#grace: “he built the train for humans”

[hazel-daily]

[shanastoryteller]

i know supernatural is the show of missed opportunities but man. the trials really get to me - what a perfect way to reboot and reset this show that you're artificially extending for ratings. it could have been really, really good, actually

so the trials of god is a way for someone to gain the ability to seal the gates of hell and the gates of heaven

they have the translation for hell, they know that slamming the gates of hell shut means calling all the demons back home and locking the key. it's logical, then, to for them to believe the same is true of the one for heaven - that it calls all the angels back home and locks them away where they can't do any more damage

peace, for the people of earth, outside of the influence of angels and demons. that's got to be worth it, right?

so while sam is completing the hell trials, they get the angel tablet, kevin gets translating, to figure out the angel trials. or maybe metatron helps nudge them along to figuring it out, since him being the big bad here isn't really relevant and they are in a bit of time crunch

canon doesn't tell us what the heaven trials are, except that the first one involves a ritual using the heart of a nephilim. they make it sound like they're carving it from their chest, but what i would do is

have a nephilim offer you their heart from their chest (gain their loyalty in a binding ceremony)

create grace from freshwater (there is no rain that falls anywhere on earth that is safe to drink and god said let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters)

find a human soul to guide you to heaven (babel fell but the stairway was built and those with wings have no need of stairs)

so sam is in the midst of the hell trials when dean sort of accidentally on purpose completes the first heaven trial and then the brothers are on parallel train tracks heading in the opposite direction

sam works to close the gates of hell

dean works to close the gates of heaven

demons and angels both working to stop them

sam completes the trials. he restores crowley's humanity and he dies and the gates of hell are closed

but that's not the end

metatron says they can close the gates if they're willing to pay the price. canon says the price is sam's death, but frankly that doesn't make any sense. what's the death of one human against the horrors of hell? and remember, metatron doesn't know the winchesters. maybe another angel would make this comment, knowing how the winchesters have weighed the safety of the world against their brother and left the world out to dry, would think this a price worth warning for. but metatron wouldn't bother, wouldn't even think of it, if that was the only price

the gates of hell close and malevolent spirits explode across the globe, evil spirits and angry ghosts causing death and destruction everywhere

hell serves a function and now the gates are closed and every evil human soul is forced to stay on earth, causing as much destruction as it can

that's the price for closing the gates of hell

except. except. aren't the hell trials interesting?

kill a hellhound. rescue an innocent soul and return it to heaven. purify a demon and restore their humanity.

the trials are not to prove if someone is worthy of closing the gates of hell. it's to prove they're capable of setting hell to rights

the trials are if things got too out of hand, if things were taken too far, and hell had to be put back in it's place. sam dies and ends up exactly where azazel wanted him - ruler of hell. all the demons and souls are trapped with him and what he has to do, while he has them all there, while they can't escape, is exactly what he did to get there

he kills the hellhounds, leaving only those meant to patrol hell. he releases every innocent soul bound there. he purifies the demons one by one, who he either releases as innocent souls or who to pledge to do their job as demons of hell - punishing evil, containing evil - in penance for what they did before (how do i even begin to make up for what i've done, crowley had asked, and this is the answer)

meanwhile, dean, heartbroken, completes the heaven trials and dies

and the gates of heaven slam shut and all the angels are stripped of their grace and expelled from heaven and dean finds himself in charge of an empty heaven

the trials are for when things have gone too far and heaven must be rebuilt, after all

good souls pile up, no one who dies able to truly leave earth, and given enough time they become twisted things that must be hunted along with the spirits of evil men and women who cause chaos from their last breath

dean has work to do. he has one angel - the nephilim whose loyalty he earned in the first trial - and this is what he has to do. he recruits more, to replace the ranks, he creates grace and hands it out judiciously. he sends them to guide the good souls home, using the stairway that the former angels wouldn't be able to use even if they wanted to, and each good act and deed earns them a little more grace. former angels throw themselves into the fight for humans, because they know it's the only way that dean will return their grace to them and lift them back into heaven

and in fighting for them, in living like them, they learn to love these creations of their father that they'd despised. they see what he saw and the thought of destroying this place in a civil war becomes unthinkable to them. they are once more the angels god intended them to be

in this, dean and sam fulfill their destiny as lucifer and michael's vessels. not in letting them in, but in pushing them out, in doing the work each was intended for but refused

only when there is only evil human souls being punished and caged, only once the demons are once more working to run hell and earn their release to heaven, does sam reopen the gates of hell

only when there's a full choir of angels once more, committed to their cause, only once there are souls working with reapers as it once always was, does dean reopen the gates of heaven

they're called the god trials for a reason. above and below, sam and dean act as god, putting things back in their intended places

they could stay. they should stay. keeping house, making sure it all goes smoothly, eternally keeping earth safe from angels and demons both

they're called the god trials for a reason. not even god could resist the paradise inbetween that he'd created

dean doesn't know if sam is going to return to earth. he might stay in hell, and if dean becomes human once more, then what's the point? he'll live and die a human, get stuck in heaven, and be forever separated from the brother he loves

sam doesn't know if dean is going to return to earth. he migh not be able to, might be stuck doing his work - sam assumes if the hell trials did this to him, then the heaven trials did the same to dean, and the idea that dean could have failed the heaven trials after he dies doesn't even cross mind. if he returns and dean's not there then he loses it all, he never again gets to see the brother he loves

but when, exactly, haven't they been willing to risk everything for each other?

dean falls as lucifer fell, throwing himself towards earth

sam rises as michael did after the fall, pulling himself towards earth the same way michael once pulled himself to the top of heaven

what's the use of being a god without his brother, after all?

dean and sam are reunited on earth, human once more

no more angels, no more demons, heaven and hell functioning once more as they should. we're back to basics, a clean slate, all of the rest remade and set aside by their own hands (it's literal and a metaphor, the way the show could have remade itself with the trials, after setting aside kripke's plan while at the same time recognizing that the design of it - two brothers who love each other going across america and fighting evil - is the thing that made it worth watching to begin with) and now it's them again, brothers forged in blood and sacrifice and love, and a new appreciation for the humanity they gave up and returned to

and then we get my beloved monster of the week with no stupid too high stakes, convoluted bullshit involved, beyond the occasional angel who dean refused to reinstate and demon tracking down miscreant souls and, every once in a while, a person or creature or something in between squinting at them and going - weren't you two gods?

nah, they say, all corn fed grins and the dimples their momma gave them, we're brothers

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

people are entitled to their own opinion, but genuienly thinking Elizabeth is a selfish character missed the whole point of her character and it actually drives me lowk insane.

I know that the introduction of her character can be harsh to digest because of how overbearing she can be and because she broke Ciel's ring that holds deep importance but:

She wasn't aware about the importance of the ring, and when Sebastian pointed out, she immediatelytook accountability and started to apologize.

She cried profusely, realizing how much history and emotional importance the ring held, her pain was as sharp, literally suffering in o!Ciel's place.

Even when o!Ciel tells her that it's okay, she cuts him off with a "but" again, fully willing to admit her mistake.

Elizabeth always goes an extra mile to make our earl smile, and she admits to Sebastian that sometimes she can be overbearing, but thats such a human mistake and her heart and intentions are always in the right place.

She is constantly attentive of o!ciel and worried about his wellbeing, she is able to tell when something is off with him.

She also struggles with crippling insecurities.

As a young lady of the Victorian era, Elizabeth finds herself torn between society's expectations and her family's ideals.

Desperate to appear beautiful and graceful for o!Ciel’s sake, she deliberately wore low-heeled shoes (a choice deemed childish for a girl her age, looked down upon by other girls) knowing full well that he wished to be seen as mature.

In quiet devotion, she diminished her own stature beside him, all to lift his pride.

But her lineage demanded strength. Forced to train with a sword, she carried the weight of duty, yet secretly loathed her own power, fearing it made her less of the delicate noblewoman she longed to be.

Her insecurities are so complex because while they root from how she feels her fiance needs to percieve her, they also stem from the expectations and oppresive ideals of society of how a woman should be.

Her sword training, a secret defiance of gendered expectations, should have been a source of confidence. Instead, it became yet another fracture in her self-worth.

Every swing of her blade felt like a betrayal of the "perfect lady" she was supposed to be, even as her lineage demanded she master it.

She hated her own skill, not because she lacked it, but because possessing it meant she could never fully be the dainty, unburdened girl she thought Ciel needed.

But when our earl is in danger, she doesn't hesitate, pushes away her deepest insecurties, all for o!Ciel.

She shows him her "uncute" apperance, she unravels infront of him completely.

A girl laid bare, willing to be seen as uncute, as flawed, if it means protecting him.

And when o!Ciel sees her strenght, obviously, he reacts positively to it. He doesn't see her as less, he doesn't hate her for it, he quickly accepts this part of her.

Literally zero disgust in his bones as he does so. (he's so gentle with her augh i love them)

And since o!Ciel accepted her, she started to unravel her strenght and didn't hide it as much.

Can we also talk about how Elizabeth was ready to resort to violence when she thought o!Ciel was cheating on her with Sieglinde? But when Sebastian steps in and explains the real reason behind their situation, not only does Elizabeth apologize, she immediately takes Sieglinde’s side

we love a girls girl !!!

She even goes a step further, offering her help and friendship.

Something worthy of mention is that she is never limiting herself to just her bond with Ciel, but always reaching out to form genuine connections with others.

And now everyone assumes she's selfish because of this....

And now they call her selfish? A traitor? As if she hadn’t spent her entire life bending over backwards just to make o!Ciel feel safe and happy.

Imagine dedicating three whole years to someone, selflessly, without expecting a single word of praise...only to discover it was all built on lies. How could anyone blame her for feeling betrayed?

On top of that, her entire life, since infancy, was shaped around the role of being a fiancée, just as r!Ciel was forced into becoming the Phantomhive heir. (the role o!Ciel took over instead).

Not only does she feel hurt by o!Ciel lying to her, she feels lost. Identity wise she is is crushed and feels she failed as a fiance for not telling the difference between the twins.

How is that fair? She spent years dedicating herself to his happiness, only for the foundation of her existence to be ripped away.

And even after "siding" with her fiancé, she is clearly unhappy. Not only because she knows r!Ciel and Undertaker are up to no good, but because she also understands why o!Ciel lied to her all those years.

She questions herself, she realizes the very reason why o!Ciel kept his identity a secret.

And when she realizes that if o!Ciel would've been honest about his identity back then, she would've expressed dissapointment, and that immediately makes her drown in that guilt.

And now, that truth consumes her: not only does she fail as a fiance, she feels she fails as a human too.

It is pretty clear to me that Elizabeth is torn and confused, heavily manipulated by r!Ciel and a lifetime of being groomed into the "perfect fiance"

Her entire sense of self was scripted for her, and now that the lie has collapsed, she’s left drowning in the wreckage.

I can’t claim to know Yana’s exact intentions, but this much is clear: Elizabeth is intelligent, fiercely compassionate, and, when the moment demands it: fully capable of making the right choice.

Will she forgive o!Ciel? Almost certainly. While the pain of his lies may never fully fade, the story makes one truth undeniable: Their bond, though built on deception, became real through those quiet moments of understanding and mutual acceptance.

Lets not forget that where r!Ciel weaponized Elizabeth’s deepest insecurities, o!Ciel was starting to dismantle them. 

one exploited her fears of inadequacy as the "perfect fiancée," while the other, despite his own deceptions, gave her the space to simply exist as herself.

And Elizabeth? That brilliantly perceptive girl currently drowning in betrayal? She will remember. She’ll piece together the truth, not just about them, but about herself. 

Anyways, I love Elizabeth and y'all should too!

[monster-disaster]

A request for two exoskeleton aliens that are very addicted to feeling and fondling a cute squishy human they found

alien!Scad x human!Reader x alien!Talex Good to know: smut, threesome

A/N: Exoskeleton aliens were really specific and I hope my aliens are close to what you imagined. And if you wanted something more like Tarzan meets Jane type of thing, don't worry, I want to write something like that in the near future. :)

-

Your breathing is ragged and uneven as you hurry along the endless corridors that lead you outside to the ship that arrived not long ago. The sharp click of your sleek black heels against the gray tiles echoes through the empty hall in perfect rhythm with your rushing steps. Each knock bounces off the tall, blank walls, mixing with the soft, desperate huffs escaping your lips as you push forward. Your bag almost falls off your shoulder, but your fingers are tight and firm around the black straps. It wrinkles the white fabric of your shirt underneath it.

"They are here," Jim says, opening the door for you when he sees you approaching. "And you are late."

You can't help but scoff. "Thanks, Captain Obvious."

"Come on," he waves. "Hurry."

Keeping your thoughts about the man to yourself, you turn your focus to the grandiose spaceship that gleams under the bright sun at the top of the clear blue sky. The metal doors are already open, and at the base of the long stairs, you can see the guests among your other co-workers.

As a Cultural Ambassador, you meet beings from different planets all the time. It’s your job to understand their customs, their ways of life, and to bridge the gap between their worlds and yours. Yet, despite all your training and experience, you are still sometimes caught off guard by how different they can appear compared to what you are used to on Earth. That’s probably one of the reasons you love your job so much. There’s always something new to learn, something unfamiliar to explore.

From this distance, their skin appears to shift colors depending on the light; a shimmering green with hints of blue and purple that ripple across their form. As you walk closer, you realize their skin is more like an armor, a natural exoskeleton that covers them from head to toe. They stand tall and lean, with long arms and legs that bend in ways unfamiliar to human anatomy. The joints at their knees curve gracefully backward, resembling the powerful hind legs of a predator built for speed and agility.

"That’s new," Jim hums beside you, easily keeping pace with the rhythmic clicks of your high heels.

"Shut up," you hiss under your breath, eyes narrowing in annoyance as you keep your focus ahead. "They have a great hearing."

The closer you get, the more details you see. Their bodies are a blend of hard, angular bones and taut muscles. Though they may seem slim, there’s no doubt in you about the immense power lurking beneath their armor-like skin. They resemble the perfect fusion of the grace and agility of prey with the raw strength and precision of a predator. They carry all the best attributes of both types, presenting a striking balance of beauty and strength.

“Wow,” Jim mutters, but you only send him a brief, sidelong glance before turning your full attention back to the aliens.

You offer a calm and friendly smile, one you’ve practiced countless times for these occasions.

“Welcome to Earth,” you greet them in their own language. The unfamiliar words roll off your tongue with a heavy accent as you approach. Your posture is relaxed and open, with your back straight and your arms hanging comfortably by your sides.

"I hope your journey was comfortable,” you say, stopping a few feet away from them. “I’m Y/N. We’ve already communicated through messages.”

“Yes,” one of them replies, reaching out his hand for you. The gesture, while surprising, isn’t entirely unfamiliar. As diplomats of their home planet, they’re also learning your customs. You accept the hand and shake it briefly. “I’m Scad, and this is Talex.” The other male gives a wave, though the motion feels unusual coming from him.

“Are we ready to go?” you ask, directing the question mostly to your co-workers. They nod, stepping back to give you space to do your job.

“Yes,” Talex responds. His voice is smooth and gentle.

“Great,” you smile warmly. “Let’s make the best of your time here.”

_

The restaurant buzzes with life, rich with the soft music playing in the background and the low murmur of conversations weaving through the delicate clinking of cutlery and glasses.

You glance at Talex and Scad, who sit across from you. Their expressions are a blend of curiosity and cautious enthusiasm as they take their first bites of the steak you recommended. Their skin seems to shimmer under lights that cast a soft glow over the polished wood tables and vibrant artwork adorning the walls.

“So, what do you think?” you ask after a few quiet moments, letting them savor the flavors.

Talex hums thoughtfully, his large, all-black eyes reflecting the dim light above. “Much softer than what we are used to,” he replies. His voice is smooth and gentle, almost melodic.

Scad nods beside him, his slender fingers are still around the fork as he takes another bite. “But I miss more spice,” he adds honestly.

“More spice?” You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. When they nod in agreement, a smile spreads across your face. “Then we’ll have to try my favorite restaurant next time. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“I still feel guilty we didn’t bring some of our favorite dishes with us,” Talex says, a note of regret lacing his words. “But we weren’t sure it would be good for human digestion.”

You suppress a laugh, trying to maintain your polite demeanor. “It’s fine, really,” you assure him. From what they shared about their home planet and their culinary customs, the dishes sounded raw and rather... challenging for your human system. You imagine vibrant colors and strange textures that would likely send your stomach into a confused spiral.

Scad takes a sip of his drink, his expression brightening as he savors the wine. The tangy notes dance on his tongue, and you can see the delight in his large, dark eyes as he nods appreciatively after every sip. “We are curious about your spices,” he says, his voice smooth and melodic, carrying a hint of excitement. “What kinds of flavors do humans use usually?” He tilts his head slightly, his long limbs moving gracefully as he continues to eat, a picture of both elegance and curiosity.

"It depends on the country, really," you reply. “Each region has its own unique flavors and combinations. If you enjoy spices, you might find a lot of countries’ dishes intriguing."

“And the dessert?” Talex chimes in, his eyes widening with eager anticipation as he looks up from his plate. There’s an almost childlike excitement in his strange, alien-like expression, as if he is already envisioning the chocolate cake you mentioned a few days ago, despite the fact that he still has half of his steak left.

You can’t help but laugh. “It will come soon,” you assure him with a playful smile spreading across your face. “I promise, it’s worth the wait!”

Scad glances between you and Talex, a curious tilt to his head. “Is it… sweet?”

“Very sweet,” you reply, leaning in slightly as if sharing a delicious secret. “It’s rich and creamy, with layers of chocolate that just melt in your mouth. The texture is like velvet, and it’s often topped with a ganache that makes it even better.”

You already talked about it with Talex, and he found your human sweets and snacks really intriguing. While they enjoy tastes and meals are a significant part of their social life, the thought of eating just for fun and not for company or nutrients is strange. They don’t even have these kinds of sweet tastes where they come from, so you want to show them as much as you can while they are here.

Their stay on Earth has been without a hitch so far. The aliens are kind and polite, always eager to engage in whatever activities you suggest to show or teach them about your planet and its diverse creatures. In turn, they share fascinating stories about their home, too. They express their appreciation for the comfort and softness that Earth has to offer, especially considering that their own planet can be quite hostile. The harsh conditions there have shaped them, resulting in their armor-like skin you noticed immediately when you saw them the first time. You also discover that the differences between their males and females are strikingly minimal, limited mainly to their genitals and colors. Much like the diverse spices found on Earth, their males tend to be more colorful with vibrant hues and patterns. And while you might expect aliens from such a harsh planet to be rough themselves, they are surprisingly refined, especially in their appreciation of technology and art. They are advanced in both fields, which makes every visit to museums and galleries a delight for them. They seem genuinely fascinated by Earth’s creations, examining each piece with an almost childlike curiosity. The more you get to know them, the more ideas you gather about other places and experiences they might enjoy here.

_

"So," Scad says, breaking the monotone rumble of the car as he studies the brochure you gave him. "This is… music?"

"Yes," you reply, nodding as you turn your attention from the window and the passing city to look at him. "From what you've told me, our classical music is actually quite similar to what you play on your planet."

"Do they have chocolate cakes?" Talex asks, already guessing the answer when he glances at you and sees the smile spreading across your face.

"No," you tell him, chuckling. "But we can get some after the concert. There’s a popular café near my apartment that sells cakes too."

The younger of the two smiles and nods eagerly. "I can’t wait."

Ever since Talex first tried chocolate cake at the restaurant, he’s been a little obsessed with it, much to Scad’s surprise. Scad hadn’t taken to the cake himself, but you’re determined not to give up just yet. You are sure there’s a dessert out there that will suit his tastes, too, and you are ready to help him find it.

The city is alive and buzzing with nightlife. Vibrant lights and neon signs spill through the tinted car windows, casting colored reflections over the seats. The hum of traffic mingles with the steady rumble of the engine as you make your way through the crowded streets. It’s Friday night, and the sidewalks are filled with people. Some are heading home after a long day, while others are eager to unwind with friends, ready to keep the night going until sunrise.

