#he really could have just trapped him there. the other two were sealed in the scroll after all

[livingformintyoongi]

Poème | Kim Taehyung

Summary: For centuries, Taehyung has roamed the world, trapped in an eternity he never truly desired. Desperation led him to accept an offer of immortality, a gift that quickly turned into his greatest curse. Once a hopeful young man dreaming of a future with the love of his life, he now wanders through time burdened by regret, forever mourning the one he lost. No amount of power, beauty, or wealth can fill the void left by you. If eternity means living without you, then what is the point of living at all? Author’s note: Hi again! I hope everyone is well ^^ I know I had said I was going to focus on GAS? but…. Tae vampire came to my head and demanded to stay until I managed to bring him to this world :) Soooo, I don't know if most of you read this but I seriously, seriously need your help for this, I really don't know how to move it forward :(( so please, if you have any ideas on how to move it forward or any scenes you'd like there to be, send me an ask or a dm, I'd really appreciate it <3 Pairing: Vampire!Taehyung x Human!Reader (female) AUs: Vampire!AU Word count: 4.6k Status: Unedited Permanent Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee @angellekookie @madussthougths Dividers by @the-aesthetics-shop and @strangergraphics

What would you do if you were given the option to live for all eternity? If someone offered you the secret behind immortality and eternal youth, would you accept? Would you be capable of leaving everything behind just to avoid facing death?

Taehyung wished with all his heart that he had asked himself those questions before saying yes to the beautiful woman in the elegant dress who offered him a second chance at life—one without sickness or poverty, a life filled with luxuries and privileges he could never have had as a mere villager in the Victorian era. Something he could have never even dreamed of when he was still human.

When desperation consumes you and you don’t know what else to do to avoid falling into the clutches of death, you… accept the first offer placed in front of you, no matter how risky it may be. That was exactly what led Taehyung to an eternity of regret, suffering, and torment.

He had been blessed with eternal life, but what was the point of living until the end of time if he was alone? What was the use of existing for centuries, watching people be born and die as if they were nothing more than tiny toy soldiers with an expiration date set by a child who had decided it was time to discard them, believing he was too grown up to play with them anymore?

He refused to live an endless life if you weren’t in it.

But you had been gone for so, so long, and he could never forgive himself for it. He could never turn back time and reject the offer from the one who was now his creator. He would never see your smile again, hear your laughter, or smell the soft scent of flowers, of the forest, of you. If only he hadn’t left home that night, if only he had waited a few more minutes… If only you had gone with him, perhaps… Perhaps now, the two of you would be living a long life together, enjoying each other’s company until the end of time.

But that wasn’t how things happened. He left his home that night. He didn’t wait. You didn’t go with him. And now, his fate was sealed. He couldn’t die, he couldn’t be harmed, he would have eternal youth and an ethereal beauty that could make any human give him anything he asked for with just one look. He could have everything—everything except you. And that, without a doubt, was the greatest torture anyone had ever inflicted on him.

That had happened over 170 years ago, and he had spent each one of those years tormenting himself. When he was still human, he had been vibrant and full of life, a social butterfly who, even without the seductive abilities of a vampire, could charm anyone with a single smile. Now, he was nothing but the empty shell of the man he once was.

During that time, he met many like him—those with whom he managed to form something close to what he could call a "family." Jiah was his mentor, the woman who had turned him and helped him through the difficult transition from human to vampire. Chaeyoung was the second oldest, a cheerful and optimistic young woman who had been a vampire for over a thousand years. Sooah and Hoseok came next, both turned in the 15th century. Then there was him, Jiwon, and Jimin—the three of them transformed in the 19th century, all saved from the brink of death by the compassionate leader of their small group.

They had been his family until now, and though he loved them as much as he was still capable of love, his love for them would never amount to even a fraction of what he felt for you. Not even a hundred people could mend the wound in his heart, no matter how hard they tried.

He could still remember his life by your side, when his body was still warm and his heart beat in a rhythmic melody, reminding him that he was alive. The two of you met because of Taehyung’s father’s work—you were a young lady from a wealthy family, and he was the son of a tailor who barely had enough money or resources to live. Yet, you noticed him—his smile, his playful jokes, and his flirtatious charm, reserved only for you.

You weren’t supposed to be together—you both knew that. But neither of you wanted to give up, you didn’t want to lose the only real thing in your lives. So, you ran away. With no money, no place to stay, only the hope of finding a place in the world where you could live without regrets or judgment.

It was his selfishness and foolishness as a teenager that led you both to that situation.

He should have realized it was madness, that there was no way you could survive in the outside world with dreams and hopes coated in sugar and honey. This was the real world—it was cruel and ruthless, showing no mercy to anyone, no matter their age or gender.

The first few months on your own were peaceful. You traveled from town to town on horseback, living freely, loving each other with all your hearts, talking about your dreams for the future, and how exciting it would be to have a family together.

You had managed to stabilize your life—Taehyung making elegant garments for high-society ladies, and you painting beautiful portraits under a pseudonym, which he promoted and sold with his natural charm.

For the first two years, life had been peaceful. Until smallpox arrived. That was when everything fell apart. No matter where you went, how much money you had, or which doctor you saw, once you were infected, there was no escape.

You both caught it at the same time. He did everything he could to keep you both from falling into death’s hands, but it was a fatal disease—there was no cure, especially with their limited resources.

It was on a dark winter night that everything changed. You were starving, and Taehyung was determined to find something—anything—to feed you. Despite his weakened, trembling body, he walked through the dark streets of the coastal city until he reached a shop. But his body was on the verge of collapse, and he fell just a few meters away from home.

