted me to?”

Your brows furrowed, caught off guard by his sincerity.

“I should just let you waste away here, but…”

You hesitated. Then, with a sigh, you reached into your coat and slid a folded letter across the table.

“…I need a strategist.”

His fingers brushed over the letter as he picked it up, unfolding it with careful precision. His eyes scanned the contents—an official contract, under your seal. The offer was clear: a position within your faction, under your personal command.

He had to bite back the grin threatening to form.

Staying in the palace as Grand Strategist kept him shackled to the court’s politics, unable to act freely. But working under you?

That gave him access to everything.

To you.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I accept.”

And just like that—

He had slipped right back into your life.

The first few days of having Sunday around were... strange.

You weren’t used to having someone constantly at your side. At first, you thought giving him a position as your personal servant was just a way to keep him under control—make sure he wasn’t scheming something behind your back. After all, he was your enemy.

Or at least, he used to be.

Now, he was everywhere.

You barely had a moment to breathe without Sunday inserting himself into your routine. If you so much as reached for a teapot, he was already pouring your tea. If you sighed after a long day of dealing with incompetent nobles, he was magically at your side, hands on your shoulders, pressing into the knots of tension like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Why are you still here?” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Sunday, standing beside your desk, completely unbothered, merely hummed as he flipped through the reports you had been working on. “Making sure you don’t overwork yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Mm. Clearly.” He held up a document, tilting his head. “Like this mistake right here?”

You snatched the paper from his hand, scanning it quickly—only to freeze when you spotted the minor miscalculation. Your grip on the paper tightened.

Sunday smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You exhaled sharply, setting the document down before rubbing your temples. “I should fire you.”

“But you won’t.”

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, exhaustion settling in. You had been working since morning, and the strain was finally catching up to you.

Without a word, Sunday moved behind you.

Before you could react, his hands were on your shoulders, fingers pressing into the knots of tension with practiced ease.

“…You’re tense”

You gritted your teeth. “Maybe because someone keeps breathing down my neck.”

He chuckled, his fingers working at the tension with slow, deliberate pressure. It felt annoyingly good. You hated to admit it, but he was good at this.

“You know” he said, “I think I’m growing on you.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And yet, he didn’t stop.

---

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Secret route triggered. Remaining lives: 4

Sunday gasped as his consciousness was yanked back into existence. One moment, there was nothing—just the cold, suffocating embrace of death. And then, suddenly—He was back.

He jolted upright, hand instinctively clutching his chest. He could still feel it. The sharp pain. The blood. The sheer betrayal.

You had killed him.

Not out of hatred. Not out of revenge.

But because you thought he was scheming against you.

The memory was blurry. He remembered standing in your office, your cold, empty gaze, the guards stepping forward—your blade piercing through him.

This was new. The system had never interfered like this before. He had suspected that this world wasn’t entirely real, but for it to suddenly have rules about death?

The message had been clear:

If he died four more times, he was gone for good.

And there was only one way to stop that from happening.

He had to figure out why you had killed him.

-2nd life-

This time, Sunday was careful.

He stayed out of sight. He watched. He listened. He took note of everything—the way the guards moved, the shifts in your behavior, the whispers among the servants.

And yet, despite all his caution, he still died.

A dagger in the dark.

Slipping through his ribs as he passed through the halls alone.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 3

-3rd life-

He wasn’t alone this time.

He stuck by your side closer than ever, watching you, watching your people. And still— The moment he took a sip of wine, his throat locked up. His vision blurred. Poison. As his body collapsed to the floor, he saw the wide-eyed horror on your face, the way you rushed to his side.

The way you whispered, "Who did this?"

But the system was already pulling him back.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 2

---

When he came back again, Sunday finally had enough pieces.

He had overheard the murmurs between the palace servants. How they whispered in dark corners, how they spoke of him as if he was a threat. How someone had been spreading lies about him to you.

You had always been calculating. If you believed he was plotting something, then that meant you were given evidence.

Fabricated evidence.

And just like that—he knew.

Someone in your inner circle wanted him dead.

And if he didn’t fix it soon,

he would die for real.

Sunday had two lives left.

This time, he didn’t act recklessly. He smiled at the servants. Charmed the guards. Pretended he didn’t know that any of them had already been responsible for his previous deaths.

And most importantly?

He stayed close to you.

It didn’t take long for him to confirm his suspicions.

The whispers in the halls, the stolen glances between certain attendants, the way they avoided his gaze whenever he passed. Someone had been feeding you lies about him.

Twisting the truth. Painting him as a traitor.

And the final piece clicked into place when he overheard a conversation outside the grand hall.

“Has the master grown suspicious?”

“Not yet. But if that man continues to cling to them, we’ll have to push harder. The evidence is nearly ready.”

Evidence.

They think they can manipulate me?

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

He had to move carefully.

But even knowing what he knew, he still miscalculated.

Sunday had been following the movements of one of the suspicious attendants, gathering clues, trying to find solid proof before he confronted you—

When he felt the cold press of a blade against his throat.

“You should have stayed in your place.”

The blade sliced.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅.

-Last chance-

Sunday woke up shaking.

This was it. One life left.

The moment he was revived, he went straight to you.

He didn’t wait for the lies to spread again. Didn’t wait for another chance to be stabbed in the dark.

He had to make you listen. So when he found you in your private study, brow furrowed over a new report, Sunday did something he had never done before.

He dropped to his knees.

“What are you—?”

“Someone has been feeding you false information about me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know who exactly is behind it, but I have proof that some of the palace attendants have been manipulating you,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I’ve overheard them talking. The whispers in the halls. The fabricated ‘evidence’ against me.”

“Tell me,” he said, “what did they show you?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tightened over the report in your hands.

Sunday saw the conflict in your eyes, the way your mind worked behind that carefully unreadable expression.

For weeks, he had been watching you—learning you. Every minute change in your stance, the flicker of your gaze when something unsettled you. And now?

You were unsettled.

Good.

That meant he was getting somewhere.

“Tell me, then.” Your voice was composed, but he could hear the tension beneath it. “What do you think I saw?”

“Something that made me look like a traitor.”

He pressed on.

“Documents with my forged signature? Secret meetings I never attended?” His voice lowered. “Maybe even an intercepted message—words twisted just enough to convince you that I had been plotting against you all along.”

Sunday exhaled slowly. “You didn’t question it because it made sense, didn’t it?” He tilted his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Because I’ve always been your biggest obstacle. Because I’ve always been the one who stood against you.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t deny it, either.

He needed to tread carefully. One wrong move, and you could still see him as a threat.

“But even after all that… you let me stay by your side.” He tilted his head, watching your reaction. “Why?”

“You were useful.”

“Liar”

Sunday sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look. You don’t trust me. Fine. But at least trust yourself.” His voice softened. “Think about it, really think about it—was there ever a time I actually betrayed you?”

Sunday leaned back slightly, voice steady as he gave his final push. “If you still want to kill me after thinking it through, then do it.”

You stared at him.

Seconds passed.

Then, your fingers loosened over the report in your hands.

You set it down.

“…Who?”

“Let me find out.”

And this time, he wouldn’t die before getting his answer.

For the first time in weeks, Sunday wasn’t lurking in the shadows or biting his tongue. No, this time, he moved freely.

You hadn’t explicitly told him to investigate, but by not ordering him to stop, you had given him permission.

And he would take full advantage of that.

Sunday wasn’t stupid. The moment he started looking too closely, his enemies would know.

So he laid a trap. He spread a rumor. A whisper in the halls, planted through a careless slip to an eavesdropping maid:

“The master is growing suspicious.”

It took less than a day for the rats to scurry.

Late into the night, Sunday followed a group of attendants as they snuck through the palace corridors, slipping into a secluded study.

He pressed against the wall, listening.

“The fool is still alive.”

Kristiana.

Your former best friend.

“No matter. The next attempt will not fail” she continued. “Their trust in him is wavering, but it is not broken. We must strike before it is too late.”

A second voice—one of your high-ranking advisors—spoke up. “Then we must act now. The documents are already prepared. A few words from our informant and the master will be forced to execute him. This time, there will be no hesitation.”

So that’s how they did it.

Forcing your hand. Setting you up so that killing him was the only logical choice.

He stepped into the dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows.

“Do you take me for a fool?”

The room fell silent.

Kristiana’s eyes widened before narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I shouldn’t be alive either, and yet, here I am.” His gaze flicked over the forged documents on the table, then back to her. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

The advisor paled. “You have no proof—”

“I don’t need proof, because you’re going to confess.”

Kristiana scoffed. “And why would we do that?”

“Because,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, “I am still standing here.”

“And that means I know exactly what you’ve done.”

Sunday let the silence stretch before delivering the final blow:

“I wonder what will happen when I tell the master.”

Kristiana was a skilled manipulator, but even the most cunning fox could be outplayed. Still, Kristiana wasn’t the type to surrender without a fight.

“You assume Y/N will believe you.”

“I don’t assume. I know.”

Kristiana clicked her tongue, fingers twitching toward the hidden dagger at her belt.

“Let me guess. This is the part where you try to silence me?”

He didn’t give her the chance.

Before her blade could even leave its sheath, guards swarmed the room.

Her face twisted in shock as soldiers restrained her, yanking the weapon from her grasp.

Sunday turned, finally meeting your gaze as you stepped into the room.

You weren’t looking at him, though.

You were looking at Kristiana.

“…Why?”

Kristiana let out a breathless laugh. “You still don’t get it?” Her smile was sharp. “I was never going to let you win.”

“Take her away.”

[Favorability +20]

For the first time since entering this world, Sunday saw the notification appear.

All this time, he had been serving you, watching you, following you. He had given you his loyalty, his time, even his own life. And yet, only now, after clearing out the people who poisoned your ears, did the game decide to acknowledge his efforts?

Still, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he watched you.

You had been silent since Kristiana was taken away. You stood there, alone in the now-empty study, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“…You were right”

Sunday blinked. “What?”

“About Kristiana. About the lies.” Your jaw clenched. “About me being too blind to see it.”

“…You trusted her,” he said simply. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“It was careless.”

“No. It was human.”

[Favorability +10]

This time, he really did laugh.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

For the first time since Sunday entered this world, things were peaceful.

Kristiana was gone. The whispers had died down.

And you stopped looking at him with suspicion.

You still didn’t fully trust him, but that was fine.

Because you let him stay.

He continued to serve you, just like before.

When you were tired, you didn’t push him away when he set down a cup of tea beside you.

When he disappeared for a few hours, you caught yourself wondering where he had gone.

[Favorabiliy +5]

It was slow.

But it was happening.

Of course, he knew this peace wouldn’t last forever.

Kristiana might be gone, but her knowing smile haunted the back of his mind.

Something else was coming. The true storm. And Sunday would be ready.

The palace halls were silent.

The mourning drapes hung heavy over the grand windows, blocking out the golden light of dawn. Even the servants moved quietly, their usual whispers and hurried footsteps replaced by a solemn stillness.

Your father was gone.

The weight of it pressed down on you like an iron chain.

He had held on as long as he could. Even in his final hours, he had smiled at you—his tired eyes filled with warmth, his hand resting weakly over yours.

“You will be alright.”

His last words echoed in your mind.

But you weren’t.

You could barely eat. Barely drink. Barely breathe.

The world around you blurred. People came and went, offering condolences, yet their voices were distant, as if muffled by water.

And through it all—

Sunday remained.

----

You didn’t see it. Didn’t notice the way Sunday silently turned away envoys, nobles, and officials, intercepting their letters before they could reach your hands. Marriage proposals. Political alliances disguised as heartfelt offers. Opportunists circling like vultures, waiting for the moment your grief would make you vulnerable.

Sunday burned them all.

Every request. Every demand. Every veiled attempt at stealing you away.

They didn’t deserve you.

And if anyone thought they could force your hand—

Well.

They would have to go through him.

-----

The night was cold.

You sat by your father’s desk, the candlelight flickering against the tear-stained letters before you.

You hadn’t touched the meal that had been left for you.

“You need to eat.”

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. Gently, he placed a cup of warm broth beside you, the steam curling into the air.

Still, you didn’t move.

“…He wouldn’t want you to waste away like this.”

For a moment, Sunday thought you would ignore him again.

But then, slowly, you reached for the cup. The broth sat warm in your hands, but you barely tasted it. It was just something to do. A distraction. A meaningless action to appease Sunday so he wouldn’t pester you further.

You had expected him to leave once you took a sip.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Sunday crouched beside you, plucking a small piece of softened bread from the untouched plate.

“Here.”

“I can feed myself.”

He didn’t argue. He simply held the bread near your lips, gaze steady.

“You’ve barely eaten in days.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and took a small bite.

The moment the food hit your tongue, you realized how hungry you truly were.

You had been so caught up in grief, in the crushing weight of loss, that you had ignored your own needs. But now, your body reminded you—loud and clear—that it was starving.

Sunday didn’t say anything as he picked up another piece and lifted it toward you.

And without thinking, you let him feed you.

The warmth of his fingertips, the way he wordlessly knew when to offer you water, the way his gaze never once wavered from yours.

For the first time, you actually looked at him.

He had always been there, hadn’t he? Lingering in the background, watching over you, handling things before you even had to ask.

And now, up close like this, he wasn’t that annoying.

Actually… he was— Handsome.

The thought struck you so suddenly that you nearly choked on your next bite.

Sunday blinked, brows furrowing slightly. “Careful.”

You coughed, hastily grabbing the cup of water he handed you. Heat crept up your neck, but whether it was from embarrassment or something else, you weren’t sure.

“What’s wrong? Finally realizing how charming I am?”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t push it.”

But he only chuckled, satisfied.

[Favorability +5]

You didn’t see it. The tiny, nearly imperceptible shimmer in the air—like a system notification only meant for him.

“What?” he said. “Did I get more handsome just now, or are you finally acknowledging that I’ve been devastatingly attractive this entire time?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You’re seriously fishing for compliments while feeding me?”

“Multi-tasking is an important skill.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he plucked another piece of bread from the plate and held it up, smirking, “you’re still letting me feed you.”

You froze, only just realizing it.

You could argue, push him away, reclaim some of your dignity… but you were still hungry. And honestly, this was the first real conversation you’d had since your father passed.

…It was nice.

So instead of answering, you simply huffed and took another bite, avoiding his gaze.

“You know, if I had known all it took was feeding you to make you behave, I would’ve done this ages ago.”

“I take it back. You’re annoying.”

“Too late. You already let me in.”

-----

Sunday should have been pleased.

You were recovering. You were finally eating, standing tall once more, resuming the duties your father left behind. He had worked for this. Stayed by your side through the worst of it. Protected you, fed you, shielded you from the opportunistic nobles who sought to take advantage of your grief.

And now?

Now you were back to work.

And he hated it.

Not because he wanted you to remain weak—no, he would never wish that on you. But because now, he had less control. Before, when you were withdrawn in your chambers, he was the one managing things. The one turning away suitors, handling your food, ensuring your safety without question.

But now?

Now you were surrounded by people. Officials, nobles, potential threats.

And worst of all—

You were talking to them. Laughing with them. Standing too close to them.

Sunday’s fingers twitched as he watched from the shadows of the court hall.

He couldn’t stand this.

His jaw clenched as he watched you tilt your head toward one of your advisors, listening intently to whatever nonsense they were feeding you.

You weren’t even aware of it, were you? How vulnerable you were in moments like these.

What if someone whispered poison into your ear? What if they sought to turn you against him?

His mind spun with all the possibilities—his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface—

And then, a soft chime.

A faint glow only he could see.

𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔: 𝑼𝒏𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅

Favorability: 40%

40%. It had never been this high before.

But if he had learned anything from playing this game before—

40% wasn’t enough.

Sunday’s mind was already calculating his next move when another chime echoed in his ears.

[System Assistance Available]

His eyes widened slightly. Since when?

Before, the system only interfered when he died. It never offered him anything—no guidance, no tools, nothing. But now?

He focused on the faint glow only he could see, willing the system to respond.

[Query Registered: Assistance Requested]

A loading screen flickered in his vision before a new window appeared.

[Available Items – Secret Route]

Whispering Veil – Conceals the user’s actions from others for a limited time. (1 use)

Falsified Letters – Alters the contents of incoming messages before they reach the recipient. (3 uses)

Echo Crystal – Records and replays conversations to the user. (1 use)

Subtle Influence – Temporarily shifts favorability by +5% in a critical moment. (1 use)

Locking Key – Prevents an individual from leaving a designated area for 12 hours. (1 use)

These were cheats. This world had been working against him for so long, making every step toward you a battle. But now?

Now he had weapons.

The Falsified Letters were already useful. How many proposals had he secretly turned down for you? With these, he wouldn’t have to intercept them—he could alter them entirely.

The Echo Crystal was perfect. He would find out exactly what these scheming nobles were saying to you behind his back.

But the Subtle Influence?

Sunday’s fingers twitched.

A guaranteed +5%?

It took him months to raise your favorability even this much. He could get closer right now.

…But no.

Not yet.

[Item Acquired: Echo Crystal]

Let’s see what these people were really saying.

Sunday gripped the Echo Crystal in his palm, feeling the faint warmth of its magic pulse against his skin.

Slipping out of sight, he activated the crystal. A shimmer of light pulsed from its surface before fading, leaving only a soft hum in his ears.

“We need to act soon.”

Sunday’s eyes narrowed.

The voice was familiar—one of the noble councilmen, Lord Arventis. A well-spoken official who had spent the past weeks pretending to be loyal to you.

Another voice joined in, one that sent a sharp chill through his spine.

Kristiana.

“Y/n's regaining their strength” she murmured. “If we don’t secure their hand in marriage or weaken their standing, soon they'll become untouchable.”

Sunday’s fingers curled tight around the crystal.

These leeches. These pathetic, scheming rats.

They weren’t just trying to manipulate you anymore.

They were planning to seize control.

Sunday exhaled, slipping the crystal into his sleeve as he stepped out from the shadows.

He needed a plan.

And this time?

He wasn’t playing fair.

It took two days.

Two days of watching, listening, gathering proof.

Every word spoken behind your back, every noble secretly conspiring against you—Sunday had it all.

And now?

Now, it was time to remove the pieces from the board.

One by one, carefully, subtly.

The Falsified Letters were the first to be used.

Kristiana? Lord Arventis? The others who sought to control you?

Every letter they sent—every request for a private meeting, every false plea of loyalty—was altered.

You never saw their real words.

Instead, what you received were poorly veiled insults. Demands. Mockery disguised as diplomacy.

Your anger was immediate.

Within hours, you had your court questioning their intentions.

Within a day, Lord Arventis had lost your favor.

And Kristiana?

Her carefully woven web of deception began to unravel.

Sunday watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.

When you looked at him that evening, your gaze lingering just a little too long—

Sunday saw it.

That flicker of realization.

That first, fragile crack in your walls. He didn’t need the system to tell him this time. You were finally seeing him.

Sunday had been waiting for the right moment.

The Locking Key wasn’t something to use carelessly. It was a tool meant for control, for ensuring that no one could interfere with what was about to happen.

It happened without warning. The door, which had been perfectly fine just moments ago, let out a soft click.

You frowned, standing up to test the handle, only for it to remain firmly shut. “…Strange.”

Sunday, who had been silently refilling your tea, glanced up in feigned curiosity. “Something wrong?”

You jiggled the handle again. “The door isn’t opening.”

His lips parted in mock surprise. “Oh?”

You turned to face him, your exhaustion making you more irritable than usual. “Did you do something?”

He blinked at you, the perfect picture of innocence. “Why would I lock us in?”

“Then what, the palace just decided to trap me here?”

He hummed in thought. “Maybe it’s fate.”

You shot him a glare, but deep down, you knew there was no use fighting it. You were tired—too tired—and the energy to argue with him simply wasn’t there.

The weight of the past few days had finally caught up to you. The grief, the stress, the endless work… it was pressing down on your chest, your body begging for rest.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you brought them to your temple.

Sunday noticed immediately.

“Sit” he murmured.

You resisted. “I’m fine.”

“You can barely stand.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, something shifted. A strange warmth settled in your mind—a pull, a quiet lure, almost like… magic. It was subtle, like a whisper, telling you that you should just listen to him. That for once, you could stop fighting.

Your legs moved before you could think.

You collapsed into the nearest seat, but the hard wooden chair was uncomfortable, your body aching as you tried to relax.

Sunday sighed. “You’ll never rest like that.”

He moved forward, taking the empty space beside you—no, not beside. Right behind.

Before you could react, his hands were on your arms, guiding you gently but insistently. “Come here.”

Your breath hitched. “What—”

He pulled you onto his lap.

You should’ve moved. But your exhaustion made you weak, and your body—traitorous, selfish—sank into him instead.

His warmth seeped into your skin, his steady breathing oddly calming as your head rested against his shoulder. His fingers brushed against your wrist before settling at your back in a silent reassurance.

“…Better?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, then—reluctantly—nodded.

“You’re finally listening to me.”

You hated the way your face warmed.

[Favorability +30]

Sunday felt the chime before he saw the number.

Thirty. Thirty?

That was insane.

Nothing he’d done before—no silent loyalty, no favors, no devotion—had ever made your favorability jump this high.

He had expected a modest increase, maybe five or ten points at most. But this?

This was a breakthrough.

His mind raced, replaying every second leading up to this moment. The exhaustion, the quiet lure of his voice, the way you had naturally leaned into him without fighting.

And then it clicked.

You liked skinship.

Or rather, you found comfort in it.

Not that you’d ever admit it, of course. You were still too stubborn, too prideful to say it out loud. But your body?

Your body didn’t lie.

It was something subconscious, something deeply ingrained in you that even you didn’t seem aware of.

All this time, he had been carefully balancing between too much and too little, afraid of pushing his luck. And yet, the answer had been right in front of him—literal physical closeness.

Of course, he couldn’t abuse it recklessly. You were quick to irritation, your temper flaring if someone overstepped.

But if he did it right…

If he played this carefully…

Then he had just unlocked his greatest weapon.

His arms tightened around you slightly, as if testing the waters, but he didn’t push further. For now, he let you rest against him, let you trust him.

And when your breathing evened out, when the tension in your muscles melted completely, Sunday only smiled to himself.

Checkmate.

----

The next morning, when you drowsily shuffled into the dining hall, he was already there, waiting. He handed you a steaming cup of tea, but instead of simply setting it down, he took your hand in his, guiding your fingers around the cup.

[Favorability +5]

A test—and a success.

You barely reacted, too groggy to care. But it worked.

At midday, when you were busy drafting letters and reviewing reports, he appeared by your side with an ink-stained cloth.

Without a word, he took your hand and gently wiped the smudge off your fingers.

You stiffened for a second but didn’t pull away.

[Favorability +7]

And so, the pattern continued.

Each day, a small touch here, a silent act there. Never enough to raise suspicion, never enough to cross a line, but just enough to nudge you closer.

[Favorability +2]

At 84%, you had stopped questioning him.

At 87%, you had stopped fighting it.

And now?

90%.

The notification chimed in his ears.

You still didn’t notice.

But he did.

And now, the only thing left to do…

Was push you past the threshold.

---

Sunday had been playing the game well. He had spent days getting closer, learning your preferences, adjusting his every move to keep you comfortable while steadily increasing your favorability.

But what he didn’t know—what he never could have anticipated—was that the more you grew attached to him…

The more possessive you became.

It wasn’t obvious at first. A lingering glance here, an oddly fixated stare there.

Then it got worse.

And today?

Today, you were seething.

You stared at Sunday across the dining table, your fingers gripping the silverware a little too tightly as you cut into your meal.

He was being too calm.

Like he had nothing to be guilty for.

“So.”

Sunday barely looked up from his plate. “So?”

“I heard you were with the maid today.”

He paused for a fraction of a second before responding. “…I was.”

That made your grip tighten.

You placed your utensils down with a little too much force. “You were seen with her at the market.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but his expression remained composed. “She was just getting supplies. I needed to ask about—”

“Flowers?” you cut in, your tone sharp.

His lips parted in realization. “…You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” you lied. “I’m simply asking why my personal servant was out shopping for flowers with another woman.”

Sunday stared at you, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

You weren’t supposed to be like this.

You weren’t supposed to care.

But you did.

Because the way you felt at that moment—the way your blood boiled at the idea of him entertaining someone else, at the thought of him being kind to someone that wasn’t you—it was irrational. Terrifyingly so.

“…You think I was flirting?”

“Wasn’t it?”

Something flickered in his gaze before he let out a small breath. Then, he placed his utensils down and leaned forward.

“Look at me.”

“If I wanted to flirt, don’t you think you’d be the first to know?”

You should have let it go.

You should have brushed it off, laughed, changed the subject.

But instead, you found yourself gripping the edge of the table, voice quiet but trembling with something unfamiliar. “…Then don’t do it.”

Sunday’s smirk faltered.

For the first time, he saw it.

The hint of something deeper in your eyes.

This wasn’t just a favorability boost anymore.

This was dangerous.

And for the first time…

He wasn’t sure who was hunting who.

[Favorability: 96%] → [Favorability: 94%]

Why?

He had been so careful, every action calculated, every touch measured. You were supposed to be getting closer, not slipping away.

Just as he was about to summon the system, a knock echoed through his room, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.

“Who were you talking to?”

For a split second, panic clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to relax, plastering on his usual lazy smirk.

“Talking? I was just thinking out loud.” He leaned back, stretching as if nothing was wrong. “Why? Miss me already?”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“…Let’s go for a walk.”

Sunday blinked. “…A walk?”

You nodded, stepping further inside. “You’ve been inside all day, haven’t you? A change of atmosphere would be good.”

His mind raced. He needed answers from the system—but with you watching him like a hawk, there was no way he could summon it now.

“…Fine.” He stood, brushing himself off. “But if this is some elaborate scheme to make me carry all your shopping bags, I’ll protest.”

You scoffed. “As if I’d waste your time with something so trivial.”

(But if it meant keeping you outside longer, he wouldn’t have minded.)

The air was cool, a soft breeze brushing against the streets as you and Sunday wandered through the bustling town. You had led him to a small ice cream stand, insisting that since it was his first time out in a while, he should try something sweet.

Sunday wasn’t really one for desserts, but the moment he saw the way your eyes lit up as you tasted yours, he found himself taking a bite of his own without complaint.

“What do you think?”

Sunday tapped his chin, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… tastes better than I expected.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could just say you like it, you know.”

“And give you the satisfaction of being right?” He smirked. “Never.”

You huffed, taking another bite of your own, and he had to force himself to look away before he stared too long.

Then, it happened.

You took a step forward—and slipped.

Sunday’s body reacted before he could think.

In an instant, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you against him just before you could hit the ground.

The ice cream you had been holding slipped from your grip, landing pathetically on the pavement, but neither of you reacted to it.

Because at that moment, you were way too close.

Your face was inches from his, your breath warm against his skin.

Your hands had instinctively grabbed onto his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. You weren’t moving away.

[Favorability +3]

“…You okay?”

Sunday swallowed, forcing himself to breathe.

He was the one who caught you—so why did it feel like he was the one about to fall?

Sunday wasn’t sure how long he held you like that.

Seconds? Minutes?

It didn’t matter.

Because all he could focus on was the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath hitched slightly as you realized how close you were.

Your hands were still resting against his chest, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his clothes. His arm, firm and unmoving, remained around your waist, securing you in place.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Are you going to let me go?”

“Do you want me to?”

Your lips parted slightly, your gaze flickering down to where his fingers pressed into your side, then back up to his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

And he didn’t need you to.

His other hand lifted instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

Sunday had spent so long trying to read you, to predict your reactions, to find ways to win you over. But right now?

You were looking at him like you were the one figuring him out.

Slowly, your hand slid up from his chest to rest lightly against his collarbone. The touch was hesitant but intentional.

You weren’t pushing him away.

If anything, you were leaning in.

His grip around you tightened slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. He could kiss you right now.

And then—

“Ah! Your Grace!”

Both of you froze.

Sunday barely had time to react before someone practically materialized beside you, bowing so quickly they almost fell over.

“It’s an honor to see you again! Thank you for your generosity the other day—our village has been thriving because of your kindness!”

Your entire body went rigid.

Sunday could feel the way your muscles tensed, your hands jerking away from him like you had just realized what was happening.

The warmth disappeared.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You coughed, taking an awkward step back. “Ah, yes. Of course. I’m…glad to hear that.”

Sunday clenched his jaw, forcing himself to exhale slowly.

He turned his head slightly—only to see you blushing.

Not just a small, embarrassed flush—a full-on, heated, flustered mess.

Sunday blinked.

You? Blushing? Over him?

His heart nearly stopped.

And that was before he felt the warmth creeping up his own neck.

His ears burned.

You glanced at him briefly, eyes darting away almost immediately when you realized he was already looking at you.

Sunday almost cursed out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from grabbing you again. “…We should keep walking.”

You nodded way too fast. “Y-Yeah. Let’s go.”

The villager beamed, bowing once more before stepping aside.

And as the two of you walked off—still visibly flustered, still awkwardly avoiding each other’s gaze—Sunday let out a small breath.

Maybe that damn favorability bar was a nightmare to raise.

But right now?

He didn’t even need to check it to know that something between you had changed.

Sunday woke up with an immediate sense of wrongness.

For one—his arms didn’t move.

For two—his legs didn’t move.

For three—you were straddling him.

He blinked, slowly coming to terms with his predicament. His wrists were tied to the bedposts. His ankles were similarly restrained. And above him, sitting comfortably atop his waist, you were smirking down at him.

“…I must still be dreaming”

You chuckled. “Oh, you’re awake? That’s good. I was starting to think you were just pretending.”

Sunday squinted at you. “Why. Am I. Tied up.”

You shrugged, tilting your head in mock innocence. “I thought I’d do something different today. Y’know, entertain you.”

His lips parted, a dumbfounded expression flickering over his face.

Entertain him.

He was seconds away from losing his mind.

Your fingers drummed along his chest, your weight warm and solid against him. “You seem awfully close with the maids these days. I thought perhaps… I should remind you where your loyalties lie.”

Sunday stared.