When you arrive at the theater, long rows of people are already lined up, chatting and shuffling impatiently, eager to get inside. The chill in the air nips through your black dress and matching jacket, which do little to guard you against the cold.

Once inside, you are greeted by a rush of warmth. The tickets are still in your hands as you watch your companions take in the opulent interior. Talex’s gaze drifts upward, transfixed by the golden details that gleam under the grand chandelier hanging from the intricately painted ceiling. The bright light dances off polished surfaces, illuminating the marble pillars and casting soft reflections across the hall.

"Your architecture is amazing," he murmurs, still staring upward as you gently take his arm to guide him through the crowd. "Our buildings are more like what you call ‘modern.’"

Scad nods in agreement, his gaze lingering on the sweeping staircases and rich wood paneling. "Our buildings are efficient to build, but not nearly as satisfying to look at."

"Come then," you say with a smile, still holding onto Talex’s arm. "I think you’re going to enjoy tonight."

Guiding them through the bustling lobby, you lead them up to the gallery. Once there, they take in the grand view from above, where the entire stage and rows of seats below spread out. The soft murmur of the crowd blends with the faint tuning of instruments from behind the curtain, building an air of anticipation.

"Amazing," Talex sighs again, and you only smile.

The short wait, until the concert begins, passes with quiet conversation as they occasionally ask you questions, but mostly, they are captivated, taking everything in while you watch them with patience and some pride. Seeing their awe gives you a renewed appreciation for it all; each detail of the theater seems more delicate, more grandiose through their eyes.

When the thick, red curtain finally parts and the first notes resonate through the hall, a flutter of anticipation stirs in your stomach. You want them to enjoy this, to feel something new.

As the night unfolds and each melody follows the next, you notice them gradually relaxing against the plush red seats, becoming immersed in the experience. Their alien expressions are subtle and hard to read, but with each passing day, you’re getting better at interpreting the quiet, telling glances they exchange and the slight shifts in their posture.

By the time the concert ends, you can tell they enjoyed it without needing to ask. There’s a lightness in their steps and a glint of excitement in their eyes as you leave the bright hall of the theater and step into the vibrant, bustling street. The black car with your chauffeur for the night is already waiting, and it merges smoothly into the flow of traffic once you are all inside.

"So," you smile, glancing at them. "I take it you enjoyed the concert?"

"It was really fascinating," Scad replies thoughtfully. "Our instruments are quite similar, but more..." He trails off, searching for the right word that doesn’t seem to come.

"Modern," Talex offers, then makes a face, clearly dissatisfied. "Not quite the word, but…" he gives a small shrug as if words are too limited.

You nod with understanding. "I get it," you say warmly, appreciating their attempt to bridge the language gap.

"Can we come back again?" Scad asks, casting a last, lingering look over his shoulder at the theater as it fades from view with a left turn.

"Of course," you reply with a smile. "There are all kinds of concerts. We can look up the ones that might interest you the most."

"And now, can I get my cake?" Talex asks, a grin spreading across his face, his dark eyes bright with anticipation.

You chuckle and nod. "Yes, absolutely."

The café is still open and lively when you arrive, the warm air rich with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the hum of conversations and the clinking of cups.

"What should I try?" Scad asks, eyeing the display, while Talex’s choice is clear from the eager look on his face.

"Well, since chocolate isn’t your favorite but you like our fruits, maybe something with berries?" you suggest, gesturing to the colorful pastries.

Then, turning to Talex, you grin. "And for you, we have something called hot chocolate."

"Oh?" Talex hums, intrigued. "It’s not like coffee, is it?"

You laugh, recalling his reactions to coffee’s bitterness. "No, nothing like coffee."

"And you might like green tea," you say, glancing back at Scad with a knowing smile. "I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it."

There’s so much you want them to try, so many flavors and experiences to share. You almost worry you will give both yourself and them a bit of a whirlwind.

"I trust your choices," Scad replies with a nod, and Talex quickly mirrors him.

When you get your order and scan the busy café, you can’t help but sigh. There’s no way you’ll find a free table anytime soon.

"Sorry," the cashier says with an apologetic smile. You give a friendly nod, reassuring her with a smile of your own, and bid her goodbye before rejoining Scad and Talex, who have stayed out of the crowd’s way.

“There’s no space here,” you tell them, handing over their boxes with drinks and cakes. “But we could go up to my apartment if you’re interested,” you offer, then quickly add, “But you’re also welcome to head home if you’re tired. I’d understand.”

"No," Talex responds immediately, only to let out a small groan as Scad nudges him with an elbow, a gesture he’s picked up since coming to Earth.

"We don’t want to be a burden, Y/N," Scad says, looking almost bashful.

"Oh, no, not at all," you insist, shaking your head. "I wouldn’t have offered otherwise. Come on, let’s go."

Your apartment is only a few minutes’ walk away, perched on the top floor with a lovely view over the city skyline. It’s nothing grand, but it’s cozy, and it’s home.

"I imagined something more... I’m not sure," Talex murmurs as he takes in the space with open curiosity. "You’re always so put together and professional, but your home is... soft and comfortable."

Scad nods in agreement. "And colorful."

Most of your furniture is secondhand, pieces you couldn’t resist picking up from flea markets or online listings. Colorful pictures and paintings fill the walls, lush plants soften the corners, and piles of blankets and pillows add texture to the couch and armchair.

“What is this?” Talex asks, pointing to a vintage birdcage hanging beside the TV.

You chuckle, feeling a bit sheepish. “It’s silly, I know. It’s an old birdcage, but I use it to hold my jewelry.”

“Birdcage?” Talex repeats, intrigued.

“People on Earth keep all kinds of animals as pets,” you explain with a smile. “But I don’t have a bird.”

“No?” Talex looks at you, flicking a necklace gently with his finger.

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t have time for a pet, and besides, I’d never keep a bird in that tiny cage.”

“It’s creative,” Talex nods thoughtfully, his face lighting up. “I like it.”

You laugh, pleased by his interest. “I’m glad you do.”

You spend the next hour gathered around your small dining table, chatting about everything from desserts to upcoming concerts as you browse tickets online.

“I think you’ll enjoy this one, too,” you murmur while confirming the order. “And how’s the chocolate?” you ask Talex, catching a glimpse of Scad as he rises from his seat to wander over to the window.

“It’s really good,” the younger alien replies with a hint of a smile. “But you already knew that.”

You laugh, barely hiding your satisfaction. “I had a feeling.”

Scad interrupts your banter, his voice thoughtful as he looks out at the city below. “Now I see why you chose this place.”

“Yeah,” you say, moving to stand beside him. The city is alive with people and traffic. Lights reflect off the glass buildings and stretch out into the night. “When I saw this view, I knew I’d want to see it every day.”

Scad turns his gaze back to you, his expression a mix of curiosity and admiration. “It’s beautiful. So much movement… so much life.”

“It’s easy to get lost in it. Sometimes, I find myself just watching the streets, the way people interact, how the city breathes.”

“It feels… different here. The energy is more vibrant than on our planet.”

Scad turns back to the window. "It’s lively… almost overwhelming.”

"It can be," you agree. "Is it so different where you come from?"

He nods slowly, his eyes still fixed on the scene outside. “It can be busy too, especially in our cities, but it’s not so vibrant. Now that we’ve started opening up to other planets, we’re seeing more species coming in, but nothing like this. All these creatures, and they can still coexist together.”

"I'm not even sure humans could survive on our planet," Talex speaks up from behind you, closer than you anticipated. "Your kind is so soft and vulnerable."

Before you can process the shift in the atmosphere, you feel the alien's hard chest pressing against your back. The sudden contact makes your breath hitch, yet it’s not enough to make you step away.

"We can be resilient too," you reply weakly, earning a chuckle from Scad.

"Hard to believe," he says, looking over you with an amused expression. There’s no malice in his words, so you don’t feel offended, even though an argument is ready to roll off your tongue. However, Talex’s long, slender fingers resting on your hips stop the train of your thoughts immediately.

"What are you doing?" you manage to ask, feeling your heart race.

"Humans are fascinating," Talex muses, his voice low and thoughtful, though it’s not the answer you wanted. "You are so fascinating."

Scad takes a step closer, his gaze locked onto you. "Soft."

You gulp, warmth flooding your chest and creeping up to your cheeks. "Yeah," you croak out. "You said that."

"And pliant," Talex adds, his breath warm against the crook of your neck, sending goosebumps rippling across your skin. "And I'm really curious."

You know you shouldn’t ask, but the question slips out before you can stop yourself. "About what?"

Scad grins, a mischievous glint flickering in his large, black eyes. "Call it human anatomy."

The room feels charged, your heartbeat echoing in your ears as you try to gauge their intentions. There’s an intensity in the air, a palpable curiosity that you can’t ignore. The way they regard you sends your thoughts spiraling.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

Talex leans in slightly, his expression earnest yet playful. "How does your kind express affection? How do you communicate intimacy?"

Scad watches you closely as if assessing your reaction. "We’ve seen some of your gestures, hugs, kisses. But we want to understand more. What does it feel like?"

You take a breath, caught off guard by their candidness. "It’s… it’s a way to connect, to show trust and care," you explain, your voice steadying. "Humans often use touch to convey emotions."

"Touch," Talex repeats, his fingers brushing lightly against your hip as he absorbs your words. "Like this?"

His touch sends a shiver through you, igniting a mixture of warmth and uncertainty. "Yes, but it can mean different things depending on the context," you clarify, your heart racing. "It can be comforting, passionate, or even just friendly."

Scad tilts his head, contemplating your response. "And how do you know what kind of touch is appropriate?"

You pause, considering how to articulate the nuances of human interactions. "It depends on the relationship and the situation. You learn to read the signs; the body language, tone of voice, and the setting. It’s all part of understanding each other."

Talex's eyes sparkle with curiosity. "And is it always clear?"

"Not always," you admit. "Sometimes it can be complicated. Misunderstandings happen."

"It seems much easier for us," Talex says, his fingers still exploring the fabric of your dress. His touch is light and curious. "There are rules and customs to follow."

"We have those too," you tell him, struggling to keep your thoughts organized. "But it can get... confusing."

"Is it confusing now?" Scad asks, stepping even closer until you find yourself effectively trapped between their hard, lean bodies.

"Yes," you reply, your voice steady despite the rapid flutter of your heart.

"And how should we make it more obvious?" he asks, his hand reaching out to gently smooth over your jaw, his touch both tender and electrifying.

"It depends," you reply. "What do you want to make more obvious?"

"Our desire to get to know you more... intimately," he states, his tone steady as he maintains eye contact. The admission hangs in the air between you, charged with anticipation.

You swallow, the weight of his words sinking in. "Intimacy is a delicate thing," you say softly, feeling your heart race.

Talex nods behind you. "We will be really careful then." He reaches for the zipper of your dress, and with one smooth motion, he pulls it down. The tight fabric loosens around your body, and soon, pooling at your feet.

A shiver of surprise runs through you as the cool air brushes against your skin. You can feel your blood burning in your veins as the aliens look over you, letting their gaze linger on the soft curves of your body and the detailed lace of your underwear.

"Everyone looks like you?" Scad asks, his fingers slipping down your neck and across your collarbone.

"No," you tell them. "Some are softer, some are harder. There are no rules about how we should look." You pause, searching for the right words. "Humans come in all shapes, sizes, and styles."

"Softer?" Talex asks, his brow quirking with curiosity. "You seem soft enough."

You huff a laugh, caught slightly off guard. "Thanks?"

"You are welcome," the alien grins, his expression a mix of playfulness and sincerity. "So? What is next?"

Scad groans, exasperated. "Talex!"

"What? You are slow," Talex retorts with a smirk, clearly enjoying the banter.

You clear your throat, trying to regain some focus amid their playful bickering. "Well, sometimes people kiss."

Scad's interest piques.

"We do that too," Talex adds, his tone serious. "Though, I bet it feels different for you."

"Let’s see," Scad says, and before you can fully comprehend his words, he cups your cheeks with a gentle yet firm grip and leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss.

It's not the slow, tentative approach you had anticipated; no, it’s fast and intense. Scad’s lips move against yours with urgency, his mouth parting yours before you can process anything, his tongue slipping in to explore. The texture of his tongue is surprisingly rough, and his movements are demanding, taking much more than you are ready to give.

A breathless moment passes before Talex interrupts with a hint of impatience in his tone. "Now, me," he grunts, pulling you away from Scad's grasp to press his lips to yours.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Talex steals it away again. His kiss is just as fervent, if not more so. He thrusts his tongue into your mouth, demanding your attention. You find yourself swept up in the intensity of the moment, feeling the heat radiating from both of them.

"Can I take these off?" Scad's voice breaks through the haze of your mind, and you have to force yourself to pull away from the kiss. Your lips feel warm and swollen, tingling from the intensity.

You know you should tell them no. You should stop this before it goes any further, but the heat of the moment is overwhelming. "Yes," you whisper, barely recognizing your own voice.

With surprising ease, the alien unclasp your bra. The delicate fabric falls away to the ground. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he pulls down your panties, too, the cool air rushing against your skin, followed immediately by the warmth of his hands gripping the softness of your ass.

"Wait," you squeak, instinctively turning to escape his touch, but instead, you inadvertently push yourself against Talex. The contact is electric, and you feel a rush of heat as your body presses against his.

"Fuck," Talex groans, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. His breath hitches as he feels your softness against his hard skin. "So soft."

The contrast between their bodies heightens your senses, and you can't help but feel a thrill at their reaction. The moment is charged with a mix of curiosity and longing, and you are caught in a whirlwind of sensations.

Talex's hands find their way to your waist, his fingers splaying out over your skin, grounding you in the overwhelming reality of the situation. You can feel the tension build as Scad watches intently, his gaze lingering on the two of you with a spark of excitement in his eyes.

"We should-" you stammer, struggling to find your words as Talex's hands glide over your bare skin without pause. Scad's gaze feels like a tangible weight on you, burning with intensity. "We should sit down," you finally manage to say, hoping the suggestion will give you a moment to clear your mind.

"That's a great idea," Talex agrees, his tone laced with eagerness as he gently guides you toward the couch.

They move like predators, each step quick and graceful, their limbs fluid and poised in a way that feels both alien and mesmerizing. Their legs, so different from yours, move with elegance. The warm glow of the city lights filters through the window, casting a soft illumination over the room and highlighting every hard line of their bodies. The yellow light dances across their armor-like skin, accentuating the sleek contours and the vibrant colors that shift subtly with their movements.

They sit down at your sides, caging you between them once again.

"I want more kisses," Talex demands, cupping your jaw to turn your head so he can capture your lips once again. His kiss is insistent, a mix of urgency and longing, and your moan is muffled against him, vibrating through his chest as he swallows the soft sounds leaving your lips.

Meanwhile, Scad makes himself busy, trailing his lips down your neck, leaving a tingling path of warmth that sends shivers down your spine until he reaches your breast. You can feel his curiosity as he gropes your soft flesh, exploring its weight with a gentle yet demanding touch. When he takes your nipple into his mouth, swirling his rough tongue over the sensitive bud, you squeak at the sudden sensation, the pleasure shocking you.

Talex pulls away briefly, peeking down at his friend with wide eyes of surprise, but it only takes a moment for him to follow suit. He pushes you back against the couch, claiming your other breast for himself. Your head falls back with a moan as they work roughly and impatiently on your sensitive flesh, their mouths moving in tandem, licking and sucking, igniting every nerve in your body.

The heat of their bodies pressed against you, combined with the dual sensations of their tongues on your nipples, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you. Each flick of their tongues and each gentle bite only heightens your desire, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. You can hardly process the rush of sensations as they alternate between teasing and devouring, their fervor making it clear how much they crave you.

“Is it good?” Scad asks, his lips brushing over your nipple as he speaks. Your skin glistens with his saliva, and you can barely form a coherent thought.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, your voice airy and light, caught in the haze of pleasure.

“What else do you do?” he presses.

You can’t believe you are getting flustered even now, but the intensity of their attention has your cheeks burning. You nibble on your lip, feeling the softness swell from their kisses. A mix of embarrassment and excitement floods your senses.

“Well,” you stammer, trying to gather your thoughts. “There are other ways to be intimate… kissing, touching… exploring each other…” Your voice trails off. The heat in the room makes it hard to concentrate on anything but the warmth of their bodies pressed against you.

Scad's gaze sharpens, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin. “Show us,” he urges. “We want to learn.”

You swallow hard, heart pounding as you realize just how deep this exploration could go.

Slowly, you open your legs, feeling a rush of anticipation. The movement prompts Talex to tear himself away from your breast, and both aliens look down between your thighs with keen curiosity.

“Our females look different,” Scad remarks. His voice is laced with intrigue. “They are hard everywhere, protected by their skin.”

“Well,” you gulp, your heart racing as you watch Scad’s hand slip down your stomach, “we are not.”

Talex nods in understanding, his gaze locked on your exposed skin. Scad’s hand slides between your thighs, and a gasp escapes your lips when his fingers brush against your heat.

“Fuck,” Scad groans, his eyes widening as he feels your softness. “She is so soft.”

Without hesitation, Talex mirrors his friend’s movements, letting his rough fingertips glide across your wet folds. “Show us,” he says, his voice low and eager. “How do we make you feel good?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, your desire intensifying. You reach down to your pussy, your heart racing. “This is my clit,” you explain, circling the sensitive bud. “It’s really sensitive.”

Scad pushes your hand aside, eager to replicate your movements. “And this…” you continue, your voice growing shaky, “…is where a male puts his penis during… sex.”

Taking the lead, Talex lets his long, slender fingers slip inside you. “So warm,” he groans, astonished by your softness. “And you are so wet, too.”

“I’m curious,” Scad hums, his finger flicking your clit with gentle precision. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes,” you answer, the word bursting forth with urgency. “Please.”

Scad’s eyes light up with excitement as he positions himself between your thighs. You feel a shiver of anticipation course through you as he leans closer, his breath warm against your skin.

“Just relax,” Talex encourages, watching intently, his fingers still moving within you. The sensations are overwhelming, leaving you dizzy.

Scad gently parts your folds with his fingers, and you gasp at the feeling of his touch. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he brings his mouth closer to your core.

When his tongue finally makes contact, you arch your back. Scad’s movements are curious and eager, his tongue exploring your sensitive skin with a mix of caution and fervor. You can’t help but moan, the sound spilling from your lips as pleasure washes over you.

Talex watches intently, captivated by the sight before him. “Is it good?” he asks. There is a hint of concern in his voice.

“Yes,” you gasp, unable to contain your pleasure as Scad works expertly with his tongue, flicking and swirling in ways that leave you trembling. “It feels amazing.”

“Show us what else you like,” Talex urges, his fingers still moving inside your pussy.

With a nod, you guide Scad’s head, pressing him closer as you feel the tension building within you. “Right there,” you guide, your voice breathy and desperate.

The alien responds to your instructions, his tongue rubbing against your clit, teasing and licking with increasing pace. You feel the pressure in your core tighten, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable.

“Don’t stop,” you urge, your hands gripping the couch as you surrender to the sensations. “I’m so close.”

Talex watches you, mesmerized by the way your body reacts to Scad’s touch.

The combination of their attentions, Scad’s mouth, and Talex’s fingers, drives you to the edge. With a final, overwhelming wave of ecstasy, you cry out, your body trembling as you release. The world around you fades into bliss.

Scad pulls back, his mouth glistening and a satisfied grin spreading across his face. His black eyes glimmer with delight.

“How does she taste?” Talex asks, breaking the silence.

“Better than any cake,” Scad replies, licking his lips as if to savor the memory. A flutter of excitement dances in your stomach at their unabashed enthusiasm.

You scoff a breathy laugh. “Well, I’m glad I could provide some competition for dessert.”

“Competition? You’ve set a pretty high bar. I think I need a taste for myself.” Talex grins, his gaze intense as he shifts between your thighs, replacing Scad.

You can feel the tension re-borning in the air, electric and charged with anticipation. The aftershocks of your orgasm still ripple through your body, but they are already ready to continue.

Before you can catch your breath, Scad captures your mouth in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating, as he thrusts into your mouth with a delicious urgency. Meanwhile, Talex’s mouth is busy between your thighs, slurping up your wetness with hunger. The sensations blend and swirl around you, making it hard to think straight.

The dual stimulation is dizzying; you can barely comprehend the delicious heat pooling in your core. Talex’s hands grip your hips, holding you firmly in place as he feasts on you, his tongue dancing expertly over your sensitive folds. Each lick sends shivers up your spine, and you can’t help but moan against Scad’s mouth. Your body arches instinctively, craving more. Talex's warm breath against your skin mingles with the cool air of the room, heightening your awareness of every touch. His tongue flicks and swirls with a relentless need, driving you wild as he explores your softness and warmth.

"You're so responsive," Talex murmurs, glancing up at you with a wicked grin, his eyes dark with desire. "I could get used to this." The words send another thrill through you, igniting a deeper ache within.

"Me too," Scad hums, turning his attention to your breast once again. Your body arches instinctively toward Scad, craving the warmth of his mouth on your skin. His tongue flicks over your sensitive nipple, sending electric shivers coursing through you as he lavishes attention on your breasts. The combination of Talex’s relentless mouth between your thighs and Scad's eager lips has you on the brink of insanity. Your hands hold onto them desperately, tracing the hard lines of their bodies wherever you can reach them.

“Please,” you plead. “I need more.”

"I can give you more," Talex groans, his tone low and growly.

He shifts slightly between your legs, just enough for you to see the armor-like skin between his thick thighs stretching as his cock emerges from its sheath. Your eyes widen in surprise at the sight. The tip of his length is more pointed than you are accustomed to, and a hard plate runs along the underside, adorned with ridges. There’s an undeniable elegance in the way the plate curves along his length, the hard texture highlighting the contours of his cock. Veins bulge beneath the softer parts of his skin, pulsating with an intensity that mirrors your own desire. The sight is both mesmerizing and intimidating.

“So different?” Scad asks, his lips popping softly as he releases your sensitive, swollen nipple with a teasing smirk.

You struggle to articulate your thoughts, your mind clouded. “Well,” you breathe, “it’s certainly… different.”

Talex's chest swells with pride at your words, and he shuffles closer. His tip brushes along your folds, prodding at your clit before teasingly slipping down to your achingly empty hole.

“Please,” you whisper again, your voice thick with desperation, and then you muster your strength to look at Scad. “Stand up on the couch.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “What?”

“Just do it,” you urge, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips even as your breath hitches at the feeling of Talex pushing inside you. “Now it’s my turn to taste you.”

You can see the flicker of excitement in Scad’s eyes as he processes your words, his breath hitching at your offer. Without hesitation, he rises to his feet, the couch cushions sinking under his weight as he positions himself next to your head, his long, lean legs creating an enticing frame around you.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” you reply, your gaze locking onto his, filled with playful challenge and seductive confidence. “Just relax and enjoy.”

With a deep thrust, Talex fills you completely. You can feel your drenched pussy clenching around his rigid length, fluttering and stretching as he pushes in inch by inch until your lungs burn because you don't remember how to breathe. You need several seconds to adjust around him and make yourself focus on Scad. You lean closer, your heart racing with anticipation. His cock stands proudly before you, glistening with arousal and impatience. You reach out, wrapping your fingers around him, feeling the warmth and firmness of his skin under your touch. The excitement of tasting him sends a thrill coursing through your veins, and with a sultry smile, you lean forward, your mouth parting in eager anticipation.

As you wrap your lips around Scad, you savor the heat and weight of him on your tongue. He gasps softly, shocked and delighted. The taste of him is unique, a mix of salt and something distinctly alien, igniting your senses and intensifying your desire. You can feel his body respond to your touch. His hips instinctively thrust forward as you take him deeper, coaxing low groans and snarls from his lips.

Talex watches with hunger, his movements inside you becoming more deliberate and forceful. Each grind of his hips drives you closer to the edge. “You’re incredible,” he grunts.

You bob your head, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip of Scad’s cock, teasing him as you pull back just enough to watch his reaction. His eyes are wide, filled with a mix of pleasure and disbelief. “You really are the most fascinating human,” he breathes, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you as he thrusts gently into your mouth. You can feel him growing bolder, responding to your encouragement, as he begins to take control, setting a rhythm that matches the urgency building between you and Talex.

With each press of Talex’s hips, you feel the delicious friction igniting your core, pushing you closer to that tantalizing high. You moan around Scad, and at the same time, your pussy tightens, sending shockwaves through both of them. You can see the pleasure etched on their faces.

“Just like that,” Scad encourages, his voice thick with lust. “You’re perfect.”

You can feel the heat pooling in your core, the pressure building in your stomach.

“Close,” Talex growls, his breaths heavy and labored as he quickens his pace, each thrust pushing you toward the brink. “I can feel you tightening around me.”

With a primal roar, Talex fills you deep one last time, hitting that sweet spot that sends you spiraling over the edge. You cry out around Scad, the sound vibrating through him, and the world explodes in a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. Scad releases into your mouth, and Talex follows closely behind, leaving you gasping for breath. Your body trembles in the aftermath.

You collapse back onto the couch, panting, your body glowing with satisfaction and spent energy. Scad and Talex join you, their bodies warm and comforting beside yours, their breaths mingling with yours in the heavy air.

“That was… incredible,” you breathe, still reeling from the intensity of the experience.

"Definitely better than the chocolate cake," Talex grunts, followed by the groan of yours and Scad's.

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: after defying a divine directive and choosing mercy over order, you—a cupid built not to feel—fall from the realm and crash into a world you don’t belong to. wingless and exiled, you land on a planet bruised by war, grief, and something worse: apathy. but one figure watches your descent. he’s not a hero. not a god. just a man turned monster, carrying the weight of a planet he helped destroy. you were made to spark love. he was made to conquer. so why can’t he walk away?

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial mythology. lonely immortals. slow-burn dynamics. post-war emotional fallout. deconstruction of love as a weapon/tool. and a wingless cupid with a cracked heart and a crooked smile.

❤︎ warnings: emotional manipulation (brief). themes of exile and identity loss. canon-typical violence references (omni-mark’s past). light blood/injury mentions. quiet existential grief. soft heartbreak. and the inconvenient ache of wanting to be wanted.

‪❤︎ wc: 4455

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wanted to write something aching. something soft and sharp and too pink in all the wrong places. this is my love letter to the ones who were built to help others but never expected to be helped. to the hopeless romantics. to the heartsworn. if you’ve ever looked for your own thread and found nothing but empty space—i see you. let’s fall together.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Before time had a name, there was love.

And before love had rules, there were those who enforced them.

You were one of them.

Cupids were never born in the way humans or any other beings are.

There was no crying, no clutching warmth, no heartbeat against heartbeat. You weren’t given to anyone—because in your world, nothing is ever truly given. It’s assigned.

And you were assigned to love.

Long before your first breath—or what could even be counted as a breath—your existence was stitched together with rose-gold thread and spun into something soft.

Something radiant. Something shaped to serve.

The Realm of Threads didn’t believe in accidents. It believed in connection.

Harmony. Devotion.

These were your first lessons—woven not from stories, but from structure. From a place built not to feel love, but to uphold it.

Cupids, as humans might call them, are not gods. They are not angels. They are not the chubby, winged caricatures drawn on glossy cards each February.

They are constructs.

Beings built from emotion itself, shaped by the pulse of the universe and tasked with one divine, inescapable truth—make them fall in love.

All of them.

Every soul in every world is marked by a thread—red, golden, soft, or shining. Invisible to most. Tangible only to your kind. And where those threads exist, your kind follows.

Weaving. Binding. Mending.

You never asked why. You were taught never to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

In your realm, the sky is made of lace.

Not literal lace—but that’s what it looks like, with its rippling tapestry of lights and longing.

You drifted through it as a child, surrounded by other Cupids—silent, graceful, unwavering. They didn’t speak unless they had to. Words wasted time. Emotion was observed, not expressed.

You were the odd one out almost immediately.

You giggled when you shouldn’t have. You sang with no rhythm. You watched humans too closely, too curiously. You wondered what it felt like to be kissed—not as a target, not as a mission—but as something wanted.

The Supervisors said your strings were too tight.

They meant your emotions.

You cared too much. Thought too hard. Dreamed in colors that didn’t belong to you.

But you were a prodigy, so they didn’t clip your wings. Not then. They praised your precision, your instincts. You’d never missed a target. Not once.

But love, you would learn, is only beautiful when it behaves.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were trained before you ever knew what training meant.

In the Realm of Threads, there is no childhood. Not in the way humans define it. There are no lullabies, no scraped knees, no tumbling laughter in the grass. There is structure. There is schooling.

There is silence.

You were given a pod—not a room, not a bed. A pod. Sterile and softly lit, humming faintly with emotional frequency.

It pulsed with the echoes of distant connections: engagements, kisses, heartbreak, soulmates colliding on foreign soil.

It was meant to teach you. Not to feel—but to understand what feeling looks like.

Your first lessons weren’t in numbers or words. They were in observation.

Screens stretched across your wall like windows into other realms. Every second of every day, you watched humans love each other. Fumble and flourish. Make mistakes. Fix them. You learned the cadence of confession, the stillness before a first kiss, the ache of waiting by a phone that wouldn’t ring.

You took notes.

You practiced on simulations. Shadow versions of real people, constructed for training. They were emotion puppets—coded to respond, to mimic the human condition, but never feel it.

You pulled their strings like a composer, conducting the perfect crescendo of a meet-cute or a second chance.

And you were so good at it.

Even the elder Cupids, old as planetary rotations, took notice.

They called you “Silken.”

They called you “True-Handed.”

They said your instincts were woven with clarity few possessed.

But even then—you knew something was wrong.

Because love wasn’t clean. It wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t math.

You saw it in the gaps between the simulations—in the real footage, in the stolen glances and unsent letters.

Love was messy.

And you weren’t allowed to say that.

So instead, you smiled. You bowed your head. You aced your assignments. And when it was finally time to receive your bow—the instrument that would mark you as a field Cupid, ready to enter the human realm—you let them place it in your hands like a crown.

Ceremonial. Divine. Cold.

Your wings fluttered for the first time that day. Not from pride. From something else.

Restlessness.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted to be part of this system.

But you’d been shaped for it. And in the Realm of Threads, shape is everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

They say Cupids don’t feel the way humans do. But if that were true—why did it ache?

You never had a red string.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You saw them everywhere—thread-thin, glowing like veins of fire across the fabric of reality. Around wrists, through hearts, tied in impossible loops from continent to continent, galaxy to galaxy.

Red. Gold. Silver.

Some pulsed softly. Some burned bright. Some frayed at the ends—doomed to break.

But you?

You had none.

You looked. Every year. Every cycle. Every mirror.

And there was never one waiting for you.

The instructors said it was proof of your purpose.

You were meant to love, not to be loved.

Cupids didn’t need soulmates. You were the threads—not what they tied together.

But still, when you were alone in your pod—your crown-glass screen humming with soft simulations—you sometimes wrapped a ribbon around your own finger and pretended.

Just for a moment. Just to feel what it might be like to belong to someone.

To be chosen.

To be someone’s reason.

You told no one.

Cupids weren’t supposed to pretend.

Not about that.

You always grinned too brightly. Talked too much. Got too close to the humans you helped.

You asked too many questions.

Why this couple? Why that connection? Why did heartbreak sometimes look so much like love?

You weren’t supposed to wonder. You were supposed to execute. Deliver arrows. Create outcomes. Adjust the threads.

But you liked watching after the mission was done.

You stayed longer than you should have. Saw the way people clung to one another. Fought. Forgave. Grieved. Moved on. Sometimes, even when the threads said they wouldn’t.

And worse—you started to feel happy for them.

Genuinely.

Not in the approved, detached sense of “mission accomplished,” but like… something warm bloomed in your chest just watching two people choose each other.

One day you told another Cupid—casually, as if it was no big thing—that it must feel nice to be loved like that.

She looked at you like you were malfunctioning.

Reported you. Quietly.

You were summoned for evaluation.

They used soft words. Nothing cruel—just… firm.

“Attachment undermines your clarity.”

“You’ve been too immersed in lower realms.”

“Emotional mimicry is a known side effect. You’ll adjust.”

You didn’t adjust.

You just learned how to lie better.

You laughed louder. You perfected your posture. You earned the nickname Heartsworn, and everyone said it with admiration.

But you felt empty most days.

Like a thread that had never been tied.

And it gnawed at you, that emptiness—because you were built to help others find connection.

So why did it feel like you’d never have your own?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It happened on a world not so different from Earth.

Small. Blue. Quiet in the way only dying stars can make a planet feel.

The threads there were thin. Brittle. Nearly broken.

It needed love desperately. That’s why they sent you.

Because you never missed. Because your aim was perfect. Because you were the shining example—the “Heartsworn,” the favorite, the infallible.

And at first, it was routine.

Two beings. Two threads. One frayed at the end, knotted tight around grief. The other hesitant, flickering. Their paths crossed in a way that felt almost poetic—a shared umbrella. An open bookstore. A laugh like recognition.

You hovered above them, bow pulsing in your palm. A clean shot. Two arrows. One for each.

But then something shifted.

The woman—your target—she looked up at the man, eyes tired but tender. And the way he looked back… like he was remembering how to breathe.

And you saw it.

She had already loved him.

It hadn’t been forced. It hadn’t been orchestrated. No divine architecture. No thread pulling them forward.

Just… choice.

Human, messy, miraculous choice.

You hesitated.

And that’s all it took.

Your bow trembled in your hands. Not from error—but from resistance.

Because for the first time—you didn’t want to interfere. You didn’t want to force it.

You wanted to let them be.

You lowered your weapon.

And then—because you were soft, and reckless, and maybe stupid in the eyes of the Supervisors—you spoke to her.

She didn’t see you. Not clearly. Just a shimmer in the corner of her eye. But you whispered anyway.

“You don’t need help. You already chose him.”

The words weren’t authorized. Your presence was meant to be undetectable. You were not allowed to alter the script.

But you did.

And for a moment—nothing happened.

Then the red thread between them sparked.

Bright. Violent. Uncontrolled.

It burned itself into existence. Without your arrow. Without divine sanction.

And they kissed.

Not because you told them to.

Because they wanted to.

Your lips curled into a soft smile.

You didn’t regret it.

But the moment you returned to the Realm of Threads, you knew something was wrong.

The lights were dimmed. The supervisors were waiting. No lectures. No trials.

Just one sentence.

“You interfered.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but the guards were already reaching for your wings.

You’d heard what it sounded like.

The sound of ripping. The way it cuts deeper than bone.

But you’d never imagined it would hurt like this.

Your knees hit the lace-floor. Your mouth stayed silent.

You didn’t scream.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because they wanted you to.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to take that from them.

Dignity, you told yourself.

Dignity is all I have left.

You were told you would not be recycled. You were too “contaminated.” Too unstable. A bad example.

So instead—they exiled you.

You didn’t get to ask where.

Just a flash of cold light—

And then the sound of wind.

Falling.

Alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You hit the ground hard.

Not like a leaf drifting. Not with grace. Not with poise. Not like the Cupids in the stories.

Like a comet.

A streak of light through an unfamiliar sky, dragging heat and ache in your wake.

You didn’t black out right away—but you almost wished you had.

Because the first thing you felt wasn’t the crash. Wasn’t the way your ribs seized or the way your shoulder twisted beneath your fall.

It was the space between your wings.

The hollow.

The absence.

You gasped.

Air—not laced with threadlight, not humming with frequency, just air—rushed into your lungs like punishment.

You curled onto your side, dirt grinding into the soft parts of you. Wet grass clung to your skin. The sky above was wrong—blue, yes, but so still. No shimmering frequencies. No glowing red filaments. Just clouds, soft and slow.

You were somewhere real.

Somewhere unmarked.

Somewhere alone.

It wasn’t the pain that made you want to cry.

It was the quiet.

Because back home—even when you were alone in your pod, even when no one looked at you—there was always something.

The buzz of love blooming. The echo of longing. The soft, constant pull of other people’s threads, humming just outside your senses.

But now?

Nothing.

It was gone.

You sat up slowly.

And then immediately flopped back down with a tiny, theatrical groan.

“Ouchie,” you mumbled to no one, voice breathy and soft and definitely not pained—because no, you were totally fine. Just a bit… stunned. And mildly bleeding. And definitely wingless.

But you were smiling. Kind of. Maybe.

Okay, so it trembled a little at the edges.

“I’ve had worse landings,” you said aloud—which was a lie. You’d never landed before. You’d always floated.

You tried again, slowly, every nerve screaming. Your knees trembled. Your arms buckled. You caught yourself on the soft slope of a hill, hands sinking into wildflowers and moss.

You blinked down at them.

Yellow, pink, violet. Stubbornly bright.

They looked like something out of a simulation.

They weren’t.

They were real.

Your mouth twisted.

Of course you landed in a field of flowers. Of course.

You laughed.

It came out cracked and hoarse. Almost a sob.

Because everything hurt, and everything was still spinning, and you had no idea where you were, and no one was coming for you, and—

No.

No, you weren’t going to cry. You weren’t.

Cupids didn’t cry.

Even clipped ones.

Even broken ones.

Even ones bleeding into someone else’s sky.

Still, you tried to push yourself up, wobbling on legs that hadn’t had to support you since your designation. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like gravity had teeth and it didn’t trust you. You teetered. Fell to your knees again.

And giggled.

Which also trembled a little.

“I meant to do that.”

You dusted imaginary dirt from your imaginary uniform and gave an exaggerated little curtsy to the empty air.

No one clapped. Rude.

You dragged yourself to your feet.

Shaky. Awkward. Wobbly in a way you hadn’t felt in cycles. The Realm of Threads taught you to float everywhere. Gliding was cleaner. More efficient. Less emotional.

You hadn’t really walked since childhood simulations.

The ground felt weird under your feet. Solid. Gritty.

Your bow was still intact. Miraculously. You hugged it close like a stuffed toy, curling in on yourself for a moment, letting the quiet press into your bones.

You could still feel it.

That place between your shoulders—where your wings had been. Like a ghost limb. Like something sacred had been carved out of you and left a silence behind.

You hated it.

But you kept moving.

Maybe—if you helped someone on this world—they would come back for you. Maybe if you just kept doing your job, proved you were still useful, still good, they’d rewind the exile.

Reattach what they’d taken.

Please.

You stumbled once. Then again. Then face-planted into a patch of daisies with a grunt so undignified you groaned into the soil.

“Get it together,” you mumbled into the grass.

You pushed yourself back up. Sat on your knees for a second. Took a breath.

You didn’t know how long you wandered after that.

Minutes? Hours? You lost time in the way only the heartbroken can.

It got dark fast.

The sky burned gold, then violet, then black. Stars blinked overhead—foreign constellations, wrong patterns.

You were still limping through the field when the noise came.

A whoosh.

Sharp. Cutting. Like something splitting the air in half.

You froze.

Turned slowly.

And then—saw him.

Not a blur. A shape. Coming toward you like a storm with legs.

You only had a second to register what was coming at you: tall, fast, red and white—a storm in the shape of a man. And a scowl, carved from thunderclouds.

Flying.

He was flying.

You squinted.

Not a Cupid. Definitely not a Cupid.

A human?

No.

No, he felt… too much.

You didn’t have your thread-sight anymore, but you could still feel.

Emotions. Echoes.

He felt like gravity.

Like something that had no business coming closer—and was doing it anyway.

He landed hard. Just a few feet away.