“Excuse me?”

You smiled, leaning in slightly.

The warmth of your breath tickled his cheek. “You’ve been talking a lot with them, haven’t you?”

You were jealous.

The realization slammed into him like a freight train.

The hours he had spent gathering information—asking the maids about your favorite foods, your daily habits, your preferences—had backfired spectacularly.

And now here you were, pinning him to his own damn bed.

Sunday had never, in all his life, imagined the ‘Impossible Route’ would turn out like this.

You leaned in even closer, lips dangerously near his ear. “…You should be more careful. People might think you’re plotting something.”

His jaw clenched.

His heartbeat thundered.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you were enjoying every second of it.

Sunday inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. Now untie me.”

You hummed in thought, fingers lazily tracing the outline of his collarbone. “Mmm… I don’t know. I think I like you like this.”

Sunday's patience snapped.

In one swift motion, he flexed his wrists and ripped free of the bindings.

Before you could react, Sunday flipped you over, pinning you beneath him.

Your back hit the mattress, your wrists caught in his grip. The tables had turned.

“My turn.”

You barely had time to blink before he leaned down—and stole your lips.

Your mind went blank.

Sunday pulled back just enough to see the dazed look in your eyes, his lips still hovering over yours.

“Next time you try to trap me” he murmured, “make sure I can’t escape.”

And then—

The door swung open.

“…Oh.”

Sunday didn’t move.

You didn’t move.

The servant froze in place.

A long, suffocating silence filled the room.

“…Should I come back later?”

You shoved Sunday off of you so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

“GET OUT.”

The servant practically tripped over themselves trying to flee.

The door slammed shut.

You and Sunday sat there for a moment, staring at each other.

Your face? Completely red.

Sunday, meanwhile, simply grinned.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“SHUT UP.”

You avoided him for the rest of the day.

Which, really, was adorable.

Every time Sunday entered a room, you’d suddenly be very interested in a random document or an irrelevant piece of decor. The moment his eyes met yours? Immediate retreat. He’d never seen you so utterly defeated before—it was addicting.

And that blush? That frustrated, completely flustered look?

He wanted to see more of it.

You tried to act like nothing had happened the next morning. You sat at your usual spot, drinking tea as if the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely obliterated your composure.

Sunday casually poured himself a cup and sat across from you, resting his chin in his palm.

“So.” He smirked. “That was quite the reaction yesterday.”

You choked on your tea.

Coughing violently, you shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it?”

Finally, you set your cup down with a soft clink and exhaled sharply.

“…Fine.” You looked at him, shoulders squared, lips pressed into a thin line. “I admit it. I lost that round.”

“Round?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here I am. Still by your side.”

You faltered. Your fingers curled slightly, as if hesitant to say what you were thinking. Sunday watched as you took a slow breath, steadying yourself.

Then, with clear reluctance, you muttered—

“…I suppose I don’t mind.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the way your tea swirled in your cup. But Sunday could see it—the faintest hint of a smile on your lips. The soft flush still lingering on your ears.

[Favorability: 100%]

His heart skipped a beat.

You finally looked back at him, eyebrow raised. “Why are you staring?”

Sunday blinked. He schooled his expression just in time, lips curling into his usual smirk.

“…No reason.”

But inside?

Inside, he knew.

He had won.

And he would never let you go.

[hana-no-seiiki]

My first writing commission! This will be a multipart series for HOTD. Featuring yanderes, political warfare and overall mayhem. And perhaps?? some time traveling??

Thank you @dawntheday for commissioning this project.

// tw/cw: reader is not a targaryen. canon based violence, incest, sexism, the usual. canon divergences. reader is gender neutral but is described as ethereal. reader gets pimped out (implicit/short descriptions). seggs/light smut. basically a lot of disgusting shit happens.

AND THEN, THERE WAS YOU [PROLOGUE]

Childbirth was one of the most traumatic, painful and bloody experiences known to man. The sheer agony of a child being ripped out of your womb, kicking and screaming. And yet, so many deemed it miraculous event. All joy, love and positivity.

It was horrific to even witness.

But the Gods wouldn’t be satisfied for you to be a bystander. No. You would find out that childbirth was worse when you were the one being born.

Sentience was a curse. One forced upon you since the beginning. You could feel the push of your mother’s walls, constricting you, flattening you, forcing you out into the world. Her screams, your cries, and the panicking voices of the midwives as you finally, finally made it out were all too much. The blood all too much.

You never really forget that experience even as you grew older. Features of your youth melted away to reveal ethereal beauty. One that commanded worship and awe.

That was another thing the Gods made you have to torture you. Droves and droves of sick and twisted people at your doorstep as your birth parents watched in delight, their coffers filled to the brim with gold.

But perhaps it wasn’t always a curse. Your beauty, I mean. Now that you’ve stolen much of their earnings and escaped to another continent.

Westeros.

A journey by sea it took. For you to crawl your way into the newly conquered lands. Bloodied and battered from the journey. Exhausted yet eager to renew yourself in the new lands your feet would walk upon.

Your first ever job was at a Brothel. Taking in clients like the way your parents did to you not so long ago, but of your own accord.

That was where you met Aegon Targaryen. Aegon the Conqueror. Loud, proud, and scrotum heavy. You’ve heard of the classic old tale where the men of his family would visit this place to sow their oats. Bastards upon bastards littered the place. You knew that one of these days, you would be bear his spunk and parade it around like many others. Your ego ached for it even. To conquer the conquerer. To bear a dragon’s seed.

Little did you know, the dragon already knew you.

“I dreamt of you.” He said as he ravished you, eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t recognize. You certainly hadn’t seen in your family’s nor have your old clients. “Like I dream of the walkers. Of an apocalypse to come.”

You’ve heard of his rough and relentless way in the sack. How your fellow workers complained of the way they were treated, how they couldn’t walk any further than two feet after he was done with them. The man did not view them as anything more than objects after all. Something to toss aside when he was done.

But if anything, he’d been the most attached and sappiest man you’ve ever had the fortune of bedding. Disgustingly so.

“You. You are the calm amongst those nightmares.“ He was gentle, loving. Nothing like Aegon the Conqueror that you’ve heard of. Nothing like the Aegon the Conqueror that you wanted.

As soon as he fell asleep, you went and disappeared.

It is not long before he calls upon you. Again and again, murmuring about dreams and winter. You’ve even met his wives. All so eager to meet you. All so kind and benevolent. All so unlike the expectations you’ve set in your mind and heart. Expectations you were willing to brave through. Somehow, drama and your potential death was better than the constricting vice they held over you. Memories flashed through your head. Of your mother, of your birth. Of blood and viscera.

You try to leave but are sent back to Aegon’s chambers in an instant.

“You may leave. You may run. But nothing will stop you from finding your way back to the Dragon’s nest. Fate wills it so.” He said, but all you heard was a challenge.

“You’ll find that I’m quite stubborn regardless.”

You quickly find out that Aegon knew your movements from his dreams. Each plan of yours to escape had been foiled before it had happened.

And so you stopped, you let him and his wives coddle and fuck you when they wanted.

Years later, an opportunity presents itself. A cliff overlooking the ocean. So vast and wide. Yet to be taken and shackled by the man who took your freedom away.

You do not hesitate. Not for one moment.

“Come.”

You jump. You bet that Aegon did not foresee that coming considering he was too shocked to catch you. Your death would be swift you suppose. At least it wouldn’t be as arduous as repeating the same day over and over again.

Your eyes fluttered open, a meeting between [e/c] and purple. You grimaced as you see her platinum blonde hair and luxurious outdoor clothing. Blood across her face and a knife in her hand.

It can’t be . . .

Tears fall down your cheeks. Your broken cries echo through the woods.

a/n: future chapters will be longer because hotd is hotd.

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (3/3)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

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3/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 12.5 k+ Rating: 18+(This one's not a joke) Warnings:  mature audience, 18+, Mdni, Strong Language and Sarcasm, Psychological manipulation, Stalking/obsessive behavior, Power imbalance, Violence & threat of violence, Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, Enemies to Lovers, Psychic Warfare, Emotional Damage via Soup, Doflamingo Being Doflamingo, Slow Burn That Becomes Fast Burn, Mental Breakdown But Make It Horny, Predator/Prey Dynamics, Capture Chase, Reluctant Attraction, Dubiously Consensual Psychic Bonding, Threadplay (Because It’s Doflamingo), Unhinged Romance, Verbal Sparring as Foreplay, Fluff (But Deranged), Sexual content (18+)

You coped with sarcasm, soup, and psychic insults. He turned your every thought into a battlefield—and now he’s come to collect. What started as a telepathic Cold War ends in a chase, a thread, and the worst possible truth: you were never going to win.

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Previous

-X- Hostile Territory-X-

Cue The Flamingo Courtship Protocol (God Help You).

It starts with silence.

Yours.

After the incident—the one where you emotionally terrorized an actual terrorist and he threatened to track you down—you cut him off. 

Hard.

You build mental barriers. Tall, grim, emotionally fortified. He offers dating advice mid-battle. And strategy. And fashion criticism. You stonewall.

You stop talking. Stop reacting. Even your thoughts become sterile, wordless. Dusty.

You’re furious, and more than that, embarrassed. So you say nothing. Not to him. Not even to yourself.

He doesn't deserve soup. 

He deserves a cold, quiet tomb of apathy.

You think you're brilliant for it. Strategic. Dangerous.

He tries to say something. You mentally roll up the window like you’re in a taxi in the middle of a drive-by.

“Hey—” 

“[dial tone]”

You are livid.

How dare he. How dare he interrupt your first-ever attempt at making a friend. How dare he psychologically pants you in the middle of eating pineapple bread.

And then have the audacity to laugh about it.

You whisper into your sleeve:

“We’re in the Ice Age now, you fuchsia-feathered furry.”

He’s been trying to say something for three days now. You simply will not allow it.

You devote your days to reenacting entire Muppet episodes and envisioning parades of potatoes in increasingly elaborate hats. It brings structure. Purpose. A terrifying sense of control.

You’ve taken to monologuing again—not to him, never that—but near him. Loud enough for the psychic ether to pick up, like you’re performing Shakespeare into a cavern and imagining he’s chained up in the back row, gagged and furious.

You’re the star now. He doesn’t get a box seat. He doesn’t even get tickets.

And it fits you.

Because the truth is, you’re a talker too. You just didn’t know it, because he never shut up long enough for your unraveling to hit its theatrical stride.

You gesture grandly at nothing. At air. At the hypothetical audience of sock puppets and imaginary critics in your kingdom of spite and leftover soup.

“You know,” you begin, pacing like a deranged professor, “I could’ve been quiet. I was ready to be mysterious. Ethereal. I had a whole aesthetic planned. But no. You forced this arc.”

You dramatically point a spoon at the window. There’s no one there. You know that. But the point stands.

Somewhere in the psychic void, you hope he hears it. Hears you.

Not because you miss him. Never that. But because now you’re on your villain origin arc. And someone needs to witness your descent into power and petty theatricality.

You take a bite of cold mashed potatoes, nod solemnly, and declare, “Hat number seventeen will be a fedora. For menace.”

And so it continues.

You line up tiny rocks like audience members and give them names. You practice your speech for the Potato Council. You start writing letters to the editor of a newspaper that no longer exists.

“I’m not talking to you,” you think coolly, scrubbing your socks in the river like a wartime exile with a vendetta and excellent posture.“Don’t expect a single thought with value. You lost your privileges. No more soup for you. No more homegrown ingredients. Scraps, just like your manners.”

The wind picks up like it’s trying to interrupt you. You ignore it. You have hats to plan. Sock rotation schedules to revise. Imaginary awards to prepare for. He should’ve thought of that before weaponizing charisma and emotional damage.

You rinse a sock, lift your chin, and whisper to the trees, “Hat number eighteen will be a crown. For me.”

He doesn’t respond.

Not once.

He’s quiet. Which is more concerning than anything.

By day four, the silence starts to itch.

Maybe—hopefully—you finally bruised his enormous, swollen ego. Maybe he’s pouting. Maybe he’s sulking somewhere dark and overly upholstered, licking his wounds with brandy and a pity threesome.

You picture it vividly: Him, shirtless in a red velvet monstrosity of a chair, sighing like a war widow. Diamante fanning him with something ridiculous, like a gold-gilded leaf. Trebol weeping in the corner, playing a tiny off-key violin with gooey enthusiasm. Monet languidly licking his toes, unbothered. And Señor Pink delivering a heartfelt soliloquy about love and loss between drags of a cigar and war flashbacks.

You scoff out loud.

Absolutely pathetic.

“Good. Let him suffer.”

You begin constructing a mental fortress; stone by stone, potato by hat-wearing potato. You assign each one a role: Gatekeeper. Watchtower scout. Emotional customs officer. No feelings get in without a warrant. Especially not his.

Doflamingo hasn’t said a word in five days. You’re proud of yourself. You’re untouchable. You have the high ground.

You’ve been on the move again. Another town, another stiff bed. Your boots are wearing thin. Too many soggy dinners. A roof that drips with sniper-like precision, always right onto your forehead. You’re exhausted in that deep, bone-cranky way where even the mildest inconvenience feels like a personal attack sanctioned by the gods.

“God, I miss that clam chowder. The bread was even better, but they don’t have any anymore. Stupid supply chain shortages.”

A fleeting thought. Casual. Weak. Forgotten within seconds.

By day seven, the silence has settled into something unnatural. You start monologuing again. Not out loud but in your head, sharp and dignified in your imagined courtroom:

“Just so you know, I’m not talking to you. You broke the Treaty of ‘We Don’t Talk in Person.’ This was a gross violation of emotional sovereignty. You owe me reparations. With interest.”

Still, nothing. Not a flicker. Not a scoff. Not even a psychic sigh.

You get smug.

“Wow. He really is mad. Sulking like a baby. Good.”

You pace your room in nothing but your socks and your pride, the picture of righteous solitude. You pause at the window, striking a pose like a romance heroine abandoned at the altar—only more vengeful, more tired, and slightly soup-stained.

It’s the most peace you’ve had in years.

You hate it.

It’s strangely off-putting. The quiet. The absence. The unnerving sense of psychic space not being invaded. Without Doflamingo, who else could possibly fill the supervillain-shaped void in your soul?

Soup, you decide. Soup will do it.

You dig Pancake the stuffed frog out of your bag—faithful, unblinking, a veteran of many mental breakdowns—and set off in search of comfort in a bowl.

You pass a field of fennel.

You think:

Huh. I forgot this grows near the coast.

You start talking more in your head. Not to him, but around him. The commentary turns passive-aggressive. Then muttering. Then a full-blown internal radio show hosted by your ego and your spite. Featuring special guests: Grievance, Petty, and the ghost of Emotional Stability.

You list towns you wouldn’t go to. You rant about bad roads, loud inns, a soup stand so offensively mediocre it should be arrested. Your head has never echoed so loudly.

You think:

At least this place has good tomatoes. I need to find a tomato soup place.

You’re crouched by a fire, making tea out of something questionably herbal and entirely bitter, proud of your hard-won silence. It’s been ten days. Double digits. A personal best.

Then a flicker. Not words. Just… static.

A faint buzz at the back of your skull, like a match trying to strike in the rain. A presence you almost forgot how to brace for.You freeze, one hand hovering over the kettle. The fire crackles. The fennel rustles in the breeze.

And in your head, that dangerous, familiar hush, the kind that always came before he thought something deeply unhinged.

A memory. His. Not yours. Unwelcome, uninvited, infuriatingly crisp.

Silk sheets. A crooked grin. A loaf of fresh-baked bread—still steaming—torn open with his teeth. You feel it in vivid, traitorous HD. The sound. The texture. The flake of crust caught on his lower lip. The crunch.

You flinch like you’ve been shot.

Your stomach growls. Loud. Pathetic. Treacherous.

“Stop that,” you mutter. “I’m not talking to you.”

Silence. Almost.

Then the crunch plays again. Replay. Close-up. Slow-motion. You try not to think it. Try not to taste it.

And then—

The final insult. The crowning act of psychic violence.

Soup. Tomato bisque. Red, velvety, luscious. Steam curling like a lover’s finger. He dips the bread—that bread—into it, slowly. Casually. You feel it hit his tongue. You feel his satisfaction.

You shudder in anguish. And something uncomfortably close to—

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Did I just—soupgasm?”

Your knees give out. You slump forward, face in your hands, dignity leaking out of your eyes. Pancake the frog tumbles from your lap and lands facedown in the dirt, radiating silent, plush disapproval.

You try to recover, but it’s too late. You can still taste the soup. You can still feel the crunch. And worse, you can feel his smugness about it.

You convulse again, a full-body shudder of psychic betrayal and the closest thing to a real orgasm you’ve ever experienced.

From bisque.

“Where the hell is this bitch getting soup?”

And right there. Right there is the moment he wins.

Not with threats. Not with flirtation. Not even with a feathered monologue.

But with soup. And you will never forgive him.

-X-The Slip Up-X-

Doflamingo, somewhere in a rain-soaked stronghold, has not been pouting.

He’s pacing.

Plotting.

He’s got maps. He’s got maps. He’s got reports. He’s got a psychic thread stretched across corkboards like a serial killer trying to solve a very emotional bakery heist. There are pins. There are annotations. There is a list titled “Soup Crimes: Ongoing.” He’s investigating your favorite grocery store chain. He’s reverse-engineering your soup thoughts into climate data.

He’s narrowed your scent down to two regions based on the way you mentally screamed the word “radish” two weeks ago.

He’s using your psychic silence as a heat signature.

“She doesn’t get this annoying unless she’s somewhere with shitty soup,” he mutters. One gloved finger traces a curved coastline. “Which means backwater. Which means South Blue. Coastal. Humid. Rural. Bread supply is inconsistent.”

Vergo stands awkwardly in the doorway, holding three folders and a growing sense of dread.

“Sir,” he says carefully, “are you… Triangulating her with soup?”

Doflamingo doesn’t even blink.

“She just gave me a direct clue,” he says, eyes gleaming with purpose. “No flour access. Traveling on foot. Unwalled town. Likely fewer than two hundred people. Find me every coastal village that’s had a bakery fire, bread riot, or grain shortage in the past year.”

Vergo nods, silently regretting literacy.

He circles a region on the map.

“She also saw wild fennel,” he adds grimly. “She’s within twenty kilometers of the Roska inlet. That’s coastal farmland. Three bread shops. No rail system. Likely hiding in the dockside rotation.”

It’s unnervingly effective.

A lesser man would’ve resorted to brute force. A weaker bond wouldn’t have held long enough to weaponize tomato bisque. Truly, it’s a miracle he hadn’t figured this out sooner. All he had to do was—god forbid—shut up and listen.

But then again, you were both such yappers. Loud, petty, psychic disasters. Made for each other. Soup-fueled and tragic.

-X-Home Invasion-X-

You knew something was wrong the moment you docked in Illusia.

The air was too still. The docks too orderly. Ropes coiled with intention, barrels stacked like soldiers. The scent of the harbor was sharp with citrus oil and absence; no fish guts, no spilled rum, no shouting dockhands cursing the weight of their catch. Only polite greetings and well-swept planks.

Something was off.

The market buzzed, but it was the wrong kind of noise, civilized, rehearsed. Too clean. Too calm. As if the town had dressed itself in its Sunday best and was waiting for someone important.

And he hadn’t said a word.

Not in months.

No taunts. No midnight jabs. No smug, velvet-laced commentary about your poor life choices or questionable soup standards. The Link—once full of static and swagger—had gone eerily quiet. And his silence was louder than thunder.

You slipped off the main road immediately. Took three back alleys to the inn. Paid a man in salt and secrets to swap rooms with you. Bought a sack of turmeric and invented a whole new name, pretending to be a spice merchant’s tired apprentice with a limp and a speech impediment. You reactivated the old charm tucked beneath your shirt, the one meant to dull the psychic tether between you, long since abandoned out of pride and habit and because it was probably a piece of shit that didn’t work.

You felt the blankness settle over your mind like frost.

It was safer this way.

You’d been running for months. Ever since the last skirmish. Ever since the last psychic jab that went too far.

Ports blurred into jungle. Jungle into sea. Sea into nameless cliffs and smuggler trails and hidden sanctuaries carved into wind-bitten rock.

Because you had mocked him.

For years.

Mentally. Telepathically. Viciously.

You mocked his voice, his wardrobe, his vocabulary. His metaphors, his allegories, his dramatic monologues at inconvenient hours. Once, during a blizzard, you spent four uninterrupted hours internally berating the cut of his coat and the structural instability of his stupid little sunglasses.

You won every war of words. Every petty jab. You got the last psychic word more often than not.

Until he disappeared, the bond had always been a constant. A low, electric thread humming at the base of your skull. Sometimes unbearable, sometimes infuriating, sometimes oddly comforting in the way a storm is comforting—predictable in its chaos. His voice would come and go, slipping through your thoughts like silk dragged across a blade. Taunting. Laughing. Commenting on your life choices with smug amusement and theatrical menace.

Then it stopped.

The silence was absolute. Not wounded. Not sulking. Just gone. You told yourself it was a blessing. You told yourself you had won. You didn’t believe it.

The morning it shifted again began like any other. Quiet. Unassuming. The sort of morning where nothing is meant to happen. Pale light crept over the low hills, brushing the rooftops in the distance. You stretched, slow and cautious, rising from the thin mattress on the floorboards of yet another nameless room in yet another borrowed identity.

There was no sound inside your head. No sarcasm. No psychic jabs. Just stillness.

But the bond was awake.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just present. Steady. Focused like a held breath behind your ribs. A coiled presence that did not speak, but watched.

You pushed it away. Ignored it. Ritualized the morning like you had every morning before it. You poured water over the embers in the hearth, stirred the ashes, opened the shutters to let in the sea breeze.

And still, that weight sat behind your eyes.

You breathed in deep. Salt and damp wood. You told yourself it was nothing. Told yourself he was far away. Told yourself you’d blocked him out too thoroughly for him to find you.

But the air disagreed.

It held that prickling pressure. The kind that came before lightning. The kind that whispered you’re not alone.

Then came the second sign.

The birds.

They were everywhere. Perched in perfect stillness along rooftops, chimneys, gutters, wires. Thousands of them. Not moving. Not chirping. Not breathing, so far as you could tell. They stared down at the streets in eerie silence, their heads tilted slightly, like they were listening.

Okay, that was pretty weird.

You left. Calmly. You packed your things in silence, slipped out the back, took a long path around the market square. You passed the baker you’d never spoken to, the dockhand you bribed last week, the boy who sold fennel for twice its worth. You cut through alleys. You made sure you weren’t followed.

Halfway through a narrow lane near the edge of the port, you felt it.

The voice did not come from behind you. It came from within.

"You made it interesting," it said, rich with that low, infuriating amusement. "But those last jokes were too far. Tomato soup? Here? In this backwater?"

There was a pause.

"...The don’t even put cream in it. I feel personally attacked."

Your heart clenched.

No. No. No.

You turned too fast. Looked down the alley. Empty. Looked up.

The birds were still watching. But now, they were moving. Not naturally. Not like birds. They turned in unison, each head tilting with the same angle, the same delay, as if waiting for instruction.

You burst out into the marketplace.

That was when you saw it.

The threads.

Fine as hair, catching the morning light. Barely visible unless you knew how to look. They connected wings to wires, chimneys to claws, rooftops to sky. Strings, delicate and terrible, pulled taut by an invisible hand.

Your stomach twisted.

Not because of the voice. You had endured that voice in your sleep, in battle, in moments of unbearable grief. You had withstood it when everything else broke.

But this was different.

Now, you felt him.

Not in your head. Not through the tether.

In the air.

The atmosphere shifted.

The heat fell away, replaced by something colder, heavier. The kind of pressure that bends trees and makes water go still. The kind that makes you feel like your skin is not your own.

Every hair on your body rose. Your breath caught.

You knew that feeling. That tension. That invisible hand tightening strings not just on birds, but on you.

And somewhere, faint as silk brushing stone, something moved.

He was here.

“No fucking way.” you hissed, barely breathing.

And, of course, he answered. 

Gleeful. Smug. Downright cheerful.

“Yes,” he said, like this was a brunch date and not a full-blown psychic ambush. “I decided to take a nice little vacation. Somewhere warm. With no bread. Just to suffer.”

You felt him before you saw him.

The air shifted. Not loud, not showy, but subtle in the worst way. Like the moment before a wave crashes. Like when every bird in the forest forgets how to sing.

The pressure dropped.

The breeze died.

And the silence that followed was sharp. The kind that makes your skin remember things your brain isn’t ready to process.

The orange in your hand slipped through your fingers and hit the stone with a soft, traitorous thud. It rolled once. Twice. Then stopped. Just like everything else.

You turned your head. Slowly. Carefully. Like prey pretending it isn’t prey.

You sensed him before you saw him. That old, cold whisper along your spine. That too-familiar vacuum pulling at your mind, the one that always came just before he decided to say something unhinged about soup or power or silk..

You had dared to hope.

You told yourself he’d moved on. That he’d gotten bored. That somewhere out there, someone else had insulted his coat and taken your place in his mental crosshairs.

You thought he might have stopped looking.

You were wrong.

He stepped out of the shadow of the bell tower, and for a moment, the world remembered it was made of predators.

The light hit him like revelation. Like a warning. Nine feet of silk-draped terror: broad-shouldered, long-limbed, the raw outline of power wrapped in soft pink and the kind of stillness that animals recognize before storms. The coat billowed slightly behind him, too clean for the road, too elegant for this town.

Birds lined the rooftops like sentinels, and now you could see why. Each one tethered—barely—to shimmering threads strung through the air like a web. They weren’t perched. They were placed. Controlled. Held by fingers you couldn’t see but now felt like ice under your skin.

He was using them.

Not to spy. To announce.

A silent, grotesque heraldry of string-bound wings and glassy eyes, watching from every roof, every post, every chimney stack. A puppet theater of nature held still in deference to its master.

Doflamingo.

He stood at the far end of the street, just outside the crooked inn where you’d slept restlessly the night before. Not moving. Not speaking. Just... there.

Still.

Not like a man. Like a blade balanced on its point. Like a guillotine before the drop.

The pink of his coat caught the light of the dying sun and seemed to burn with it. His shirt was open, the fine silk clinging just enough to show how monstrous he truly was; cut from stone, not flesh. His chest broad, his arms built like ruin, veins like lattice under golden skin.

His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and though the sun had dipped behind the rooftops, they glinted. Bright, mocking. His mouth curled into a smile like a curved blade, sharp and slow and sure.

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

And then he took a step forward.

Not fast. Not loud. Just one smooth, unhurried step. The kind that spoke volumes. The kind that said: I don’t need to chase you. You’ve already lost.

He walked like he had all the time in the world. Like the gods owed him interest. Like he was the storm you thought you outran.

His head tilted. His smirk widened.

Taller than memory. Taller than reason. Built like a cathedral made for war. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, silk dragged across broken glass.

“You didn’t think I’d find you,” he said, eyes hidden, smile gleaming. “That’s cute.”

And it was happening again.

The pressure. The stillness. The part of your brain that had spent months in retreat now screaming behind your eyes.

You hated how hot it was. You hated him.

You hated the part of you that had memorized the cadence of that voice against your will. And worse, you hated the jolt it sent down your spine, sharp and electric and unfamiliar.

He took another step.

You knew that step. You’d heard it in dreams. And you’d spent half your life making jokes to hide the fact that you were terrified he’d take it for real.

He tilted his head, just slightly, like a curious animal right before it pounces.

You ran.

You didn’t scream. You moved.

The crowd broke around you, instinctively parting like water around a knife. You didn’t stop to apologize. Didn’t pause to calculate. You dropped your weight into a shoulder, smashed through a stack of shipping crates, and kept running.

The dumbass charm at your collarbone flared uselessly against your skin, too late. The bond was already breached. He was already here.

You darted into a narrow alley behind a spice vendor’s stall, knocking over baskets in your wake. Dried limes scattered across the stones. Cinnamon cracked underfoot. The scent clung to you as you scaled the outer wall of a tailor’s building, your boots scrabbling on the chalky sandstone.

You climbed. You scrambled.

You vaulted the sloped roof of a flower stall, nearly lost your footing, and tumbled hard across the stretched canvas canopy of what was—upon brief, horrified realization—the brothel’s side parlor. Silk sheets and painted fans fluttered below. Someone shrieked.

“Very creative,” came his voice, smooth and amused, somewhere between admiration and hunger. “How long have you been practicing this escape?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

You launched yourself down the back stairwell, slid through a sun-drenched hallway of some private gallery. The marble floor flashed under you as you ducked beneath a tapestry, kicked over a statue with a grunt, and sprinted into the open.

Your bag caught on something and was ripped from your shoulder but you didn’t stop.

Your satchel—maps, coins, everything—was gone. Forgotten in the panic. Your boots slid on the dust just shy of the plaza’s edge. Your breath came in bursts. Your heart beat like war.

He laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not the mocking little hum he sometimes sent through the bond. This was laughter. Real. Full-bodied. It echoed against the stone walls and rang through the bond like a bell with a crack in it.

Sharp. Delighted. Like he couldn’t decide whether to savor this moment or talk through it.

“Oh, cariño,” he called lazily, somewhere too close behind. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

You didn’t look back.

You ducked through an alley where laundry snapped in the wind. You vaulted a fence with rusted nails and no dignity. You scattered a flock of chickens like falling starsand cursed every choice that had brought you to this moment.

The jokes. The psychic soup battles. The year you mocked his coat collection. The fennel.

You raced like your life depended on it, because for the first time in a long, stupid, gloriously ill-prepared time, you were absolutely certain it did.

Your brain, ever helpful in times of crisis, offered up pearls of wisdom such as:

“He’s taller than most horses. Can string people like puppets. Can literally fly. Why didn’t I take up fencing? Why didn’t I fake my death more convincingly? Why did I think soup jokes would be enough to keep him away?”

You cut through a walled garden, grapevines clawing at your arms, leaves slapping across your face as if nature itself wanted you to feel stupid. You tasted copper and fear.