Harder than you had. The ground splintered beneath his feet, shockwaves rippling out in a perfect ring. Dust and wildflowers burst upward like a gasp. He stood there for a beat—motionless.

And you… just stared.

Red suit. White accents. Red cape. Black goggles like midnight slicing across his face. He didn’t glow. He didn’t shine. He loomed.

His presence felt like gravity doubled—like the world bowed to his weight and dared not rise again.

You blinked at him slowly. Then offered a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

You glanced behind you like maybe he was staring at someone else, but no—those mirrored goggles were fixed on you.

“Hiii,” you tried again, voice cheerier. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

No reaction. His posture didn’t shift. You had a sudden, vivid mental image of being vaporized.

“I’m just passing through!” you rushed, hands up. “A… a tourist! On a very involuntary vacation!”

Still nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing—he was breathing.

Barley.

His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to slice open a planet.

“You’re not human.”

Your grin faltered for a second before rebounding, like a rubber band that’s been snapped too many times.

“Nope. Not even a little bit! But I’m very human adjacent in a lot of ways! I’ve watched a lot of rom-coms and I know how to do a proper hug—although full disclosure, I might fall over during it because of the whole… clipped wings situation.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like twin drills boring into the softest parts of you.

“Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then plastered on a sheepish smile.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you admitted, voice dipping softer now. “The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

Something flickered across his face. Brief. Gone before you could catch it.

“And now,” you continued, tone brightening again as you gestured to the wildflower field like a very proud but slightly concussed game show host, “I’m here! In… wherever here is. Honestly, it’s pretty. Good flowers. Ten out of ten. Bit of a rough welcome, but I’ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your back, fingertips brushing the jagged place where wings used to rise.

You shrugged. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

You took a step forward—then immediately lost your balance and fell face-first into a patch of daisies.

There was a beat of silence. Then two. Then three.

And then—so faint you thought you imagined it—you heard the faintest exhale of breath from the man in red and white.

Not a laugh.

But maybe the ghost of one.

You rolled onto your back and grinned up at the stars.

“See?” you said, voice light. “I’m great at making first impressions.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The second he saw you, he didn’t trust you.

Not because you looked dangerous. No—you didn’t. You were crumpled in a bed of wildflowers, wobbling like a broken marionette and smiling like someone had painted joy over grief and hoped no one would notice the cracks.

But that was exactly why he didn’t trust you.

People didn’t fall from the sky and grin. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.

So he hovered, silent, watching you crawl upright like you didn’t know how to use your own legs. Like the planet was something foreign. Like gravity was something new.

That wasn’t normal.

Mark had seen a lot of things in a lot of universes—false gods, black holes, men split into fractions of themselves—but this? A girl with stardust on her skin and nothing in her hands but a bow? That was new.

He landed hard. On purpose. Let the ground feel him.

You flinched. Not at the sound—at the silence that followed it.

And then you looked up.

Big eyes. Bare feet. Mouth bleeding at the corner, but curved like you hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

And then—

“Hi.”

Like you hadn’t just fallen from orbit.

He didn’t speak.

“Hiii,” you tried again, softer. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

Still he said nothing.

He didn’t move.

Mark watched.

Measured.

Assessed.

You were glowing at the edges—not visibly—but in some low, stubborn frequency. Like the kind of candle you couldn’t blow out even after you’d shattered the holder.

It irritated him.

He spoke without meaning to.

“You’re not human.”

You beamed, wounded and bright. “Nope! Not even a little bit!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Fumbling your way through some patchwork lie about tourism and rom-coms and wings—clipped, apparently.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t need to.

He was looking for something. A tell. A crack.

“Why are you here?”

That stopped you.

Just a second. Barely.

But it was enough.

Your grin shrank. Eyes dipped. Voice turned soft.

“That’s kind of a long story. The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

That flickered something inside him.

He crushed it before it could breathe.

Mark didn’t do soft. He didn’t do “caring.” That was the problem with the others. They hesitated. Thought. He didn’t. That’s why he survived.

So why was he still here?

Why wasn’t he flying away?

Why hadn’t he broken you in half the moment you lied?

You stepped forward. Tripped. Fell face-first into a clump of flowers like a deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He didn’t flinch, but he exhaled—just once. Quiet. Almost amused.

You rolled onto your back and smiled at the stars.

“See? I’m great at making first impressions.”

He hated how you said it.

Like it mattered.

Like someone out here was still capable of being good.

He walked toward you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t crawl away. You sat there, hands splayed out behind you, watching him like you weren’t sure if he was going to help you up or crush your skull.

Smart.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head.

“I should kill you.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. “You could. You really could. But I’d prefer we didn’t start there?”

“Then give me one reason not to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked up at him like you were weighing the clouds.

“I don’t have one.”

Mark stared.

You continued.

“I mean—I don’t know if I’m important. I don’t have a secret code or an army or even a sandwich right now. But…”

You reached up, touching your back—where the blood had dried, sticky and shimmering.

“But I used to be someone. I used to help people fall in love. And maybe that doesn’t matter to you—but it mattered to them.”

There was a silence.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say.

But it wasn’t that.

He should leave.

He should fly away and chalk you up to another anomaly.

Instead, he said:

“Can you still do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make people love.”

Your lips curled up. Slowly. Sadly. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

You were watching him too closely now. Like you were trying to read a string that wasn’t there.

“You’re not really from here either,” you said softly. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You already knew.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” you asked.

He looked at you, at the way your voice didn’t tremble, even though your body did.

And for once—he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Fair.”

Then you reached up and offered your hand.

Not in fear. Not in desperation.

Just… like someone who was used to offering something and not getting it taken.

Mark didn’t take it.

But he didn’t crush it either.

He looked past you—at the dark hills, the useless stars, the broken silence.

After conquering this place and killing his father—he didn’t know what this planet was anymore.

Didn’t care.

But he had nowhere else to be. Not anymore.

He turned.

Walked.

And when he didn’t tell you to stay—

You followed.

Not too close.

Just… close enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Once, you were small. Once, you believed everything they told you.

Your first robe was the color of a peach blossom.

It shimmered when you turned, sleeves brushing the floor, too big for your arms and still perfect in every way. You’d never worn something so soft.

You twirled three times in front of the mirror, arms out like wings, giggling because everything felt light.

“You look very neat,” said one of the elder Cupids, gliding past with a clipboard. “Remember to keep your posture upright when you’re selected for observation.”

“I will!” you promised, standing taller.

The robe swished when you walked. You liked that. It made you feel important. Like you were finally what they said you would be—purposeful.

Part of something big.

You didn’t understand everything yet, but that didn’t matter.

You were going to be a Cupid.

And Cupids were good.

“Today,” said another instructor, voice warm and practiced, “you’ll learn about threads.”

You beamed. Sat up straighter. Listened with all your heart.

“Every being has a thread,” they explained, conjuring a floating hologram that flickered softly through the training chamber. “They wrap around us, tie us to our people. See?”

The threads shimmered—red, gold, silver, glowing like starlight.

You gasped. It was so pretty. It made your chest feel warm.

“You’ll help people find each other,” the instructor went on. “You’ll guide their steps. Fix what’s frayed. Strengthen what’s fragile.”

“I can do that!” you blurted.

A few other young Cupids turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your legs were swinging off the floating bench and your hands were already up.

“I wanna do the red ones,” you said proudly. “Those are the soulmate ones, right?”

The instructor smiled. So gently. Like they were talking to someone a little slow, but very sweet.

“Oh, darling,” they said. “You don’t get one.”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

“You won’t have a red thread,” they said again, same caring voice, same soft smile. “Cupids don’t get them.”

You frowned. “But… we’re people too?”

“No,” they said kindly. “You’re not.”

Another Cupid, older, came to kneel beside you. Their hair was smooth. Their smile too perfect.

“You’re something better,” they told you. “You were made for love. You don’t need to be in it.”

“But—” you started.

“We give it,” the first instructor interrupted gently. “That’s your gift.”

You hesitated.

“But doesn’t anyone ever want us back?” you asked in a small voice.

The instructor’s smile didn’t change.

“No one has ever asked that before.”

You blinked. Sat very still.

They stood again.

“Alright, little hearts,” the elder said, clapping once. “Time for simulation prep. Let’s learn how to listen when a thread hums.”

Everyone got up.

You did too.

You smiled. Because they smiled. Because everyone around you looked so sure, so peaceful, so right.

You didn’t want to be the wrong one.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[tom-foolery-incorporated]

Real Nasty Swerve x Reader Blurb

Swerve tricks reader into drinking his transfluid. Mild yandere themes if you squint, gender neutral, racially ambiguous

“I made you a drink!”

“That’s so nice Swerve! I didn’t know you had organic friendly alcohol back there,” you gleamed as Swerve placed your glass in front of you. Of course your cup was just a Cybertronian shot glass which was like a giant Big Gulp to you but you still accepted the drink with grace.

Swerve seemed nervous when he placed the drink in front of you seeming to be worried about your reaction to his first time making a human cocktail.

“I picked some up on our last stop,” Swerve said nervously wiping the bar with a rag. “Thought I’d treat my favorite human to a little somthin’ somethin’.”

“You’re too cute,” you giggled reaching for the cup. Your words sent jolts directly to Swerve’s spark and he couldn’t help but flush blue at your praise. “Oh shush and just drink the damn drink,” he joked waving off your compliment.

The drink was a vibrant pink and thick with a foam at the top. You eyed the liquid curiously as the hesitation rose in your system. Did Swerve know why human can and can’t have? What if he accidentally poisons you? Well, a little sip couldn’t hurt that bad if it’s some sort of mechanical fluid right? Right? Anyway, the drink didn’t smell mechanical and had a sort of strawberry scent to it. So maybe it’ll all be fine.

Pushing away your doubts you chose to trust that Swerve knows that humans can’t eat gasoline or energon and take a sip from the cup. Immediately the taste is synthetic with a sweetness mixed in. It was sort of like if someone took the concept of pink or red candies and made them out of plastic and sugar. The synthetic taste was heavily overshadowed by the stinging sweetness that lured you into taking another swig.

“This is actually pretty good,” you said wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Y-yeah?” Swerve asked excitedly. He was leaning over the bar with both of his hands braced on the table top. His face was thoroughly flushed blue and he seemed to radiate electricity. “Makes you wanna take another drink?”

You laugh but take another sip. “Maybe this will be my go to drink here,” you laughed. Swerve bit his lower derma as his engine revved. You were properly drinking the concoction now as you made small talk with the minibot.

While Swerve tried to remain engaged in the conversation his optics stayed trained on how your cup slowly emptied. The way your tongue poked out from between your lips to lick up the pink fluid had his spike begging to be released and his valve clenching around nothing.

You finished your cup and even went back for the last little drops at the bottom. Your little tongue poked out a couple times to catch the droplets and lick up whatever you missed. It was like a personal erotic show for Swerve as he watched you unknowingly drink up his overload.

You spoke with him as you finished your drink with no idea that he was just rubbing his fat spike over your cup just a moment ago in the backroom of the bar. You sucked down every morsel of your drink without any idea that Swerve fantasized about your mouth worshipping his spike and valve as he filled your cup with his transfluid. Sure he doctored it with a little strawberry syrup he got with you in mind and gave it a nice little foamy top with his frother but you were still enjoying his transfluid in the middle of his bar with no one the wiser. Your body excitedly accepted his fluids like you were built for him. His cute little human so happy to guzzle down his overload.

“Want me to fill your cup?”

[sunandflame]

Built to be Caught

One wrong corridor. One glance too long. That’s all it took for Rob Lucci to notice her—and once he did, the game began

Warnings: nsfw, smut, predator/prey kink dynamics (consensual but intense), power imbalance (CP0 agent x lower-ranked navy officer), mild voyeuristic undertones, dark psychological themes (obsession, moral conflict, internalized fear/desire)

Word Count: 4641

Pairing: Rob Lucci x AFAB!Reader

crossposted on AO3

They didn’t warn you about the intensity.

Of course, they’d said it was classified — the training fields deeper within the Government HQ’s restricted zone. You weren’t supposed to be there. You’d gotten turned around, separated from your superior during a dry, bureaucratic tour of the central command building, and wandered off through a steel service door that hadn’t quite closed.

One step. Then another. That’s when the sky cracked.

Dark clouds gathered without warning, curling above the open arena like coiling snakes. The air itself felt denser. Electric. As though the atmosphere was being sucked inward, collapsing around a single point. You’d ducked behind a column, more out of instinct than reason. And when your eyes adjusted to the dimness — to the storm being summoned by sheer will — you saw him.

Rob Lucci.

You’d recognized him instantly. Of course you had. CP9, despite its fall from favor, had lived in your head since cadet years — your quiet obsession. You’d memorized his file more than once, tracing the cold genius behind his missions. They called him a weapon with a pulse, a shadow of the World Government’s iron will. CP0 had only sharpened him further. Rumors painted him more beast than man.

But nothing — no report, no photograph, no whispered anecdote — had prepared you for this.

Because he wasn’t human in that moment. He wasn’t even pretending to be.

The transformation was mid-process, but unmistakable. Smoke curled off his skin in slow trails, like incense offered to some ancient predator god. His body was thick with muscle and fur, leopard spots bleeding into rich charcoal and gold. His arms were long, claws gleaming, and his legs — too digitigrade, too coiled, like they could spring into you from across the field.

You didn’t breathe.

Not because of fear, exactly. Or maybe that was part of it. But it was also awe. The pressure coming off him wasn’t just physical — it reached inside your bones and rooted there.

Power. He was pure power.

And the way he moved… that stalking grace. The practiced lethality. He was violence distilled into form — and yet, there was beauty in it. He was beautiful, in a way you didn’t know how to name.

When he stilled, so did the storm. No thunder. Just a hush so deep, your heartbeat sounded sacrilegious.

And then — his head turned.

His eyes, those glowing green slits rimmed in black shadow, locked on your hiding spot with terrifying precision.

You froze. Every cell in your body screamed to flee. But another voice, quiet and traitorous, whispered: Stay. Let him see you.

He didn’t move toward you. He didn’t need to.

He just stared. One heartbeat. Then another.

And something inside you — something long dormant — coiled tight in your belly. A crackle of adrenaline. An ache you didn’t know what to do with.

You’d never fallen in love before. Not like this.

Not at first sight. Not at the sight of something that could tear you apart without blinking.

But you couldn’t look away.

You didn’t tell anyone what you saw.

That night, when your superior found you back in the visitor’s quarters, you claimed you got lost in the east wing. He scolded you gently. You nodded. Smiled. Said it wouldn’t happen again.

But it did.

You stayed at HQ longer than planned. Paperwork. Debriefings. A whole pile of administrative nonsense to justify your presence. You told yourself it was protocol. Career-driven. But deep down, you knew better.

You wanted to see him again.

And you did. Not in the arena. Not like that. But in the hallways. In the shadows.

Once, you saw him walking across the courtyard, coat billowing behind him, mask of indifference fixed in place. He didn’t glance your way.

Another time, during a weapons review, he appeared on a balcony overhead. His gaze slid over the crowd. You told yourself you imagined the way it paused.

But you didn’t imagine the tension in your chest. The way your breath stuttered. The way your body remembered him.

The strange thing was, no one else seemed to feel it. No one else seemed to see what you did. They treated him like a silent, if unnerving, peer. You heard whispers: “Lucci never smiles.” “He doesn’t speak unless it’s necessary.” “He was trained to kill at thirteen.”

They said it with admiration. Or caution.

You felt something else. Reverence. Curiosity. Hunger.

That was the part that unsettled you the most.

Because it didn’t feel safe. It didn’t feel right. You were a Navy officer. He was CP0. And beyond the obvious…he wasn’t normal. Wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t anything you were taught to want.

But still — when you closed your eyes at night, you saw him in that form again. Fur bristling. Breath fogging the air. And those eyes.

Predator’s eyes.

But they’d seen you.

It happened two weeks later.

You were returning late from the strategy wing, maps and charts tucked under your arm, mind buzzing with simulated drills. You took a shortcut through the lower corridors — the ones no one else used. That’s where you felt it. That same pressure. That pulse in the air.

You slowed. Turned a corner.

He was there.

Not in his awakened form — not fully. But close. You could see the shift underneath his skin. The wildness barely restrained. Like his human form was just a costume he hadn't yet shed. He stood at the end of the corridor, leaning one shoulder to the wall. Watching you.

“Officer,” he said, voice low. It shouldn’t have been a greeting. It sounded like a challenge.

“Lucci.” You surprised yourself. You didn’t stammer.

“You’ve been…curious.”

You stiffened. “Excuse me?”

He took one step forward. Then another. Slow. Measured.

“You’ve seen something you weren’t meant to. And yet you return.”

“I didn’t—” Your back hit the wall. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t afraid.” His hand braced beside your head, caging you with nothing but his presence. “Not properly.”

Your heart pounded in your throat. “Should I be?”

That pause. His eyes searched your face — and in that instant, you saw the storm in him barely held back. “Do you want to be?” he asked.

And you couldn’t lie. Not to him. “…I don’t know.”

His mouth was inches from yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“You will.”

The game began in silence.

He never spoke to you—not directly. But he didn’t have to.

The first time it happened, you were walking down one of the upper-level corridors of the Government HQ, a manila folder tucked beneath your arm, your boots echoing in the sterile marble silence. Then—something shifted. You couldn’t say what. The air changed. Your skin prickled like it recognized something before your mind did.

You stopped.

Looked back.

Nothing.

But the feeling stayed, heavy and coiled behind your ribs like breath held too long. When you rounded the corner to your assigned briefing room, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of shadow peel away from the far wall.

By the end of the week, it had happened five more times.

No footsteps. No sound. Just the thickening of tension in the air… and the pounding of your pulse just before he appeared. Sometimes it was a glimpse of green eyes in a reflection. Sometimes it was the sound of a distant door closing seconds too late to be coincidence.

Rob Lucci was watching you.

No—tracking you.

And every time it happened, something primal stirred inside your chest. You should’ve reported it. You didn’t. You should’ve been afraid. You were. But not in the way people expected.

It was fear twisted with heat. Dread chased by desire.

You started walking slower in empty corridors. Letting yourself linger near the CP0 wing longer than necessary. You told yourself it was a coincidence when you caught a glimpse of black and white fur around a corner, when your papers fluttered from a gust of wind that had no source. You told yourself a lot of things.

But eventually, your instincts started to whisper back.

You wanted him to see you.

You wanted to be caught.

You confronted him in one of the old stone wings of the HQ—abandoned, rarely used since the reconstruction. You didn’t mean to. At least, that’s what you’d convinced yourself.

But you had memorized the times when his presence curled at the edge of your awareness, like static before a storm. You’d stopped pretending it wasn’t deliberate. He was following you. And every fiber in your body—every ancient nerve buried under layers of discipline—was lit with anticipation.

So when you turned down the empty hall and heard the soft, unmistakable sound of breath behind you… you didn’t run.

You stopped.

Waited.

Then turned.

He was already there.

Leaning in the shadows, arms at his sides. His black suit crisp, his tie loosened, a single claw-tipped finger curling and uncurling at his side. The glow of his eyes was not human.

“I was wondering,” you said softly, throat dry, “if you ever planned on speaking.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air did. Dense. Charged. Your tongue flicked across your bottom lip—nerves, maybe. Maybe not.

“Do you know,” Lucci murmured at last, voice low and even, “that most people start sweating when I’m near?”

You swallowed. “And yet here I am.”

“Yes,” he said. He tilted his head. “Here you are.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

“You move like a predator,” you said, because the silence was unbearable and you weren’t ready for what came next. “But you don’t strike.”

“No.” He stepped forward once, and your breath caught. “Because you haven’t run.”

He moved closer. One step. Then another. You should’ve backed away. You didn’t.

“I think you want to,” he added, tone clinical—observant, like he was studying prey before pounce. “I think you want to run. But not to escape.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You are,” Lucci said, and the words had no bite. “But it excites you.”

He was in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him under his pressed shirt. The scent of him—clean, sharp, masculine—clouded your breath. Your shoulder brushed the wall behind you. You hadn’t realized you’d retreated. Not until it was too late.

He leaned in.

Didn’t touch you.

Didn’t have to.

“I can smell it on you,” he whispered, his lips nearly at your ear. “Curiosity. Want. Submission.”

Your knees threatened to give out.

“You think you understand what you’re inviting,” he continued, breath grazing your throat now, just enough to make your skin rise. “But you don’t.”

“Then show me.” 

The words slipped out before you could stop them—reckless, trembling.

Lucci paused.

Then exhaled a single, humorless breath. Almost a laugh. It felt like ice down your spine. His mouth grazed your cheek. Not a kiss. A warning.

“I don’t play,” he murmured. “I don’t flirt. And I don’t chase what doesn’t run.”

“Then maybe,” you whispered, “I should start.”

His hand moved—finally. But not to touch.

He pressed his palm against the wall beside your head and leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours. His green eyes locked with yours—intense, unreadable, and inhumanly still.

“You’re not ready to be hunted,” he said.

And then he was gone. Like smoke.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You didn’t sleep for days.

Not because of fear—but because your body had been rewired by the sound of his voice. Because every shadow in HQ felt like it might move. Every time you turned your head, your skin sparked with memory.

He’d seen you.

Not just looked—seen. Through the uniform. Through the badge. Through the fragile, curated lie of who you were supposed to be.

And he’d said no.

But not forever.

He was waiting.

You didn’t know for what. For the moment your instincts overtook your training? For the second you gave in and ran, just to be caught?

Or maybe he was giving you time.

To understand that once you crossed that line—there would be no going back.

The mission briefing was classified. Red-level clearance only. You shouldn't have even been in the room, but your commanding officer had pulled you in as an observer, a "learning experience." You stood silent at the edge of the table, posture straight, eyes forward, but the weight of Rob Lucci's presence across the room anchored your gaze in place.

He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t looked at you. But you felt him.

The room had too many voices, too much protocol, but none of that mattered once the actual objective slid onto the projector: a pirate brokered a deal between a rogue Cipher Pol informant and a revolutionary cell.

The orders were clear: intercept, secure or eliminate.

The location: Sabaody’s lower groves. A trap, by every definition.

Your superior laid out Navy strategy like a textbook. Efficient. Tactical. Focused on retrieval.

But when CP0 took the floor, you saw the shift. Lucci, now facing the room, delivered the details without flourish. Cold, clipped, exact. And when he glanced at you—just once—your lungs caught.

"You’ll only interfere," he said flatly, not to you directly, but your presence was the target. "If you're not prepared to make the kill, stay out of our way."

You said nothing. Not then. Not even after dismissal. But inside, your blood burned.

You weren't supposed to be there. You knew that.

But when your superior’s route shifted due to a sudden deployment call, you were left with a decision: return to base, or follow the mission’s coordinates under the guise of a shadow witness.

Your legs chose for you.

The groves were dark. Filtered light slid through the gaps in the canopy like fogged glass. Every breath was damp with earth and salt. You moved quietly, keeping to the edge of engagement—observing, noting. But you were too close.

The ambush came like a blade in the dark. No warning. No sound.

Three figures. Fast. Wrong. Not the targets, but something else—planted there, waiting.

You barely got your weapon drawn when the first one grabbed you.

A burst of motion. Pain at your side. You fought, teeth clenched, elbowing one back as another drove you to the ground. Your shoulder screamed as it hit the bark.

Then—

It was like the forest cracked open.

Air sucked out of your lungs as a massive force collided with the scene. Something blurred. Something growled.

Not human.

A figure tore into the ambushers. Fast. Efficient. Brutal. And when it turned—

Green eyes. Drenched in black. Spotted fur and jagged muscle wrapped in awakened ferocity.

Lucci.

You couldn’t breathe.

He stood over you, breathing heavily. Blood splattered his sleeves, not yours. The enemies—no, corpses—lay broken behind him. His claws twitched once before retracting. He didn’t speak.

Then he knelt. You expected orders. Yelling. Reprimands. Instead, he touched your side.

His claws were gone, hands bare and gentle, cradling your ribs like glass. His brows furrowed slightly as he inspected you.

"You’re bleeding," he said.

You swallowed. "Just—just a graze."

He didn’t respond. His hands moved under your arm, bracing you as he lifted you to your feet. The motion was smooth, inhumanly strong, but careful. He held you like something that could vanish if he squeezed too tight.

And when your balance failed, his arm slipped behind your knees. You startled as he lifted you fully—against his chest, carried bridal-style like it meant something.

"I can walk—"

"You shouldn't," he said simply.

You felt every inch of him. The heat under his skin. The slow thrum of restrained violence. The way his jaw clenched, not in frustration, but something else—something deeper. He didn’t take you to the main camp. He veered off. A quiet grove. Covered. Private.

When he set you down, your heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

"You followed us," he said, and you heard it now—the weight behind his words. The frustration. The fear?

"I had to know," you admitted, voice low. "If the things I admired were real. If you were real."

He didn’t speak. Just stepped closer.

"I saw you before anyone else did. Back then," you continued. "When CP9 fell. I never believed it was failure. I thought it was betrayal. I thought—"

His hand was suddenly on your jaw. Not harsh. Not claiming. Just steady. His thumb traced the line of your chin as his gaze bore into you.

"You think you know what you’re playing with."

You shivered. "I want to know."

His mouth was inches from yours. The heat radiating off him made your bones feel soft. "You're not prey because you're weak," he murmured. "You're prey because you want to be caught."

You didn’t deny it. Couldn't.

His forehead touched yours. One breath. Another.

Then, with agonizing restraint, he stepped back.

"Not yet," he said. "When I take you, it won’t be in the aftermath of blood."

And you knew then—he already had.

Not your body.

But everything else.

He carried you like prey—limp, breathless, blood smeared across your uniform from the ambush you hadn’t seen coming. His claws were still out, curved wickedly against your back as he held you to his chest, but he didn’t scratch you. Not once.

Your heart stuttered wildly in your ribcage. Not just from the terror. Not just from the chaos of the mission gone wrong. But from him. From the way his massive, fur-covered frame had leapt through the smoke and fire, from the way his awakened form had towered like a god of destruction, his mane flickering with residual heat and his green eyes trained on you like you were already his.

And then he touched you like you were fragile.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling you from the collapsed structure. Not during the transport, not during the brief report to your superior who looked about ready to faint seeing Lucci in that form, and not when he followed you to the dimmed observation room near the recovery ward.

He stood with his back against the wall now. Silent. In control.

And watching you.

You stared out the window, unable to ignore the reflection: his shadow draped over yours like a promise. Or a warning.

"You disobeyed orders." His voice was gravel. Controlled. But you didn’t flinch.

"You were going to die." You said it without looking at him.

"So were you."

Your lips parted. He hadn’t said that as a reprimand. It sounded more like a truth that bothered him.

You turned slowly, finally meeting his gaze. And in it—past the predator, past the CP0 mask—you saw it: conflict. Rage. Desire. Restraint.

"You came for me."

He stepped forward, and your breath hitched.

"I told you," he said, low and dangerous, "You're not ready to be hunted."

You didn’t step back. Your blood pounded in your ears, and you tilted your head slightly.

"Then why did you chase?"

He was on you in a blink, not touching, but the heat from his body was oppressive, crackling like lightning in the air.

"Because you wanted to be caught."

And finally—finally—you let yourself fall. You reached for him first.

His mouth slammed against yours with a force that stole every breath you had. His hands caged you against the wall, but the kiss wasn’t cruel. It was scorching. Demanding. A claim he’d been holding back for far too long.

His tongue swept through your mouth like it owned it, and when he pulled back, a thread of saliva connected your lips. His pupils were dilated, breath heavy.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, claws digging into the wall behind your head. "Tell me now."

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

You reached up instead, fingers curling around his tie, tugging it free, and whispered: "Hunt me."

The room changed. The tension ignited. He spun you, and suddenly you were on the observation table, his body pressing yours down with brutal precision. He hovered above you like a beast unleashed, green eyes glowing.

And then, like a switch flipped, he slowed.

His hand—human now—slid down your uniform jacket, undoing buttons with sharp precision. The fabric fell open, and he paused.

"Beautiful," he murmured, thumb brushing your bare stomach, tracing your ribs, almost reverent.

You lifted your hips to meet his, and he exhaled harshly, control visibly slipping.

When his mouth found your throat, you gasped—because his tongue was hot, the graze of his canines deliberate. His kisses weren’t sweet. They were marks. Possession without apology.

"You smell like heat," he growled, teeth scraping your skin. "Like prey begging for the kill."

He stripped you slowly. Like you were the reward. Your bra fell with a sharp flick. His mouth descended before you could think, lips wrapping around your nipple while his hand cupped the other breast.

You arched. Moaned. And he rumbled in response, the low sound vibrating against your skin.

His other hand trailed lower, over your belly, between your thighs. "Wet already?" he asked, lips curving cruelly. "Did I frighten you into this? Or have you always wanted the monster?"

You looked him straight in the eye. "You know the answer."

His fingers slid into you like a slow threat. He didn’t rush. He mapped. Measured. Stretched.

Your hips bucked and he pinned them down with his palm, growling. "Still so impatient."

He unbuckled his belt. Pulled down the waistband of his pants. You caught a glimpse of him—thick, flushed, veined. And your mouth watered. When he finally entered you, it wasn’t with cruelty. It was with force.

You cried out, and he stilled, breath ragged against your temple.

"Say it," he snarled. "Say you're mine."

You whispered it through a gasp. "Yours."

He began to move.

Each thrust was deliberate—a breaking point. Your legs wrapped around his waist, hands digging into his back as his rhythm built. His control was staggering. Every inch felt like punishment. Every stroke, like worship.

He bit into your shoulder, just hard enough to make you scream. Then kissed the mark.

"You ran," he said, sweat dripping from his temple.

"And you chased."

He drove deeper. Harder. The table creaked under you.

Your climax built like lightning. You sobbed his name when you came, body locking, and he cursed in a language you didn’t understand before he followed you into oblivion, burying himself to the hilt.

You stayed that way. Shaking. Wrapped in his arms.

Later, when you lay on your side with his arm draped over your hip, he spoke into your hair.

"I don't regret hunting you."

And you replied, voice hoarse:

"I don't regret being caught."

The walls of CP0 headquarters were built to hold secrets. Thick stone and silence, dark corridors and layered shadows. It was here, beneath a network of impossible clearance and unanswered questions, that you found yourself again—folded into the arms of the man who was never meant to be touched.

No lights were on. Just the faint flicker of the moon outside the reinforced window, silver slicing through the black. You sat perched on the wide sill, Lucci standing between your legs, his white coat long since discarded to the floor.

It was quiet, save for your breath catching against his mouth. A kiss not of hunger, but of knowledge.

Of what you were to each other now.

His hands rested firm on your hips, thumbs brushing circles into your skin like he could memorize you all over again. And maybe he needed to. The mission had nearly torn you from him. From this.

“You weren’t supposed to come back,” he muttered lowly, his voice like sand dragged across steel.

You touched your fingers to his jaw, tilting his face to yours.

“You knew I would.”

His green eyes searched for yours. In that moment, there was no predator. No prey. Just two beings held in the unbreakable gravity of everything they could never say aloud.

He kissed you again. Deeper. Slower.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath. His skin was warm, tense from restraint. You knew that tension. You loved that tension.

Clothes fell with little grace but quiet reverence. He lifted you off the sill like it was nothing and carried you to the cot in the corner of his quarters. Government-issued. Hard. Impersonal.

But when he laid you down, none of that mattered. Because he followed.

The kiss broke with breathless heat. His lips found your throat, and your legs wrapped around him, drawing him closer.

“Say it,” he whispered into your skin.

“Say what?”

“That you wanted to be caught.”

You arched into him, nails dragging down his back.

“I ran so you would.”

That broke something in him. Or maybe completed it. What followed wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. But it was worship.

His hands pinned your wrists above your head, body pressed into yours, every line of him molded to every shiver in you. He kissed you like he was drinking something he’d thirsted for far too long.

When he entered you, the stretch was full, claiming, slow enough to savor but hard enough to satisfy.

You gasped against his lips. He caught the sound with a low groan, hips rolling into you with perfect control. Deliberate. Exact. Like a predator who had waited long enough.

He didn’t speak much. But you didn’t need him to. Every thrust, every stroke of his thumb over your pulse, every growl murmured into your ear told you everything.

He needed you.

And he had you.

Your climax came quietly but not gently. He watched you unravel beneath him, breath ragged, eyes glazed, mouth open in some mixture of devotion and disbelief.

Only then did he let go. Only then did he follow you over.

He collapsed against you, one arm wrapping around your waist, dragging you flush against him. Your bodies were a tangled, overheated mess. But his breathing calmed. Yours did too.

In the dark, he traced his name into your back with a single finger. No mark. No ink. Just memory.

You tilted your face up to his. “Are you going to let me go now?”

His eyes met yours. “No.”

You smiled. Closed your eyes. And let the shadows take you both.

Mornings didn’t exist in the CP0 compound. Not in the traditional sense. There were no windows, no birdsong — only fluorescent lights and footsteps echoing in sterile corridors. But somehow, he always rose before you.

You woke to the smell of bitter coffee, your body still warm from where he’d last touched you. He didn’t make noise. Lucci never did. But his presence filled the space: his coat hung by the door, the faint indent on the other side of your bed, the quiet hiss of a kettle heating water for tea he never drank.

His routines were a form of intimacy — not spoken, not affectionate in the usual sense — but meticulous in how he moved around you. Protective. Wordless.

You learned his language in silence.

He didn’t stop being who he was — predator, enforcer, killer — but now, you were within the territory he considered his. It changed the way he stood beside you in passing halls. The way other agents looked away when your footsteps trailed behind his. They knew. Or guessed. But no one dared speak of it.

At night, it was different.

Sometimes it was gentle. Sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you after, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and he’d simply pull you closer, nose brushing the back of your neck, a low breath leaving him like a sigh he didn’t want to admit existed.

He never said I love you. You weren’t sure he knew how to.

But he brought you information from far-off missions. Left you your favorite fruit, peeled with knife precision. Took his time. Waited.

And when you caught him watching you through half-closed doors or dark corridors, your pulse still spiked.

Still prey. Willingly.

But now, the predator slept with one hand resting over your heart.

Tagging @7wanne since it was her request and of course my gurl @auryborealis because she is a Lucci stan like me <3

[lancermylove]

Can I request a scenario with gn!mc being a contortionist or just really flexible and seeing how the brothers react? I just think it would be super funny seeing the bros watching their human bend like a literal pretzel and probably freaking out because humans normally should not bend able to bend like that. (Also love your work)

Pairing: None.

Warning: None.

A/N: Thank you! 💖

Word Count: 615

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The House of Lamentation was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon until Lucifer’s voice echoed through the halls.

“Y/n, are you sure you’re… supposed to bend like that?”

The brothers had gathered in the common room, initially to relax, but the conversation shifted when you casually mentioned that you used to practice contortion as a hobby. The brothers absolutely had to see a demonstration.

Now, you were balancing on your hands, one leg gracefully arched over your head while the other extended forward. You shifted smoothly into a backbend, spine arching in an impossible crescent as if you were made of rubber, not bone.

Lucifer stood with his arms crossed, brows furrowed. “I’m fairly certain that human spines are not meant to do that.”

His voice was calm, but a flicker of concern was visible in his eyes. Meanwhile, Mammon had his mouth open, eyes wide. “WH-WHAT THE HELL, Y/N? YA LOOK LIKE YA JUST GOT POSSESSED OR SOMETHIN’. Humans can’t do that! Can they?”

Levi clutched his Ruri-chan pillow tightly, his face flushed. “T-this is like that one rare episode of…! The main character’s secret move was extreme flexibility, but even that wasn’t this crazy! Y/n, are you part snake? Or an octopus? No, no, I take that back, it’s kind of… amazing.”

Asmo squealed, clasping his hands together with stars in his eyes. His mind was already racing through glamorous outfit ideas to pair with your unique ability. “Oh my goodness, y/n, you’re divine! So graceful! So flexible! The things we could do in photoshoots… oh, imagine the aesthetic possibilities!”

Beel was holding a plate stacked with sandwiches and paused mid-bite. “Are you sure you’re not hurting yourself? That doesn’t look safe.”

Belphie blinked slowly from his spot on the couch, head resting on a pillow. He yawned. “Huh… weird. But kinda cool, I guess. You’re like one of those bendy toys. I didn’t think humans were built like that… must be exhausting though.”

Satan, who had been observing intently with his usual scholarly interest, tilted his head. He was impressed. “Fascinating. The human spine has thirty-three vertebrae, yet you’re moving as if you have none. Your muscle control and flexibility exceed the standard biological limits by a shocking margin. Did you train for years to achieve this? Or are you naturally gifted?”

You chuckled as you slowly twisted into a pretzel-like knot. “A little of both. Lots of training, but I’ve always been pretty flexible.”

Mammon continued pacing back and forth. “I-I mean, that’s great and all, but what if ya snap somethin’? What if ya break your spine, and I’m stuck explainin’ to Lucifer why his precious human is in a full body cast?”

“You make it sound like I’m made of glass,” you laughed, now flipping over into a handstand with effortless grace.

Asmo clapped again. “Sweetie, you might just inspire me to take up yoga! But I doubt I’d ever be able to bend like that.”

Satan scribbled notes in a little leather notebook, muttering to himself, “Perhaps I should study more about contortionist techniques. This could make an excellent research topic.”

Levi was still flustered. “You… you’re kinda like a real-life anime character.”

Lucifer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just promise me you won’t practice these… stunts… unsupervised in the middle of the hallway, where Mammon is likely to have a heart attack and drag me into unnecessary panic.”

You grinned while lowering yourself into a full middle split. “Deal.”

Belphie yawned again. “Wake me up if they start spinning their head like in those horror movies.”

The brothers simultaneously glared at him while you burst into laughter, still folded in half like it was nothing.

[nerdygaymormon]

Matt Bowman says that the LDS Church is sometimes critiqued for its conformity, but he thinks there are different ways of understanding the faith, different emphases and different visions of what the church might be. And these will be seen at General Conference.

Matt doesn't think that these various visions of what the church might be are mutually exclusive, and he thinks the leaders he names as the most emblematic of each vision of what the church can be would say that actually they’d identify with two or three or all of the categories.

By thinking about the influence of these leaders and these different approaches, perhaps we also can get a glimpse of where the LDS Church might move in the future.

The Church of Effort

President Russell M. Nelson’s sermons consistently have emphasized effort, trying harder, doing better, “thinking celestial.” His most controversial sermon links divine blessings to human behavior and argues that the fulness of those blessings derives from doing what's right. It's an appeal to reach our divine potential through proper belief and right behavior. Of course, it also presumes that humans can, theoretically, always choose to do right.

The Church of Natural Law

The idea behind natural law is that God created a universe which functions through knowable principles that could be learned by scientific investigation as well as divine revelation. That investigation would reveal a natural order of things built into the fabric of the world itself. As humans learn that order, they can conform to it and be happy.

Dallin H. Oaks, first counselor in the church’s governing First Presidency, has a reputation as perhaps the most consistent defender of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” among the current general authorities. That document is steeped in the language of natural law. It does not merely state that God prefers human families to function in a certain way; it argues that, in fact, the universe is set up such that families who function in that way will thrive while those who do not will struggle.

For Oaks, a lawyer by training, these sorts of arguments, with their if-then constructions, their neat definition of terms, and their rational procession, are irresistible. He speaks of principles and rules, the comprehensible structure of a universe that functions according to clear law.

“To understand the teachings and examples of our Savior, we must understand the nature of God’s love and the eternal purpose of his laws and commandments,” Oaks teaches. “One does not replace or diminish the other.”