And then, his voice. Inside your skull. Velvet-wrapped and awful.

“You run like you’re used to being prey. Did I haunt you?” 

A low chuckle. Satisfied.

“I love that.”

You didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

But you felt him.

Moving like velvet and gunfire. No footsteps. No shouting. Just the whisper of motion behind you, strings brushing stone and air and possibility. The invisible marionette threads of his power tugging at the edges of the world.

Up above, he walks. Calmly. Stepping from one rooftop to another like gravity has grown bored of him. His coat flutters in the wind behind him, a sail of indulgence. His hands stay in his pockets.

He doesn’t need them.

You hit a marble railing at full speed, vaulted it. The edge cracked beneath your palm. A roof tile gave way under your boot, sent you skidding. You caught yourself—barely. Pain shot through your ankle. You hissed. Kept going. Didn’t dare stop. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.

From the balcony of an abandoned café, he leaned, watching.

Leaning forward slightly, one boot perched on the sun-warmed railing like a predator taking its time. His sunglasses were low, catching gold from the sky. His grin was sharp, wolfish and wrong. That damn pink coat billowed behind him like a sail soaked in blood and champagne, trailing just enough to mock physics.

He said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

He watched the crowd around you shift like schooling fish. Watched how they sensed the weight of something hunting and veered away without knowing why.

You sprinted harder.

Hair wild, dress hitched above your knees, boots slamming against sunbaked stone. You leapt a market stall, cracked another tile, grabbed a broom mid-flight and swung yourself around a second-story railing like you were born for this nightmare.

You were movement now. Raw adrenaline. Blistered fury. Just enough terror to make it sharp.

Above you, somewhere between the linen lines and the city’s gold-drenched skyline he was there.

Not flying. Drifting.

Watching. Trailing you like hunger on the wind.

“Mm.”

That was all he said at first.

Just that low, indecent hum; half-pleased, half-predatory. The sound of a man growing increasingly unholy in his enjoyment.

He wasn’t chasing you.

He was curating your fear.

Pacing the tempo of your escape.

Letting you think, for one brief, shining moment, that maybe you could outrun him.

The rooftops stretched golden ahead of you, the tile beneath your boots cracked and crumbling, the air thick with heat and falling sun.

Your breath came ragged.

Your hands were raw.

Your body was slipping into that thin, bright edge between panic and survival.

The city glowed in the late light. Towers kissed the horizon. Banners stirred in the stillness. Bells tolled in the distance. You leapt across a broken archway, landed wrong, rolled hard, caught yourself on trembling legs. Your knees scraped stone. You hissed.

Silence.

No footsteps.

No shadow.

No laughter trailing in your mind. Just breath and blood and the echo of your pulse. For a moment, you believed.

You almost believed. That maybe you’d lost him. That maybe the spell had broken.

But Doflamingo doesn’t chase like a beast. He hunts like a spider. He watches. Waits. Tugs one thread, then another, and smiles as you dance.

“Look at you go,” his voice drawled, somewhere too near, too casual, silk-wrapped and awful. “Scared little soup girl.”

Your breath tore out of you. Hot. Furious.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, the way a bird does inside a closed cage. Your hands shook, muddy, scraped, bleeding through grit and desperation.

The city had changed around you.

You’d crossed into the high quarter now: the part of town where the nobles built their sanctuaries above the dirt of the world. Marble arches and carved walls. Shrines and green courtyards. Trimmed hedges. Fountains that didn’t have to work for their water.

No crowds.

No chaos.

Only stillness and space and hiding places.

You shrieked when your foot hit the edge of a cart and vaulted it without grace, nearly catching your shin on a wheel. You burst through a narrow stone arch, past rows of manicured citrus trees, into a wide garden trail that arched toward the edge of a park.

Trees. Roots. Cover.

You flung yourself off the path, into the underbrush, your body scraping bark and branches until you found it—a fallen log, broad enough to shield your shape if you curled tight enough.

You collapsed behind it.

Pressed your body to the dirt. Shoved your hands over your mouth. Bit your own wrist to keep from sobbing. Your lungs heaved. Screamed. Refused to be quiet.

Every inhale scraped your ribs raw, your breath too loud, too human. You pressed yourself lower, chest to dirt, cheek to leaves. You counted heartbeats.

You waited.

No footsteps.

No strings.

No voice in your head.

Maybe.

Maybe you got away?

“Hi.”

You looked up.

He was standing on the branch directly above you, crouched like a goddamn jungle cat in a coat worth more than most kingdoms. One hand casually braced against the bark, the other hanging free. Sunglasses low. Smile wide.

He had scaled a tree.

A tree.

Silently.

To leer.

You shrieked again, more from principle than surprise, and flung yourself backward. Rolled. Scrambled. Bolted.

Down the slope.

Through the brush.

Skidding on fallen leaves and loose dirt like your legs had become usless.

“I love this game,” he purred, following at an infuriatingly relaxed pace. Not running. Not even flying. Just moving, the way storms do, the way plagues do, inevitable and unhurried. “It’s so adorable that you think you can win.”

You hit the treeline at full speed.

Branches clawed at your arms as you tore through the undergrowth, boots barely catching traction, pain sparking up your feet. You didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You doubled back, toward the city. Toward walls.

People. Witnesses.

Not that it would stop him.

But maybe it would make him pause.

Maybe.

You burst into a back street behind a closed chapel, nearly barreling over an elderly nun and two startled pigeons. She shrieked. You kept running.

The bells were ringing.

The city was golden.

And you were running out of places to hide.

He didn’t run.

He glided.

A single step off the edge of a rooftop, and his threads caught the wind like invisible silk. They lifted him through the air with obscene, lazy elegance. There was no strain, no rush. He moved like the wind bent to serve him.

You didn’t see him move. You felt it.

Like a shift in pressure. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

You tore through the dockyard, heart pounding, lungs on fire. Crates exploded under your shoulder. You ducked under swinging beams and leapt over coiled ropes, cutting across uneven ground slick with brine and grit.

Behind you, chaos erupted.

Pulleys snapped. Wood shattered. Men shouted in fear. Sailors who had never seen someone walk the sky were now screaming about devils and ghosts.

You grabbed the smoke bomb from your belt and hurled it behind you. It cracked against the stone. Smoke erupted in a thick, choking cloud.

For one precious second, the world disappeared.

Smart,” his voice came through the haze. Calm. Amused. Still too close.

You dove into the oceanfront warehouse through a side door and didn’t hesitate. The space was cluttered, narrow, and blessedly familiar. You had prepared for this moment.

A rope rigged to a false door. A dummy route through stacked crates. Smoke powder hidden in barrels. Your blades already placed.

You dashed. Fast. Focused. You cut every support beam as you passed, slicing wood with practiced precision.

Behind you, the structure groaned. Then collapsed.

The entire side of the warehouse caved in with a roaring crash. Dust and wood exploded outward like shrapnel.

You paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to listen.

Silence.

Then laughter.

It rolled through the wreckage like warm thunder. Low. Pleased. Not the sound of someone caught off guard, but of someone thoroughly entertained.

“You built traps?” he called, voice echoing between the fallen beams. “For me? You really shouldn’t have.”

It wasn’t mockery, it was genuine delight.

And that, somehow, was worse.

A thread grazed your neck, light as a fingertip.

You flinched hard.

He exhaled, long and slow, like a man savoring the taste of a meal he didn’t have to pay for.

You gritted your teeth.

Raised your chin.

Kept moving.

You didn’t see the threads until they shifted.

Just a flicker of pink at the edge of your vision.

A glint. A shimmer.

Then a snap.

The wind shifted.

A clay tile behind you split in half like overripe fruit.

You didn’t look back.

The alley narrowed. You dropped low, slid under a merchant’s gate, the rusted iron tearing at your shoulder. Crates toppled behind you. One hit your hip. You bit back a curse, just in time to scream.

A string cut clean across your path.

Not your skin.

Not your throat.

But your sash.

The fabric sliced away in a flash of motion, fluttering like a flag caught in a crosswind.

You caught it—barely—before it could be swept into the air, fists clenched around the soft, traitorous silk.

“Modesty, cariño,” he said sweetly. “Not that I mind.”

You growled and bolted again, breath ragged, sweat burning your eyes.

You hit the edge of a staircase, tried to pivot, and nearly broke your ankle on the slick stone.

Behind you, he hummed.

Low.

Mock-thoughtful.

Amused in a way that turned your bones cold.

“Hm… you’re faster when you’re angry. I like it.”

You spit out a breath, stumbling over the edge of a crate. “This is harassment!”

“Slow down, cariño,” he cooed, utterly unbothered. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

He sounded delighted. Like this was a vacation. Like you were the entertainment.

This wasn’t a hunt.

Not really. It wasn’t about catching you. Not yet.

It was about reminding you.

Reminding you that he could, That every step you took was permission, That he was letting you run.

Letting you taste the illusion of freedom, the borrowed high of control. Letting you remember every petty word, every psychic jab, every childish insult you ever lobbed into the bond from ages five to twenty-three.

Birdbrain.

Flamboyant sewer king.

Pink Princess Caesar.

Once, during a thunderstorm, you’d whispered into the Link that you hoped his next hookup tied his shoelaces together and tripped him face-first into his own ego.

“I remember that one,” he purrs, from nowhere and everywhere. “I laughed.”

You want to scream.

You want to throw something heavy at the sky.

Instead, you grit your teeth, press your back to cold stone, and slip into the shadows of the city’s northern quarter.

Your breath comes ragged, sweat sticking to the back of your neck like glue. The scent of ash, salt, and dried lavender clings to the air. You duck beneath the arch of a stone gate, shoulder scraping the wall, and press yourself flat to it.

You wait.

Silence.

No breath.

No footfall.

Just the dry rustle of wind weaving through the laundry lines above, cotton sheets fluttering like ghost flags.

Then, His shadow.

It passes over you like a curse.

You freeze. Your stomach turns. Your fingers dig into the stone.

You break left, bolting down a narrow corridor between two glass workshops, only to scream as the cobblestones lift beneath your feet, yanked upward by invisible threads. The world tilts violently. You lose footing. Your body slams into the far wall with a sickening crack of plaster and bone.

Your vision swims.

The air buzzes.

The Link thrums with glee.

You force yourself upright, shaking, blood hot down your arm. Your dress tears at the hem as you vault a low wrought-iron fence, barely clearing the spikes, and tumble into a garden terrace littered with potted citrus and fallen petals.

The city is turning gold around you.

Sunset pours like wine across the rooftops.

Everything gleams red and soft and final.

And still, you run.

He lets you.

Above, perched like a gargoyle on the slate-tiled roof of an ivory tea house, he watches.

Tall. Grinning. Silent.

A silhouette sharper than steel, framed in pink and dusk.

A shadow draped in rose-colored sin.

The coat still hangs from his shoulders like a living thing, molded to his frame as if it were stitched into his very anatomy. It moves when he moves. It waits when he waits. His sunglasses catch the last threads of sunlight, concealing his eyes—those merciless, glinting, gold-rimmed things that see too much and pity too little.

His hair is a golden mess of fire, windswept and wild, curling like it was scorched into place by something divine and terrible. His grin cuts across his face like it belongs to something older than men, the kind of smile that’s watched empires burn and laughed as they did.

He lifts two fingers. Casually.

The air shifts.

“Is that your favorite ankle?” he muses.

A thread, so fine you barely register it, snakes around your boot and pulls.

You fall. Hard.

Stone grinds into your palms. Your knee slams into the stone. Your breath leaves your lungs like it’s trying to escape.

You bite back a sob, taste blood and dust, grab the nearest flowerpot and hurl it through a window. Glass shatters in a spray of petals and clay. You dive inside.

Down the hall. Left. Up the stairs. Through the kitchen. Onto a rooftop.

You sprint past linens hung to dry, push off a chimney, leap over cages of startled pigeons that explode into the sky like feathers and panic.

You don’t see the threads until it’s too late.

They coil around your wrist with surgical precision; tight, deliberate, claiming.

You snarl and yank, the thin line biting deep as you stumble into a passerby who cries out in confusion. A middle-aged man with an armful of oranges stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky. You rip free and keep running, half-sprinting, half-sliding down the slope of another tiled roof, boots skidding on the worn stone.

Down another alley.

Into someone’s kitchen, through a side hall, past a tea room where nobles stare in stunned silence.

Your feet hit polished tile. Then gravel. Then tile again.

You don’t stop to breathe.

You can’t.

The voice comes like silk through a razor’s edge.

“Sloppy footwork, cariño.”

It curls low in your skull. Warm. Familiar. Vicious.

“You’ve been mocking me for eighteen years,” he says. “I expected more finesse.”

You want to scream.

You want to throw every insult you’ve ever crafted right back in his face.

But your lungs are on fire.

Your legs feel like molten iron.

Your heart slams so hard against your ribs it feels like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind.

You crash into the side of a stone fountain, hands skidding wet across the marble rim. The water splashes up, stinging the cuts on your palms. You haul yourself over the ledge and drop down the far side, staggering through the rear exit of a perfume shop that smells like memory and poor choices.

Jasmine wraps around your throat like guilt.

You cough on it.

When you look back…

There’s a thread in the air.

Thin. Crimson-pink. Too fine to track, too sharp to ignore.

It cuts through hanging silks as if they aren’t there. Vanishing the moment you blink.

He could���ve caught you ten times by now. Could’ve ended this in the dockyard. On the rooftop. In the garden. Could’ve pulled your legs out from under you, bound your wrists, whispered your full name into your ear just to make you shiver.

And the whole time, He talks to you In your mind.

Like a lover. Like a ghost. Like the shadow you never fully scrubbed from your thoughts.

“You cursed me with sock puppets when you were nine,” he says, voice rich with delight. “You made up a sea shanty about my sunglasses. It had a chorus.”

You shriek, breath wheezing through clenched teeth, as you shoulder a door off its hinges and tumble into a silk-draped drawing room.

You’re dizzy. You’re filthy. You’re furious.

“Yes!” you yell, staggering to your feet. “Because you were in my head, monologuing like a goddamn novella villain with a boa fixation!”

Silence.

Then the creak of something shifting just out of sight.

And the slow, dangerous laugh that follows means he’s even more entertained than you feared.

It should have ended five alleyways ago. Six rooftops back. Twelve heartbeats after he found you in the spice market, frozen in front of a plum like the universe hadn’t just dropped a war criminal into your personal space.

But Doflamingo doesn’t end things quickly. He savors, He drags it out the way fire licks across parchment—slow, curling, inevitable.

The longer the chase goes on, the worse it gets.

For you? Exhaustion. Rage. A full-body sweat.

For him? Horny.

And not even pretending otherwise.

You crash through a citrus grove behind a bathhouse, knocking over two buckets and a laundry line, shouting “SORRY!” to the half-naked governor’s wife you just startled out of her slippers—

“Do that again,” he murmurs.

“What?!” you yell, ducking under a lemon tree.

“The panting. That little stammer. Say my name next time, cariño.”

You scream into your elbow. Loudly. In public. A pigeon drops dead from the sheer force of your embarrassment.

“God,” he groans with open appreciation. “Twenty-three and still feral. I adore it. Run harder.”

You glare up at the rooftops mid-sprint, spit a mouthful of hair from your face, and shout, “You perverted flamingo bastard—!”

“Say it slower. My pants are getting tight.”

You nearly trip over your own rage.

Then, Your bra strap unhooks itself.

While you are sprinting.

“No—” you gasp, clutching your chest mid-run. “No. Absolutely not—”

“My powers are very precise.”

“You bastard—”

“You’d be amazed what I can do with motivation and focus.”

You grab the nearest object—an antique candlestick from someone’s courtyard altar—and hurl it at the nearest doorway. It shatters. You may have hit a priest. You don’t stop to check.

You run faster.

By the time you reach the historic quarter, you’re flushed, breathless, half-hysterical, and not entirely from exertion.

Your face is burning. Your dress is crooked. You’re sweating through silk and slipping on the polished marble of a sculpture garden someone forgot to gate off. Statues of saints and heroes loom around you like stunned witnesses.

And he is thriving.

You can feel it.

Somewhere above you—sprawled along a colonnade, hanging from a clothesline, lounging on the side of a bell tower—he is thriving.

Because you’re losing.

And he’s enjoying every second of your fall.

Up on the rooftops, high above the fray, hands tucked casually in his pockets like this is a stroll through the gardens. His coat flutters around him, catching the breeze like it’s part of the sky. He breathes just a little heavier now, not from exertion, but from the thrill. From you as you try and find a safe little corner.

But your mind is fraying faster than your shoes.

Your soulmark is humming.

The Echo Link pulses like it’s bruised—raw and too open. His presence is pressing in from every angle now, too close, too much. It’s not even contact anymore. It’s invasion.

A ripple cuts the air beside your ear. You flinch so hard your vision doubles.

“Shall I fetch Mr. Pancake?”

The voice is velvet and pure menace. 

“He should see the vile things I’m about to do to you.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, hoarse and scandalized. “Mr. Pancake is innocent.”

“No he’s not.”

“I hope you choke on your own spit!”

“No, you don’t. I don’t think you hate me at all.”

You do hate him.

You hate how good he looks.

You hate how your bond has been echoing with his ragged breath for ten straight blocks and counting. Like he’s getting off on the chase, and you know he is.

You duck into the crumbling mouth of the old amphitheater, a ruin just above the edge of town. The sun hits it in fragments, throwing jagged shadows across broken stone.

Dust billows as you descend into the center of the stage. Ancient marble gives beneath your boots. You stagger. Your palms sting. Your legs want to give out.

And for just a second, you beg, for the world to give you one minute. One breath. One moment to catch the pieces of yourself before he turns them inside out.

The bond is humming.

“All out of clever tricks, cariño?”

The words crawl up your spine like heat.

You scream into the dirt.

A short, furious, inelegant noise, muffled by soil and failure and the kind of rage that burns more out of helplessness than pride.

“Stop calling me that!”

“I’d say your name,” he replies, lazy as ever, “but you’ve never given it.”

You bite down on a curse hard enough to taste blood.

And this time He moves.

You hear it first.

The whisper of his coat dragging over sandstone. Then the footsteps. Not rushed. Never rushed. A slow, measured cadence. Like he’s walking toward a lover.

Or a kill.

And then He’s there.

Standing between you and the only exit.

Tall. Impossibly tall. A living shadow framed in dusk and silk, sunlight catching only the gold in his hair and the gleam of his glasses. He’s a silhouette with teeth.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

He takes one step forward.

The coat whispers. His boots land like slow applause. Threads slither in the air around him; quiet, delicate, deadly. Too fine to see unless you already know where to look. But you feel them. The air around him is threaded with tension, vibrating at a frequency only prey can hear.

One flicks past your ear.

You flinch as it slices through a vine hanging above your shoulder.

It falls in two.

Neat. Clean. Effortless.

He doesn’t even try to hide it now.

Doesn’t have to.

He’s faster than you remember.

Or maybe you’re just slower.

Maybe it’s the running. The hiding. The year and a half spent dodging shadows across ports and kingdoms, hoping your petty psychic war never turned into something real.

You scramble up along the edge of the wall, but Five steps. That’s all you get.

Then something tightens around your thigh.

You fall hard, knees hitting cracked stone, elbow skidding, skin tearing. You taste dust and fury.

A second thread winds around your ankle, pulling taut.

A third flashes out like a striking snake, catches your wrist just as your fingers wrap around the hilt of the dagger tucked in your boot.

“You always did carry too many little toys.”

You snarl and twist, but your arm is already yanked backward, pinned by a thread that doesn’t need to tighten to hurt.

“You creep,” you spit, fury biting through the edges of your voice. “You’ve been in my head since I was five.”

“And you’ve spent eighteen years narrating my bald spot and calling me discount poultry,” he replies sharply.

His coat is half-fallen from his shoulder, his chest bare, skin flushed not from running but from enjoyment. His hair is wind-tossed and wild, gold in the fading light. His grin is slow and mean and terribly satisfied.

The threads lift you off the ground, dragging you to your knees like a marionette whose strings were always his to pull. You fight the motion, but your limbs move without asking.

He crouches down in front of you, boots planted, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he has all the time in the world.

“I waited,” he says, voice low and hard. “Longer than anyone else would’ve.”

You glare up at him. “You toyed with me.”

His fingers reach for your chin, just brushing, tipping your face toward him. The touch is warm. Too warm. Too careful. You flinch as if he’d slapped you.

“I let you mock me,” he murmurs. “I let you insult me. I let you run.”

There’s a pause. The air feels too still.

“I don’t feel like being generous anymore.”

It feels like the world is narrowing. Like all the wind has pulled inward, waiting.

“Twenty-three,” he says softly, looking at you like a thing he built from memory and obsession. “You made it a long time. I thought you’d break at seventeen. Maybe twenty. But you’ve always had that little streak of defiance. Haven’t you?”

You don’t answer.

You just stare, trembling and bruised, glaring up at the man who has haunted your head like a sickness since you were five.

“I dreamed about this,” he says, voice quiet now. “You. In front of me. Breathless. Furious. Mine.”

You swing.

He vanishes upward. Not gone, just higher.

When you look, he’s leaning against a support beam above you, completely relaxed, like gravity was never made for him. Threads drift around him in slow motion. His sunglasses are crooked. He is probably still laughing.

“You,” you growl, breath ragged, “are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “You once shaved your eyebrows by accident. Age eleven. That was worse.”

You snatch a knife from your boot and hurl it. It splits in midair, sliced in half by a thread before it gets close.

He steps off the beam. Floating down.

Slow. Controlled. Steady.

The grin has faded, but the amusement lingers. It radiates from him in waves.

“You ran well,” he says, voice softer. “You always did.”

You take a step back.

“Don’t,” you say, barely audible.

He keeps going.

“I let you go. Every year. Every nickname. Every insult you thought I couldn’t hear.”

Another step. You hit the edge of the broken theater.

Behind you, nothing but air and sky.

Your last option waits below. The drop. The smooth stone courtyard that would welcome you with shattered bones and sweet unconsciousness. 

You leap.

And stop.

Mid-air.

Your breath catches. Your body jerks, limbs locking at the joints like invisible hands have seized you. Your wrists twist. Your ankles stiffen. You dangle.

Suspended. Trapped.

The threads wrap around you like a net closing in. You can’t scream. The air leaves your lungs in a strangled rush as your body holds still against your will.

And he flicks his fingers.

Not like a man. Like a god wearing silk and bad intentions. Slow. Precise. Smile carved into his face like it was etched there at birth. His glasses reflect the bleeding sunset and nothing of your fear.

He lowers you to the ground gently. Carefully. As if you were something precious. As if he hadn’t just stolen gravity out from under you like a rug.

Your knees give the moment your boots touch stone. They collapse beneath you, spine bowed, hair falling forward. Every inch of you screams to run. To move. To break free.

But it’s too late.

He closes the space between you in two slow, deliberate steps. No rush. No threat. Just inevitability.

You don’t back away. You refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you make a large, exaggerated motion, waving a hand in front of your face like his coat is giving you a rash.

“Ugh,” you mutter. “Smells like pretension and feathers.”

That stops him. Just for a beat.

Just enough for the smile to shift. For the flicker of amusement to settle into something sharper. He inhales like he’s breathing in your defiance, and it tastes exactly the way he likes it.

That smile—slow, curling, sharp as a snapped thread—deepens.

“You finally afraid?” he murmurs.

“Oh, I’m afraid,” you shoot back. “Just mostly of your wardrobe.”

He huffs. “You think I didn’t wear pink before you?”

“You think I don’t know you started wearing it after I said you looked like a discount Valentine’s Day piñata?”

He snorts.

“You compared me to a bird with commitment issues.”

“You are a flamingo with commitment issues. Commitment to good fashion.”

He laughs.

Not the practiced, smug laugh he usually weaponizes, but a real one. Low, rich, the kind that sounds like it came from somewhere deep, unhinged, and terribly pleased.

“You have such a mouth on you.”

“And you have a criminal record,” you snap. “Wanna compare stats?”

“You don’t sound like someone who’s just been caught.”

“That’s because I’m the only person in this room who didn’t fall into the trap of perceived soulmate affection.”

“Careful, cariño,” he says, tilting his head, voice velvet and warning. “You’re very close to flirting.”

“You’re very close to catching these hands.”

A long silence stretches between you.

Heavy. Crackling. Tense enough to hum in your ribs.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Slow. Intent. Unmistakable.

The bond thrummed low in the background, steady and constant.

Like a bassline you didn’t ask for but couldn’t turn off.

A heartbeat that didn’t belong to you, but beat in rhythm with your own anyway.

“I hate you,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said. “Some part of you always will.”

“And you—”

You stopped.

So did he.

For a moment, the world quieted. The birds didn’t chirp. The threads didn’t move.

You both just stared.

Like neither of you was quite sure the other was real.

Like this was the first moment that felt true.

“You know,” he said at last, his voice low, careful, serious in a way he rarely allowed, “you’ve been the loudest thing in my head for half my life.”

“You deserved it.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

He grinned again. Not the wolfish one. Not the smirk that meant he was about to pull the rug out from under you.

This one was different.

This one felt like recognition.

Like a battlefield that had finally settled into a stalemate.

Not peace. Not yet.

But a pause.

“So what now?” you asked, folding your arms, jaw still tight but voice steady.

“Now?” he echoed. “Now we stop yelling across a battlefield.”

You braced for the twist. The gloating. The sharp edge.

You expected him to lean back with that smug tilt of his head, expected the venom, the charm, the bite.

Instead—

He crouched.

Right in front of you.

Down to your level.

No tricks. No flourish.

He tipped his sunglasses down.

Eyes unshielded. Gold. Wild. Raw.

Eyes like a warzone.

“You’ve lived in my head for almost two decades,” he said, quiet and sure.

“You don’t get to leave now.”

You blinked. The moment stretched.

“You walk like your legs are too long for your evil little secrets.”

Doflamingo blinked back. For a full five seconds, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stared.

Then he laughed.

Loud and sudden and delighted, like you’d said something genuinely, terribly beautiful. It echoed through the ruined amphitheater, bounced off stone and sky, edged with something too sharp to be harmless.

“You’re so annoying,” he said between breaths, voice thick with fondness and threat. “Exactly the same. Inside and out.”

He took a step forward. Then another.

He was almost close enough to touch.

“And now?” you whispered.

His eyes narrowed behind the glint of his glasses. The amusement didn’t vanish. It condensed, pulled tight like a drawstring around something darker.

You moved before you thought. Tried to spit in his face.

He caught your jaw in mid-motion.

One hand. Swift. Strong. Unforgiving.

His fingers pressed into your skin; not cruel, not bruising, but enough to remind you who had you in his grasp.

“Try that again, cariño,” he whispered, voice honey-thick and dangerous, “and I’ll tie your legs apart and keep you on your knees until you remember who you belong to.”

Your breath stuttered.

Not from fear. Not just.

Because the bond was pulsing.

Hot. Electric. Furious.

Flooded with something you’d been running from for years. Something you buried beneath sarcasm and defiance and every petty insult you ever crafted to keep him at arm’s length.

Want.

Hunger.

Need.

He leaned in. Forehead nearly touching yours. His grin sharpened into something quieter. Something stripped of theatrics.

He looked like a man starved.

Your mouth went dry. Your chest lifted too high in a breath that didn’t want to land.

You weren’t afraid of dying.

You were afraid of what he wanted.

He smiled.

Not cruel.

Not triumphant.

Certain.

You slapped him.

Hard. Palm to cheek.

Sharp and clear.

He moaned.

Low. Honest. Almost grateful.

And then he laughed again, quieter this time, teeth bared in something close to reverence.

“Oh,” he said, voice thick, “that’s my soup goblin.”

-X-CAUGHT-X-

You're cornered.

He’s pushed you back against warm stone of colonnade. Sun bleeding down the nearby walls like wine. Your pulse thunders in your ears; raw, furious, humiliated.

And he’s standing in front of you like the door to your own mind.

Doflamingo.

All smug heat and slow shadow. His coat falls in lazy folds around him, catching the breeze like a beast’s mane. His glasses are pushed up, hiding his eyes; but you can feel the grin behind them. That awful, slow grin you’ve imagined strangling in your sleep since you were ten.

There’s no crowd here. No escape. No room to run. He made sure of it.

Threads line the exit. You saw them as you skidded in. Thin, pink, almost invisible in the sun, draped like tripwire between lantern hooks and crumbling vines. You could cut yourself free, maybe, if you hadn’t just burned the last of your energy. If your legs weren’t shaking. If your ankle weren’t bruised.

But you didn’t fall here. Not physically.

This is where he let you end up.

This is where he wins.

He takes one step closer. Then another.

His hand stays right where it is, braced beside your head on the wall. Not touching. But it might as well be.

Because the air between you crackles.

The bond hums like something feral and cornered, and every instinct you have is screaming; run, fight, lie, deny. But all of it hits the wall of his certainty. The way he looks at you like a man reading a prayer he’s memorized in a hundred languages.

“Let me go,” you say again, sharper this time.

He huffs. Almost fond.

“After all this time? I think not.” His voice drops, velvet and terrible. “You are mine, you mouthy little gremlin. I knew from the moment you started talking you’d be my personal torment. But mine all the same.”

You try to pull away. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t have to.

“I’m not yours—”

“You used to hum when you were nervous,” he says, cutting in. Soft. Like a man sharing secrets with a ghost. “You stopped at thirteen. Just went quiet one day. Thought I wouldn’t notice.”

Your jaw locks.

“You don’t know me.”

He laughs once; low and unamused. “I know your favorite hiding place at age seven. The orchard with the beehive and the broken swing. You hid there with a cracked jaw and mud on your boots.”

You flinch.

He steps just a little closer, voice steady.

“I know what your voice sounded like when you told your first lie. I felt it ripple through the bond like heat.”

You look away, trying to twist your shoulder. He leans in. A wall of silk and shadow. Blocking the alley, the light, your breath.

“I know what it sounds like when you cry and try to pretend you’re not,” he murmurs. “I know how you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re scared. I know how you laugh when you think no one’s listening.”