The Church of Grace

The idea here is that divine grace is not something earned but rather a gift that can bridge the gaps of human frailty and heal human weakness. President Emily Belle Freeman, head of the global Young Women organization, is the Latter-day Saint leader most fluent in this dialect. Her career before becoming a church officer was built on interfaith dialogue with evangelicals, and her writing and teachings are drenched with evangelical idioms — not merely in content but also in style. She calls for a personal relationship with Christ that provides healing, advances spiritual power and comes in great abundance. She speaks the language of dramatic intensity characteristic of Protestant evangelicals but increasingly appealing to Latter-day Saints who turn to their faith for aid in overcoming challenges.

“In that place where you feel bound, plead for his grace. Trust that it is available in abundance,” Freeman teaches. “Jesus Christ sees you. He can help you overcome.”

The Church of Community

This is a vision of the church that emphasizes its communal aspects. To be a member is, in part, to take the sacramental bread and water on Sundays, but most of all to look after each other by contributing labor and resources to the well-being of the community, such as visiting people in the hospital or those who are lonely.

The titles of three of apostle Gerrit W. Gong’s recent conference addresses share a similar focus on the church as a community of mutual care. In April 2021, he spoke on “Room in the Inn,” analogizing the church to the inns of the New Testament. There he asked members to “make [the Lord’s] inn a place of grace and space, where each can gather, with room for all.” In October 2023, he elaborated on the lyrics to the hymn “Love Is Spoken Here,” describing the ideal ward as a place where love is evident through service. That April, in a talk called “Ministering,” he stated “think of your ward or branch as a spiritual ecosystem.” For Gong, the church is a series of bound covenant relationships among humans as much as between humans and God. He emphasizes the social aspects of religious life, seeing salvation coming through bonds with one another.

[koiiiji]

halloween special! fantasy AU

tw ; long post, hints of unhealthy behaviour

starring ; Sangho Choi, Yoo Wooin, Joker, Kwon Hyuk, Chris d'Char

author's note i feel like i went a little too far.... MDNI!!! AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS DNI, I WILL BLOCK YOU

Sangho Choi

dark elf

the aftermath of the battle lay heavy on the camp. bodies of the wounded were scattered across the muddy grounds, the air thick with the scent of blood and ash. Sangho strode through the chaos, his armor still smeared with grime and blood, his expression unreadable, calm as always. the Moriquendi (dark elves) commander moved like a force of nature, cold and unwavering — a stark contrast to the exhaustion that gripped his troops.

he had led them to victory, but at a cost. the dead outnumbered the living, both the humans and dwarves who fought alongside them counted their losses, and just as the Moriquendi mourned dead ones in silence. Sangho, ever composed, was the eye of the storm, his reputation as a warrior known throughout the realms. despite the losses, his people looked to him with deep respect. they always had.

he had earned that respect — not through birthright or privilege, but through sheer strength and leadership. the Moriquendi might have been forsaken by the gods, forgotten and separated for centuries, but Sangho had become their pillar of power, their anchor, the one brought them all together again. his connection to his people was ironclad, built not on divine grace, but on blood, grit, and unrelenting will.

Sangho had no need for magic, for poetry, for the lofty ideals of the highest elves. he had the blade. and that was enough.

but as the silver banners of the Calaquendi approached the camp, a bitterness stirred in his chest. he stood tall, his posture rigid as he watched them ride in — untouched by the dirt, by the blood. their horses were pristine, their armor shining like the stars, and their faces were serene, as if the horrors of war had never touched them.

they hadn’t fought in this battle. they had only come now, after the dust had settled, with their supplies, their medicines, their immaculate presence. it was an insult, in a way, a reminder that they saw themselves as above it all.

but it wasn’t the Calaquendi warriors that made his jaw tighten.

it was you.

you rode at the front of the procession on her snow-white horse, a figure of grace and elegance. the princess. your silver hair cascaded down your back, catching the last rays of the setting sun, and your soft eyes surveyed the camp with a quiet sadness. you was everything the Calaquendi were — untouched, unearthly, and so far removed from the blood and dirt that clung to Sangho and his people.

it had been years since he had last seen you, but the sight of you was enough to stir something deep within him. something he had long tried to bury...

he had been a young elf then, barely into his teenage years, when he had been granted the rare privilege to train under the Calaquendi’s finest warriors. it had been an honor, or so everyone had told him. a rare opportunity for a Moriquendi to learn from the higher elves, to study the art of combat, leadership, and strategy.

they had treated him like a curiosity — an outsider, lower. he had heard the whispers, felt the judgment. the older elves had made no effort to hide their disdain for the Moriquendi, for the path they had chosen long ago.

but you had been different. you had shown him kindness, even as a child. your curiosity about him had seemed genuine, your warmth in stark contrast to the cold indifference of her people.

you had even tried to teach him magic once, your face full of innocent excitement. "it’s simple, Sangho," you had said, hand glowing with a soft, golden light. but the magic had never come for him. his people had no connection to it, no divine light in their veins. the magic that flowed so easily for you would never be his. he had felt like a shadow in your presence, a reminder of the gulf between them.

and though you had never mocked him for it, it had planted a seed of resentment in him that had only grown with time.

Sangho tore his gaze away from you as your contingent dismounted. his expression remained cold, controlled. he had long mastered the art of concealing his thoughts, of keeping his emotions locked behind a calm exterior. but seeing you again — untouched by the war that had scarred him and his people — it stirred something dark inside him. a flicker of jealousy. of anger.

and yet, something else.

you approached the gathered commanders, your voice soft but clear as you addressed them. "we have come to help," you said, tone calm, diplomatic. "our healers will tend to your wounded. we have brought provisions, weapons, and aid for the battles ahead."

Sangho stood at a distance, watching you as you spoke. his armor was still stained with the blood of his enemies, a stark contrast to your pristine appearance.

and as he watched you, that familiar ache stirred in his chest, the same one he had felt all those years ago when you had smiled at him and tried to teach him what he could never possess. you was everything he resented, everything he envied.

and yet, he could never bring himself to hate you.

you caught his gaze, soft eyes meeting his across the camp. for a moment, the world seemed to still. your lips curved into a small, familiar smile, the kind you had given him all those years ago — full of warmth, of recognition.

"Commander," you greeted him, voice gentle echoed in his head. the sound of your voice, calling his title in his head, sent a chill down his spine.

he inclined his head slightly, his expression remaining cold, though his heart raced beneath the surface. "Princess," he replied, his voice low, edged with a bitterness.

Yoo Wooin

pirate

the cliffs were a place of solitude, where you often came to escape the noise of the coastal town. tonight, however, when the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon, and dark blue heavy clouds foreshadowed the storm, the wind screamed through the rocks, carrying whispers of danger as you peered out at the sea. moon wasn't shown yet, but the crashing waves couldn't hide it from your gaze — the legendary ship.

it looked like something out of a nightmare. dark hull was barely visible in the distance, but it's tattered black sails were unmistakable. the ship that had haunted the town’s legends for centuries.

you had only meant to look. just a glimpse, out of curiosity. no one could have warned you how close it would come to shore tonight.

as you turned to head back up the cliffs, the sharp crack of twigs underfoot made you freeze. before you could even gasp, rough, filthy hands clamped over your mouth. the scent of sweat and saltwater hit your nose as you struggled, panic surging through veins.

“shhh, lass, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” a gruff voice snarled in your ear.

your eyes widened in terror as you was yanked backward, feet sliding helplessly on the slick, rocky ground. two men held you tightly, their laughter low and malicious. one of them, burly and reeking of rum, grabbed your wrists, twisting them behind your back painfully as the other kept his filthy hand pressed firmly over your mouth.

“look what we found wanderin’ near the cliffs,” the first man sneered. his breath was hot and foul against your cheek. “tet the captain’ll like this one. she’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

terror tightened in your chest as they dragged you down the narrow path, where was the boat beached.

your muffled cries lost to the storm.

your heart raced as the ship came into view again, when your kidnappers rowing back to the ship, and all the warnings from the townsfolk echoed in your mind. the ghost ship wasn't just a story. it was real — and you were being taken aboard.

the men hauled you up onto the deck, laughing and exchanging crude comments about you as they did. wood beneath your feet was old, splintered, and smelled of rot and seawater. panic surged in your chest as you was thrown down onto the deck, your wrists still bound with some dirty rag behind you, mouth dry with fear.

your breath came in short gasps, and when you looked up, your blood ran cold.

there, in the shadows, was him.

Wooin stood at the helm, leaning casually against the ship’s railing with an almost lazy posture, his black hair tousled by the storm, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. his eyes were sharp — too sharp — and his grin was… wrong. wicked. crazy. it was a smile that held danger, and something far darker. and before you could even struggle to your feet, his sliced through the air, dark and sharp.

“now, now, what have we here?”

“looks like you boys brought me a little gift,” he drawled, eyes locking on you with a gaze that sent shivers down your spine. “and here i thought tonight was going to be boring.”

pirates laughed as they shoved you closer to him. “caught her spyin' near the cliffs, Captain. figured you'd want first dibs”

Wooin crouched down in front of you, his grin widening as he looked you up and down. his gaze was dark and predatory, lingering a little too long on your trembling form. he leaned in close, the scent of seawater and smoke clinging to you as he cocked his head.

“you wanted to see the ship up close, sweetheart? well, too bad, we don't let go of such precious things like you back,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “though i gotta say, you’re braver than most. or maybe just stupider.”

his fingers trailed along your cheek, smudging the dirt the other pirates had left behind. his touch was cold and sent a wave of fear rippling through you. “you’ve got a pretty little mouth,” he mused darkly, thumb brushing against your lips. “i bet it can do real sweet job, don’t it?”

you jerked your head back, heart pounding wildly in your chest, but that only made him laugh.

“oh, feisty, i like that.” Wooin’s grin twisted into something even darker, and his eyes flickered with amusement. “you might last longer than i thought.”

he stood up, his hand curling around your arm as he pulled you to your feet in one quick motion, yanking you against him. “what's your name, little mouse?” Wooin asked, his voice soft, almost sweet. but the sweetness was poisoned, mocking. when you didn’t answer right away, his grin faltered, and his expression twisted with impatience.

before you could speak, Wooin's hand shot out, gripping your jaw tightly, forcing you to meet his gaze. his eyes were wild now, gleaming with something dangerous and unhinged.

“don’t be shy now,” he growled, his fingers digging into your skin. “you’re gonna tell me your name, or i’ll have my boys get it out of you another way. and trust me, sweetheart, you don’t want that.”

your heart raced, and you managed to stammer, “it’s [y/n].”

“good.” Wooin released you with a smirk, standing back up. he turned to his crew with a wicked grin. “what do you think, boys? think we can make use of her?”

the pirates around you roared with laughter, and Wooin stepped back, letting his eyes wander over your form again with a wild glint. “don’t worry, sweetheart. i’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. you’ll just have to earn your keep.”

he threw a wink at you, but it wasn’t charming. it was crude, full of filthy implications. “we’ve got plenty of work for pretty things like you aboard the Sabbath.”

you struggled against the ropes around your wrists, heart pounding as you felt the weight of his words. there was no escaping the look in his eyes — dark and unrelenting. this wasn’t just a game to him. it was a hunt. and you was his prey.

but then, just as quickly as his touch had been possessive, he pulled away, mercilessly ripping off your outer dress, which you covered yourself with, slipping out of the house, leaving you only in a thin, white night dress. he slowly held the cloth to his nose, inhaling the scent of perfumes and oils, rolling his eyes with perverted pleasure. the second later he turned to his crew, spinning on his heel and threw the coat into a crowd of pirates. “still warm and smell like woman, boys” he barked to his men, his tone light but commanding.

the crew burst into vile, disgusting laughter, stretching and tearing the fabric, trying to snatch a piece for themselves, while the captain took the main delicacy.

Wooin grabbed your arm, roughly dragging you after him in captain's cabin, and shot you just one look, his grin sharper than ever. “I’ve got a few things to take care of, sweetheart. But don’t worry. I’ll find time soon to… get to know you better.”

Joker

hunter

the forest was thick, dark, and damp, its shadows pooling like ink beneath the heavy canopy. you’d been warned to stay away from the hunter’s paths, to keep to the glades where the light filtered through, safe among the trees and the chattering birds. but curiosity and confidence had tugged you deeper into the wild, to places no forest nymph dared venture. and now here you were — ensnared, tangled like prey in a coarse net that cut into your skin each time you struggled.

you’d heard the rumors, all the horrific things that were said of him. some called him a monster, some a demon, a creature more vile than ogres, with hands heavy enough to crush bone and a heart darker than the forest’s shadowed depths.

a man.

rumors said he hunted fae-folk for sport, skinned nymphs and fauns alive to sell their wings and antlers and sometimes even kept it as twisted trophies. so you lay frozen, terror blooming inside you as footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, until he was there, looking down at you with a gaze as indifferent as a hawk's, cold and calculating.

“caught yourself in a trap, didn’t you?” his voice was low, almost lazy, devoid of emotion but carrying a harsh edge that set your heart racing faster. he crouched, studying you with the cool, detached interest of a creature observing something wounded, something lesser.

you couldn’t hold back a soft whimper, the plea tumbling out in a trembling whisper. “please… please don’t eat me… or… or sell me, or… take my wings.” your voice shook, barely above a whisper, but you couldn’t help it. every ounce of courage had leaked from you, leaving only desperation.

his expression remained unchanged, his eyes traveling over you without a hint of sympathy or mercy. he clicked his tongue, almost in disdain. “sell you or eat you, huh?” he scoffed softly, as though the very idea bored him. “too small to do any of this to you...”

he leaned closer, his face shrouded by the hood he wore, but even then, you could make out the glint of something dangerous in his gaze, a still cruelty inherent to human, that made your skin prickle. he pulled a long, thin knife from his belt, its blade dull and wicked-looking. your heart pounded faster, your breath quick and shallow as he dragged the blade along the net, slicing through its binds with practiced precision.

but he didn’t stop with the net.

as he worked, he let out a slow, almost mocking sigh, his tone low and chillingly void of anything warm. “i never thought fae-folk would be this… naive. falling right into a trap. maybe all those rumors are true. that you’re not as clever as you all like to pretend.”

he cut through the last of the net, letting it fall loose around you, and before you could think to scramble free, he had you by the wrists, pinning them above your head with a grip that felt like iron. you writhed, pulling against his hold, but his strength was unyielding, and his gaze never shifted, never softened.

“look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself, though there was a cruel twist to his voice. “tiny thing… so fragile.” the knife moved again, glinting faintly as he drew it closer, tracing it along the edge of your silken garb, dragging it just close enough to raise the fine hairs on your skin.

the first cut was slow, methodical, stripping you of the flimsy fabric with a disturbing calm, his face as devoid of emotion as it had been when he’d found you. his touch was cold as he worked, peeling away every last layer of your garb until your skin was bare beneath the dappled light filtering through the foliage of the trees.

your throat tightened, a frantic plea catching in your throat as he studied you, his gaze a chillingly dispassionate assessment of your form. “what are you so afraid of?” his question was flat, the hint of a smirk nowhere to be found, replaced instead by an unsettling, empty gaze. “i told you i wouldn’t eat you. or sell you.”

he tilted his head, as though considering something, his eyes roaming over you with a detached curiosity, nothing soft or familiar to be found in that stare. “i’ve seen plenty of your kind before,” he continued. “fragile little things. quick to beg, easy to break.” he tightened his grip on your wrists, as his other hand slips to your chest, cupping one and tweaking your nipple, watching as you flinched, his expression as cool and collected as before.

with a final, dispassionate glance, he dropped your wrists, letting you fall back against the forest floor. you felt the earth cold against your skin, and for a moment, you dared to believe he might leave, that his curiosity had passed.

but he didn’t move. he just stood there, studying you in silence, as if weighing his options, calculating something you couldn’t comprehend. finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper, chillingly calm.

“run.”

Chris d'Char

draugr (scandinavian zombie)

the moment you stepped into the cave, you felt something watching. air was thick with the scent of earth and decay, damp and oppressive, pressing down as you pushed further into the cavernous dark. your heart pounded, but you pressed on, forcing yourself to ignore the prickling dread. you were here for a treasure whispered about in a village. most wouldn’t have dared come this far.

yet, the stories didn’t come close to capturing the reality.

the flicker of your torch swept across a wide, shadowy space — a stone altar strewn with tarnished gold and faded relics. you were about to reach out when the cave itself seemed to exhale, a sound so low and menacing that it sent an icy jolt straight through you. and then he emerged from the shadows.

the figure was massive, towering, and unmistakably dead. his armor, dark and corroded, seemed to weigh him down, each piece like ancient, heavy iron strapped to bone. his shoulders were broad and hulking, and he moved with an unnatural stillness that made every muscle in your body seize in place. the hood shadowed most of his face, but his eyes… they gleamed green, faintly lit with a supernatural glow that pierced the darkness with an intensity that made you want to run.

but you couldn’t.

your legs felt rooted to the ground, every part of you alive with a fear that bordered on primal. his gaze fixed on you, narrowed and piercing, and he moved closer, each step slow, deliberate. the sound of his boots echoed against the stone walls, mingling with a faint rasping that you quickly realized was his breath — deep, hollow, and cold as death itself. the closer he came, the more you felt the chill radiating from him, a cold that soaked through your skin, settling into your bones, making you feel like prey frozen in the gaze of a predator.

“you…” his throat, mouth and vocal cords were clearly damaged, and sound coming from him was more like wheezing and coughing with something rumbling, a sound coming from his chest. yet it was a deep enough, gravelly rasp that sent an involuntary shudder down your spine. each word felt like stone grinding against stone, a sound that wasn’t meant for the ears of the living. “another thief come to desecrate my tomb?”

he loomed over you, nearly a foot taller, and though his face remained mostly hidden, you could see the lines of hardened bone, twisted by time. he looked like something that had clawed its way out of the underworld, not just some story told to frighten children. you could feel his anger like a physical force, pressing against you, filling the air with a menacing weight that made your breath hitch.

“i —” you stammered, barely managing to find your voice. your hands shook, your mind racing with excuses, explanations — anything that might soothe the wrath of this ancient creature. “i didn’t think — i mean, i didn’t know you were… real.”

the words sounded foolish, childish, even to you, but you could feel his gaze intensify, piercing and unwavering.

“you mortals never think,” he growled, taking another slow, deliberate step toward you. you pressed back against the cold stone of the altar, every instinct screaming to run, yet trapped by his gaze. “and yet you come, chasing gold and glory. seeking what you have not earned.” he let his words hang in the air, thick and heavy with disdain.

as he spoke, you noticed the faint gleam of a blade strapped to his side, its edge worn but sharp, and you had no doubt it would slice through you in a heartbeat if he chose to use it.

“what… drives a mortal to invade a place meant for the dead?” he croaked, his tone less angry now, but still dripping with suspicion. there was a twisted curiosity there, mingling with his disdain, as though he were scrutinizing you, searching for an answer that would make sense of your presence here.

you swallowed, trying to steady yourself enough to speak, though your voice trembled as you answered. “i… i heard about the treasures here. i thought it was just…story. just an old story to scare children.” you hesitated, meeting his gaze as best you could, even as a chill washed over you, every inch of your skin prickling with fear. “i didn’t think… that it would be guarded.”

he tilted his head, an unreadable expression crossing his shadowed face. his lips twisted into what might have been a sneer, or perhaps a smirk — it was impossible to tell. “it was men who came before,” he hissed, almost to himself. his gaze flickered over you, as though he were assessing something different, some detail about you that set you apart from the others who had come before. “yet here you are. foolish…”

his tone was chillingly indifferent, a touch of dark amusement cutting through his fury. as he took a final step, closing the distance between you, you could feel his cold breath brush against your face, a touch that felt like a warning as his eyes bore into you. his voice dropped to a low, rumbling whisper. “do you know what fate awaits those who disturb the peace of the dead?”

you shook your head, not trusting your voice. every instinct screamed to flee, yet you were captivated by your own terror.