“Let me go,” you say, again. Through your teeth. The heat behind your eyes makes it hard to see.

He doesn’t move.

Instead—quiet now, almost reverent—he says,

“I know you dreamed about me last week.”

You freeze.

The bond goes silent.

For a second, you think maybe he’s bluffing. But he doesn’t press. Doesn’t mock. He waits.

Then tilts his head. Barely. Just enough.

“You said my name.”

He says it like prophecy. Like certainty dressed in silk.

Like he’d known it before you ever opened your mouth.

“I despise you,” you whisper—hating how it sounds more like devotion than damnation.

He lifts his glasses with one finger, revealing eyes that have watched empires fall and kings learn humility on their knees.

And he looks at you like the world has finally made sense.

“Then why,” he murmurs, soft as sin, “do I hear you moan when you think I’m not listening?”

You shove him. Hard. He doesn’t move.

His threads twitch at the atrium entrance—lazy, possessive, warning the city not to interrupt.

“You mocked me for eighteen years,” he says. “Made me your obsession. Your enemy. Your favorite pastime.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your cheek.

“You don’t get to pretend I didn’t become yours, too.”

You punch him in the chest. He catches your wrist without effort.

“You never ran because you feared me,” he says, low and final. “You ran because you knew exactly how this would end.”

You’re shaking. Your voice barely holds.

“How?”

His eyes gleam.

“With you. On your knees. Moaning my name like a prayer you swore you’d never say.”

That’s when he truly corners you. Not with hands. Not with strings. With the truth.

And your brain misfires.

You’re vibrating with rage. With adrenaline. With the humiliating echo of his voice in your head that has never gone quiet. Not this week. Not this year. Not your entire life. It is too much. Too loud. Too present. Too everything.

Too much running. Too much denial. Too much of him.

You’ve spent years mocking him. You made a game out of hating him. You’ve turned him into a punchline, a problem, a storm cloud that followed you from schoolyard to battlefield. But now he is standing in front of you. Close enough to touch. Close enough to bite. And suddenly you realize something awful.

You are not afraid of him.

You are aroused.

Dangerously aroused. Disrespectfully aroused.

You should run. You should fight. You should slam your fist into his face and tell him to go to hell.

You expect this to be a mistake.

And it is.

But not for the reason you thought.

It is not a mistake because it is bad. It is a mistake because it is perfect.

Your life does not flash before your eyes.

Instead, your brain picks the most mortifying memory it can find. The time you called Doflamingo “Super Fluffy Flamingo” in front of three diplomats and a royal escort. You had whispered it under your breath, half a joke, half a curse. He had heard you.

He had not said anything.

He had only smiled. Slowly. Like he was cataloguing the insult for later. Like he was already planning exactly how he would repay you.

And it was so damn sexy.

And now here you are.

Cornered. Breathless. One wrist wrapped in string. Your back against cold stone and your ankle still aching from the fall.

The world is dead quiet. Only your breathing and the low, wicked hum of the bond remains.

Doflamingo is standing in front of you like the final boss of your sex life. He is tall, flushed from the chase, his glasses askew, his coat slipping off his shoulders like he could not be bothered to wear anything properly. His smirk is pure crime. His hair still looks like a taxidermied poodle on a sugar high.

You open your mouth to say that.

You mean to insult him. To claw back the upper hand. But your brain betrays you in the most carnal, catastrophic way possible.

He looks hot.

Not charming. Not poster-boy pirate attractive. Not even hate-bangable war criminal.

No.

He looks feral. Smug. Like he is five seconds from sinking his teeth into your throat just to prove a point.

And you are tired.

You are flushed and angry and aching from head to toe.

And you are, with increasing urgency, completely and stupidly stimulated.

You do not know whether to slap him or kiss him. You only know this has always been inevitable.

“Five minutes,” you snap, seething. “You get five minutes.”

He blinks. Then tilts his head, slow and deliberate, like a lion being handed a knife and told it may do as it pleases.

“No safe word?” he murmurs. “You sure five will be enough, sweetheart?”

“You get five,” you growl, jabbing a finger at him like you’re casting a curse. “No weird puppet stuff. No evil speeches. No creepy string choking unless I say please—and absolutely no traumatizing flashbacks.”

He has the audacity to look amused.

“You’ve been narrating my haircut for years like it’s a middle school roast,” he says. “Pretty sure we’re past trauma.”

You shrug off your coat. “You look like a taxidermied flamingo someone dipped in sin and regret.”

He laughs. Full-bodied. Joyous. Like this is exactly how he hoped the evening would go.

“And you,” he says, closing the distance, “look like you’ve been thinking about this since you were eighteen and too proud to admit it.”

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

Then mentally refile your entire life under regret: pending.

The kiss is not tender.

It is a declaration of war.

You yank his hair. He binds your wrist to the window frame. You insult his abs. He responds by putting his mouth on your throat and acting like it’s a perfectly logical counterargument.

At one point, a thread loops delicately around your thigh and pulls, precise and possessive, and you scream something that might be his name—or possibly your childhood priest’s.

You can’t be sure.

“Still think I look like a poodle?” he pants against your stomach, grinning like the devil on recess.

“Shut up,” you gasp. “Four minutes—”

“And thirty-seven seconds,” he finishes, wickedly pleased. “Your generosity humbles me.”

Then he lifts you, just to prove he can, and kisses you like a man tearing down his own kingdom to build something unholy in its place.

Afterward, you collapse in a mess of silk, sweat, tangled thread, and something dangerously close to euphoria. Your shirt is inside out. His coat remains immaculate. You’re eighty-seven percent sure something has been dislocated.

He brushes your hair back from your face with exaggerated tenderness.

“Feel better?” he asks.

You glare up at him. Breathing like you’ve just fought off God.

“You are still,” you rasp, “a smug, overgrown, sociopathic tax write-off of a man with the emotional range of a damp swordfish.”

“And you,” he says warmly, “are the reason I haven’t burned down an orphanage in six months.”

You groan into your elbow. “Why are you like this?”

He leans in. Lips at your ear. Voice all velvet and victory.

“Because,” he breathes, “you like it.”

“Careful,” you sneer, breathless. “You tie me up too tight, and I might start liking it.”

He freezes.

Actually freezes. Mid-motion. Mid-smirk. His pupils dilate like a predator catching the scent of something new. Something rare. Something his.

“…Say that again.”

You hesitate. “That I like roasting you more than your coat likes feather conditioner?”

“No,” he says. Calm. Quiet. Unwell in the way only Doflamingo can be. “The other part.”

Your brain tries to backpedal. Tries to throw up sandbags and sarcasm and plausible deniability. But your body?

Your body has already betrayed you.

Heat blooms low and sharp beneath your skin. A confession in the shape of a pulse.

“You like it,” he murmurs. “You want it.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Oh, but you did.”

The threads move before you can think. They don’t hurt.

That’s the worst part.

They brush your skin like fingertips. Like a lover who already knows the map by heart. They wind around your ribs, loop your thighs apart, circle your wrists with silk and precision.

They caress.

And he watches.

The size difference is no longer something to laugh about. You’ve done that before—privately, half-mocking, calling him all wingspan and no substance. All bird, no bite.

You were wrong.

He moves with focused grace, every motion deliberate, as if he's unraveling you on purpose. His hands rest firm at your waist, steadying, directing, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Like he’s waited.

“You’re going to break me,” you whisper, half-breathless.

“I’m going to shape you,” he answers, voice low and certain. “And then I’m going to keep you.”

“It was supposed to be five minutes,” you groan, nerves frayed and pride in ruins, something inside you coiled too tight to name.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his lips to your throat, “that was just the prologue.”

His kiss lingers, and his hands don’t leave your waist. They settle there with the quiet certainty of ownership, not forceful, but final.

You lose more than control that night. You lose your edge, your rhythm, your lead in a game you thought you were winning.

He takes you like a man who understands the weight of promise. With patience. With focus. With a devotion that borders on dangerous.

When the last gasp escapes your lips, when your hands tremble and your eyes can’t hold defiance anymore, he doesn’t laugh.

He just smiles, slowly and quietly, like a secret unspooling.

“There it is,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence. “There’s my girl.”

You gave in with a curse on your lips and his name on your tongue, tangled in silk and pride and a thousand things you swore you’d never feel. And still—he didn’t gloat.

He just held your gaze like he’d already known how this would end.

And now… it has.

You were supposed to win. To outrun him. Outmaneuver. Outlast. Maybe slam a door in his face, call him a bastard in four languages, and disappear again under false names and fading ports.

Instead...

You’re in his bed. On his ship. In his world.

And every plan you ever made is dissolving in the slow echo of the bond humming between you, and the warmth still blooming through your bones.

The sheets are a tangle. Your limbs are boneless. Your mind feels like it’s slowly dripping out of your ears. The strings around your wrists have loosened, no longer restraining. Just resting. Affectionate, almost. Like a promise with sharp teeth.

He is still upright.

Of course he is.

Nine feet of smug, post-coital menace. A god of war with the audacity to be pleased.

He looks down at you with that infuriating smile and bends, just far enough to rest one large hand on your bare stomach. His palm is warm. Heavy. Claiming.

“Well?” he asks, voice low and gleaming.

You twitch, intending to sit up, only for the threads at your waist to tug—subtle but firm—tightening like they miss you already.

You frown. “I’m getting up.”

He doesn’t blink. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m finding my pants and leaving you forever.”

“Mm. No, you’re not.”

His fingers tap thoughtfully against your stomach, and he adjusts his glasses with the other hand. Like you’re a calendar reminder he’s slightly annoyed with. Like your attempted escape is something he’ll deal with after brunch and a light coup.

“You’re going to lie here while I notify the crew that you’re mine. Then I’m going to feed you soup with real flavor, seasoning, and dignity. Unlike whatever you called ‘dinner’ last night.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You’re—are you kidnapping me?”

He tilts his head. Innocent. Curious. Like the question is new to him. Like he’s never even considered another option.

“…No,” he says slowly. “I’m simply enforcing a logical outcome.”

You blink. “Which is?”

“You seduced me with bad soup and spite. Now you live here.”

“That’s not—”

He taps your thigh with a loose thread. It tightens, affectionate. Possessive. Threatening.

“Shhh,” he coos. “Don’t overthink it. That’s how you burned the potatoes.”

You stare at the ceiling and start planning your next five escape attempts.

He starts humming.

“Cariño,” he says softly, “you are in my bed. Wearing my marks. Bonded to my mind. And moaning in your sleep about my fingers.”

His smile sharpens. All silk and sin.

“You kidnapped yourself.”

You should run.

You should.

But you won’t.

Not with your legs still trembling. Not with your wrists bound in thread so soft and shimmering it might as well be spun from the word yes. Not with your bare back pressed into silk sheets that smell like money and sin and some forbidden citrus cologne. Not with a nine-foot war criminal currently adjusting your hips like you’re a living puzzle he intends to solve thoroughly before breakfast.

And definitely not with your voice breaking on his name for the third time in the last hour.

You were supposed to win this war.

For eighteen years, you had mocked him. Relentlessly. Creatively. The voice in your head called you cariño, so you called him Feather Boa Disaster. String Cheese Caesar. Violent Discount-Flamingo.

And now?

Now he was laughing. Actually laughing. While threads of Devil Fruit silk wrapped around your inner thighs, pulsing gently like they had their own opinions.

“Still got something to say?” he murmured. The grin curled through every word.

You tried to glare up at him.

But he was nine feet tall.

You weren’t glaring. You were looking up. Like a peasant before a god. A very smug, shirtless, devastatingly unholy god.

“You don't play fair—,” you croaked. 

“Fair? That was before you made the sound.”

You blinked. “What sound?”

“The one that told me you liked being tied up.”

Your brain rewired itself in real time.

One moment, you were squirming in protest, wrists gently tangled in strings that caressed more than restrained. The next, he was leaning over you, his chest broad enough to block the ceiling light, fingers sliding down your stomach like a blade through silk.

“You like the strings.”

“I like silence.”

“Lie again,” he said, “and I’ll pull them tighter.”

Your breath hitched.

Your thighs betrayed you.

That was his confirmation.

He chuckled low against your neck.

“Let’s tie the knot.”

Yes.

He’s the Devil.

But he’s your Devil.

And he likes it that way. He’ll never be good. He doesn’t want to be. He only wants to be your worst decision, your final mistake, your favorite regret.

And once you stop trying to escape him, he becomes something far more dangerous.

Steady.

Attentive.

Yours.

In that feral, hurricane-shaped, loyal-to-the-end way that only a monster like Donquixote Doflamingo could ever manage.

“You don’t have to love me,” he says. “You just have to stay alive long enough to admit fate gave you taste.”

-X-Honeymoon-X-

Cosmic Joke Status: Threadlocked

Congratulations. 

You’re now mentally shackled to a nine-foot-tall war crime in designer sunglasses who thinks “subtlety” is a personal insult. He’d flatten a nation because the waiter called you ‘miss’ instead of ‘your majesty’.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to think that’s… romantic.

-X- The End -X-

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — m.list

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with wild white hair and a grin too sharp for someone who always left dirt on your doorstep. satoru lived to rile you up, stealing your snacks and outrunning you in backyard chases, weaving himself into your life despite every glare you threw. through the chaos of shared summers and endless spats, he became a constant you couldn’t quite escape.

college stretched you apart, states away, the silence of distance swallowing your usual bickering—until summer drags you back. nothing’s the same. the air feels heavier, the days stranger, and satoru’s still all smirks and sly glances, but his eyes linger now, carrying a quiet ache you’re only starting to notice. college has you questioning everything, and he’s waiting, like always, for you to catch up to something you’re not ready to name.

status : ongoing (2/4 chapters, 24.6k word count) ✦ tags –> fluff, tiny bit of angst later, eventual smut, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, growing up together, long term pining, yearner satoru, summer vacation tension, alternating POVs.

playlist. | red string of fate collection m.list.

— chapter index

chapter one : sprinklers and spiteful glares

you’re just a kid with an inherited grudge, armed with a hose and a fierce loyalty to your mom’s perfect tulips. satoru gojo, with his bunny slippers and smug grin, is the enemy you didn’t ask for—yet somehow, he’s always there, turning your runaway schemes and backyard brawls into something that feels like a game you don’t want to end. between juice box thefts and playground tumbles, the line between rivals and something softer blurs, and you’re not sure if you hate it—or him—as much as you claim.

chapter two : romeo’s reckless heart

satoru gojo’s world tilts the moment you, his backyard rival, trade dirt fights for gloss and skirts, flipping his smug confidence into a mess of stumbles and stares. freshman year’s a fever of basketball drills, cheer stunts, and your sharp quips, each clash—hoses spraying, lemons flying—pulling him deeper into a crush he can’t shake.

chapter three & four tba <3

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice @captainhoneythebunny @scryarchives @fancypeacepersona @anathemaspeaks @ilovebeansyay @satokitten

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

[hades--baby]

To Die Like This

Summary: Stuck in the Tundra with a bullet in your side, blood in your eye, and the agonizing feeling that your captain was going to throw an absolute fit when your bleeding body walked through the threshold of the safe house.

Note: There's just something about Price being so tender with the girl he loves that makes me go absolutely crazy. Anyway, it's been a long time since I've written anything and an even longer time since I've actually put something out. Hope y'all enjoy :)

(This work was also cross-posted on my ao3 account under hades_baby)

Word Count: 7109

You had always loved the serenity of a snowy forest. 

They were typically peaceful and quiet, a drastic contrast to your usual life of gunfire and warfare. 

The only things that ever really made a sound was the light crunch of snow beneath the thick soles of boots, the little animals scurrying from shrubs to burrows that led to their dens, and the winter birds chirping their little songs as they hopped from branch to branch. 

The air was always so crisp with a light scent of fresh pine and bark. It lacked the smell of gunpowder and the musk that filled the tight barracks. 

Honestly, if you could have it your way, you’d die in a forest like this. 

Have your trauma-ridden life end in a place so ethereal. 

The whole military life never really gave you what you wanted though. 

You typically had to take what you could get.  

The orders you were given weren’t to your liking? 

Too bad, you’d have to follow them anyway. 

The mission you were assigned to was in the middle of the fucking Tundra where you knew your fingers would freeze and you’d never be able to keep warm? 

You’re getting on the damn plane and going anyway because you were told to. 

A lead slugger was shot into your side and you were currently bleeding through your gear and you wanted to do nothing more than lay down in the snow and let the cold take you while the little blood you had left in your system melted the snow beneath your limp body? 

Well, too fucking bad. Get the fuck up because your Captain doesn’t take too kindly to any of his soldiers dying on the job. 

Yeah. 

You didn’t really get your way when it came to being a soldier, but today might have been your lucky day. 

That little snowy death wish that had been playing out in the back of your head for the past thirty minutes was starting to look like it might come true. 

There was a small burning bullet set in your side, a nice little slash on your arm from a bowie knife that had once been stuck in another man’s chest, and there was a cheeky little gash somewhere on your head that was pouring enough blood into your left eye to make you shut it and trek around half blind. 

It felt like you were getting too old for this kind of work. 

Then again, if Price could still keep up with this shit and be chipper doing it, then so could you. 

“What’s your ETA, Frost?”

His voice over your comms had startled you. 

“I don’t fucking know,” you snapped in a breathy tone as you slammed against the side of a pine tree to brace yourself before you could fall flat on your face. The fresh powder beneath you was starting to look really enticing. 

You closed your good eye—the one that hadn’t been flooded with blood—and let out a defeated sigh, dipping your head as you tried to catch your breath and not focus on the stinging sensation of all the wounds that riddled your body. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, apologizing to your Captain for your tone. You glanced at the watch on your wrist to check your current coordinates. “I’m a klick out from the safehouse. I should be there in a bit.”

“Copy.”

Price left it at that. 

He sounded tired. 

It was the same tone he spoke in when he was stuck in his office, getting dragged down into the depths with paperwork and mission reports he didn’t even want to think about. The tone that would come out when someone tried to talk to him too soon after a mission when all he wanted to do was relax and work the knots out of his shoulders. The tone that you heard oh so often when you’d pop into his office to keep him company while he dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s and when you’d work your fingers into the knots and sore spots on his back until he nearly fell asleep in his office chair. 

Fuck. 

You needed to get a move on.

After taking a deep breath, you trekked on, using every other tree to keep yourself upright as you staggered on your tired feet. 

Blood was seeping through all of your gear, some of it dripping into the pristine white powder beneath your feet. It was tragic how the deep crimson liquid stained the gorgeous snow. In your line of work, you had seen blood stain an array of surfaces, but snow seemed to be the worst of them. It was something that was meant to be clean and pure, yet here you were, ruining it. 

A grimace fell over your face at the sight. 

After a few minutes passed by, your legs met the threshold of movement and you slammed into another tree trunk. Your temple met the bark, wood scratching against the skin of your face. You closed your eyes as you tried to catch your breath and focus on not passing out while your limbs buzzed in pain. 

You could make it. 

Probably.

All you could really think about was the fact that you were definitely going to be telling Price that you didn’t want to do any more jobs in the Tundra. You enjoyed the cold climate when you weren’t working, which was almost never, but you still had a few days of leave a year where you got to fully relax (if your brain allowed). 

You liked the cold when you could cuddle up next to someone to stay warm, drink some hot cider, and watch stupid Christmas movies that had too many questionable moments that made you really sit and stare, trying to figure out whether or not you should laugh. 

You enjoyed the cold even more when you could hide away in the barracks, keeping warm with Price wrapped around you, hands tracing over your skin, heating you up quicker than a blanket ever could. 

“Frost.”

“Captain.”

He didn’t respond right away, making you wonder if he just wanted to say your callsign for the hell of it. 

“ETA?”

“Couple of minutes,” you answered. 

The eye with blood in it was starting to sting, the foreign liquid now slipping all the way to your jaw and dripping from your chin. 

“Cut it down to a minute.”

Price was starting to catch on that something was wrong. You were taking far too long to get to the safe house from where you had been coming from and your words were becoming too short and strained every time he asked you a question. Something was wrong and it was taking everything in him to not run out of the safehouse in search of you. You’d always been the type to be vocal when something went awry out in the field, so he silently prayed that your absence of issue meant that everything was fine and that you truly were just taking your sweet ass time to get to him. 

“You’re starting to sound like Gaz with all the worrying you’re doing, Pricey,” you teased, adding on the little nickname that you knew peeved him. 

“Shut it and get a damn move on.”

“Yessir.”

You started moving again just as he ordered you to do, finding some sense of motivation after hearing his gruff voice. It was the voice that had welcomed you to the 141 after Laswell had shipped you off to join the task force. The voice that had let you know that you were okay and safe when the boys had finally found you after you had been taken hostage on a mission in your earlier days. The voice that had talked you through every touch that made your body burn as he sunk his fingers into you. 

It was the kind of voice that you’d betray death for. 

A little while later, the safehouse finally came into view. 

You glanced at your watch, checking how much time had passed. 

A minute and twenty-seven seconds.

Price wasn’t going to let you hear the end of it. 

You winced in pain, feeling the skin of your arm pull apart. The soldier that had cut you had grabbed the knife he used from the middle of another man’s chest and you were starting to feel queasy from the thought of your blood mixing with his. You needed to get your gash disinfected soon or you were going to have a problem. Well, technically you already had multiple problems, but you were trying to take on one issue at a time. 

Alright, maybe it was about time you mentioned something to your captain. 

“Hey, Cap’?” you probed as you quietly trudged toward the short porch steps of the cute little cottage. “Is this a bad time to mention that I got hit earlier?”

You failed to mention how badly you were hit.

“What the hell—what do you mean you got hit?”

You stopped a good ten feet from the steps, furrowing your brows. 

There was no sign of Price having entered through the front door. The powder in front of the stairs had been untouched and there weren’t any wet footprints  on the old wood of the porch. The windows were dark and nothing could be seen from the outside. The only thing that gave any sign of someone being inside was the dark smoke slowly wisping from the brick chimney peeking out of the top of the cabin.

“I mean, I got a nice little slugger in my side and some blood pouring out of me in other places,” you said, keeping your voice low and quiet. You wondered if you were in the right place. You looked down at your watch, checking your coordinates. According to the device, you were. “Are you inside?” 

He ignored your question. 

“Where the hell’s your kit?”

“Somewhere in the forest four klicks back.”

You looked around again, hoping to find some sign of this being the right place. 

“Christ, Frost,” Price muttered. You didn’t need to see him to know that he was shaking his head at you. “How far out are you?”

“Right out front,” you answered. 

You gave in. 

The wood creaked under the thick soles of your boots as you trekked up the stairs. You shoved the door open, stumbled inside, and slammed the door shut as you slumped against the wall. You slowly slid down to the floor. The cold began to set into your bones as the distinctive heat from the fireplace on your left radiated around you. 

Price rushed into the room. 

“Well, aren’t you a right-all mess,” he said as he moved toward you.

“Shut up,” you muttered, shaking your head before tilting it back to rest against the wall. You opened your good eye as he knelt down in front of you.

“Where are you broken, love?” he asked as his eyes scanned over you, clocking every little rip and tear in your gear before you could even say anything. 

He hated seeing you like this. 

It had become one of the toughest parts of his job ever since Laswell had sent you his way to recruit to the taskforce. There was just something about you that made his heart ache whenever he saw you in pain in any way.  

He knew that it was all a part of the job. 

That there were always going to be times where he saw you like this; busted and broken.

And he always fucking hated it.

He knew he’d hate it ever since the first time he had seen you like this. It was way back when you had first joined the team. You’d only been with them for a good six months, but you had already gone on about four missions with them. It had been a busy year for the task force, but you didn’t seem to mind. If anything, you were eager to keep getting back out on the field every time you got back to base. 

On their fifth mission all together, when they believed that they had the upper hand, you and Soap had been ambushed. The Scot had been knocked unconscious while you were taken captive, too many soldiers for the two of you to take out on your own without any supporting fire. 

Learning that you had been taken was worrisome on its own, but Price’s heart ached when they finally found you. 

He had sunken to his knees in front of you, using his knife to work away the zip ties that had you bound to an uncomfortable looking metal chair. Your face was bruised and bloody. Gashes from knife wounds worked their way down your arms and legs. Burn marks from what looked like cigarettes were ingrained into your plush skin. 

You looked beyond rough. 

Price had felt furious that he had let any of this happen to you, but the fury was quickly overcome with worry when you had perched your eyes open and groaned in pain. He let out a sigh of relief, finally knowing that you were, at the very least, well enough to be conscious. He had tried to soothe you as best he could and when you were finally free of your bounds, you practically fell into his embrace, your entire body slumping against his.

It was that very moment—when he wrapped his arms around you and held the entirety of you—that was when he knew that seeing you like this would always pull deadly wear on his heart. His old heart wouldn’t be able to take seeing you like this and hoped that it would be a rarity for his tiring eyes. 

Much to his surprise, it had been a rare sight. 

But that didn’t mean it was a non-existent sight. 

“Got shot in my right side, bullet’s still somewhere in there from what I can tell. Slash on my right arm from a gross ass knife that was already stuck in someone else before it got to me. And I got hit in the head and I can’t see out of my fucking right eye because of all the goddamn blood,” you explained, lifting one of your hands to try and wipe the blood away from your eye, but to no avail, the metallic liquid kept flowing. There was no use in trying to see right now anyway.

“Let’s get you fixed up then,” he said, a sense of urgency finally filling his voice. 

He had been attempting to keep his cool this entire time; to not panic so you wouldn’t panic either. But he knew that you were much too tired to even start panicking, so perhaps he was just trying to stay calm for his own sake. He found it funny that out of everyone on the task force, he had been the one to deal with more field injuries, yet here he was with his damned nerves buzzing out of his skull. 

Something like this shouldn’t have worried him as much as it did. 

But it was you. 

He couldn’t help himself when it came to you. 

Whatever was going on between the two of you had always left him in the realm of something being completely unspoken. The relationship that had sprouted was in some sort of limbo, but neither of you seemed to mind since it was easier that way. 

It was easier than having to tell the boys that something was going on between you two. It was easier than telling Laswell that there may be some sort of infringement on the team—not that she’d care unless it really started to affect how the two of you went about your work lives. And it was easier than admitting to each other that there might be something more than a quick casual stress-relief fuck. 

The two of you had shared too many moments together for that to be true. 

There were too many night’s of your bodies being pressed together and entwined, skin to skin to keep each other warm. Too many words of comfort as you soothe the nightmares of war away, finding comfort in each other’s arms. Too many gentle kisses for it to not be real. 

Your eyes were closed. 

He didn’t care much for that. 

“Frost,” he said, bumping your arm without a slash in it to jostle you awake. You opened your good eye and looked up at him, sending him a quick look of aggravation. It would’ve been amusing if you weren’t bleeding out before his very eyes. “Need your good eye open so I know you aren’t dying on me, sweetheart.”

You grunted in response, looking away from him but still keeping your eye open. 

The feeling of disquietude was starting to set in. 

It wasn’t normal for you to get hit during missions—it was actually quite rare. Soap was usually the one to take the podium for taking quite a bit of damage out in the field. Regardless of all that, you still knew what to do in such situations. You wouldn’t have been at this level of infantry if you didn’t know what to do. 

The hard part was the fact that you were in the presence of your captain. 

Moments ago, when you were trekking to the safehouse, you knew that you wouldn’t have to do any of this alone because your captain was waiting less than a klick away from you. 

The thought alone made everything feel easier. 

It was always harder doing it all alone. 

You thought back to the first and only time you had applied a tourniquet on yourself. Damn near gave up and bled out from how painful it was to cinch the band as tight as you could to keep yourself from bleeding out. You had spent years in the service of infantry. Years of wear and tear on the body, but that kind of pain was something you never wanted to feel again in your lifetime or in any lifetime. So when you felt your arm begin to fall numb from the lack of blood circulating through your veins, you knew that you had to get to Price before you would be forced to deal with it on your own. 

When he was around, you knew that you’d never have to face anything alone. 

You had learned to find such comfort in that. 

Price felt sick to his stomach as he started to get some of your heavier gear off. Your weapons were first to go, then your holsters, and then your vest. He was almost afraid to remove your thermal to see the damage the thick white jacket was hiding poorly. 

He couldn’t keep his damn head straight. 

Simon had griped with him about it a while back, saying that he needed to do better about keeping a clear head around you, but Price still managed to get work done on missions, so the younger man could never really get on him about it all that much. Simon didn’t know exactly what was going on between you two behind closed doors, but he had enough of an idea seeing how much Price doted on you even when you told him to fuck off and focus on something else for a while. 

It was the playfulness of your jabs that usually gave it away. 

That and the lingering looks you two sent each other as if you were some love sick teenagers. 

Price knew that you were more than capable of handling yourself in the field, but there was always something whispering in the back of his head that had him wearing a deep sense of worry on his sleeve every time he had to send you out on a mission. He had read your file when Laswell had recruited you. You were beyond skilled in almost everything you did and you rarely ever came back to base having to see a medic, so hearing that you had actually been hit—

“I can’t feel my arm.”

“Shite,” Price cursed, snapping out of his thoughts as he snatched his medkit and opened it up to finally help you. 

The cold had finally set in and all the blood that had seeped from your arm was causing your skin to turn pale. The gash on your arm was still wide open, but blood had stopped spilling from it, which meant he could disinfect it and get it closed without anything (hopefully) going wrong. Your side wasn’t doing all that bad, still bleeding, but not bad. He’d probably have to cauterize the wound just to feel like he could leave it be, but that could wait for after he got the bullet out of you. 

“Arm first, then your side,” he decided, nodding his head before he turned back to his kit. He turned back with a bottle in hand and you grimaced at the sight. “Gonna have to feel more broken before you feel fixed.”

“No shit,” you muttered, eyeing the small bottle of alcohol in his hand. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be snappy.”

Price set the bottle down, reached for his belt, and took it off. Something deep in you fluttered, but it stopped when he presented it to your face in a folded mess. 

“Bite down,” he said. You eyed him a little more, making him huff. “Bite down on it, Frost.”

You huffed back at him and bit down on the folded belt. You held it between clenched teeth, watching as he picked the bottle of alcohol back up. He sighed and nodded, almost as if he was telling himself that he was ready to do this. He tipped the bottle and poured the liquid over the wound. You squirmed and held back a writhing scream. He quickly clamped your legs between his knees, keeping you from squirming away. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” he said, trying to sooth you as he set the bottle down and wiped around the edge of the wound. He grabbed a needle and thread from his kit.

You groaned through the thickness of the belt as he stabbed the needle into your skin, creating even sutures along the wound. Your eyes closed as you tried to not focus on anything specific, but the feeling of Price keeping you in place while he dug a needle kept you from thinking of anything else. 

Price hated this. 

He hated every fucking part of this. 

Digging a needle and thread into your arm while you bit onto a belt. 

He thought back to the last time he had touched you. 

It was the night before the mission that you two were currently on. Price hadn’t expected to see you until the two of you were meant to take off on the tarmac, but he found himself aimlessly wandering the halls of the barracks until he wound up at the door of your private quarters. 

He almost hadn’t knocked. 

It was late, you two had to be up early, and he still didn’t know where the two of you stood when it came to something like this. 

He knew that there was some sort of love there, but he wasn’t too sure about the type. He knew that if he was stressed about all the ridiculous mission reports and papers he had to sign off on late into the night when he should be sleeping instead, you’d be sitting there with him to keep him company. He knew that if he mentioned that something was hurting, you’d use your nimble and calloused fingers to work away the knots and sore spots that came with all the training and missions. He knew that in a moment of weakness, he could count on you to hold the broken pieces of his soul together. 

Everything in his mind told him to leave you alone and let you be for the night, but the Captain was feeling selfish and he rarely ever got to indulge in such things.

His entire life and career, he was meant to be selfless. 

To put everyone else’s needs before his own. 

And ultimately, he had been okay with that… until he met you. 

He found himself tempted to be selfish when it came to you. 

He had knocked and you had answered. 

It was all he needed for the night. 

Maybe for life. 

“Done,” he said, tying off the last stitch and cutting the thread. 

“Thank fuck,” you breathed out, letting the belt drop from your mouth. 

“Still have a few more things to do,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of your side before glancing at your head. “I’m gonna have to lay you down flat to get the bullet out, alright?”

“M’kay,” you muttered, still feeling hazy. Your nerves were buzzing in all the wrong ways and you just wanted it to stop. 

Price carried you over to the fireplace and laid you out on the floor next to the fire in hopes of warming you up. The flame felt nice against your freezing skin. He worked quickly to strip you of your thermal undershirt. The wound on your side looked small, but the skin around it was stained red with thick blood. 

“Want the belt again?” he asked. You sighed and nodded. He grabbed his belt and folded it up again before placing it back in your mouth. Your teeth dug into the material as you anticipated whatever pain was about to come. “Ready?”

You grunted in response. 

He used a set of dull tweezers to dig into your side, fishing for the little bullet deep in your flesh. You reeled in pain, damn near shooting up on your own, but Price used his free hand to push your chest back down to keep you steady.

“I know, pretty girl, I know,” he tried to soothe, continuing to search for the hunk of lead. You writhed in pain, pressing yourself against the floor as hard as you could as if that would help you escape the pain that was stabbing into it. The ends of the tweezers grazed something hard and he knew that he almost had it. “Almost got it. Almost done.”

After a few moments, he pulled the metal fragment from your body and pulled the tweezers from your aching flesh. You gasped, shaking as you laid limp. Your shoulders slumped against the wood floor as your chest heaved. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you tried to catch your breath. 

“You’re alright,” he said, squeezing your good arm as if that would make everything better. He massaged your bicep for a moment, using it as an excuse to keep his hands on you. He was also trying to calm you down a bit more before he had to move onto the actual hard part. He grimaced and glanced over to the fireplace. “Do you trust me?” 

“Mhm,” you hummed, lazily nodding your head as you felt consciousness slipping through your fingers. 

“I need you to close your eyes, sweetheart.”

“Mm-mm,” you said, shaking your head this time around. 

“I need you to trust me on this one, Frost.”

You stared at him for a long while before finally giving in and closing your eyes. You slammed the back of your head against the wood flooring as hard as you could, wishing that the impact had knocked you out because you knew that whatever he was about to do was going to hurt like hell. 

Price had always been the type to make sure that his own were safe and taken care of, but he was also the type to tell his own to buck up and take it. Whenever the boys got injured out in the field, he would always make sure that they were okay, and if they were, he’d tell the lot of them to get back to work then. 

Even with you. 

Every time you had been bruised and battered, if you told him that you were okay, he’d believe you and expect you to be okay and not broken. 

So the fact that he was telling you to close your eyes and to trust him meant that it had to be bad and that scared you.

Price waited for a few moments, making sure that you kept your eyes closed before he proceeded with what he was about to do. He grabbed the hot poker from the fireplace, the one that he had been stoking the fire with before you had made it to the confines of the safehouse and trudged in with all of your broken parts. He took a deep breath, knowing that there was a good chance that he was going to hate this just as much as you. 

“Bite down hard and keep your eyes closed, you hear?” he ordered, heaving one last warning before he pressed the burning poker to your skin. 

You did exactly as he ordered even though you were itching to scream and open your eyes to see what the fuck he was doing, but the smell of your burning flesh was enough to urge you to just squeeze your eyes shut even tighter. 

You were going to pass out. 

Or vomit. 

Or maybe scream at Price for cauterizing your wound without a proper fucking warning. 

Maybe all three. 

You eventually fell limp, no longer having the energy to resist the fiery pain that flooded over your skin. The only part of you that could move was your heaving chest as your lungs begged for some semblance of air. 

Price pulled the poker away, tossing the burning end back into the fire.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he said, disinfecting the area around the cauterized wound to ensure that everything was thoroughly taken care of. He placed a bandage over it and then gently grasped your shoulders, his thumb massaging circles into your skin. “Gonna get you up now, nice and easy.” 

He slowly pulled you into an upright position, but you haphazardly slumped forward into his arms, forehead hitting his chest. He let your full weight fall against him. You still hadn’t said anything, nor had you opened your eyes. All you could really manage were hard, labored breaths that made your entire body quake. 

His heart hurt. 

Probably not as much as you were hurting, but still, it hurt. 

He couldn’t stand to see you like this. 

Body shaking in his arms, lungs gasping for air, kind eyes hidden behind low lids. 

He wanted to take you from this world. 

To take you from the world of hurt.

The world where you were constantly shot at and put at risk every time a new mission was assigned to the taskforce. 

But he knew that he’d never be able to take you from this world of chaos and pain. You’d surely raise hell the day you truly had to leave the force. You had always said that you’d probably die in the military. He really prayed that you wouldn’t. 

He pulled you into his lap, settling you down comfortably as he grabbed a clean wrap. He propped you up a little more so your head was resting against his shoulder, face tucked you into the crook of his neck. He wrapped your midsection, making sure to keep the bandages snug and clean. 

“Almost done,” he promised in a sweet coo. 

You opened your mouth, finally letting the belt drop to the floor. You hadn’t realized that it was still in your mouth. 

“Fuck,” you breathed out as he tied the bandages off, running his fingers over the material to make sure it all laid flat and clean. 

“Gonna lay you back down,” he said. 

You shook your head, pressing your forehead against his shoulder in hopes that he’d understand that you wanted to stay like that in his arms, face tucked away so he couldn’t see you cry. You just needed a moment to collect yourself. Tears pooled in your eyes, the pain setting in even more as the adrenaline started to wear off. He placed one of his hands on your back, gently rubbing circles over your shoulder blades in an attempt to calm you down.

“I’ve got you, Frost,” he muttered, pulling you in closer. Hot tears rushed faster from your eyes, slipping down, and staining his shirt as they dropped from your face. The diluted mix of salt water and blood didn’t bother him much. “Gotta check that head of yours. Clearly you’ve got a screw loose since you thought hiding all of this from me was okay.” 

“Didn’t want to bother,” you muttered hazily in broken fits.

“Helping you ain’t a bother, love,” he said, shaking his head. He slowly pulled you away from him and cupped your face in his rough hands. “How’s the head feeling?” 

“Amazing. Thanks for asking,” you said, letting the weight of your head sink into the salvation of his hands. He kept you up, calloused fingers running over your cheekbones to wipe away the stray tears still slipping from your eyes. The salty water had started to clear the blood from one of your eyes, but it wasn’t enough to fully see. You squeezed your eyes shut even more, leaning into him, and slumping in his hold. 

“Need you awake, soldier,” he said, jostling you around a bit. You opened your good eye, staring into his focused ones. 

There was so much comfort in his gaze. 

Solace. 

Made you feel warm. 

Too warm. 

Your eyes closed as you fell fully limp in his embrace. 

He scrambled to keep you in an upright position. 

“None of that now. Come on, Frost—”

God, you could die listening to that voice. 

You woke with the scent of musk and cigar smoke lingering around you. 

It was a scent that you had grown accustomed to waking up to.

There was a sense of easement that fell over you whenever the scent lingered on your sheets whenever he found an excuse to stay the night in your private quarters back in the barracks. A scent that you found comfort in whenever you woke from a long flight after a rough mission. And a scent you had learned to completely love when you invited him to stay with you for Christmas when the entire task force inevitably left for their week long holiday leave. 

You attempted to take a deep breath to take the comforting scent in, but it was cut short when you felt your skin pull against the stitches in your side.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You jolted from the sudden presence of the familiar gruff voice, but Price’s arms cinched around you tighter to keep you from falling from his lap and onto the floor. You were comfortably curled up in his lap, his arms around your body. His brows were furrowed, eyes riddled with stress and worry as he stared at you. 

It was the same look that he always gave when he felt like he failed someone. 

Disappointed them. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered.

He stared at you for a little longer before pulling you in to hug you tight. You winced slightly, but were happy nonetheless to be close to the worried captain. You sighed and closed your eyes, letting your face rest in the nape of his neck. The smell of musk and thick cigars filled your system again. 

“You can’t scare me like that again, Frost. I don’t think my old heart could take another fright like that,” he said, shaking his head to nuzzle his face into yours. He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of your hair. Even with everything you’d been through, the light scent of your usual shampoo still lingered. “Plus the boys would kill me if I ever came back with you in pieces.”

“They’d live,” you muttered, even though you knew he was right. 

The boys of the 141 would probably wreak havoc if you ever came back from a mission on the brink of death. Though, they’d never blame Price. You knew that much for sure. They’d know that your captain would do anything and everything in his power to get you back in the best shape he could manage. 

You slowly pulled away from him, staying in his lap as you tried to reorientate yourself. You had been stripped down to your base layers, your other gear laid out near the fire to dry the blood and snow that had soaked into the material. He was also down to his base layers, his gear and his silly little hat in a pile on the other side of the room. 

The two of you were comfortably resting on the rundown couch closest to the fireplace, but the sight of the fire brought a memory back to you. 

“I can’t believe you fucking cauterized my wound you bastard—”

“Had to get it shut, sweetheart—”

“And a fire poker was your first and only thought?” 

He grimaced and sat back so he was pressed against the couch cushion. His hands stayed on you, one on your hip and the other on your thigh, fingers tracing gentle circles into your skin. 

“Stitches weren’t gonna cut it,” he said, shaking his head. 

You sighed, knowing he was right. 

“I want a cigarette,” you said, going to slide off his lap in hopes of finding a pack stashed somewhere in the pockets of your gear. He tightened his grip on you, pulling you back into him. 

“Wouldn’t do you any good to have one right now,” he said.

“I want one anyway.”

He sighed and shook his head before grabbing a cigar from the ashtray on the coffee table beside the couch. It wasn’t a cigarette, but it would do. You found it humorous that a safehouse had an ashtray, but knowing the people you worked with, it almost made sense. 

The end of the cigar was already burnt, meaning he had been smoking while you were out in his arms. He placed it in his mouth and grabbed the lighter, burning the end until he was able to take a decent drag. The breath of smoke was held deep in his chest before he slowly blew it out. He made sure to blow the smoke away from your face before holding the cigar out to you. You went to grab it, but he moved his hand just out of your reach. Furrowing your brows, your eyes flicked between him and the cigar. He slowly brought it back to you, but held it right up to your lips. It wasn’t until you wrapped your lips around it did he let it go and the weight of the cigar rested against your lip. 

You took a deep drag, holding it until you felt light headed. You leaned back, only stopping when his hand braced against your lower back to keep you from tipping over. You slowly blew out, letting the smoke wisp above your head. You passed the cigar back to him and he placed it back in his mouth, the tips of his teeth chewing the end a bit. 

It was a nervous habit of his. 

Typically had to swat his thigh to get him to quit. 

He took another drag. 

He tilted his head to the side to blow the smoke away from your face, but before he could, you gently grabbed his face and turned it back to face you. He furrowed his brows in a confused manner, but you slowly leaned forward and he got the idea.

God. 

He could die like this. 

You sitting in his lap, a cigar in hand, and you begging for something that he could only think to do with someone he loved. 

All he was missing was a glass of whiskey to top it all off. 

He cupped your face and urged you closer, but stopped before your lips could touch. You were tempted to lean forward and close the distance, but you stopped yourself. Your mouth was slightly ajar, wondering if he’d actually go through with it.

He did. 

He kissed you hard and blew the smoke right into your mouth. Heat filled your system as you slowly leaned back and exhaled, letting smoke wisp away between the two of you. 

“Fuckin’ minx,” he muttered before taking another drag with a smirk on his face. “Even on the brink of fucking death.”

“You love it,” you teased. He huffed out a gruff laugh. “I’m sorry for almost dying.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” he said. “Boys would kill me in a jealous rage if they found out you died in my lap like this.”

“As if,” you said, rolling your eyes. 

“You don’t see the way those boys look at you, love,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Yeah? And how about the way you look at me?” you wondered. 

His gaze met yours and you didn’t dare pull away. 

“Just like this,” he said, his lids low as his eyes flicked down to your lips and then back to your eyes. 

The fingers that had once been drawing circles into your skin had stopped, the pads of them pressing into your plush thighs instead. He had a good grip on you. You weren’t going anywhere. Not that you wanted to go anywhere. 

You could stay like this forever. 

“You gonna keep looking at me like that or are you gonna do something about it?” you asked, wondering how far he’d actually go while the two of you were on a mission. 

Then again, you two were technically done with the mission and you were just waiting for evac so… no harm, no foul. 

He let out a light laugh before bringing a hand up to your face and pulling you in until his lips pressed against yours. You leaned into him, your front pressed against his own. You moved your legs until you straddled him, wincing once from the pain in your side. He pulled back, pressing a hand down to where your wound was, looking over the bandaged area. 

“I’m alright,” you assured him. You cupped his face in your hands and slowly tilted it back up until he was looking at you again. “I’m alright, John.”

He kissed you again, resting his hands on your hips with a light squeeze.

“Evac won’t be here for another six hours,” you said, having caught a glance at the watch on his wrist. “Care to kill some time?” 

“Oh, I’d love to.”

[redvexillum]

A/N: Kit, how dare you issue a challenge? I'mma come over and cough all over.... your keyboard! That's right! Biological warfare baby! Jks. I can't get out of my bed, lol.

SUMMARY: Every year on Christmas Eve, you meet Lucifer, your mentor. He regales you with tales from down below, and despite the passing years, you realize that your love for him has never faded.

TAGS/WARNINGS:  f!reader, soft sex, p in v, angel!reader, naive!reader, virgin!reader, first time reader, touchstarved!lucifer, cunnilingus, fingering

Laughter drifted like silken ribbons through the crisp evening air, weaving its way seamlessly into the chorus of crackling firewood and the quiet hum of the night. Above, the stars gleamed with a fractured beauty, like shattered jewels scattered across the inky sky. Each flicker was a ghost of light from stars long gone, their brilliance enduring even after their death—a poignant reminder of their fragility and their fleeting splendour of existence. 

The fire before you burned steady, casting warm golden halos against the encroaching chill. The scent of smoke mingled with the earthy aroma of wood, laced faintly with a sweetness that teased the edges of memory. Enveloped in the soft cocoon of your snowy white wings, you dared a glance at the figure across from you. 

Lucifer. 

He was once your mentor, your guide into the delicate art of creation—the delicate skill of weaving light, life, and beauty into existence. Even now, after his fall, he sat there with the same ethereal glow, though tarnished in the eyes of Heaven. His rosy cheeks, flushed as though kissed by frost, and his gentle smile felt like the warmth of a distant sun. 

Yet, the whispers of his past lingered like shadows. The Seraphs spoke in riddles, never fully divulging the sin that led to his fall. He had become the emblem of rebellion, the cautionary tale told to every fledgling angel. To humanity and the choir of angels, he was the harbinger of evil and sin. 

But to you? 

He was still him. 

“Want a s’more?” His voice broke the spell of your thoughts, warm and smooth, carrying a hint of playful curiosity. He held out the human treat, the graham crackers precariously balanced between fingers that had once wielded the glory of celestial creation. 

You nodded, reaching eagerly for the offering. At the first bite, a delightful medley of flavours melted onto your tongue—the silk of chocolate, the airy sweetness of marshmallow, and the crisp crunch of graham crackers. Your eyes lit up with unabashed delight. 

“Mmm!” you hummed, your grin radiant as you turned to him. 

Lucifer chuckled, his laughter low and rich, like a song from a time you thought you’d forgotten. He leaned back, busying himself with crafting another treat, his motions unhurried and precise. Around you, colourful lights danced on strings, their cheerful glow a stark contrast to the quiet of the winter night. 

You hadn’t planned to see him again after that fateful chance encounter in the human realm. Yet here you were, meeting him each year on Christmas Eve, reliving fragments of a bond that time had refused to sever. 

Your gaze drifted to his profile, illuminated by the soft amber light. There was something mesmerizing about the way his hair caught the glow, the way his sharp features softened in the firelight. 

The chill of the night was no match for the flush warming your cheeks. You didn’t mean to feel this way, to let your thoughts spiral into forbidden territory. 

He was your mentor. 

Your guide.

Your… 

But the space between respect and yearning had blurred, year after year, as comfort gave way to an ache you couldn’t ignore. You told yourself it was admiration. 

That it had to be. 

“So,” Lucifer’s voice stirred you from your reverie, casual yet tinged with something unreadable. “How are things up there?” His words held an edge of hesitance, his unnatural crimson eyes flitting to meet yours briefly before darting away. 

Your breath caught as your gaze fell to the faint glint of a golden band on his fourth finger. A thousand questions stirred in your chest, each one more painful than the last. 

And yet, you smiled. 

You always smiled for him. 

Blinking back the twisting discomfort in your stomach, you forced a bright smile to your lips, wide enough to mask the unease threatening to spill over. “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” you sighed theatrically, shrugging your shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. “It’s been ages since anyone’s come up with anything truly inspired. No creativity, no innovation… just endless routine.” 

Your gaze flickered nervously to Lucifer, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw his face light up—golden hues flushing his cheeks, a grin spreading wide and utterly unguarded across his face. 

“Well, isn’t that just typical!” he exclaimed, effortlessly crossing his legs and setting the fourth s’more neatly on the plate beside him. His movements were so quick and precise you barely caught them. “Those old coots upstairs wouldn’t recognize genius if it smacked them right in their self-righteous halos!” 

A giggle slipped from you, muffled only slightly by the hand you pressed to your mouth. It was still enough to escape, carrying the sound of bubbling joy across the air. His audacity—speaking so brazenly about the elders of Heaven—never failed to amuse you. But wasn’t that just one of the reasons why you… why you… 

Your chest tightened, a bittersweet ache swelling inside you. You didn’t want this moment to end. You longed for the days when you could see him whenever you pleased, like you had in those ancient, untarnished eons. 

Your wings puffed up instinctively, a reflexive motion that startled Lucifer enough to make him flinch. “Oh! S-sorry!” you stammered, cringing at the sudden disruption. “I just… remembered something!” 

With a renewed determination, you reached into your pocket, your fingers brushing against smooth rubber. When you pulled it free, your smile grew brighter, almost trembling with anticipation. You held it out to him with both hands. 

Lucifer’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He blinked once, then again, his gaze drifting from the object in your hands to your face. His lips, usually quick to curve into a grin, remained frozen in place. 

A flicker of nervousness gnawed at your resolve, but you clung to your bright expression, even as it faltered just slightly. “I-I heard that tomorrow is a day when people exchange gifts and spend time together,” you began hesitantly, heat crawling up your neck to bloom across your cheeks. “And, well… you once mentioned you liked ducks, so… I made this for you.” 

The small object in your hands was a pink rubber duck, its shimmering ruby eyes catching the firelight. Tiny white wings adorned its back, delicately crafted and fluffy to the touch. It wasn’t much, but it was something you’d poured your heart into—something that reminded you of the first time Lucifer had taught you the joy of creating. You still remembered the wooden duck he had given you all those years ago, a keepsake of simpler times. 

“If you squeeze it here,” you demonstrated, giving the duck a gentle press. The tiny beak opened, letting out a soft, endearing quack, and the little wings began to flap, the duck hovering just slightly above your palm. 

Your heart pounded as you looked up at him, hope filling your eyes. Surely, he’d see how much this meant. 

For a moment, Lucifer’s expression was unreadable, his blank stare heavy and unnerving. But then, his lips curved into a wide, mischievous grin. “Oh, wow!” he drawled, plucking the duck from your hands and turning it over to examine it closely. “You’ve really improved! Your craftsmanship is getting impressive.” 

His words washed over you, sending a pleasant warmth trickling down your spine. “Y-you think so?” you asked, your voice tinged with shy pride as you leaned in slightly, desperate to bask in the glow of his approval. 

He glanced at you then, and for a moment, his eyes softened, their sharp edges melting into something infinitely more tender. His vibrant red eyes felt foreign, a reminder of all he had become, yet there was a piece of the mentor you once knew. No matter how he had changed, Lucifer still held an unshakable place in your heart. 

And in this quiet moment, you realized… perhaps he always would. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low, threaded with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. His eyes softened, a flicker of vulnerability shimmering within their depths like the faintest ember of a long-forgotten fire. His hand hovered, trembling slightly, mere inches from your cheek, as if he yearned to touch you but couldn’t bring himself to close the distance. “You don’t have to indulge this old fool every year, you know.” 

Your head tilted slightly, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lucifer sighed deeply, the sound heavy with unspoken words. His hand dropped back into his lap, his fingers curling protectively around the small gift you had made for him. His gaze followed, falling to the duck in his hand as if it held all the answers he couldn’t find. 

“I…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together before he let out a quiet, frustrated breath. His eyes darted to the side, then back to the fire, searching for the courage to continue. “I’ve been reminiscing. About my past—about our past. And it’s been wonderful to share it with you again, but—” 

Your chest tightened painfully, the weight of his unfinished words squeezing the air from your lungs. You didn’t want to hear it. Whatever he was about to say, it would break something inside you, something you weren’t ready to lose. 

Before you could think better of it, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

His shoulders jerked, startled, and his head whipped toward you, wide-eyed and unguarded. Your lips quirked into a nervous smile, and with a forced, breathless giggle, you tried to brush it off. “I took my gift from you, Lucifer!” you declared, your tone falsely cheerful. Your hands wrung together in your lap, betraying the storm of nerves churning inside you, and your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the crackle of the fire. 

“A k-kiss,” you stammered, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s… what I wanted.” 

It was innocent enough, wasn’t it? You had seen Seraphim offer kisses to their students in gestures of affection and encouragement. Surely, this wasn’t so different. 

Right? 

Lucifer blinked, slowly, as if processing your words. Then, a quiet “oh” escaped his lips, soft and unsure. He glanced at your face, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity. 

“I can do that,” he said at last, his voice a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. 

He carefully placed the duck aside, tucking it safely into his pocket before leaning closer. When his lips met yours, it was gentle at first, barely a touch, but the softness of his mouth stole the air from your lungs. Your skin tingled where he brushed against you, sparking sensations that raced through your body like wildfire. 

The kiss deepened, and your hands instinctively rose, pressing against the lapels of his coat as you leaned into him. Your eyes fluttered shut, the world around you dissolving into the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and something earthy mingling with his own intoxicating presence. 

The quiet crackle of the fire mingled with the faint sounds of your lips meeting his. He pulled back slightly, just enough for your breaths to mingle, and his eyes caught yours. The red of his irises glowed softly, the colour unfamiliar yet achingly fitting for him. It was a shade you had never seen in Heaven, and yet it felt as though it had always belonged to him. 

“I miss these wings,” Lucifer murmured, his lips brushing against yours with every word. 

Before you could respond, his hand moved behind you, fingers grazing the base of your wings where they met your back. His touch was light, reverent, but the sensation that followed was anything but gentle. 

“Ah!” you gasped, a sharp cry escaping your lips as a surge of pleasure coursed through you, so intense it left you trembling. Your body gave out, collapsing against his chest as heat flooded your veins, setting every nerve alight. 

The sensations rippled through you in waves, overwhelming and indescribable. You buried your face against him, your breath ragged as you tried to steady yourself. It felt so good—too good, almost, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. 

“Lucifer,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but his name on your lips felt like a sinful plea.

The moment your gaze met his, Lucifer claimed your lips again, his kiss deeper, more fervent than before. His tongue brushed against your lips, coaxing them apart with a temptation as sweet as it was forbidden. Each movement of his mouth sent shivers down your spine, and the heat pooling low in your belly intensified, an ache that demanded more. His hands roamed over you, skilled and deliberate, igniting sparks that left you breathless. Shame prickled at the edge of your thoughts, but it was drowned out by the wet, warm sensation pooling between your thighs. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with the rustle of fabric and the faint crackle of the fire. His movements were fluid yet insistent as he guided you down onto the soft blanket beneath you. Lucifer hovered above, his arms caging you in, as if shielding you from the judgmental eyes of the Heavens above. 

In the firelight, his golden hair glowed, its brilliance rivalling the stars you had spent so many nights admiring. It was brighter than the sun, and yet infinitely more inviting. 

“My sweet angel,” he murmured, his voice trembling as though the words pained him. The nickname, long forgotten in the years since his fall, struck something deep within you, a chord of bittersweet memory. “Tell me to stop,” he pleaded, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin. “We should… stop.” 

The word echoed in your mind—stop. But it felt so foreign, so wrong. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to push him away, not now, not ever. His touch, his presence, the way he made you feel—it was all-consuming. You craved more. 

Your lips parted, and instead of telling him to stop, a soft plea escaped, barely audible yet filled with undeniable longing. A bashful smile curled at the corners of your lips, a silent answer to his hesitation. 

Lucifer shivered, his resolve faltering as his gaze searched yours. Then, he surrendered, dipping low to capture your lips once more. His hands moved over you, exploring with a reverence that made your heart ache. His touch ventured to places no one else had ever dared, yet there was no fear, no hesitation. With him, it felt right. 

Piece by piece, your clothes fell away, and his followed suit, each article shed like a layer of pretense until nothing remained but bare skin and shared warmth. The movements were slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic—a dance of devotion. The firelight caressed his form, and you found yourself mesmerized by the sight of him, by the way he looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered in the universe. 

His lips trailed along your cheekbone, leaving a path of warmth in their wake, before finding the delicate curve of your neck. He pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering, and you felt him shudder, his breath trembling against your skin. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hold on you tightening, as though he feared you might vanish. 

Your chest pressed against his, your bodies aligned, and a new sensation bloomed within you—a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement. The hard length of him throbbed against your core, every twitch synchronized with the rapid beat of his heart. The tip was warm, slick with your shared desire, a physical manifestation of the connection drawing you both closer. 

Your heart raced, not with fear, but with happiness—a profound joy that your first time sharing this sacred act would be with him. This was no mere moment of passion; it was something deeper, something eternal. An act of unity, of bonding, of love. Wasn’t it? You wondered, heart fluttering, if this meant he saw you as his equal, his soulmate. 

Did he love you? 

Lucifer’s voice broke the silence, hoarse and laden with conflict. “We should stop,” he murmured, his words catching as though they pained him to say. “I’m tainted… and you’re not. We should stop.” 

Yet even as he spoke, his arms clung to you with a desperation that belied his words. He held you as though you were his salvation, the one thing anchoring him in a world of chaos. His resolve was crumbling, his need laid bare before you. 

And you… you could not let him go. 

Not now.

Not ever.

Lucifer's voice was raw, tinged with a pain that gripped your heart. Though you couldn’t fully understand the depths of his torment, the need to soothe him overwhelmed you. Your fingers trailed tenderly through his golden hair, soft and warm under your touch. His muscles, taut with tension, gradually loosened, melting as he surrendered to your embrace. A sigh escaped his lips, quiet and vulnerable, followed by a low moan as his mouth pressed delicate, lingering kisses to your neck. Each touch sent shivers coursing through your body, his lips igniting sparks wherever they met your skin. 

It hit you then—why you returned to him, year after year, unable to stay away. This feeling, which had begun as a fragile seed, had blossomed into something wild and untamable. It was no longer just admiration or fondness—it was something much deeper. 

You loved him. 

The realization unfurled within you like a sunrise, pure and all-encompassing. Love, the most beautiful and sacred of emotions, a gift from the heavens themselves. It was love that had drawn you to Lucifer, time and again. Love that refused to let you abandon him, even in his fall. He had taught you about creation, about beauty, and now, he had taught you the most profound truth of all—the overwhelming power of love. 

Emboldened by the thought, you cupped his face, tilting his head upward. Your lips found his in small, feather-light kisses, each accompanied by a soft giggle of uncontainable joy. His torment, etched so deeply into his features, began to fade, replaced by a quiet resignation. His lips curled into a gentle smile, one that reached his eyes for the first time in eons. 

Then he kissed you again, deeply, a kiss that stole the air from your lungs and set your body alight. His tongue teased the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, and you let him in, surrendering to the heat of his passion. His moan vibrated through you, a sound so primal and raw it sent a shiver down your spine. 

His body pressed against yours, his arousal hot and throbbing against your core. The tip of him pressed gently, insistently, against your entrance, the weight of his desire palpable. You widened your thighs instinctively, your breath hitching as anticipation gripped you. 