Chris’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and in that silence, you sensed something change. he was still terrifying, still monstrous, but a flicker of curiosity had joined the malice in his stare. it was as if your presence had stirred something within him, something that hadn’t stirred in centuries.

“tell me, mortal,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful, “what makes you any different from the fools who came before you?”

and as his eyes met yours, sharp and unyielding, you felt as though you were being weighed, measured by an ancient creature. he was no mere guardian, no simple guard to be outrun or outwitted. he was a spirit bound by death and anger, as much a part of the treasure he guarded as any piece of gold. and yet, against every instinct, every shred of reason, you felt the barest hint of intrigue flicker in his gaze.

Kwon Hyuk

poltergaist

moving into the apartment was a compromise between your budget and your nerves. the place wasn’t much — peeling paint, narrow halls that sighed with age, the endless creaks that echoed even when you were alone. but rent was cheap, and as a student, you needed cheap more than you needed comfort.

it started innocently enough — little things, easily explained. doors closed just after you left them open, faint scratching sounds from within the walls, lights flickering overhead. you convinced yourself it was nothing, brushing it off as an old building settling. but then, the noises became louder. clearer. as if someone — or something — was listening, waiting.

the feeling of being watched crept into your bones. you’d catch glimpses in the corners of mirrors, shadows moving when you were perfectly still. a prickling sensation would crawl up your spine when you turned off the lights, only to grow stronger, more pointed. some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you could feel cold air ruffling your hair, a whisper-light touch that disappeared when you jolted up to check. each time you looked, the room was empty, but the feeling of dread lingered, thick and oppressive.

then, it escalated.

you came home one evening to find the kitchen in disarray — cups and plates carefully stacked into a pyramid on the counter, all balanced so precariously that you only had to breathe near them for it to come crashing down. it felt like a taunt, a child’s game, and yet it left your hands shaking. you cleaned it up, all the while feeling the icy weight of unseen eyes watching, almost amused.

in the following days, the disturbances grew darker. doors no longer merely closed but slammed, hard enough to rattle the walls. your belongings would appear in places you’d never left them — your phone in the freezer, your books stacked upside down, your shoes arranged in pairs by your bed. one night, you found the word HELLO written across the bathroom mirror in streaks of condensation, though you hadn’t showered.

each night became a test of endurance. scratches appeared on the walls, faint at first, but then louder, more insistent, like nails scraping down to get your attention. the sound would follow you from room to room, echoing in the dead silence, growing fiercer when you tried to ignore it. then the lights began to flicker not randomly but in patterns, on and off in a slow, mocking rhythm that felt like it was waiting for you to notice.

and you did.

one night, exhausted and desperate for sleep, you turned off the lights and crawled into bed, willing yourself to ignore the eerie sensations that had become part of your every day. just as you started to drift off, you heard floorboards creaked, as if someone was cautiously tiptoeing closer and closer to the bed. a weight pressed down on the foot of the bed, heavy and cold, slowly sinking in beside you. your body froze in terror, heart racing as you held your breath. the bed dipped, creaking under an unseen presence, as if someone had settled right next to you.

you lay still, paralyzed, as icy fingers trailed up your arm, tracing your skin with a sensation so foreign, so unnatural, that it sent a chill down your spine. the cold touched your cheek, feather-light and lingering, like the brush of lips against your skin. your breath hitched, and the room fell silent. the pressure lifted, but the feeling of something lurking stayed, hovering just outside your reach.

that was when the messages began.

written in dust on your desk, scrawled in barely-there letters:

miss me? i’m here.

they showed up on your bathroom mirror, traced in streaks of moisture, smeared across your textbooks in faint pencil. each word a reminder that you were not alone, that he was there, hidden in the shadows, watching, listening.

one evening, exhausted and drained, you decided to ignore the signs. you’d convinced yourself that it was all in your head, a trick of nerves and exhaustion. but that night, he grew angry.

the temperature in the room plummeted, your breath misting in the air. walls shuddered as something invisible began slamming doors, cabinets, drawers, every corner of the apartment alive with rage. a framed photo fell from the wall, shattering at your feet, its glass shards scattering like ice. you stumbled back, your heart racing as the lights flickered, plunging the room into pitch black.

and then, in the silence, you heard it: a low, chilling whisper close to your ear, so close that it brushed against your skin.

don’t ignore me.

you screamed and stumbled away, turning on every light in a panic. but the apartment remained quiet, the air heavy with a quiet menace that settled into your bones, making it clear that the walls themselves seemed to cling to you. and as you glanced back at the broken glass, you saw a final message scratched into the dust beneath your feet:

i wanna play.

and you knew, with a sickening twist in your stomach, that this was no ordinary haunting. that he — whoever he was — wanted you there, bound to the apartment just as he was, with a twisted affection buried in every scrape, every chill, every whisper.

MASTERLIST

[sixeyesxtodd]

꒰ ❤︎ ꒱ satoru gojo! queen of the kingdoms he destroys

🗁category : romance

🗐 content : AU. slightly based on the novel and manhwa “the remarried empress”. prince!satoru, empress!reader . ᵎ!ᵎ reader is married with someone else at first ⚠︎ warning : mdni. cheating, angst, comfort, aristocracy, historical inaccuracies, emotional/psychological manipulation, period-typical sexism, jealousy, possessiveness, divorce, verbal abuse, eventual relationships, eventual smut, (there will probably be more warnings later, idk) english isn't my first lenguage so, grammar mistakes, maybe . 🗐 synopsis: being the perfect empress had been your whole life, but after six years of an arranged marriage with the emperor, he arrives out of nowhere with a concubine whom he favors to the point of making a fool of you and asking for a divorce, the prince of the neighboring kingdom, satoru gojo, arrives to show that he is more interested in you than just for diplomacy.

chapter one: my castle's crumbling down

snow fell gently on the stone steps of the imperial palace, painting the capital city of the empire. though the arrival of the new year was close, the air was anything but festive, at least not for you.

the empress.

you stood before the window of your private chambers, hands clasped behind your back, watching the snow accumulate on the balcony's railing. the fire inside crackled, warming the place but not your heart.

a month ago, your husband , the emperor ryusei, had paraded through the imperial capital with a trembling girl in a pale blue dress clinging to his side. he'd introduced her not as a guest, not as a servant, but as his first concubine. her name, misara, had quickly become an echo in the palace halls. her innocent eyes and tear-streaked cheeks might have charmed the public, but you were the one left to weather the political fallout, the gossip, the stifled pity of foreign envoys. just yesterday, in a formal court session, ryusei had granted her a title. 

you hadn’t shed a single tear. not in public or in private. you wouldn’t grant them that satisfaction. but the exhaustion behind your polished poise had begun to eat at your spirit. every visit to the central court, every glance thrown your way as the “discarded empress,” every whisper about your supposed coldness had piled up into a weight that no amount of grace could lift.

what hurt more than the betrayal itself was the way ryusei looked at you now: aloof and distracted. as if you were an old treaty he was bound to, rather than the girl he had once sworn to love. you had been married six years. three of them under his crown. but you had grown up beside him, trained together, studied side by side. you had thought, naively, that your marriage was built on more than duty. still, you fulfilled your duties, perfect as ever. you oversaw winter court preparations, calmed the tensions among the nobility, and welcomed foreign dignitaries with the same regal smile you’d worn for years. even as whispers grew louder. even as misara began calling you “sister,” claiming that you now shared “the same husband.”

you wanted to scream. but you didn't. a single tearful girl with a soft voice had made your place in the world seem replaceable. if you started acting deliberately cruel, the criticism would fall on you, not her. of course not, after all, “she didn't know what she was doing.”

and in the midst of it all, the letters had started to arrive.

the letters were a breath of fresh air in the middle of all that chaos, you had never allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of anyone, it was not the right thing to do, the empire needed a strong empress made of steel. but between ink, paper and anonymity you allowed yourself to be vulnerable, to be more human, even if it was with a stranger, one who seemed to understand your position despite revealing so little, those had been your only moments of peace lately.

you weren’t ready for the dove’s owner to show up in person. not yet or ever.

the dove’s owner, satoru gojo, second prince of the  western kingdom had arrived in the capital that morning under the pretense of attending the upcoming new year’s celebrations. no official delegation, no formal reception. he had arrived early, almost intentionally so, and had not made an effort to mask his reasoning. “i wanted to breathe before the pageantry begins,” he had said.

you had just returned from meeting the treasury council when shoko, your closest lady-in-waiting, entered your chambers with a faint smirk and a twinkle in her eyes.

“your majesty,” she said. “it seems the second prince of the western kingdom has arrived. without any traditional escort, no formal ceremony. just walked in like he owned the place.”

you blinked, pausing your steps.

“the second prince?” you echoed. “of the western kingdom? now?”

“he says he's here for the new year banquet,” shoko replied, shrugging, then she leaned close enough so that only you could hear her whisper. “ he's quite handsome and single, in case you'd like to cause some trouble.” your heart skipped a beat and your cheeks flushed at shoko's comment. more than just a lady-in-waiting, she had been your friend for years, so she realized the low mood you had been in for weeks. she had certainly been the first to suggest that you get a concubine more handsome than the emperor, but to suggest that this one be the prince of the neighboring kingdom... was scandalous. but that would only make it more interesting.

“he’s in the central courtyard,” she said. “and he asked specifically for you to greet him.”

you paused, brush hovering above your parchment.

“me?” you asked, too quickly. the western kingdom was nearly equal in size to your native empire, but in recent years, it had grown stronger, both militarily and economically. were they a threat to the empire? perhaps. which was why maintaining a good relationship with the next heir was essential. naturally, welcoming him was something you would do, though the fact that the request had been made specifically for you, and not the emperor, was... unusual.

either way, making him feel at ease was the priority. so, you took one last look in the mirror to ensure your appearance was flawless, then made your way to greet him.

prince satoru gojo was next in line to the throne of the western kingdom, he had a complicated reputation, but the rumors that stood out were those about how attractive he was. you thought they were exaggerated, after all people love to dramatize.

but clearly this was not the case, for the rumors didn't compare to the reality. he was even better in person.

dressed in a midnight blue coat with silver trimming and a baby blue sash tied loose at his hips, satoru gojo stood like a man who had never faced a single consequence in his life . tall, striking, his snow-white hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of wind. his eyes. those impossible, cerulean eyes landed on you the moment you entered, and his smile widened. and his smile?

his smile was the kind of thing you'd fight for. swinging between innocent and devilish, but utterly bewitching. “your majesty,” he greeted with a bow far too casual for a prince. “an honor to finally meet the famous empress of the eastern empire. you certainly are more gorgeous in person.”

you narrowed your eyes, heart hammering at his choice of words. but he only winked and kissed the back of your hand. you said nothing as you gestured for him to rise. he did so with a smile that was more playful that it should.

ryusei stood a few paces away, a stiff smile frozen on his face. his eyes flicked from you to the prince, then back again. satoru didn’t seem to notice the tension, or more likely, he simply didn’t care.

“i must say,” satoru added, “your palace is even more beautiful than the stories claim. though i doubt they do you justice.”

a breath caught in your throat. right in front of the emperor.

you felt the sharp gaze from your husband but ignored it. you tilted your head with a neutral smile. “prince satoru, i trust your journey was smooth?” 

“uneventful. but i’m hoping that changes.” he answered, his eyes did not leave your face even when he blinked. ryusei coughed falsely behind your back, clearly not used to being overlooked, let alone you being looked at the way the prince was. “prince satoru will be staying in the eastern wing,” he said coolly. “i trust the accommodations are to your liking.”

“i was told the empress herself oversaw them. if that’s true, i already know they’ll be perfect.”

you bit the inside of your cheek. this man was irredeemable, he wasn't even trying to be subtle and everyone in the place could tell.

└──» ✎ 𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐔𝐕 🖇 2025

[lovemiraamira]

The Revenge List // Ellie W.

Chapter One - The Wedding List

hello there beautiful people!! the prologue got significantly less traction than the introduction, and i think it might be the lack of the smut tag lmao… i’m not gonna put it on ones that don’t have smut however because i don’t wanna disappoint people looking for that. there will be some soon though! btw this is all written in lowercase, which is the usual writing habit i have. you’ll learn i’m a sucker for using song lyrics to orchestrate pieces of writing, so the first chapter of this is titled and built off of the first half (intentionally) of the song that inspired this fanfic! hope it is enjoyed <3

warnings: much angst, descriptions of gore, pure shock, things along those lines, (i will probably only proofread these every few chapters — i plan for there to be 12 — so it has not been proofread)

“no i’ll never give the hunt up, and i won’t muck it up”

“your ‘something blue’ is here, dear.” your mother says. she steps towards you, holding a shining silver broach, with blue gems. it is in the shape of a bluebird; it is small, fragile, and perfect for the side of your dress. she didn’t know it, but her gift meant a lot to you. in a couple hours, you will be that bluebird. your freedom in the hands of the only friend you’ve ever had. you smile at her sweetly, “thank you, mama.”

a small sting of nervousness pits in your chest. you have a weird feeling that you cannot describe, but you can only connect it to the chances your parents have caught onto you and luca, which were low with how well you had thought out this ordeal.

“somehow this is it, i knew. maybe fate wants you dead too.”

you look like nothing short of a princess. your parents had chosen for your dress to have sheer sleeves for the sake of modesty, but you wouldn’t complain about a damn decision they made for you any longer. you’d take it, because it was almost over. it was almost over.

there is a small silver cross dangling from your bouquet. blue petals of narcissus mix with the gorgeous bloom of white myrtles. a single blue primrose graces the middle of the assorted mix. you bring it up to your nose and take a hazy whiff of the scent of those flowers. it only sharpens the feeling you had even more. as you’re engulfed in that funny feeling, your mother pokes you slightly as she puts the broach on the sash-like part of your skirt. “ouch!” you whipser.

“my apologies, sweetheart…” she mutters, voiced filled with saccharine. you stare dead into her fresh pearl eyes, and this time the iridescence does not disturb you. “it’s fine, mama.” you say with a small smile plastering your shiny lips. this was the moment she knew something had changed within you.

“are you nervous?” she asks, and you simply nod. your mother gets up from her knees and brings her lips to dawn a feathery kiss on your temple. “don’t be. you’ve known luca since diapers, we’ve always known this would be the boy you’d marry.”

her emphasis on boy did irritate you, but you didn’t think twice about it. remember. you are that bluebird, and your freedom flight is a couple human steps away.

“we’ve come together in the very same room. and i’m coming for you”

you struggle only a little bit in walking in those heels as you move towards your father. two of your cousins help carry and place the train of your dress.

“well aren’t you beautiful. gotta say im sad i didn’t get to see you in your allegiance attire, but i would’ve missed those pretty eyes… having them replaced with white and all.” he places a hand on your lower back and your face visibly drops.

“i’m almost a married woman, dad. it’s disrespectful to talk about the allegiance ceremony stuff here, isn’t it?” you state, briskly attempting to look away from him. he redirects your face, and declares that “it is only fair for your papa to be sad letting his baby bird go, isn’t it? i should get to reminisce on what could have been…”

“alright, dad.” you frustratingly sigh out. you keep telling yourself it is almost over. almost. over.

“do you think i’d ever let you… get away with it,, huh?”

he removes his hand from your back and instead grabs your hand. “you’re all grown up. its bittersweet to see.”

yet again, your fathers touch has scorched an uncomfortable flame in your stomach. you have to whisper just quiet enough so that he would not notice, “it’s almost over.”

and you take your first steps from under the pretty canopy, hearing the bells ring and the pianist begin to play.

“he swooned in warm maroon”

as soon as you begin to walk the isle, it feels so much more real than you ever thought it could. you immediately make eye contact with luca. his face lights up like a sunshine fresh after rain. before you know it, you’re smiling too. to other people, this was the look of love, romance, a beautiful marriage waiting to occur. to you and luca, this was sweet and hopeful victory.

every hit of the ivory keys slowed with the moment and your steps feel long and staggered. this is happening so fast and so slow for you at the same time and the adrenaline surges inside you until you’re damn near dizzy. you look at all the guests as you past — momentarily — but your vision always makes its way back to luca’s.

you feel your wings strain under your skin. you can even feel the splitting of your shoulder blades as they push through. you swear if you looked back you could see those big blue wings preparing for flight behind you; heavy feathered and new.

“theres gas in your barrel, and im flooded with doom.”

luca immediately matches your giddy smile once you let go of your father’s hands and meet him at the altar. this is when the ceremony really begins for you. “hello there gorgeous” he whispers.

“hey luca” you whipser back. both of you were so ready to say your vows.

“may i go first?” you ask immediately when you’re prompted the idea. your family thinks this is untraditional for them and that the man should go first, always, but the priest lets you stand on your indifference.

“luca,” it starts, and those in the crowd even shortly gasp at the suspense and sincerity.

“since diapers you’ve been the only person i’ve dared to trust. you taught me how to tie my shoes. how to use a microwave. how to hoola-hoop. when our parents would get on you for “watching my girl shows” you’d refuse their offers at other things just to support me in whatever i would do. you have been with me almost every single day of my life, and now you’ll be with me for the rest of them all. we never judged each other if not for the benefit of change. you’ve looked at me through raw, and unconditional lenses, and would never fold me to be in “your image” but rather made me feel like it was okay to improve without running from insecurity. and for that, i love you and will always love you. you and your contagious laugh, silly crooked nose, those big dopey glasses you wore in 5th grade. all of it. i admire the conversations we have, even the ones we have without a single word. the things we do and don’t even have to talk about. everything you have ever blessed me with in life, i promise to give back to you, tenfold.”

tears stream down his face, but you know luca, and they aren’t all happy. why?

“luca, your vows.” the priest says. motioning his hand towards luca’s paper in his sleeve.

he pulls it out and begins. “you… unique, universes-worth, and beautiful human being.”

“when we were kids i remember always watching you fall. you’d be so clumsy. fall and fall and fall again, but the only way you managed to repeat it is with the fact that you always got right back up.

you were never made for the life you were given. you were made to soar, up with the planes and even the rocket ships. your legs were never good for you. you run like you’ve got wings to pull you up when you’re about to fall. and i’ve loved you and those wings since the day i knew what love was.”

love, yeah. like you guys were best friends. you were best friends, right? he’s loved you like a best friend… right?

but something tells you this time he means it differently.

“even though i know you were made for the sky, with another bird like you”

you begin to realize what he means. with another girl, like you.

“i watched you stick on the ground with me and wished it was by your own will.”

the crowd sits confused, but you know exactly what he means, and you feel like throwing up.

“truth is, i’ve wanted to marry you for a long time. you’ve got that glare that can burn holes through people, and it’s a pain i’ve learned only i am strong enough to enjoy so far. i cherish every moment you’re on the ground with me, selfishly enough, bracing myself to be more proud than fearful when you spread your wings and head for the sky. i love you no matter if its your legs or you’re wings you are using, and that will never change.”

“you’ve made a wake of our honeymoon, and i’m coming for you.”

but what did change, is what was in the air. you’re so stunned by this guilty feeling, and you realize you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. you’re dizzy, looking to the crowd to avoid the look you know luca is giving you; as if none of them exists and it is only you and him at this wedding. he’s looking at you as if you’re the goddess his one-man cult worships and desires. you notice a darkly dressed figure besides more of the kind standing in the back, not even taking seats right in front of them. you have to remind yourself your parents are cult leaders. they’ve got all kinds of shady people at your wedding.

you finally find the courage to turn to luca, and you give him a sickly and bittersweet smile. he gives you, devastatingly, the same. the priest turns to luca.

“do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“i do.” then he turns to you.

“and do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“i do.”

“i now pronounce you husband and wife. you may kiss the bride!”

you’ve kissed luca multiple times, and up until now you’d assume they were experimental for both of you, but now realizing how much it has meant to him every single time you can feel the tears swelling in your eyes. they’re daring to dwell past your waterline. luca looks at you for approval before pulling you by the space just above your waist, and you put your hands at his shoulders. the kiss feels like its over as soon as it starts and the cheers roar in both your ears.