"I'll be gentle," he whispered, his voice a low promise that resonated through every fibre of your being. 

You nodded, your trust in him absolute, your heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Slowly, he began to press into you, the sensation foreign yet electrifying. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he stretched you, your body adjusting to the slow, deliberate intrusion. 

“Ah,” you moaned, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he rolled his hips, pulling back before pressing forward again. Each thrust brought him deeper, filling you inch by inch. The rhythm was deliberate, reverent, as though he sought to worship every part of you. The sounds of your bodies meeting—the wet, slick noise of his movements, the ragged breaths, the whispered gasps—filled the air, a melody of intimacy. 

"That's right," he murmured, his voice thick with praise and desire. "You're doing so well, my sweet angel." 

Lucifer groaned as he buried himself deeper, his brows knitting together in concentration. You felt the burn of his entry give way to a blossoming pleasure, waves of heat radiating from where your bodies were joined. 

“Ah, my angel,” he groaned, his voice trembling. “So tight... so perfect.” 

He thrust deeper still, his pace steady and unrelenting. The fullness was overwhelming, every nerve alight with sensation. His hand slid around your back, fingers finding the base of your wings. When he touched you there, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, your walls tightening around him involuntarily. 

The sensation built and built, pain dissolving into pure, unadulterated bliss as he moved within you. Each roll of his hips brought you closer to something transcendent, a feeling so overwhelming it consumed you completely. And at that moment, with Lucifer holding you, filling you, there was no fall, no sin—only love.

Lucifer’s moan was low and guttural as he sank fully into you, his hips pressing flush against yours. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and fullness that left your body trembling as it tried to accommodate him. 

“Ah… ah… L-Luci,” you whimpered, your voice catching on every gasp as you clenched tightly around him. Your walls fluttered, struggling to adjust to his size, the stretch both foreign and intoxicating. Above you, Lucifer’s torso rose, his head tilted back as he groaned, savouring the tightness of your untouched core. 

“I’m going to move,” he murmured, his voice soft and trembling, laced with restraint. His hand cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had slipped free. The tenderness in his gaze made your chest ache, grounding you amidst the swirling chaos of sensation. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?” 

You nodded, your smile wobbly but trusting. 

Slowly, he began to withdraw, and a sharp whimper escaped your lips as the loss of him left you achingly empty. But then, he pressed forward again, filling you completely, his heat and presence igniting something raw within you. His movements were careful, deliberate, as he set a rhythm, his cock throbbing against your walls as if revelling in your embrace. 

Each glide of him inside you was smoother, more certain, and his pace gradually quickened. Your breaths intertwined, the quiet space filled with the sounds of your union—ragged gasps, soft moans, and the rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting. 

“You’re so beautiful, my sweet angel,” he whispered, his voice a reverent murmur that made your heart flutter. His hips rolled in slow, indulgent circles, eliciting a cry of pleasure as he drove deeper into you. “You feel incredible,” he sighed, his words like a balm to your overwhelmed senses. 

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fervent kiss. His tongue explored you with unrestrained hunger, mapping every corner of your mouth and drawing out muffled moans with every stroke. His lips left trails of fire on your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. 

“I’m close,” he rasped against your lips, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control fraying as he chased his release. 

You could barely form words, your body spiralling higher with every movement. “I want you to… feel good… Luci,” you managed, your voice breaking on a high-pitched keen as the coil in your core wound tighter and tighter, ready to snap. 

Your whispered plea undid him. With a final thrust, his body tensed, and a deep groan escaped him as he spilled into you. The warmth of his release filled you, each pulse of him deep within making you shudder. He moaned softly, his hips rocking gently as he pressed as far as he could, emptying every drop into you. 

As he stilled, his breaths uneven, he opened his eyes to meet yours. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew, and a shiver ran through you as his warmth began to escape. But before you could mourn the loss, his fingers slid inside, filling you once more. 

“Ah!” you cried out, your back arching as the sudden intrusion sent a jolt of pleasure through you. His fingers curled, seeking and finding a spot deep within that made your vision blur. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your body surrendering completely to the unexpected waves of ecstasy crashing over you. 

“Good,” Lucifer murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched you unravel beneath him, your pleasure becoming his own reward. 

"That's right, let go, my dear," Lucifer murmured, his voice a velvet caress against your senses. The wet, lewd sounds of his fingers delving into your heat filled the space between you, the mixture of his release and your arousal slicking every motion. His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, and your body clenched around him, desperate for more. 

“Ah… ah, Luci!” you cried, your voice trembling with raw need as the coil in your core wound tighter, ready to snap. The tension in your body built with every stroke of his fingers, every graze of his touch, until a sudden, warm pressure pressed against your sensitive nub. The contact sent a jolt of pure, searing pleasure through you, pulling a broken cry from your lips. 

Lucifer’s lips found your clit, his tongue flicking against the swollen bundle of nerves before he drew it into his mouth, suckling gently. The sensation was electric, each stroke of his fingers inside you timed perfectly with the pull of his lips. The sound of him—wet, desperate, and unrelenting—filled your ears, and the world around you blurred into nothing but him. 

Your body arched off the blanket, a keening moan escaping you as your hips pushed forward, seeking more. You were helpless against the onslaught of sensations, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to drive you higher and higher until you shattered completely. 

White-hot pleasure surged through you, a blinding wave of ecstasy that left you breathless. Your walls clamped around his fingers, spasming with the force of your orgasm as your cries filled the air. Lucifer didn’t stop—his fingers moved slowly, deliberately, while his tongue lavished your oversensitive clit with gentle, teasing licks, drawing out every last tremor of bliss. 

When the pleasure finally ebbed, leaving you trembling and spent, you collapsed back onto the blanket, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Your cheeks flushed, your lips parted in a dazed smile as you looked down at him. 

Lucifer raised his head, his lips glistening, and a small smile graced his face. But something in his eyes gave you pause—a shadow of sadness that dulled the light you adored. His gaze lingered on you, tender yet heavy, as though he was holding back something you couldn’t see. 

You reached for him, brushing your fingers along his cheek, your smile faltering as you whispered, “Luci… what’s wrong?” 

Lucifer gathered you close, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that belied his strength. His fingers threaded through your hair, stroking it gently, while his lips pressed soft, reverent kisses to your temple, your forehead, the crown of your head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of those words sinking deep into your chest. 

Your eyelids fluttered, the haze of exhaustion clouding your mind. “What for?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, relishing in the warmth that seeped into your skin. 

“For not being enough,” he began, his lips brushing against your hair. “For falling,” another kiss, this time on your temple. “For leaving you,” his voice cracked, and he kissed you again, a lingering touch on your cheek. “For disappointing everyone.” His lips trembled as they grazed your forehead once more. “For…” 

The words faltered, and you tilted your head, looking up at him. The pain etched into his features pierced your heart, but you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Did you know?” you began softly, the words coming from a place of vulnerability. “I look forward to seeing you every year. I look forward to hearing the stories about your daughter, to just… being with you.” 

To you. 

He was enough. 

Always. 

His arms tightened around you, his body trembling slightly as though your words unravelled something deep within him. You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of what you wanted to say, the unspoken truth that had been blooming in your heart. “I… I—” 

But the words caught in your throat, your courage faltering. Did he feel the same? Angels didn’t share this kind of intimacy lightly; it was an act of deep love, wasn’t it? Surely, Lucifer felt it too. 

He leaned back slightly, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “We should rest tonight, my sweet angel,” he said gently, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. 

You hesitated but nodded, allowing him to conjure a tent with a wave of his hand. The interior was illuminated by strings of delicate fairy lights, their warm glow casting a soft, ethereal ambience. 

“It’s like our own personal stars!” you exclaimed, the childlike wonder in your voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. 

But Lucifer said nothing, his silence wrapping around the space between you like a fragile thread. You told yourself he was tired, that the weight of the day had worn him down. Still, a small, nagging fear nestled in your chest. 

However, later in the dead of night, you stirred faintly when you felt a hand resting lightly on your head. You kept your eyes shut, your breathing steady as you waited, your heart pounding. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice cracking as though the words themselves were too heavy to bear. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, like a prayer seeking forgiveness. “You belong in Heaven, with the stars, not entangled with a devil like me.” 

Your breath hitched, but you remained still, every fibre of your being straining to hear more. You wanted to open your eyes, to reach out and tell him he was wrong, that you didn’t care, but something held you back. Deep down, you already knew, didn’t you? 

You were the one who clung to hope, who had dared to declare love where it was forbidden. You were the one who dreamed of a union that defied the heavens and the depths. And yet, now, all you could do was lie there, caught between the truth you feared and the love you couldn’t bear to lose. 

You closed your eyes, sealing them shut like you had sealed away every truth you didn’t want to face. The truth that Lucifer had fallen, that his place was no longer beside you, and that a future together was a dream as fleeting as stardust. You closed your eyes against the inevitable, against the knowledge that this fragile connection had always been temporary. 

You closed your eyes because as an angel, hope was all you had—and even that, you realized now, had been a fool's solace. 

Tears threatened but did not fall, held at bay by sheer will as you lay there, motionless. You heard the soft rustle of the tent flaps, the faint sound of him leaving, and then the crushing silence as his presence disappeared. The space he left behind felt cavernous, the absence of his warmth like an icy void. 

You didn’t know how long you remained there, curled beneath the blanket that still faintly carried his scent. The false stars above twinkled on, uncaring, mocking. Slowly, you sat up, the first tear slipping down your cheek like a crack in the dam. Then another, and another, until the flood of grief began to escape in earnest. 

You crawled out of the tent, the night’s chill biting at your skin as you wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself. The fire outside had dimmed to embers, its light no longer warm, its joy snuffed out. On the plate lay the discarded remains of s’mores, cold and abandoned, their sweetness wasted. 

You turned your gaze to the sky, to the real stars. Another tear slipped down as you stared at their brilliance. 

You weren’t going to see Lucifer next year. 

Or the year after. 

You weren’t going to see him ever again. He wouldn’t meet you, wouldn’t look at you with that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. The realization cuts you deep like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. 

More tears welled, spilling freely now as your throat tightened and your chest heaved. The stars blurred in your vision, but you kept looking, unable to tear your gaze away. They shone so brightly, their light a lingering echo of something long gone. A memory of existence clinging to the present, deceiving the dreamers and the hopeful into believing they were still there. 

A breath escaped you, shaky and shallow, followed by a sob that tore free like a scream trapped too long. 

Lucifer had been your mentor. He had shown you the wonder of creation, the beauty of ingenuity, the power of unrestrained possibility. 

But love? 

Perhaps he hadn’t taught you that after all. 

How could it have been love when you never truly had it to begin with? 

Your hands clutched the blanket tighter, your tears falling silently into the earth beneath you. The stars above continued their eternal dance, indifferent to your pain, as you sat there mourning the light you had lost—and the darkness it left behind. 

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[gazstations]

Heaven Incarnated

ASK REQUEST: find original post here

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SUMMARY

Johnny has loved you for a long time. Only he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be more than a friend because of the nature of his job. Eventually, he’s going to have to confront the truth he desperately tries to keep hidden.

FANDOM: Call of Duty 

PAIRINGS: John MacTavish x reader

WORD COUNT: 3,560 words

WARNINGS: Deep mentions of suicidal thoughts, self-deprecation, not a lot of dialogue, Johnny is reflecting a lottttt, angst with implied happy ending

◇ Notes: I had so much fun writing this. I think I popped off quite honestly. Though I did start crying a bit because halfway through, I started thinking about Johnny being canonically dead, and now I’m even more distressed. Get distressed with me by reading this!

○●○ NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

JOHNNY KNEW HE WAS SCREWED THE MOMENT YOU WALKED INTO HIS LIFE WITH YOUR STUPID LITTLE GRIN.

Even before he mentally knew that the flutter in his stomach and the warmth that spread through his growing muscle was that act of falling in love, he instinctively knew that you had burrowed your way like a thick vine around his rib cage until you pulled taunt. You were like another sentient piece of his soul that broke free from his physical self and wandered the earth. You always came back, though. And when you came back, his weary heart stitched itself back together.

You were a stable tangle of emotional health. You encouraged him to do better, to worship the very foundation of his essence. When he returned home from purgatory, clawed his way way with dirtied fingertips through the tar, you had draped yourself over the chasm and offered a hand. When his soul ripped in bitter halves, you manually threaded the blood and bone back together.

You were never not his pillar of strength. You melded into the role naturally without complaint and without prompting. Once you were there, you were the infestation that wouldn’t stop gestating. An invasion full of lively fullness that eased the weight on his back until it was time to fly free again.

You were his home.

The first time he realized he loved you, it was the simplest of affairs. There was no beat drop. No record scratch. There was a calm realization that twisted at his stomach when his gaze softened. It was so natural that once he acknowledged it, he never questioned it. However, once he let the thought germinate, he did feel fear.

Loving you wasn’t the issue. It was the staggering realization that he could lose you one day. There was no permanence in anything. There was blissful enjoyment until some aspect of the relationship dusted away. Physically, he could not take stock that he would hold his heart forever. Hell, there wasn’t even a guarantee he could emotionally cherish that which softened those ridged edges of his flesh.

So he vowed to just love you the best way he could.

He always imagined how sweet you’d be once you finally got locked in. He would be so good to you. He would be at your beck and call until you forgot what it was like to take care of things yourself. You were his universe full of vibrant iridescence.

Only, he couldn’t have you that way.

You were an ethereal being sent down to earth to be his guiding light. He was a mess of violence and guilt. He didn’t shy from the sting of warfare. He relished in the humanistic manifestation of hell. He shed blood until it caked and dried underneath his nails. The only time he would touch you was after he vigorously scrubbed himself down to the bone.

That first time, the steadying hand of love caressed his face he knew he could not be selfish. He could love you, but it could never taint your rich soil. Your garden was to be preserved until it bloomed and thrived with beautiful buds.

So he watched you with a softened gaze as you meandered your chosen hobby. His fingers stilled around the wooden shaft of his pencil as he watched you. He knew the exact second you became a sweet muse, an existence he wanted to immortalize forever. Every bend and God-given edge was stored in his mind.

He watched you closely, blue eyes scrutinizing every feature with awe. He knew perfection was an idealized pipe dream that was impossible to achieve, but you were his definition of the closest representation he could conjure. It wasn’t perfection in any standard term, but it was a hell of a lot close to what he perceived it to be.

What a sappy, lovestruck man he was.

That night was the first time he captured the way he saw you through his sharp eyes. But it wasn’t the last. In the recesses of worn down journals and past thoughts, you were constantly the center of attention. The leather bound books were stored far away, but his love was honored and bound to the earth from the moment he allowed graphite to mark the pages.

Only for him, yet all for you.

♡◇♡

You were always there like an answered prayer for the man who lost his grip on religion.

It was bad. The storm cracked in Johnny’s mind. A dreadful, destructive thing that billowed out clouds of gray over the synapses of his brain that produced serotonin. There was a thick, tar-like sludge that he struggled to even trudge through. He was dead weight, a husk of a man who didn’t know how to stop getting knocked down.

The hazy gloom settled deep in his bone marrow. His joints all creaked as he stepped foot off the plane that brought him home. He wasn’t built for this monotonous lifestyle, and he felt disorderly as he heaved himself on weary feet down the terminal.

And there you were.

You did not bring theatrics. You did not parade around him like some agitated monkey. You were the calm kiss of the waves against a shoreline. The gentle summer breeze during a warm evening. You were the peace that seeped into his bloodstream like a drug. Better than any drug, really.

His throat closed with guilt when he was enveloped in your embrace once more. How could he justify his place in your life when he only ever returned a small bit more damaged every time?

He was not a steady beat in a ballad. There was no harmonizing that occupied his throat when he looked at you. There was an off-beat staccato that thrummed beneath clenched jaws, aching body, and bitter resentment. He was the violence and anger that manifested in his periphery.

But he was also selfish.

He took greedily from the unwavering love you offered. Picked and picked like it was a milky chocolate that melted so perfectly on his bone-dry tongue. He should’ve left, yet he was a gluttonous man that wagged his tail whenever he had his maw enclosed in something divine.

If only he could dig deeper into the honeyed essence that made up your DNA, he would never starve. Though, he would not destroy you so completely. He was selfish, but he also was a professional in taking only what he deserved. Where you wouldn’t notice his thick claws as they sunk into soft skin.

You knew it was bad. You always did. Could catch the sorrowful lilt of his words. The faraway glances out the windows as your car glided down the road.

You didn’t press. Didn’t request a recount of what happened. There was no pleading to rip through classified information and digest the horrible reality of his life. You never demanded anything. Maybe that was why he desired to open up his heart and let it bleed out on the ground. Confide in you about the sickness that infested his brain.

But he wouldn’t taint you completely.

The two of you lived together in a little slice of heaven. The flat was his sanctuary. But that was mostly because of you. Evidence of your sweet existence was everywhere. He drowned in the reality of you. What a lovely thing.

He was exhausted. It was not the quiet ache in his lower back nor the heaviness of his eyes anymore. It evolved and splintered out into a full system catastrophe. He was weary, muted, and numb in the very muscles of his soul. The longer he worked, the further he fell into the void.

He muttered something about a nap as soon as he discarded his duffel on the floor. You held no surprise and calmly sent him off to the seclusion of his room.

He slept for a long time. His eyes crusted, his body was clammy, and he felt like he woke up in the pit of hell. He groaned and creaked as he came to, the vestiges of sleep slipping away as he wet his mouth.

But that was when you wandered into his orbit.

You climbed into his bed with ease, and he watched you like a hawk the whole time. This was not new. But like the lovestruck fool he was, his stomach unsettled every time. The besotted Scot was rendered useless by your mere presence. He was good at navigating the bloody battlefield. He was not good at knowing how to look you in the eye and lie straight to your face.

He was a filthy liar. He wanted to drag you down into the sticky tar he was bound to. He wanted to be irrevocably selfish in the way where he got his bloody paws all over you. He would layer your flesh in his personal signature until there was no doubt that you were entwined with him.

And you would probably let him, which is why he had to practice restraint so consistently. You were always so sweet and pliant. There was no doubt about that when you never noticed the tar pool he brought home with him. Didn’t notice how it seeped through the insulation and walls. One day, you would be stuck, your shoes glued to the ground, and you would be eternally sequestered in the hell he created.

You lay yourself out on your side, one hand holding your head up as you stared at him. He wanted to puff up like a peacock, preening under your intense stare. He relished in the moments you had your attention on him. It was a sweet treat, and he had always had a sweet tooth.

Silence was your game. That was the second time he confirmed what he already knew. There was something about sharing your space that made him get tortured with that reality. It was not a grand affair where he watched you laughing or having fun. It was just simply you that jolted his heart and sent him spiraling into this intense emotion.

Your existence alone could single-handedly crumble entire civilizations.

You smiled at him and reached out to fix his sleep addled mohawk. He leaned into your touch instinctively. It was safe. You were safe. Just as easily as you ignited his brain into a full shutdown and made a mess of him, you eased the nightmarish thoughts that ran rampant. He was so reliant on you to dictate his mood. It was a dangerous game.

“What’s going through that brain of yours, Mac?” You asked.

How could you not know? You were so bloody smart. You were bound to notice just how much of a fool he was. He was this puffed up man looking for a fight in every other situation. He could never sit still. Anger was usually the primary emotion that he used to filter out the noise.

But when you were around, he was docile. He played the part of an obedient mutt as he perched at your feet.

He met your eyes, his blue softening and the lines around his face easing.

“Ye are, love.”

That was as close to a love confession as he could get. And yet you seemed oblivious still. You didn’t ask what about you that he was filtering his mind with. You didn’t press the issue more than with what you said next.

“I hope I stay there for a long time then.”

His cheeks heated up, and he found himself stiff as a board in the wake of that. He pretended that you, too, were putting face to some secret in the matters of your heart. When he said that he loved you, you reciprocated in your own way.

What a fool he was.

♡◇♡

Death used to be a luxury John craved. When the flames got too high and smothered his being, he went kneel to the ground and begged for God to just let him be free. In his darkest moments, he expelled his faith from his trembling hands. He denied it. When he saw a yard full of slaughtered children, he cursed the omnipotent being and slashed the cross he used to bear without shame.

Yet it was also in that same darkness that he pleaded for the god that he separated himself from. He found offense in the way God wouldn’t grant him what he desired most. But should he have really been offended? He only knelt when it convenienced him. And every time, God turned a blind eye.

John wanted to be free, and God shackled him deeper on to earth. He wanted you, and he only got 50 percent of you. God was playing tricks with him, and John cursed him for that as well.

You didn’t meet him at the airport this time around. You didn’t even know he was home prematurely. He slinked into the hospital silently and begged the nurses, too. Dinnae call them. Dinnae want them tae see me like this. Eventually, they complied and left him to melt in the hospital bed.

His mind was an inferno. You did not deserve to be tainted by this. It was a raging storm. His synapses were shot, and he was a hollowed out body of flesh and bone.

But he was desperate for you. And it was after one specific fit that he took his trembling hand and dialed your number. He went against the rules he had set up for himself just because he needed you to battle and beat back the tsunami that was hurtling towards him.

And you were there like you always were.

You idled in his bubble for a long time. You grinned and bore the debris that smacked against you now that you had dove head first into the rushing water with him. He panicked and retreated as soon as he realized what he had done. The mess he made. He had almost died, and instead of keeping you at arm's length, he pulled you further into his crippled embrace.

He left handprints of tar on your cheeks, and you let him. While he spiraled into madness, you kept your softness and held his hand. Why? When had he ever been worth that effort? You willingly ruined yourself just because it was him. He didn’t understand.

And now he didn’t even have the military to fall back onto. He sucked the last remaining salvages of that life until he was cast away to search for more sustenance somewhere else. It was humiliating. That he could strip himself for so long, tear off pieces of his wounded heart, and still end up with nothing.

Was he just a puppet on a string? His puppeteer must’ve despised everything he represented because nothing that loved him would ever leave him flopping lifelessly in the middle of the desert.

You didn’t.

This time, his misconstrued anger was launched at you. He spit and hissed at you because you were the only physical manifestation in his life that he could bend. His maw was deadly, his words venomous.

And yet, you still stayed.

Why were you on a single track mission to crumple his mind? He assumed before that he was unworthy of your golden love, but now he knew for a fact that you were meant for grander things. You were meant for a life where you were whisked off to the dance floor and pursued without restraint.

But you chose to stay with your defeated best friend, who grieved and deteriorated away. Insides first. There was rot in his body, his lungs filling with black tar. When would he suffocate?

He prayed to God once more that you didn’t try to save him.

His head was full of maggots. He could feel them gnawing on his spongy brain. They chewed through wire and blood, finding out that underneath was hollowed out. Because he didn’t know who he was now. He bled profusely for a life that was only ever temporary. He never held stock in anything else.

The days were long, and Johnny found himself back at the pew for the first time in years, kneeled before the physical representation of God. It felt wrong to be under his wing again, and part of him felt repulsed.

He closed his eyes and prayed that God did something about this pain because he didn’t have the heart or gumption to do it himself.

♡◇♡

Johnny broke six months later.

He hated when you wandered away from him. When you crept beyond the threshold of their idyllic home, he grew faint and resentful. He was a mutt that didn’t know better. He looked for guidance in you selfishly, and when you naturally flew from the roost, he heaved up his insides.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

Johnny was a simple man. He loved you so fiercely it made him sick. He was rotting his own mind just to keep tasting what little slivers of food you let him lick from your fingers. He didn’t ask for seconds and instead kept laying at your feet like that obedient mutt. Waiting patiently for the next bit of scraps.

He loved you. He always did. He wanted you so badly.

He was a puny man. A sad excuse of what it meant to be masculine. He lost the livelihood that murdered him, and he was still indulging himself in the same habits that had been instilled in him. Don’t take what’s not yours. Don’t demand for more. Don’t expect that you can have that happy life? Stop yearning.

He wanted your golden light to capture him and infest his weary soul. He wanted to be happy.

When you came home, he was there. His spine was ridged and straight, his mind was fuzzy and faraway, and there was an infection of frustration brewing in his belly. His existence at that moment was tunnel vision. He was on autopilot, and his blood was pumping aggressively beneath his flesh.

And you noticed, you always did.

“Johnny? Hey, what’s wrong?” You asked softly as you discarded your keys and shoes at the door.

There was something heavy clawing its way up out of his throat. He was stone cold, his thinking process snuffed out as he just stared blankly. You were growing concerned. He saw the soft pout of your lips and the shifting of your feet. He knew your mannerisms down to the last atom.

You were always so bloody worried about him. And he still didn’t understand why.

Johnny broke then. He was a wounded man who was rendered useless to your orbit as he collapsed to his knees. He was shattering finally, his body taking a heaving breath as he went through the motions. It was the sob that ripped through his parched throat that rattled the house.

His tears were boiling as they trailed down his cheeks, a testament to how crippled he was inside for so long. He didn’t even exactly know what it was that broke the dam, but once the dam broke, then all that festering self-deprecation surged forward.

He was flooding the oasis you two crafted together. Neither of you were equipped, thrown brutally back and forth through the rushing water. He choked and spluttered and reached for you.

Your hand was there, gripping tight and steady. You acted hastily, making it to his keeled over form in record time. You pulled his head into your stomach, planting a gentle hand on the back of his neck. He spluttered into your flesh, nestling himself there desperately.

“I love ye,” he rasped. His words were untethered and lacked the agency he wished for, but he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t take it back.

And he knew you knew what he meant. What manifestation those words were forming. A man did not break down at the gates of heaven if he meant it any other way. He could tell you easily that he loved you in a platonic manner. He did. This version, he could not express so effortlessly.

He was a cadaver on the examination table. You would find his entrails all blackened and lost to disease, but his heart would be left alone. Because that is where you slumbered and made your stake. You nurtured his heart until it became your own. Because his rot refused to travel where you laid your claim.

He understood that now.

He melted under your gaze when you pried his face from your body. Your hands were his undoing as you cradled his cheeks. He was unraveling, chest heaving as he sought life sustaining air. A floundering fish on the deck of a ship. Only a siren operated the wooden vehicle.

You uttered those confessional words back to him in a honeyed tone. Suddenly, he could breathe again and saw the world clearly for what it was. Maybe this sweet rapture of bliss was what God kept him alive for.

He let out a soft exhale, breathing coming a bit easier than it ever had. He blinked slowly at you, blue eyes full of child-like wonder and fascination. He wanted to be reborn under your gaze, baptized in your waters forever.

He always knew he was screwed the moment you walked onto his life. That damn smile of yours was his beginning and end.

[bringthekaos]

Alrighty, here we go. Act III.

Mostly Jayce and Viktor centric, but with some wider thoughts as a whole thrown in. As usual, this is all my opinion, you’re free to disagree with me. Just don’t be a dick.

I am torn. I’m appreciative of the visuals and the JayVik crumbs (even though Christian Linke’s comments post-show have soured it to queerbait for me). But mostly I am disappointed. And I so badly didn’t want to be. I had such high hopes (and that’s probably my fault. I expected too much). They completely massacred Viktor’s character. There was such beautiful setup in season one of his background as a Zaunite living in Piltover. So much of his lived experience came from that—the oppression, the inequality, the xenophobia, the inaccessibility. It formed his opinions and his values, and that’s why he was so adamantly anti-weapon making. That’s why his number one goal was always to help the people in need down in Zaun. They showed us that he was a tinkerer and a builder, that he valued the ingenuity in machinery. They gave us that cute little boat from his childhood and the fucking Hexclaw.

Viktor was supposed to be a Zaunite champion. He was supposed to embrace Techmaturgy as a direct opposition to magic/Hextech. He was supposed to undergo his transformation into the Machine Herald of his own volition, with his own agency and bodily autonomy (yes I know it also stemmed from severe depression and one could argue that it messed with his decision-making, but still… he did that shit on his own). And there were so many opportunities to go this route in Arcane, and it would have worked!! If Viktor augmented his hand and his leg, but it cost Sky her life, he could realize the cost of magic, and turn to Tech. He could have been exiled back to Zaun, where he was supposed to be, and then the shitshow really could have unfolded—having one of Hextech’s creators now working for the other side.

And I know they had to change it so that he could be a bigger part of the overall narrative, as his original lore was rather disconnected. But there were much cleaner ways to go about it than disrespecting his entire character arc by turning him into a grimdark edgelord ethereal magic Jesus who no longer notices or even seems to care about the oppression and class warfare going on in his birthplace. Like. I’m sorry, him “curing” Salo? OG Viktor would have taken one look at a representative of the very oppression he stood against and blown him to kingdom come. (And yes, I also realize that he did it in Arcane because he was “under the influence” of the Hexcore, which only wanted to “infect more people.” But that’s another problem I have. This was never really made all that clear. And watching him go from “we will not be building weapons, that’s not why we invented Hextech/there is always a choice/we were meant to improve lives, not to take them” to making him turn human beings into weapons?? I don’t care that they tried to salvage his character by suggesting he wasn’t in control, it still undermines everything about him. And GOD, original League Vik had so much DEPTH. He was a hypocrite, he was still partly human and so he retained pieces/parts of all the things he preached against, which made him a wonderful contradiction. And he had a sense of humor and whimsy too! He enjoyed sweet milk, he cracked dry jokes and was sarcastic as fuck. He had a personality! And now he’s just… empty space man blinded by forced apathy.

And I think all of this is part of a larger problem—they wanted to use Arcane as a stepping stone to future shows, and as such, the class warfare and systemic oppression plot from season one was completely abandoned. They tried to solve it with “well they have to band together to face a bigger enemy.” Which in my personal opinion is a cheap cop out. There are always bigger fish, that doesn’t change the fact that Zaun has been living in Piltover’s filth with Piltover’s boot on their neck for generations. They’ve suffered injustices most of us can’t even comprehend. And then suddenly we’re supposed to believe they all band together to face this threat, stand side by side with their oppressors because Jayce made one speech about it? With no proof? And then all they get from the deal is one Zaunite seat on the council? And they’re okay with that? I never expected the show to solve systemic oppression, but I also didn’t expect them to abandon it this spectacularly.

The Noxus/Black Rose plot was clearly thrown in to set up future shows, and to show Netflix/investors/whoever that this massive financial investment has a future. And it destroyed the Piltover/Zaun story. I think this could have been a totally isolated story just about Piltover and Zaun, and been completely successful. In fact, I would have definitely watched future projects despite them not taking place in the setting of Arcane. And I’m not at all saying I don’t like Ambessa and Mel. I was very intrigued by the story of a warmonger like Ambessa facing her comeuppance, not just for her warmongering but for her affair with a damn MAGE. And her daughter trying desperately to break the mold her mother has set for her, while also struggling with who she is and these new, incredible powers she has. That shit is juicy as hell, and honestly should have been its own show. But throwing it into Arcane in season 2 with absolutely no hint of the Black Rose or its impending approach (beyond “the people who killed your brother don’t think the score is settled”) in season one, it just felt like the aforementioned cop out to get Piltover and Zaun to get along. And in doing so, they steamrolled Viktor to make him a bigger player in the narrative.

Did I like the final astral plane scene with Jayce and Viktor? God, yes. Is it one of the most beautiful confessions of love and eternal devotion I think I’ve ever fucking seen? Also yes. But it kinda feels like a bandaid on a bullet wound. I got the love I always knew remained between Jayce and Viktor, but I paid for it with Viktor’s entire character. Not to mention Christian Linke keeps pouring salt in the fucking wound, denouncing JayVik and “bromancing” them, and then also suggesting in one interview that Jayce and Viktor are actually fucking dead, and in another that Viktor will be back in future projects (with no mention of Jayce, which suggests that they’re turning him into Sky 2.0 and that he’s dead but Viktor isn’t). And that completely undermines the entire ending of season 2’s “intrinsically entwined/always you/in every universe.” And I know, I shouldn’t listen to this dude’s opinion on the matter, he’s not the only one making this thing, and honestly it was the easiest unfollow/mute of my life. But how hard is it to just shut the fuck up and let people enjoy things? To not comment one way or the other, let people think what they want, and rake in your millions in the process? Haven’t you ever heard of rainbow capitalism, my guy?

Ugh. I’m very sorry for being so negative, I didn’t want to be. I still love the show, and I’d still like to keep writing JayVik, even though it’s just been made near-impossible (I’m actually really glad that I never finished Oasis now, cuz I can go back to that and expand it well beyond what I originally planned cuz… it’s all I have left). I’m just mourning my cyborg wife, and the fact that goddamn SMEECH had what Viktor was supposed to. Hopefully the more time goes on, I can reconcile these changes and embrace them, cuz I love this fandom, I love this ship, and I don’t wanna lose it.

Anyway, I will still be sharing art and memes and posting analyses, because you can like a piece of media and still be critical of it.

[tinseltrinkets]

I just want to talk about how absolutely wonderful and beautiful this scene is

“There is one thing I know in my bones: there is no force in this world that can control you. You will never be a passenger.”

I am primarily a JayVik shipper but I don’t undermine Jayce and Mel’s beautiful relationship. Even if they weren’t lovers or aren’t at this point, they’re companions, they’re friends.

We usually see male romantic interests say stuff like “you’re beautiful” or “I’ll always protect you” in lines that are meant to be the pinnacle of their love for a female romantic interest. A lot of the time it’s lines that take away autonomy from the female romantic interest or emphasize some sort of otherworldly ethereal quality that makes her out to be only a “girlfriend” or “wife.”

Jayce’s line to Mel is empowering her. Not even empowering, but rather expressing the power he knows she already possesses. It isn’t from a place of patronizing or possessive love, but a deep admiration and understanding of her autonomy and personhood. It’s not from a boyfriend to a girlfriend or from a man to woman, but from a human to a human.

And it is deeply personal. He’s not just flattering her, the emphasis isn’t on him being a smooth talker. The weight of this line comes from her strengths as well: her ability to break from the cycle warfare and power mongering expected of her, her intellect and wit, her warmth, the list goes on.

Jayce knows this about Mel and he wasn’t just attracted to it but respected it, admired it.

This is one moment that solidified Jayce as an ideal man for me and makes me so happy that Mel got to hear this.

[imawreck]

Essence

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Original Character

Summary: An undercover OP forces Bucky and Max into an interesting predicament. Wills are tested, and tension runs hot. Could this be what forces Bucky to face his feelings, or only serve to fuel the flames of their never ending feud?

Author’s Note: A little something me and my bestie thought up for funzies. This has very little to do with the main storyline I’ve written for Bucky and Max so I wouldn’t try and put it into a timeline or anything! Lmk if you want a part two! Thinking about making one.

Warnings: Adult themes, strip club, lap dances, suggestive content, Bucky being absolutely down bad, Sam being Sam (slightly annoying), cursing, canon violence, probably a lot more but that’s the main stuff.

Word Count: 2,432

“This is fucking stupid.”

Bucky sat in the muggy atmosphere of ‘Essence’, a strip club rumored to be frequented by their current target; Oliver Cade. Cade was a drug dealer and very well known in the sex trafficking ring. Recently, he’d made a suspiciously large amount of money very quickly. So, a select few Sword and Shield agents were put undercover to take him out.

That’s the only reason he’d ever find himself in a place like this. Missions took him to a plethora of unsavory places he’d rather never return to, and he was beginning to think this was crawling to the top of that list.

Maybe it was because of his age and the time period he grew up in, or maybe it was the fact that the scantily clad men and women of the club were just a little too lewd and unsavory for his taste. There was just no part of this scene that sparked what most people chased in a place like this.

“Language.” Sam snapped back, yanking Bucky back out of his head. The sass filtering through the comm tucked away in Bucky’s ear only fueled his irritation. “Steve wouldn’t approve.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, “Don’t say that. You’re not Steve.”

“But he would say that if–.”

But Sam didn’t get to finish his retort before Bucky cut in again, “Where’s Max? Didn’t you say she would be here by now?”

Sam chuckled in his ear, “She’s managed to impress the club owner and snagged herself a top spot as their main act. Means anyone wanting a private show will pay a pretty penny to have her, including our guy. It’s perfect, really. She’s exactly what he goes for.”

Anger roiled in Bucky’s veins as Sam prattled on. He hated these types of missions. Not only were they unpleasant, but they made agents particularly vulnerable. Minimal clothing meant no way to hide a weapon, which is exactly why Bucky and a few other agents scattered throughout the club were carrying concealed weapons. They were the backup if things went south, but with the crowded room and the close proximity in which the dancers had to be with clients, it was practically guaranteed the undercover agent was in harm's way.

Max, fortunately, was a weapon in herself. That was one of the few reasons Bucky didn’t feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin.

The other reason was the burning curiosity keeping him seated on the plush velvet booth encircling a dance poll. A poll that was currently being used by what looked like an airbrushed mermaid.

The Essence Club was known for its more extravagant and odd caterings. For instance, tonight was a themed night. The dancers were all dressed and done up to appear ethereal in some sort of way. Some were decked in bejeweled gowns and tiaras, others with their skin painted blues and greens to mimic nymphs of fairy tales.

A part of Bucky was looking forward to Max’s performance, but the stronger part dreaded it. Why? He didn’t want to face that particular answer.

Max and Bucky teetered on a fence of mild tolerance and outright warfare. Max was every bit the morally grey individual he was set out to put down, and yet he couldn’t. Bucky respected her skill and grace in their field of work, and despite her questionable methods, she was efficient and her casualties were low.

Not to mention the fact that their pasts were interwoven in ways he couldn’t yet decipher. The memories of a certain white-haired assassin were faded and muddled in his mind.

It made him uneasy. And so did the heat that always bloomed in his chest when she caught his eyes.

No, Bucky had decided he despised Max, but it was his job as her partner in this to make sure she made it out.

So, he begrudgingly remained in the stuffy club and nursed a glass of bourbon.

Seconds later, the lights shut off, and a spotlight illuminated the center stage. A rather gaudy individual bejeweled in a black and red dress addressed the club goers in a sultry smooth voice. “Good evening, and welcome to Essence where fantasies become realities. How is the crowd tonight?”

There was a chorus of hoots and shouts of excitement from everyone around Bucky, and he sunk a bit lower in his seat.

“How lovely! Well, you're in for a treat tonight.” They quirked a brow, red painted lips tilted in a sly smile. “We have been visited tonight by a special guest. A rarely met Fae of great beauty and even more alluring talent. A being capable of shapeshifting and illusion, a manipulator of minds and dreams…”

The crowd rumbled with curiosity, and Bucky himself sat up more as the introduction neared its end.

“I bring you,” a long pause followed their words, drawing out the anticipation, “Sidhe.”

The spotlight fades, as does the crowd's murmurs as the curtains draw to reveal the silhouette of a woman.

A very scantily clad woman that definitely looked too familiar.

Bucky swallowed hard, trying and failing to tear his gaze from her as the spotlight enveloped her in a blue light.

Max looked like a goddess.

She was covered in what looked like sheer silver silks. The fabric wound around her body, accentuating every dip and curve of her as she walked. The ends of the silks whispered across the floor behind her heels, flowing across the floor like a silver stream of starlight. Bucky couldn't blink, couldn’t breathe. Every inch of her was barely covered, barely withheld from the gazes of dozens of drunken men.

Barely withheld from him.

Bucky watched as she drew her hand up, her fingernails long like claws and painted a glossy opaque, and trailed them up her throat as her head fell back just as a thrumming music began.

And then she was moving. Not like he’d seen her do a million times on the battlefield, with her sharp clean precision and power. Not harsh and violent. No… no, the way her body moved now?

Bucky had never been so captivated.

Her claws wound into her wild white hair, tousling the short white locks as her hips swayed rhythmically, flowing with the music and drawing everyone’s eyes to the way her body followed the beat.

Those blue eyes glinted under the lights, like the mirrored pupils of a predator stalking prey; flickering over each of her admirers. The sight would normally make people feel unsettled. To see such a strange quality on a human being in broad daylight. Here in this moment though, as she drew her hands down the lean muscles of her abdomen, it was nothing more than erotic.

Bucky’s pants grew tight, and he tore his eyes from her. He shouldn’t be here. Maybe a high beam, or the back where he couldn’t see her. Where he couldn’t be tempted by her.

Because that’s what he was. Tempted. And he was utterly terrified of the feeling.

Max had always been open with her attraction to him, he knew how she felt. He knew that he’d— that the Winter Soldier— had something with her. Something more.

And it was starting to bleed into his own feelings towards her.

But they were co-workers. Partners. He couldn’t feel that way for her.

The soldier's attention was drawn back to the stage as Max dropped to the floor, the thin fabrics of her dress fluttering down around her. A few gasps were echoed, and several men leaned forward to check if she had fainted.

Bucky found himself leaning too. Glass forgotten and eyes searching, worry blooming in his gut—

Those mirrored eyes were on him. Focused, purposeful, as the music grew more melodic and the base thumped louder. She ground her hips into the air, a smirk growing on her face as she trapped him within her gaze.

She wanted him watching.

“She’s, uh, really playing her part.” Sam coughed into his ear, startling him enough he pressed his back harshly into the booth seat to put some distance between himself and the temptress in front of him.

He’d forgotten they were on a mission. Shit.

Sam sounded off again, “Our target still isn’t as interested as we need him to be. She’s gotta do something to get his attention.”

There was a pause as Sam patched Max into the comm line. “Max, you need to take it up a notch. Target still isn't chomping at the bit for you yet.”

Sam’s sudden intrusion on comms didn't seem to interrupt Max at all, not a moment of hesitation interrupting her performance. In fact, the intrusion seemed to spur her even more.

Bucky watched with bated breath as her hips lifted up, up, up. The fabric of her dress pooled on the glossy black stage, slipping higher and higher on her legs to reveal those supple thighs. Her skin seemed to glow in the light, shimmering and soft. The sight betrayed the true power he knew her body possessed.

Max hooked her legs around the pole before him, her back arching as she lifted off the floor. The pole spun with her momentum, showcasing her dance like a doll in a display case.

Bucky was both enraptured with her, and utterly disgusted with himself for the vile thoughts that began tugging at his mind at the sight of her. Here, like this, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. The curves of her body, the spark in those glass eyes…

Fuck.

She moved towards him, eyes locked on his, her body moving with fluid grace. Max looked every bit like an ethereal huntress as she dropped from the stage and prowled forward.

His eyes track her movements, the sway of her hips with each heeled step towards him. Bucky suddenly felt too hot, too constricted in his clothes under her haughty gaze.

And that was absolutely nothing compared to the blaze he felt when one of those opaque claws scraped its way teasingly from his knee to his thigh.

If there was a god, Bucky didn't know whether to praise it or curse it into oblivion.

Max leaned over, that finger settling just below his hip and tracing figure eights. “Care to be my partner for the night? I need your help making good ole Oliver jealous, and you're the only one in his direct line of sight.”

Her voice was sinfully soft and ever so sweet. With her fingernail tracing his leg, the heat of her body so close to his, her breath on his ear… God, how was he supposed to keep his head on straight?

A gruff ‘sure’ was all he managed to say. Too distracted by the suffocating heat rising under his skin.

Max smiled, the image every bit sinful, as she eased herself onto his lap. His hands withdrew from his legs, raised in the air just inches from where her weight settled against him, eyes wide and heart pounding.

This would be the end of him.

“Come on Buck, act like you’ve seen a woman before.” Sam whispers into the comms, and it brings a sly smile to Max’s face.

Her hands plant on the back of the booth, nails clacking against the crimson stained wood as she leans forward. Bucky could smell her perfume and the mint on her breath, a cocktail of something deep and rich. A drug a part of him begged to let consume him.

Max shifted her weight, her ass pressing into his thighs and her shoulders swaying to the thrum of music. Her chest heaved in his face; dampened with sweat and shimmering under the lights. It took every bit of his self control to tear his eyes away and pin them to the ceiling.

And then she laughed. Soft and teasing. A thumb brushed his chin, the drag of those nails behind his ear and the press of her palm against his cheek bringing him right back to her.

“Target has some interest now.” Sam comments into the comms, but it’s barely a whisper over the thrum of Bucky’s heart and the heavy beats of the music.

Max leans forward, chest pressing into his own as her lips brush his ear. “Looking a little out of depth there, Soldier. Want me to do all the work?”

That lit a fuse in his brain, stirring his irritation. Irritation was good, distracting.

Except that she was poking at his dignity, and he was competitive at heart.

Before he could think it through, his hands were settling against her thighs and tugging her forward. It was a quick, smooth move that had her seated right over him and their faces inches apart. There was the slightest flicker of surprise in her eyes before a slow, satisfied smile settled onto her features.

He’d done it now.

Max shifted her hips as the beat changed, grinding them downwards on his lap. Bucky’s breath shuttered, and he could feel his heart pounding with the rhythm of the music she danced to. Her eyes were on him, drinking him up, and he just knew that she caught every micro expression he was desperately trying to cover.

Those nails grazed his scalp as she cradled the back of his head, moving forwards to angle his face into her chest, and tilting her hips just a fraction—

Stars exploded in his brain as she rubbed directly against him, pulling a groan from him.

“Someone’s worked up.” Her lips were brushing his ear again, his hands traveling up to grip her hips as she continued her torturous movements. “Makes for a good show.”

Frustrated, Bucky grit his teeth and held her eyes as he wove his metal fingers in her dress and pulled her down.

The delicate little sound she made nearly broke him.

But before he could short circuit and haul her somewhere private, Sam was in their ears. “Targets making a move. Looks like he’s heading towards the Owner with a wad of cash in hand. The plan worked.”

And then Max was moving off of him. She stood, smoothed over her dress, and turned to sway herself back to the stage as the men around whooped and whistled and begged for her attention.

Bucky’s chest heaved, dick aching as he watched her mount the pole again as another song started and began another dance.

Damn the mission, damn that stupid punk-ass target, damn it all.

He wanted to make her pay.

And he’d get his revenge by the end of this one way or another.

Tags <3

@savannahrilee-blog / @littlegreenjellybean

[infaethible]

lycanthrope adaine's honest review of the Doggy Petting Ability of her friends. to me.

fabian: respectful. excessively so. not a satisfying scritch behind the ears in sight. just a pat. 4/10 riz: frankly uncomfortable with the idea of petting his close friend like she's a mere animal, but they're both Stigmatized(tm) now, so there is camaraderie in this. an unavoidable 0/10 on the petting front, but A+ for effort kristen: good petter, but keeps going for tummy rubs and adaine isn't ready for that level of commitment. heeyyy, girlieee... 6/10 fig: tief claws good for scritching. 7/10 gorgug: good pets AND has drumsticks to play fetch with? goated. 9/10 ayda: a little too nervous about it for adaine to be completely comfortable, but a good petter once she gets into it! 7/10 aelwyn: unnervingly good at behind the ear scritches, likely due to alliance with felis catus..... makes adaine do the stupid little dog leg kick much to her chagrin. 8/10 because of the mental warfare zayn: incapable of werepettery under most circumstances. ethereal plane metaphysical contact always feels weird. they just chill. 5/10 for vibes tracker: there is a sisterhood between them here! more than petting occurs. not in a licking-inside-the-mouth way like real world wolves do, but they're cuddly and tailwaggy around each other. mutual ear scritch at times. very cool. 9/10

[bardic-tales]

This post delves into the divine evolution of Aurora and Lucien Moore: twin godspawn born not of womb but of will and crafted in the Ethereal Nexus by Bianca and Sephiroth. From cosmic hatchlings cloaked in iridescent down to sovereign beings ruling their own celestial and abyssal realms, this piece traces their mythic growth across two decades.

Possible Trigger Warnings: body horror, cosmic horror, death imagery, emotional manipulation, extreme parental control, genetic experimentation, identity loss, intense violence (implied and trained), magical coercion, non-consensual creation, paranormal and metaphysical trauma, parental obsession, psychological conditioning, religious and divine themes, ritualistic imagery, sacrificial undertones, warfare training of children

Aurora and Lucien were not born in the traditional sense, but hatched in their true forms—cosmic draconic-phoenix hybrids, covered in downy, iridescent feathers—within a nest Bianca forged in the heart of the Ethereal Nexus. There, she formed their shell-cocoons from stardust, divine ash, and Celestial, Demonic, and Jenova cells. When the time came, she spoke their true names, not given but encoded in their very essence. The shells fractured by choice, not force, releasing light, void, and the weight of ancient prophecy. The hatchlings emerged fully aware with the ability to converse telepathically and emotionally. They were radiant and strange with their wings too large, their horns shaped like halos, and a cloud obsurring around their lower halves. They did not cry. They breathed, and the air itself responded. Bianca gathered them into her wings, imprinted them with corrupted love, and vowed to protect them as sovereign embers of her storm: creatures of myth, born of ruin and rebirth, as she was the Harbinger of Death and Rebirth.

From the start, Aurora and Lucien exist in their true forms: beings of radiant feathers, coiled horns, and energy-rich wings. Their earliest lessons involve learning to compress their divine forms into humanoid glamours: a practice that requires emotional mastery, magical control, and metaphysical fluency. By age four, under the vigilant eyes of Sephiroth and Bianca, they achieve stable humanoid projections, though their wings remain in development.

Flight is earned through determination, repetition, and training that blends grace with grit and guided by Bianca’s nurturing instinct and Sephiroth’s exacting standards. This is achieved through synchronized flight with their parents and tethered gliders.

Their early development occurs in sacred isolation. With no other beings in existence, the twins are raised entirely by their divine parents. Their environment, the Ethereal Nexus, is an ever-shifting sanctum carved from corrupted reality and celestial harmony now. The eternal battle between the fallen celestial and the Celestial Loyalists have long been put to rest. Education is immersive and total. They spar in gravity-folded chambers, meditate beneath stars frozen in time, and learn to manipulate reality while Bianca hums lullabies in celestial tongue. Since Bianca attacked Sephiroth to protect her children, they are not brutalized by either parent. They are empowered.

Bianca’s maternal methods are fierce and protective. She stages illusions for them to conquer, teaches flight through gentle wind guidance, and shelters them in tendril-woven cocoons when they are hurt or overwhelmed.

Sephiroth is the architect of their discipline, instilling strategy, power, and vision. Bianca is their fortress: a holy terror with a mother's heart. She bathes them in miasma to temper their immunity, brings them prey, which she conjures, laced with magic to awaken their potential, and flares her wings wide when they are afraid, casting shadows that shield rather than smother. Her love is sacred, instinctual, and terrifying to behold. It was terrifying enough to even cause Sephiroth to pause.

By adolescence, the twins are fully adept in humanoid and divine forms. They master flight, reality phasing, and metaphysical resonance. Aurora leans toward sovereign domination, weaving influence through psychological manipulation and ritual. Lucien seeks transcendence. His path steeped in purity, silence, and cosmic detachment. Both are reflections of their parents, as well as the Remnants that Bianca had once falsely mothered and grieves for still. Aurora inherits Bianca’s emotional volatility and precision, while Lucien mirrors Sephiroth’s serene ruthlessness. They carry within them the dual legacies of destruction and rebirth: not as fate but as inheritance.

By age 20, Aurora and Lucien ascend beyond childhood. Each claims a sovereign domain. Aurora inherits the Abyssal plane; Lucien, the Celestial plane, where divine silence reigns and light is sculpted into matter. Their upbringing ensures they do not emulate mortals. They reign above whatever creatures they will into existence. They are gods not by chance but by deliberate design.

Their journey from feathered children to divine rulers is a myth written in parental devotion, sacred wrath, and cosmic inheritance. Through them, Bianca’s defiance of Jenova becomes immortal. Not as a footnote in Sephiroth’s saga, but as a sovereign myth of her own: the mother who birthed new gods, guarded their sanctity with fang and shadow, and taught them to write fate in their own tongues.

Growth & Evolution Timeline (0–20 Human Years)

0–1: Hatchlings: Newborn divine entities. still radiating raw cosmic energy. unable to suppress true forms.

2–4: Fletchlings: Developing control over their physical forms. learning basic reality manipulation and emotional resonance.

5–9: Emberlings: Burning brighter. children in power and curiosity, beginning structured metaphysical training, experimenting with limited glamours / shapeshifting.

10–18: Ascendants: Adolescents refining flight, phasing, and godhood theory. Capable of planar manipulation and ideological shaping. Pre-sovereign minds.

20+: Sovereigns: Fully awakened adults. rulers of their own planes. Masters of transformation, philosophy, and inherited divine roles.

Evolution:

0–1 Years Old

Hatched from reality cocoons within Bianca’s Nest at the Ethereal Nexus in their true forms: cosmic draconic-phoenix hybrids, covered in downy, iridescent feathers.

Appear as large, sentient, bird-like hatchlings with glowing eyes and clawed talons.

Cannot yet speak, but communicate telepathically with Bianca and Sephiroth through emotional pulses and rudimentary images.

Start absorbing raw aether (magic) from the environment, nourishing their celestial-infernal cores.

First signs of magic manifest as spontaneous bursts of elemental or psychic energy.

2–4 Years Old:

Begin forming a basic understanding of identity, recognizing Bianca and Sephiroth as parents and mentors.

Display clear twin bond. They often physically curled around each other while sleeping or in distress.

Can emit structured thoughts, rudimentary speech in celestial tongue, and basic mimicry of Sephiroth’s tone or Bianca’s sarcasm.

Wings remain down-covered and unusable for flight; Bianca and Sephiroth begin daily physical strengthening exercises.

They begin shaping their celestial visages: humanoid “glamour” starts forming in dreams and magic-based mimicry. Humanoid glamour they appear as toddlers with tiny wings

Undergo first “molting” and evolution: down feathers are shed, replaced by sleek proto-feathers; claws and horns grow sharper. Begin consciously practicing shifting into partial humanoid forms. usually unstable and flickering.

Bianca tutors them in corrupted reality control and emotional channeling; Sephiroth begins martial and strategic training. Magic control improves rapidly: telekinetic play, shadow manipulation, and light distortion emerge.

Wings remain too small for flight, but muscle control exercises increase. They practice with tethered gliders or flights with their parents

By age 4, they gain stable “human” glamour forms: small children with silver-white and black hair, glowing eyes, and faint residual feathers along the back and shoulders.

Begin walking, talking in age appropriate language, and fighting in human forms though they often instinctively revert to true form in distress or anger.

5–10 Years Old

Their humanoid forms mature into childlike versions of their adult selves: eerie, beautiful, and unnaturally poised.

Flight practice begins: short hovering and gliding sessions under Sephiroth’s direct instruction increases.

Begin constructing personal weapons with Sephiroth’s guidance—proto-versions of Abyssal Requiem and Lucien’s future blade. Weapons Infused with Jenova and demonic cells

Learn to switch between forms smoothly. Their true forms grow in size and complexity, developing secondary wings and more defined halo structures, much like Sephiroth's final evolution.

Start defining their personalities: Aurora becomes ambitious, regal, intense and Lucien is protective, quiet, calculating.

Inter-realm sparring begins: fighting within the mock Celestial and Abyssal planes to test adaptability and metaphysical control. Assigned preliminary dominion over prototype domains to test leadership and divine authority.

11–15 Years Old

Fully fluent in multiple magical tongues, including Infernal Script and Celestial Ley Resonance.

Begin conjuring minor spirits, enforcing planar will, and distorting space within localized fields.

Combat ability rivals lesser gods, as Sephiroth pushes them harder with multiversal dueling and mental conditioning.

Aurora leans into Abyssal war architecture, commanding demonic constructs and practicing psychological warfare.

Lucien develops planar illusionism, time-bending perception, and excels at tactical nullification.

Both begin forming early ideologies. Aurora leaning into dominion and rebirth, Lucien into preservation and paradox.

Physical growth stabilizes to near-adult humanoid proportions; wings now large enough for full flight in both forms.

16–20 Years Old

Final divine tests: Both face full metaphysical trials constructed by Bianca and Sephiroth to challenge identity, control, and autonomy.

Gain mastery over hybrid abilities. Aurora wields corrupted reality and celestial judgment; Lucien bends space and renders thought into matter.

True forms now fully developed: cosmic phoenix-dragon hybrids adorned with halos, sigils, and dimension-slicing wings.

Begin construction of their realms: the Abyssal Domain (Aurora) and the Celestial Dominion (Lucien), using raw magic, personal mythology, and parental blueprints with the help of Bianca and overseen by Sephiroth.

Emotional independence forms: though they remain loyal to their creators, their identities are no longer dependent on them.

By 20, they are considered gods in their own right. Aurora is crowned Sovereign of the Abyss; Lucien, Architect of the Celestial Spire.

Bianca and Sephiroth formally release them into divinity, leaving them to rule alone until new life is seeded into the cosmos. They do keep in contact with their children.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

[labeteenmoi]

Little rabbit

Part 4 (last) / part 1 here

Fandom: The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare

Pairing: Anders Lassen x OC

Warnings: explicit smut (oral sex, doggy style), beware of the fluff also

Summary: saving the best for last, as it should be

Words : ~4100

Notes: God that felt good! Quite enjoyed writing this, hope you enjoy it as much and thanks for reading!

******

“The morning has been good to ye, Mr. Lassen, I see!” loudly uttered Magaidh in admiration from the outside of the kitchens, “Ye’re certainly quite hungry! Go bring all that to Edin inside, she’ll get them all cleaned!” she shouted as she passed him by, heading hastily towards the commander’s offices.

Heavily charged with dead grouses, Anders stepped soundly into the kitchens with a triumphant look on his face. “I caught you a hare!” he declared, handing out a string with a dead animal hanging on its end. 

Edin, skinning a hare of her own with a little sharp knife, addressed him with a side look and an ethereal smile before turning to him, landing a bloody hand on her hip: “Couldn’t find the deers, Mr. Lassen?” she asked with a cynical smirk. 

“Oh, I did! But, er… I can't carry one all by myself, skat,” the officer lied with a slightly embarrassed grin. He wasn’t about to tell her that he had lost track of time and space after she had left him all starry-eyed in the woods.

She put her knife down and advanced towards him: “Aww… you underestimate yerself sir. I know ye can carry so many things..." Edin asserted with heavy innuendo in her tone. 

He smiled suggestively in return as she grabbed the string, purposely touching his hand in the process. Holding on to it, Lassen ogled her from head to toe with a steady look, noticing she had changed her dress. “Are you–”

“No, I’m not.” she cut him off with a daring look, guessing from his wavering stare over her crotch area that he was wondering about her underwear whereabouts. His smile grew wider and his eyes narrowed in a lustful way behind his glasses as he started pushing the hare aside and bringing Edin closer.

“Edin, laskie, help me with those will ye?!” suddenly burst in Magaidh, panting with her arms loaded with steel boxes up to her chin, “the men will go on night exercises, leaving this noon! Have to prepare the meals quickly…”

Their momentum interrupted, Lassen and Edin parted as inconspicuously as they could before the old woman could catch their loaded looks at each other.

“Of course, Magaidh! Just remind me Mr. Lassen wants some hare in his lunch box…” Edin retorted, unburdening Magaidh’s arms with a discreet wink at Anders who bit his lip in amused resignation.

“Mr. Lassen, please tell the Major ye can all pick yer boxes up just before leaving, will ye, darling?” added Magaidh like a shot, her cheeks reddening from her hurried moves to put water to boil and take out potatoes to peel.

One would know when night operations would start but never really when they would end, and that weighed a little on Anders mind as he had envisioned a completely different kind of activity for the evenings and mornings to come.

His disappointment showed in the officer’s eyes as he looked silently at Edin when coming to retrieve the meals for the operations. Geared up, all the men came in and went back in haste, but Anders lingered a bit longer, his imposing figure in the way of his fellow volunteers.

With a soft smile, Edin held his gaze: “Yer rabbit, Mr. Lassen,” she let out maliciously as she handed him a lunch box.

“Sadly, my favorite rabbit doesn’t fit in there…” he retorted seamlessly. There was much the Danish officer wanted to add to that but nothing suitable enough to be said out loud in public, so he left it at that. Edin’s conniving glance however made it clear they were both on the same page.