“all of the headlines said ‘passion crime’ ”

your mother stood immediately to clap her hands, and as soon as she could, she yells “let the lovers take a picture! everyone out of the way, out of the way!”

first it is the bridesmaids and best men to leave. the priest himself walks away as well, and the photographer sets up the camera just at the end of the altar and beginning of the isle. you don’t at all notice the shady men you’d seen earlier change their position.

you and luca take a glance at each other then at the planted camera, and flash bright and hopeful smiles. you guys will have so much to talk about later, you think.

“newly-weds, groom shot dead, mystery man, God help the bride”

six men are in a line behind that photographer. no one has time at all to expect the red dot appearing on luca’s head as the camera clicks to focus.

and as soon as it flashed to take the picture, the bullet hits right where it intended to make it.

from that point, everything moved in slow motion. people scatter like ants, everyone disperses but you. no, not you. you drop with luca’s body, right on top. you shuffle in confusion, feeling for every single trace of a pulse even though your heart knows just how over it is.

when you look up, the men were gone.

“she’s a widow all in red, with his red still wet”

you knew you couldn’t have stayed there. dead or alive, that wedding had to be your escape. so you ran away, keeping the picture taken on that awful day in your pocket. now you had the knowledge that those six men were a part of a group against luca’s parents. his mother and father gave you every piece of knowledge you wanted about this faction that you asked for before you left.

“i’ll put him on the wedding list.”

you were going to find each and every one of those men and kill them. but how?

as of now, all you were was a hunger-panged girl walking through the woods miles away from home with a dried bloody nose and clothes you usually wouldn’t ever have to wear. all you could hear is luca’s vows repeating in your head as you walked, and even though eating was nowhere near on your mind, your body ached for sustenance.

“i’ll put him, on the wedding list.”

around a week in, you’re met with a campfire kind of sight… that kept you from believing you’d been walking in some kind of circle. you peak from behind a tree but immediately make contact with bright green eyes, for some reason making your body ache more for food. the smell of the fire brings you back to a life where you had a warm heart and warm blankets to hide you from pain and deceit. the owner of these eyes is immediately defensive of your presence, grabbing their rifle and heading towards the tree that you were behind, but you wouldn’t end up threatening them for long because your eyes flutter shut and you’re slump against the damp bark. luca’s voice takes over your head as you lose consciousness.

“i’ll get him and i will not miss.”

[jadeshifting]

— ONE ( boring ) DAY IN MY LIFE LIVING ON JURASSIC WORLD

　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

5:30 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. the soft glow of dawn filters through the curtains of the modest cabin nestled just on the edge of Jurassic World’s sprawling jungle. i stir beneath the blankets, the distant, guttural calls of the velociraptor pack pulling me from the dream i was having. the morning air is crisp, tinged with the scent of dew-kissed foliage and earth. i rub the sleep from my eyes and slip out of bed, the worn wooden floor cool beneath my feet

6:00 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. the cabin is teeming with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and i pour myself a mug and step outside onto the small porch. Jurassic World and the island are waking up—birds chirp, and the distant roar of a tyrannosaurus echoes like thunder through the misty canopy. my dad, Owen Grady, is already up, and he’s doing a little bit of work in the small vegetable garden by the side of the cabin. he nods good morning at me, and i wave back

6:30 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. wearing my beat-up park uniform, i head to the raptor paddock. the walk through the jungle is a symphony of rustling leaves and distant dinosaur calls. as i approach, i hear Blue, the lead raptor, chirp in recognition. my bond with the pack is palpable, built on literally years of mutual trust and respect. i greet each of them in turn, their scales glinting in the early morning light, their eyes sharp and intelligent

7:00 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. training begins. dad isn’t far behind me, and i assist him with the morning routine, guiding the raptors through their exercises. it’s a combination of hand signals and verbal cues, my movements confident after so much time spent dealing with them. the raptors respond with precision, their bodies moving with a predatory grace. it’s all trust and understanding, a daily ritual that reinforces the balance between human and dinosaur—kind of like reminding a stubborn employee that you’re their boss, and you have their best interest at heart (and begging them please don’t eat you)

8:00 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. with training complete, i head back to the main park complex for a quick breakfast. the cafeteria buzzes with the hum of employees gearing up for the day. i grab a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit, sitting for a while to enjoy the brief respite before i dive into my next set of the day’s responsibilities

9:00 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. i settle into the research lab, poring over data collected from the raptor pack. i meticulously log their behavior patterns, noting any changes or anomalies. my fingers dance across the keyboard, the hum of the computers blending with the distant chatter of scientists and researchers. the lab smells faintly of antiseptic and paper, a stark contrast to the wildness outside

10:30 AM .　　. 　 ˚　. next on the agenda is a down-low talk with a few members of the park’s administrative team—see, i’m not technically supposed to be involved in official park business, but i present my findings, and discuss the implications of the raptors’ behavior on park operations and guest safety. my voice is steady, my insights are sharp. it’s a testament to years of living and breathing the intricacies of Jurassic World, and the reason why i’m allowed to weigh in at all

12:00 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. lunchtime rolls around, and i take my sandwich outside to the open air. i find a quiet spot outside the park, by a small pond, the water reflecting the lush greenery around me. the scent of tropical flowers mingles with the faint musk of the jungle, and i eat peacefully, the occasional flutter of wings or distant dinosaur call my only companions

1:00 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. back at the raptor paddock, i conduct individual check-ups on each raptor. i examine their claws, check their teeth, and ensure they’re in peak condition. the raptors tolerate my presence with a mix of curiosity and familiarity, their eyes watching my every move. sometimes they’re calmer with me than they are with my dad—they’ve known me since i was a toddler, after all. if they attacked me, it would be like trying to chow down on the kid you’ve been babysitting since they were born

3:00 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. the afternoon is dedicated to guest interaction. i lead a small group of visitors on a guided tour, rambling about the raptors and the vital role they play in the park’s ecosystem. my voice is animated as i go on and on about the prehistoric world to my captivated audience, even more invested in it myself than they are. it’s Jurassic World, after all—it never gets boring to me

5:00 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. as the sun dips lower in the sky, i return to the cabin. the jungle is bathed in a golden glow, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. dad and i prepare dinner together, grilled fish and some assorted roasted vegetables, with herbs from the garden. it’s simple—neither of us are exactly culinary masters

6:30 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. i hang out with dad while we eat dinner together in the cabin. he laments the absurd requests the investors have for the dinosaurs, and i tell him about the notes i took on the raptors. it’s an uneventful, good dinner

8:00 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. after cleaning up, i unwind with a book on prehistoric ecosystems, the flickering lantern on the front porch casting shadows on the walls through the window. the sounds of the jungle lull me half to sleep, the distant calls of dinosaurs a familiar lullaby as i thumb through my book

9:30 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. i step outside one last time before bed, the night air cool against my skin. the stars twinkle above, the jungle never quiet and instead roaringly alive with nocturnal sounds. i watch the property and listen to all the island’s sounds before i retreat back to my bedroom for the night

10:00 PM .　　. 　 ˚　. snuggled up under a fuzzy blanket AND a quilt, i drift off to sleep. it was a normal day, fulfilling—boring is preferable to scary, i think. the line between past and present blurs here, and it can be easy to lose track of time when every day is a new chapter in Jurassic World’s story

　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

[ellebellewritesfic]

This Is Me Trying

For Day 3 of @empyreanevents Bodhi week: Prompt is Countering Signet.

Thank you to my darling @theoppositequeens and Cassie for the beta 🥰

Read on AO3 here.

---

I've been having a hard time adjusting

I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting

I didn't know if you'd care if I came back

I have a lot of regrets about that

I just wanted you to know

That this is me trying

I just wanted you to know

That this is me trying

Bodhi had never expected Basgiath to feel so loud.

Not in the way of noise – though gods knew cadets could be insufferably loud – but in the way it drowned him. Everything about it was bigger, brighter, heavier. It pressed in from all sides like a fortress built not of stone but of expectation. He wasn’t just carrying his own name here. He was wearing Xaden’s like a second skin. Again.

He’d imagined this place a hundred different ways before he arrived. Running drills in the mirror, mumbling strategy to himself, dreaming of what his signet would be when it finally came. He used to think it might be something flashy – storm-calling, maybe, or something fearsome like flame. He used to want power that turned heads. Something undeniable.

But the second he bonded with Cuir, that all started to shift.

The green-scaled dragon was quiet and dry-witted and impossibly patient with him – something Bodhi hadn’t realised he needed until he had it. They spent hours talking under the stars, tucked just outside the Vale’s edges, away from the chaos of cadets and drills and the sheer pressure of not being Xaden Riorson. He would talk, and Cuir would listen.

One night, Bodhi sat cross-legged in the grass, fingers digging into the earth like he could root himself there. “I don’t know what I’ll manifest,” he admitted, thoughts in turmoil. “But I need it to matter. I need it to mean I can protect people. I need to prove I belong here. That I’m not just... Xaden, but a less good version.”

Cuir didn’t respond immediately. Then he had heaved a sigh – in a very dragonly way. “Perhaps it’s not about proving anything. Perhaps it’s about deciding who you want to be.”

Bodhi huffed. “That’s easy. I want to be someone no one can knock over. Someone no one can control or sideline. Not again. I want to matter.”

“You are not sideline material,” Cuir said. “But you are still adjusting. Give yourself the grace of time.”

He didn’t say it, but Bodhi could feel the echo anyway. To maybe stop comparing himself to Xaden every time he breathed.

But how could he not? He watched his cousin walk the halls like he’d carved them himself. Watched Garrick wield his power as sharp as a whistle, cutting through the air like a knife. Knew Imogen would end up being an absolute force to be reckoned with. And he felt like he was still trying to keep up.

Still trying. Gods, he was trying.

The night it manifested, it wasn’t during anything significant – not even training.

It was just the four of them – Xaden, Garrick, Imogen, and Bodhi – collapsed in the grass not far from the flight field after a long day – but for now, there were no meetings, no weapon runs to drag their attention away. The sky was pale, the stars just beginning to bleed through. They’d stolen a few moments of peace, and for once, Xaden wasn’t stone-faced or sharp-eyed. He was smiling, shadows flickering playfully around him as they poked at Bodhi’s hair, ruffled it into a mess, and he laughed when Bodhi swatted them away.

Bodhi hadn’t seen him like this in so long. Light. Human.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t also annoying. But when the shadows curled again, slipped like ink down his neck and tugged at his collar and his curls, Bodhi knew he should let it go. Knew this was precious, fragile.

But something inside him recoiled – on instinct, like a spring snapping. He reached for nothing, not even thinking, just felt – and suddenly, the shadows dissolved into nothing. Gone.

Xaden sat up, blinking. Garrick frowned. Imogen tilted her head.

“Bodhi,” Xaden said slowly. “What did you just do?”

Bodhi stared at his hands like they were unfamiliar weapons. “I... don’t know.”

But he did. Deep down, he knew.

He had made it stop.

He’d stopped Xaden.

Carr confirmed it the next day. A countering signet.

“Rare,” he said, observing Bodhi like he was an interesting new puzzle. “You can nullify other riders’ signets. It's not about suppression so much as... erasure. Not permanent, but decisive.”

Bodhi just nodded. He didn’t say what he was really thinking: Why me?

Why not something impressive? Something big and bold and unmistakably loud?

Bodhi couldn’t stop turning it over in his head, and the answer came later. Quiet, like most truths.

The more he trained, the more it made sense. Of course this was what he’d manifested. Because all Bodhi had ever wanted was control – not over others, but over what they could do to him. To his people. To his heart.

He wasn’t the type who had enough rage to tear his enemies apart.

But he was strong enough to deny them the right to touch what he loved.

This wasn’t violence. This wasn’t vengeance. This was resistance. A lifetime of being small, and still standing. A lifetime of watching the people he loved suffer at the hands of those with powerful and uncounterable abilities. A lifetime of hearing “stay back” and deciding: Fine. But if I stay, I’ll hold the line.

No need to lash out or control – just to deny others their influence or their chance to manipulate him anymore. If he couldn’t be stronger than those that came to attack them, at least he wouldn’t let them overwhelm him.

He trained harder. Pushed himself further. Took on cadets stronger than him, just to see what he could stop. He tested it with Carr. With Imogen. With Garrick. And finally, with Xaden again.

“Try it,” he said, facing Xaden in the empty courtyard.

“You sure?”

“No.” He smiled. “But do it anyway.”

And when the shadows surged again, curling like smoke, Bodhi reached into that same place of refusal – and the power disappeared like it had never been.

Xaden just stood there. Impressed. Quiet.

For once, Bodhi didn’t feel like a shadow of someone else.

He felt like a wall. An anchor. A choice.

The last line of defence. One that he would hold until he could do nothing else.

He still didn’t know if anyone cared that he was there. Still didn’t know if it mattered. But every time he stepped in front of someone and said, No, not today, he could almost believe he was enough.

Because maybe he wasn’t fire or shadows or lightning.

But he could still stop the storm.

And that was him trying.

[crexmpuffff]

SOMEONE ELSE

Benimaru x reader

summary ☆ you've always thought that there was something special between that two of you, well, that was until she arrived.

─────────────୨ৎ─────────────

You've always liked Benimaru. He was strong, confident, and had a personality that could light up a room. He felt like a prince you could only dream about, the kind you thought you’d never have a chance with. But somehow, fate brought you together, and your friendship grew into something special. You spent hours training together, laughing at little jokes only the two of you understood. There was something unspoken between you—something you thought might turn into more, eventually. You believed he liked you too, even if neither of you had said it out loud.

But then everything changed when Momiji came to Tempest. She was a tengu girl with pure white hair that faded to red around her ears, unlike anything you’d seen before. Unlike the other tengu, she looked more human, and that made her stand out even more.

The first time you saw her was during her formal introduction, when she arrived with her tribe. You noticed how everyone’s attention shifted to her, including Benimaru’s. It was hard not to see. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was commanding. Soon after her arrival, you heard the news that would break your heart—a letter announcing that Benimaru and Momiji were to be engaged.

You didn’t know how to react. How could you? Momiji was everything you weren’t. And then there was the way Benimaru smiled at her—the same way he used to smile at you. It was small but enough to make your heart feel heavy, like something had been lost without you even realizing it.

Momiji quickly became the center of attention in the village. As a tengu princess, her presence drew a lot of eyes, especially after the news of her engagement to Benimaru spread. Everyone admired the idea of their union, talking about how it would strengthen Tempest’s ties with the tengu clan. People couldn’t stop saying how they were the perfect match—Momiji, the graceful princess, and Benimaru, the fierce and loyal warrior.

Meanwhile, you stood on the sidelines, quietly watching as they spent more and more time together. Each time you saw them, it felt like they were growing closer, and the way Benimaru looked at her made your stomach turn. His eyes sparkled with admiration, something you hadn't seen before, and it only deepened the ache in your chest. With every passing day, it felt like you were fading from his world, like the bond you once shared was slowly slipping away. You were no longer the person he laughed and trained with, and the connection you had built over time seemed to be disappearing, leaving you feeling more alone than ever.

You started to avoid him without even meaning to. It was hard to be around him and see the way things had changed. You couldn’t stop thinking that Benimaru would be happier with someone like Momiji. She was perfect in ways you felt you could never be. So, you began to pull back, not wanting to stand in the way of their happiness. The more distance you put between yourself and Benimaru, the more it hurt. You missed him terribly, and every time you saw him with her, it was like another crack in your heart.

You spent more time alone, thinking about how things used to be, wondering if they could ever be the same again. When a friend mentioned a trip to another nation, you agreed in a heartbeat. You needed space, time to clear your mind, and maybe even to forget how everything had changed between you and Benimaru.

As you packed your things to leave, you heard Benimaru’s voice calling for you. “(Y/N)! Where were you? I haven’t seen you in days!” His voice was filled with worry, making your heart sink.

“Hey, Benimaru,” you replied, trying to sound cheerful, but your voice came out soft and weak.

He walked closer, his eyes clouded with concern. “Why have you been avoiding me? Did I do something wrong?”

You took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in your throat as tears threatened to spill. “No, it’s not you. I just… well... I thought you and Momiji needed time alone together, so... yeah…”

Benimaru’s face twisted in confusion. “What are you talking about?” He stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. “Why would you think that?”

You looked away, your chest tightening. “Everyone’s been saying how perfect you two are together. About how you’re engaged now. I just thought… maybe you didn’t need me around anymore.”

His expression softened, but his confusion didn’t disappear. “(Y/N), that’s not true. You’ve always been important to me.”

You shook your head, the ache in your heart making it hard to speak. “But things are different now. You have Momiji. She’s everything I’m not—beautiful, confident, and she’s a princess. Everyone can see you two together, and I… I just don’t belong anymore.”

Benimaru opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He hesitated, and that silence felt louder than anything he could have said. You waited for him to tell you it wasn’t true, that things hadn’t changed, but the words never came. The weight of that moment settled over you like a cold shadow.

You forced a smile, even though it hurt. “It’s okay, Benimaru. I get it. I just want you to be happy.”

Without waiting for his response, you turned away, grabbing your bag as you wiped away a stray tear. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t dare look back. Not when your heart was so sure of what his silence meant.

As you walked out the door, the only thought that lingered in your mind was that maybe Benimaru’s heart had already found its place—with someone else.

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𖦹 please do not translate, repost, steal, or copy my work.

[insomanyfandomsilosttrack]

Weapon... I am a Weapon

Jason sat alone on the roof of Cabin One, watching the stars blur behind storm clouds.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that let your thoughts echo too loudly.

He exhaled slowly, a soundless breath that left no fog in the air, and stared at the bronze coin in his palm—Ivilius. Sword. Javelin. Tool. Like him.

People said a lot of things about Jason Grace.

Leader. Hero. Son of Jupiter. A good man.

They didn’t know. They didn’t understand.

Jason didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like muscle memory. Like precision. Like violence distilled into a teenage frame and polished until there were no fingerprints left.

He should’ve been hesitant to fight. His fatal flaw—duty—should’ve made him second guess every blade drawn. But it hadn’t. He’d learned young how to bypass that. How to be loyal after the blood was spilled. Because hesitation got you killed. Worse, it got your team killed.

So he didn’t hesitate.

He fought every fight like it was his last. Because that’s what he was taught. That’s what was beaten into him: how to read a person’s body before their face, how to spot weakness before hearing a name, how to look at a room and clock all exits, all cover, all vantage points in less than five seconds. His body reacted before he consciously did. Instinct. Training.

His first languages hadn’t been English or Latin. They were violence and observation.

Reading the twitch of an ankle before it turned into a lunge. Sensing a shift in posture that preceded a punch. Dodging without thinking, because thinking got you hurt.

So when he laughed—it felt unnatural. Forced. And more often, he didn’t laugh at all. Not even when Leo made that dumb dolphin noise that got Percy wheezing. Not even when Piper pulled off those perfect impressions of Chiron.

Because even then, even surrounded by friends, he wasn’t sure how to drop the act. Or maybe, this was the act. Or maybe he wasn’t acting at all, and that was the part that scared him.

They whispered sometimes—campers who thought he couldn’t hear.

“Why does he look so blank all the time?” “He never talks.” “Is he... okay?”

He didn’t blame them. He asked himself the same thing, sometimes.

He could go weeks without speaking. Months without crying. He could slit a monster’s throat and not blink when the blood splattered on his face. He could be drenched in it—red and thick and not his own—and it never occurred to him to be bothered. Not really.

He didn’t recoil. He didn’t shake.

Because weapons don’t flinch. And Jason Grace was a weapon, forged by Rome and honed by pain.

No matter how many campfires he sat by, no matter how many silly stories he half-smiled at, no matter how many times he tried to believe he was human—he knew the truth.

He was built to kill.

And gods help him, he was good at it. @sodamnbored, @starlightshadowsworld, @puriteenism

Back on my torturing Jason Grace agenda!!