***

What was supposed to be a one-night operation turned into a draining four day march, sail and trek from the camp through the rivers and lochs between Achnacarry and the Atlantic ocean. Even the lunch boxes filled to the brim did not last more than two days. A meagre compensation for Anders’s growing impatience. The bright side was the announced two days off duty after that, and the way he was planning on spending those two days in good company sometimes sent tingles up his spine from eager anticipation.

“Lassen, I find the menu way more appealing since you meddled with the cook in charge. Well done, chap!” declared Major March-Phillips, reminiscing of his long gone lunch box after one last improvised dinner on the shore, and lighting a cigar hanging at the corner of his lips during the nightly camp fire.  

Lying on the ground, his package as only support in his back, Lassen smirked in return with his happy eyes on the fire. Mimicking the major’s gesture with a cigarette, he took in a long huff before lasciviously exhaling the smoke with evident satisfaction. 

“Still lean but it does melt on the tongue…” he sighed languidly. 

“We are still talking about the meal, aren't we, Lassen?” the major playfully retorted with a taunting look. 

“Of course, Major.” let out Lassen trying to refrain from smiling. 

“I presume the hunting lessons with our local ginger girl are bearing fruit?” resumed the major. 

“Hmm… Well, she really likes hares the most!” Lassen chuckled. 

The candid expression on Lassen’s face raised no question regarding the kind of feelings he experienced when thinking about that girl, and this did not escape the Major, nor any of the men around him for that matter.

"Hmm…” Gus resumed with a concerned pout under his beard, “I fear that the present epoch and the bothers we are about to face might not be very conducive to the blossoming of such... heartfelt attachments, my good man." 

His smile fading at the sudden gravity of his Major, Lassen straightened up slowly, leaning forward, and landed his large elbows on his knees.

“No worries about that, Major.” he declared firmly before puffing at his cigarette, holding Gus’ stare with such an unexpected intensity that it raised a slight tension amongst the fellow men around the fire. “My little rabbit is like… a fairy in flesh and bones. A wild, tricky and unpredictable creature. A free-spirited woman that cannot be caught nor held, let alone restrained by any bond humankind may create. I only wish to enjoy the time she is willing to give me until war makes us part, and dream that we'll cross paths again someday. But if that is not to ever happen again, well, I can always dream of it despite everything.”

A complete silence had settled among the soldiers, more and more astonished by the ethereal monologue that the one they nicknamed "the Danish hammer" recited in the most delicate tone.

Long, silent blows of smoke floated in the air for a suspended moment. 

“Hells bells, Lassen ! Is that poetry that just came out of that muscular jaw of yours?!” the major scoffed suddenly. “You have to thank your pretty wonder on my behalf now, for that was magnificent !” he slapped him loudly on the shoulder as he stood next to him under the soft cheers of their comrades. 

“Will do, Major.” Lassen let out with a concentrated look into the void still on, “But would you know what a kelpie is by any chance?”

“Hmm, a kelpie ? Isn't that some mythological beast, Haysey ?” Gus questioned in his turn to his young protege. 

“Absolutely, Sir,” answered Hayes, his blue eyes on the fire as he searched his memory, “It's a water creature mostly shaped like a horse, or er, a woman... Some are said to seduce and drown the men that fall for their charms. I was told that the loch Arkaig has one living in it.”

“Oh well…” Gus tilted his head with a sarcastic frown at Anders as he placed his cigar between his lips, “be careful then, Lassen...” 

***

Night had barely set in and it seemed that the people of Achnacarry had already gone home, deserting the streets, indifferent to the group of weary and filthy soldiers who dragged their feet through their village as they returned to their camp.

The Major, at the front of the troops, stepped aside and told his men to carry on as he waited for the back of the group to catch up to him.

“Lassen, I think you might want to linger around here for a moment before heading back.” expressed Gus as he caught up to the pace of the Danish officer.

“Why is that, Major?”

“Well, just a thought really, but I know there’s a person you might want to see eagerly that lives here…” the Major seamlessly implied.

Anders’ face suddenly gleamed with a hardly restrained smile as they both slowed down, letting the rest of the men leave them behind.

“I suppose somebody at that pub could inform you about her whereabouts.” Gus added, ogling at the old wooden establishment at the corner of the street with small dimly lighted windows.

Lassen stopped, looking at the pub as if his destiny resided there and letting Gus walk alone ahead of him. 

Gus eyed him on the side with a smirk under his moustache and uttered back: “Two days, Lassen! There won’t be a third, so try to be… reasonable.”

“I'll do my best.” Anders unconvincingly muttered, more to himself than to the Major, before heading towards the pub. 

***

The camp had been so incredibly quiet with the soldiers away. Had Edin wished to visit its premises, it would have been the perfect time; she didn’t like to wander around too much company, even less so with so many young men around. She knew better than to unwillingly tempt men’s attention, she liked to know who was watching her. However, lately there was only one man whose glance - and more - she would have gladly accepted upon her.  Nonetheless, she was forcibly drawn to visit it all; order was given to clean the whole place during their absence.

Three long days of chores, cleansing and washing from ceilings to floors. All of it inside the buildings; so tedious. And still, the soldiers had not returned and time somehow seemed to pass slower than usual. Even her routine seemed less attractive to her knowing there wouldn't be any surprise appearance from that danish hunter. Quite surprisingly, she found herself longing for his return. 

With no word announcing the end of their exercises, she had been given time off for the time being and would be called back when needed. Edin had spent the day swimming in the loch and taking care of her house, seeking distractions from the enticing thoughts about Lassen. She was preparing to go to bed now that the night had come, when she heard a knock on her door. 

The first thought that came to her mind was of that officer. She mockingly frowned upon this improbability, how could it be him anyway. She grabbed the lighted oil lamp on her table and unlocked her door, opening it just wide enough to see who could that be at such an hour, and what she first saw was the light’s wavering reflection on small round glasses. 

She sneered softly at realizing it was indeed Anders at her door, refraining the swift excitement she felt rising in her chest. 

“Hello, little rabbit.” he greeted with a soft smile growing on his lips at her sight. 

Edin opened the door a little wider but kept herself in the way. 

“Mr. Lassen… is it my strong scented trail that helped ye find me again ?” she questioned with evident irony.

“Oh it’s not that strong, but I'd recognize it anywhere, yes. But er, I have mud up to my nostrils right now, so I confess, I just asked around this time.”

The oil lamp barely diffused any useful light but looking at the officer from bottom to top, she could guess the large rough-looking stains on his uniform were most certainly dirt. There were dark marks on the lower part of his cheeks, which were carelessly covered by a stubble and his hair was unusually shaggy. The man might have looked like he needed assistance if he wasn't wearing a happy smile. Quite evidently, he was returning from his training without any prior resting stop. If anything, his disheveled appearance betrayed his eagerness to see her all the more, and it flattered her greatly.

“So…” she resumed, concealing her feelings behind a quick lip bite, “What can I do for ye, Mr. Lassen ? A bath?” She jokingly raised a brow before leaning against the door in a teasing way, purposely building up a flirty mood just for the pleasure of seeing him snap at some point, as she knew he would. 

Her whole figure appeared in the door frame, revealing the short and light nightgown she was wearing, held on her shoulders by two strings barely visible under her long ginger hair locks that waved sideways when she hung her lamp to the wall. The fine fabric hugged the shape of her chest as she crossed her arms, revealing the base of her neckline with a shrug of her shoulders which she ostentatiously displayed to the officer's eyes who ogled her brazenly. 

Anders’ chest rose with a deep controlled inhale as he carelessly dropped his equipment bag on the stony path leading to her outside porch, before stepping forward. Invading her space and raising his wide arms above, landing his hands against both sides of the doorframe, his half-lidded eyes looked down on her with a rising perceivable impatience. 

“Only if you fear getting a little dirty…” he muttered, a little defiant smile on his lips. 

Edin flickered her eyes up at the massive man with that expression he adored so much, boldly seductive, assertive and yet docile at the same time. Every time he would get the same feeling that she could ask anything from him with that look: eat hare, crawl at her feet, fight a war or-

“Take yer clothes off.” she demanded softly. His eyes widened with surprise for a second. “I don’t mind the mud but only outside.”

Lassen complied, no questions asked.Their eyes locked on each other’s stare while the soldier got rid of his dirty gear right there on her doorstep, his movements so fluid and fast the clothes seemed to have been barely holding to his body. 

As soon as his underwear touched the ground, Anders lunged at her, hands gripping beneath her bare thighs, lifting her off the ground as he rushed through the entrance. She tugged at the back of his head and kissed him eagerly, her nose buried in his cheek, breathing in deeply the musky and sweaty scent of his skin, vibrant with the low pleased growl inside his throat. 

Carrying her further inside the house, bumping his legs on whatever furniture she had in that room, he cared only for the avid twist of their tongues together in each other's mouths and for not letting go of her legs with his fingers dimpling her flesh with greed.

Another room crossed and they reached what he swiftly identified as the bedroom from the bed sight at the corner of his eyes, feeling the soft silky touch of a rug under his feet. Enough of the sighting of the environment around him, Lassen focused on the blazing body grinding against his bare skin, her crotch tugging at his already swollen cock that he felt gliding on her with a warm moist.

“Oh god, skat, you don’t have any underwear again,” he muttered with wonder against her mouth in between kisses.

“Mhm it just gets in the way…” she mumbled back as she slid a hand between their stomachs and reached for his raised sex, fisted it roughly and smiled on his glistening lips at the expected hoarse groan he let out.

The officer breathed short and heavy as she kept on polishing up and down his shaft trapped against her belly. At once, she pushed on her held thighs to elevate her upper body and tucked his cock at her wet entrance.

“Not so fast, rabbit!” he suddenly interrupted her move with a push backwards on her ass, pulling away from their kiss, “I want to see you too this time.”

The firmness of his tone was exacerbated by that little Nordic inflection that he let slip out even more when he was excited and breathless. He stood his ground by putting her down immediately and recoiling so he could see her whole in the faint light of the room.

Edin bit her lip with a feral look at his self-control, and also at his striking naked body; his muscles vivid, almost visibly twitching from the blood rushing in his veins, his fists clenching compulsively and his chest heaving soundly with a hardly repressed hunger to touch her.

Under his glazed stare, she abided and wrapped the thin fabric in her hands before sliding it over her head, revealing the slightly matte alabaster of her skin and the defined curves of her body. His jaw dropped slowly as his eyes traveled her whole figure.

“Damn, you’re so beautiful.” Anders heaved with a short breath, closing in for a kiss instantly with his hands groping at so much skin that he could touch in one go. Stealing her breath, she pulled out almost panting and he eagerly sucked at her neck, pulling her in a strong embrace, and tasting her skin going down. At him nibbling on her breasts, sucking on her hardened thick nipples, she gasped longly, almost scratching the skin on his back from the pleasant shivers it spawned in her chest.

Lassen’s back slid under her fingers as he dropped to his knees, cupping her bottom cheeks and kissing his way to her crotch with hot huffs, making her thighs twitch when he put his tongue on her slit and licked her long and hard along her entire length. Dropping her head back, she took in jerked breaths and yelped. 

He hummed soundly at her demonstrative pleasure, her hands clasping on his head and her fingers intertwining in his hair, pushing his face deeper into her. Surrounding her thighs with his long arms, he somehow managed to lick his fingers in between her labia and insert them inside of her, nudging at her swollen bud with his nose, diving further into her slit. 

At his relentless sucking at every moistened part his lips fell upon, Edin held his head tighter, keeping him in place as she grinded her pussy on his face with raising whimpers while his fingers kept thrusting her shuddering hole.

“Lassen, god, you're so good at this…” she sighed, her voice melting in the increasing swelling sensation in her belly, intensified by his satisfied groans and the quivers it sent throughout her flesh.

He pulled out for a breath, his face glistening with her juices and his entranced glaze searching for her face. Her eyes fell upon him, this giant of a man, the fearless warrior and skilled hunter now kneeling open and devoted at her feet with his glasses blurred from the heat of her skin, looking so needy and harmless with his cock painfully swollen and erected against his stomach, already spurting a clear sticky pre-cum that threaded against his skin — how she enjoyed what she saw. He could be anything and its opposite, without shame, without restraint. Suddenly feeling so thankful for him being what he was, she felt compelled to turn their roles around and give him the upper hand.

Bending, she gave him a feverish kiss, sucking her own taste over his lips before she turned around, giving him a full view of her bottom that he kissed hungrily, holding her hips. She leaned against his face and let her body slide down, flexing her legs and feeling the stubble from his chin chafing up her back until she seated on his cock that entered her with ease, down to the trim, a gasped moan escaping her lips at his thickness.    

“Oh fuck! Edin!” he growled out uncontrollably with hot breaths on the back of her neck, his fingers tightening on her sides as she wiggled a little around on his cock. Landing her knees on the animal hide rug and her hands on his folded thighs, Edin pressed and pounded up and down on him, again and again with a throbbing moan. 

“Mhm yes, ye do that now warrior, fuck me…” she gasped, intimating him to handle her with a lascivious side look.

“Damn, little rabbit, I’ve missed you!” he heaved, gripping at the tender flesh of her breasts, encompassing her whole body and bucking his hips against her ass, now giving the pace of his increasing thrusts inside of her. 

“Missed me? Show me how hard, Lassen.” she gasped between the loud smacks of his pelvis against her buttocks.

As if it all wasn't enough, this constant heat that his body produced was enhancing her ecstatic state. Her vision blurred through her quivering eyelids at the growing roughness of his strokes, and her mind turned fuzzy, sensing the coming edge, but Lassen wasn’t quite finished.

“Missed you this hard, skat !” He raised his upper body on his knees and pushed her forward in his momentum, placing her on all four and thrusting so hard against her that her hands slipped further and her back arched, offering him an open view on her butthole and the scalding flesh of her pussy that he kept hammering heavily. 

“Mhm my rabbit, so fucking hard…” he puffed through gritted teeth, his fingertips printing in the tender flesh on her hips that slapped and rippled indecently. He was so deep inside of her, hitting her tight depths harshly, that a primal state awakened with their echoing grunts that brought them ever so closer to the animals they used to hunt.  

“Lassen, fuck, Lassen…” a high cry died in her throat as her jaw clenched and her body stiffened under the reach of the climax, her walls pulsing spasmodically on Anders burning cock. The tremors that followed and ran through her body triggered his own orgasm, soon filling her with his thick fluid in a raucous and raw relief, pulling her roughly in some last shakes before she collapsed on the ground under his weight.

Through their sonorous breaths, slowly descending from their enjoyment, Anders seated back and delighted in the sight of her rapidly rising back veiled with sweat, her disheveled crimson hair scattered on the ground over her face, and her laying body lasciviously offered to his eyes. Hell, she was such a sight to behold. 

Leaning forward, he laid on her back, catching the pace of her breathing, taking in the warm scent of her hair and tugged his legs in between hers. 

“I missed you too, Lassen.” she whispered tenderly after a moment, as a confession. 

Anders’ chest rose with an inhale full of pride at these first meaningful words she had ever addressed him. 

“Edin, after the war is over, would you have me back?” he asked softly against the back of her head with a hint of hopeful concern in his voice. 

He could not see it but she smiled under her hair before raising her chest and standing on her elbows, turning her face to him as he backed his head a little to rest on his arm.

Her eyes traveled across his face, thoroughly detailing the lines and shapes of his features with content. 

“Have ye guessed what Edin means ?” she finally questioned with a little grin. Anders slowly shaked a no with his head. “ Place of pleasure… ” she resumed with a lusty spark in her eyes, “So, whenever ye need comfort during the troubled times ye’ll go through, remember, this place is all yours to come back to.”

His face gleamed with joy, a bright smile widening his lips before he kissed her unexpectedly. A soft peck turned into two, then three, then into even more, longer, deeper kisses. Their hands started wandering on each other's body and their caresses became embraces. Before they knew it, they were making love again. 

It was fortunate that the village was quiet and the neighbours were rare in the vicinity of her house; no one to inquire why her door was still wide open the next day with military gear and clothes scattered all over the porch, no nosy witness of the unhinged moans and whimpers that emanated from inside the house from time to time. 

Anyway, even if there were people nearby, no one would have caught a glimpse of them outside for two entire days.

*****

Notes:

*m'eudail : scottish gaelic for "my darling, my dear"

*skat : danish for "darling"

[farsight-the-char]

Praise T'au'va.

This exciting new story of intrigue and clandestine warfare stars an Elemental Council, luminaries from each of the Empire's castes. Brought together by the enigmatic ethereal Yor'i to pacify the resistance, they'll need to work together to forge their unique skills into an unbeatable team.

Raptors Space Marine chapter initial antagonist (which the article diverges to shill 🙄, of course), though there is a "secret" third act antagonists (probably Genestealers).

Raptors have history with Tau though in the original Fire Warrior game and the original Taros campaign, at least.

...

Noah Van Nguyen wrote some of the better AOS books, The GodEater's Son and Yndrasta: The Celestial Spear, so this will probably be good.

...

[serpentface]

Do you have any information on the root scholars that you can share? They’ve always been a cool cult/organization to me

Ok it’s a facet of the Eterhimhamdli religion, which is The most widespread single belief system east of the inner seaway (which isn't saying much in terms of scale but it's still pretty significant) and also one I've barely introduced so I'll go over it a bit here.

Eterhimhamdli has spread past its initial sphere of old (~500 years BP) southern Lowlands Yuroma kingdoms, has many folk practices, and has schismed a few times, so there's a good deal of cultural variation. But its basic tenants/tendencies are:

-Creator deities are wholly rejected, the universe is an interplay between non-personified dualistic forces of Body(evil)/Mind(good). In one schism, the interplay of these two forces is the Dream, in others dreaming is an aspect of Mind.

-Deities in general are not wholly at odds with Eterhimhamdli, but their importance is de-emphasized and worship is usually discouraged in favor of making them objects of contemplation and/or tutelary figures.

-The Mind of the universe exists as a collective soul from which human souls emanate

-every person has two souls: an egoistic soul that animates the body and an ethereal soul that animates the mind. The latter is conceptualized as a single drop from a greater sea of the collective soul.

-belief that true wisdom is derived through access to this collective soul.

-belief that the trappings of the the ego-soul and the body's demands inhibits access to said collective soul.

-belief in the concept of enlightened beings who gain full experiential knowledge of the collective soul while remaining in a body, thus becoming capable of directly communicating aspects of their wisdom to the masses.

the biggest schism in this religion is over whether enlightenment just means experiencing full knowledge of the collective before you die, or whether it means transcending the limits of the body entirely and functionally becoming an immortal, godlike being.

deities of older/other religions absorbed by Eterhimhamdli are often reframed as enlightened mortals.

-most sects believe that only sophont life (or sometimes Only humans) have a etherial-soul along with the ego-soul, while animals exclusively have the ego-soul. Plants and inanimate objects Usually aren't ascribed souls outsides of heavily syncretic folk practices.

-belief in a fundamental good-evil cosmic dualism, though in a fairly complex way (evil is a necessity for life that is to be tempered and grappled with, rather than outright vanquished from the world entirely). The notion of 'evil' here is most associated with bodily desires (this includes all bodily needs like hunger and thirst, necessary to support life but viewed dangerous in excess, and being the root of conflict and pain).

the evil nature of bodily desire is not About sex, but does translate to non-procreative sex being frowned upon to varying extents.

-belief that life is a state of internal warfare between the evil ego-soul and the good ethereal-soul, with the former being more powerful and influential. To lead a good life is to bring the ego-soul into equilibrium with the ethereal soul. To live a wise and venerable life is to fully tip the balance in the latter's favor (this is not an expectation for lay followers, as it is considered profoundly difficult and requires separation from worldly life).

-lay followers practice forms of temperance to bring these forces into equilibrium, priests practice forms of asceticism to subdue the ego-soul and gain experiential wisdom in the process.

-The way you balance your life has consequences for the afterlife. An evil life causes an eternal death (this is usually posited as an underworld), a life in equilibrium causes one to be reborn into a new human body (a neutral fate), and a good life results in full return to the collective soul (this is a state of complete peace and contentedness and access to infinite wisdom).

-A selection of hallucinogenic plants are central to the monastic/priestly aspects of the religion, being seen as the key method through which the body can be transcended and the ego-soul can be quieted in order to tap into the collective. Lay followers do not participate in this facet on a regular basis.

-Priests also participate in self-flagellation, as the struggle with physical pain is a key microcosm of the broader internal war with the ego-soul, and can be a source of wisdom and contemplation. They are extensively tattooed for partly related purposes. Laymen are not expected to flagellate as a practice but rather to apply teachings to/learn from struggles with everyday pain.

-Very complicated relations with violence as a concept. Some strains of Eterhimhamdli philosophy see violence as an exclusive result of evil to be avoided whenever possible (usually more completely by priesthoods than the wider societies they live in), others see it as a neutral tool in of itself that Can be a force for good when used wisely. (Large scale 'wise usages of violence for the sake of good', shockingly, tend to favor the in-group's position in preexisting ethnic/religious/territorial conflicts).

-Most sects are proselytizing and see conversion as a necessity to create a better world, and have broadly unfavorable views of other religious practices.

This does not extend to seeing all societies that practice Eterhimhamdli or even The Same Schism Of Eterhimhamdli in a positive light (the birthplace of this religion is currently about 60 semi independent city-states organized into leagues that are frequently at war with each other)

-Highly favors education, literacy, rhetoric, debate, and the acquisition of material knowledge along with deeper spiritual wisdom. Knowledge and wisdom are venerable traits and societies should be led by the learned, or at least by people under their guidance.

---

The Scholarly Order of the Root is one order of Lowlands Eterhimhamdli monastics, functioning as a closed cult/mystery religion. They’re based out of Suurota (one of the biggest Yuroma city-states and dominant member of its league). They're at the top of the league's hierarchy of monastics, very wealthy, and have some involvement in governance (being an advisory body to the magistrate).

The Scholars primarily interact with the general public by hosting many of the league's institutions of scholarship and philosophy, and some of the biggest libraries in this part of the world. Their institutions are used by laymen Suurota citizens and members of government for study, and they host monks and priests (uninitiated to the inner cult) in their halls.

Actual membership to the Scholars cult is limited, they neither expect nor want associates to participate in their rituals. Rather, they position themselves as teachers- revealing small aspects of their secret knowledge to laymen and the lesser monastics as a form of guidance, while keeping dangerous knowledge for only the trusted inner circle.

Their baseline belief system aligns with the general schema of Lowlands Eterhimhamdli (one of three major schisms of this belief system), but their closed cult practices revolve around fairly unique interpretations, understood to be the ultimate underlying truths of this worldview.

The Scholars focus on an extention the Mind-Body model of the universe where their synthesis is the Dream (this itself is not unique to this cult, but the depths of their focus is). Under this model, the world is the dream of the collective consciousness, and achieving enlightenment or even temporary lucidity can allow the dream to be shaped to one's will.

One of their most secretive practices is god-building, in which they utilize altered mental states to shape the fabric of the dream into entities they can use as personal teachers of secret knowledge (also as a type of magic in general, they use it to 'build' guardians and curses and the like).

The process involves using mild doses of Ur-Root brew (mostly derived from roots of the clonal Ur-Wood colony, whose bark has notable concentrations of dimethyltryptamine and also hosts milder fungal hallucinogens) while maintaining an object and concept as a focal point of concentration. The altered state provided by the Root allows the user some access to the wisdom of the collective soul, and they will experience secret knowledge and revelations about this object, how it can best be used (this will be supplemented by material knowledge about the subject). This process is repeated until the user experiences a sense of Presence in the object, which must be interacted with, given a name and a face. Through more repetition, the object is believed to be shaped into a sort of thoughtform god which has come into material existence via manipulation of the dream.

This is considered to take immense time and effort to come to completion, god-building projects can last for years and be the combined effort of multiple Scholars. In the end, you have shaped an entity to your will that can operate independently of you.

The Ur-Wood itself is the center of Scholar cult practice, as it is both the purveyor of their most important hallucinogen and believed to have been the first god ever shaped by this form of lucid dreaming (it's a pilgrimage site for Eterhimhamdli where thousands of followers have undergone Ur-Root trips over the past four centuries, using the woods as an object of contemplation). To them the Ur-Tree is the ultimate teacher of their cult, an extremely powerful built-god that has been involved in almost every journey to enlightenment and contains all these journeys within its substance.

They believe that communing with the tree via Ur-Root can grant access to all enlightened mortals- full trips (with a DMT breakthrough type experience) will often involve sensations of encountering entities, which they interpret to be these historical figures. Within their religious framework, they're kind of speedrunning enlightenment. Under most conventional frameworks, the teachings of wise and/or enlightened people are conveyed in writing or speech as things to Contemplate on one's own journey- you might be able to understand them Conceptually but true understanding is Experiential, a process that can take a lifetime. In their framework, they're both receiving these teachings directly AND embodying states in which they can experientially comprehend them.

That summarizes most of their secret practices, and the rest of their practice is pretty standard for devout Lowlands Eterhimhamdlist priests. They live a partly ascetic lifestyle, they bear extensive tattoos as a contemplation of pain and marker of their journeys, they flagellate, they use tutelary hallucinogens, they refine their non-experiential body of knowledge through debate and rhetoric, they work to accumulate both worldly and spiritual knowledge, they work as scribes, etc.

[lilacartsmadsion]

Decided to show their full designs.

The Shadows of the gods or The Pillars of Darkness:

They guard the borders of Earthbread from the forces outside, Humans, Wizards all of them are a threat to the Light’s wonderful paradise of freshly baked cookies. Each one is a Shadow of the gods entirely and sometimes even worshipped as minor deities called ‘Legends’

They go by many names.

The Shadows of The Divine

The Pillars of Darkness

The Guardians of Earthbread.

Each Pillar follows the will of each god.

Grim Reaper/Deathly Licorice Cookie:

The Shadow and Angel of The Abysmal Gingerdozer…he who places those to eternal slumber. The final sleep of death. By the will of the Abysmal One does he follow, plague, destruction and malnutrition follow his path, for the lone path of death is not one many want to follow…

The Grim Reaper was created as a gift by The Nameless…given away to his brother to keep his titles afloat. Representing the dark black void of death, the quick release of silence the night offers in the dark…The Angel soars from on high guarding the borders from all directions. To the East he resides as that is birthplace. Go east if you wish to enter the realm of the dead, but beware for he is watches upon the endless sky…

The Cookies of this realm worship him as the deity of death, out of respect for keeping the order of this world…as thus he is called ‘The Pillar of Death’

Empyreal Pomegranate Cookie:

The Shadow and Priestess of the Ethereal Strawberry Cookie. She presides over the faithful and grants the blessings of luck upon those whose hearts are pure. The Priestess follows the will of the goddess of love, however blind her faith may be…

The Empyreal Vassal blesses those who put their whole faith in the gods and grants the chosen luck and grace throughout their lives. Protection is sought out once you seek her, as she protects those who are persecuted and scorned. To the North is where she resides for love and faith is the direction of the coldest hatred. She protects her side of the border with her unwavering curses of hatred. Go North if you wish for her aid, pass her trials of faith and she will protect you.

The Cookies of this realm worship her as a deity of protection, due to their unwavering faith in her abilities she is henceforth known as ‘The Pillar of Faith’

Jubilant Poison Mushroom Cookie:

The Shadow and Servant of the Glorious Gingerbright. They guide the young and nurtures the forgotten. Children are called to follow their path and adhere their example. They provide nutrition for the young, tend to the youthfulness of children, and most of all listen to the cries of the forgotten…

The Jubilant Deity brings forth the life within children. The freedom and development of their lives. Some say that this type of love is chaotic, but for the eyes of the deity, children deserve to experience even the slightest amount of joy. They are revered as their patron god and above all protector. They protect their side of the border with the poison of chaos. Go forth South for their protection, for they accept all children in their land.

The Cookies of this realm worship them as a deity of chaos, the reason why their name has switched to poison…though they call upon the freedom of the youth they are also known to be quite the trickster…thus they are named ‘The Pillar of Chaos’

Impervious Red Velvet Cookie:

The Shadow and Knight of The Apoditic Wizard Cookie. He resides over all matters of warfare and battle. The concept of war and strife is etched unto his mind. The Final Witness of the true nature of the Witches, The Impervious one protects his side of the borders with an Iron Fist.

The Impervious Knight reigns over a tower made of cakes, guarded by the legendary cake hounds of the ancient recipes of the Wizards. Using these he creates an army capable of protecting the cookies from all harm. He guards his side of the borders with pure might. Go West to seek out his domain, but beware for none make it back alive…

The Cookies of this realm worship him as a deity of war. Though they fear his might they respect him as a protector. Thus naming him ‘The Pillar of War’

The Dark Enchantress Cookie:

Much like the Nameless, His shadow bears no name, but a title. Created from the dough of the Wizards her might shines the night sky into pure oblivion. The shadows is where she lurks, the endless night is where she wakes. Born with the anger and sorrow of the Light she soars the sky with her army of cakes in tow.

The Dark Enchantress bears the weight of the darkness reminding the cookies of the balance between dark and light. The Shadows can aid and hide those who need protection. But blind those from the sights of their enemies. A reminder that the darkness is neither friend nor foe…She protects the borders of Earthbread with the might of the gods by her side. Go to the center of Earthbread, seek out the Millennial Tree…and pray tell she will be there.

The Cookies of this realm regard her as a deity of darkness, out of respect and pure awe in her the Cookies dub her ‘The Pillar of Darkness’

Each of these Pillars have a role to play in protecting the borders of Earthbread…may they reign eternal in their will of protection…

———————————————

I blame @cuppajj’s Beast Ancients AU for reviving my inspiration back from the dead. I’m trying to plan out the Legends’ backstory but let’s just say I’m also trying to figure out the main story.

Aka the actual plot of the AU. ‘That time I adopted a god’

Cause I haven’t really given Gingerbrave a direct motive for leaving and turning mortal. I’m THIS tempted to do an LMK Nuwa move. For him tbh.

But yeah here’s the Pillars of Darkness folks.