He clung to the last bit of strength he had, trying to crawl back to you if necessary—anything to avoid dying far from you. He didn’t want you to think he had abandoned you, didn’t want to make you suffer when you found out he had died in the cold, damp streets, all for the sake of bringing you something to eat. He didn’t want to die without you by his side.

That desperation was what made him accept so quickly the offer placed before him by a complete stranger. “Just one drop, and you will never feel pain again.” And he accepted. He drank whatever she gave him, clinging to the hope of surviving a few more minutes. Then, everything went black for a moment—until he opened his eyes again.

Everything felt new, as if he had been reborn and was rediscovering the world. He felt good, healthy, strong, and maybe a little thirsty—but alive. And that was all that mattered.

When the initial shock passed, he begged the woman to do the same for you, to save you just as she had saved him. She smiled kindly and let him lead her to your small home.

But she stopped before entering, giving him a look of pity and compassion. At that moment, he didn’t know that he could hear a human’s heartbeat from a distance. He didn’t know that, even before stepping inside, she already knew that you were no longer in this world, and nothing could change that—not even her blood.

Taehyung may not have died that night, but his heart… His heart shattered into a thousand pieces the moment he laid eyes on your pale, lifeless body. His body had survived death—but his soul never would.

For a long time, his life had become a series of meaningless events that only served to make his desire to die grow stronger. He knew it was foolish to feel this way when he had what many would kill for; his eternal life was a miracle that tormented him every damn day, and he knew that would never change.

It took him 138 years to get over you—if that was even the right word to use in this context. Perhaps a more accurate way to put it would be, well, trying to forget you through other people. 138 years of solitude, where his only company was six other vampires just as reserved as he was, each keeping the scars of their previous lives a secret, each too afraid to open up to the others and relive memories of a past they all wished to forget.

The first time he tried something with a girl was because of Jimin, who insisted that he should look at someone else besides your portraits—the ones he himself had painted back when he had wanted to immerse himself in your world. He went to a stupid bar, too loud and filled with drunk and high people looking for something casual. But he didn’t want something casual. He wanted something lasting. He wanted you.

Hours passed before a rather beautiful girl approached him. Her shy smile and flushed cheeks seemed endearing, but nothing inside him stirred the way it had when he first met you; her eyes weren’t like yours, her essence wasn’t like yours. He didn’t like her, but still, he forced himself to try.

That night was the first and last time he attempted to move on with someone else. There was only a kiss, a brief brush of lips that the girl gave him as a thank-you for walking her home. That night, he cried like he hadn’t in years, clawed at his lips with his nails until they bled, and his screams were so agonizing that everyone in the house had to check if he was okay, because it sounded as if someone had just run a blade of iron straight through his body.

Taehyung felt that kiss exactly like that—like someone had just plunged an iron sword into his heart and desecrated his body in every possible way.

Sooah called him dramatic. Jiwon even mocked him for making such a fuss over a simple kiss. But it was Jiah who ordered them to be quiet and stayed by his side all night, comforting him as his tears fell ceaselessly down his cheeks.

After that day, he resolutely refused to go out with anyone else for the rest of his life. He didn’t need a replacement—he was much better off living with your memory than trying to forget it.

That was exactly how he managed to slowly overcome his pain—by treasuring your memory through the works of art he created, reliving every one of his feelings for you with each brushstroke on the blank canvas, until there was no trace left of the pain he had once felt. Now, all that remained was peace and a beautiful memory that he would keep deep in his heart for the rest of eternity.

It took him 175 years to achieve that peace—175 years in which he held onto the one thing he had left of you: your last painting, the one of a young wealthy woman standing alone in the middle of a grand ballroom. The soft tones and the contrast between the setting and the woman in her simple pastel dress gave off a strange warmth. It wasn’t one of your best paintings—he knew that better than anyone. You had created true masterpieces, works that your clients back then would have died to own. But this one… this one was simple, more discreet, with much less detail—mostly because you were already unwell when you finished it. But your essence, your touch, the feeling you poured into it… all of it was still there. And that made it the most important piece you had ever created.

That was why, as the last act of love he could offer to you and your memory, he traveled to Paris to present it at the Musée d’Orsay. The meeting with the museum’s curator was far more pleasant than he had expected, and he even considered making a generous donation after they agreed to exhibit the painting.

The inner peace he felt when his eyes saw the painting hanging on those cream-colored walls, among hundreds of other paintings from important figures of his era… was something he could never put into words. For the first time, his heart felt at ease—it did not beat, it did not pump blood, he knew that. And yet, for a second, Taehyung felt as if he had come back to life.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent around him. Despite the years, there was still a faint trace of you in it. And though it hurt to think that he would never again hold you in his arms, never again breathe in your scent, he felt happy.

Happy for you—because finally, one of your works bore your real name, because at last, people could see the incredible talent you had. This had been your dream, and somehow, he had made it come true for you.

He wondered if there was something after death, if there was truly a paradise in the afterlife. He knew that if such a place existed, you would undoubtedly be in heaven—in a paradise unlike any other, shining like the brightest star the world had ever seen. If that place was real, were you watching him from above?

What would you think of him right now? Would you be afraid of the fact that he was no longer human? Or of the fact that, in his first years as a vampire, he had taken the lives of many?

Would you still love him from that place so far away from him?

He prayed every day to a god he wasn’t sure existed, just to hold on to the hope that the answer was yes.

"How are things going over there?" Jiwon asked through the phone.

Taehyung’s feet carried him through the museum for the sixth time that afternoon. He still wasn’t in the mood to leave, and it’s not like anyone needed him at home at the moment. He would probably head to a nearby bar, have a glass of wine, and wander around the city until the sun rose again.

"Fine, I guess," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the paintings displayed in front of him. He had seen many of them online, but seeing them in person… it was definitely something completely different. Noticing the brushstrokes, the old traces of a brush over the oil paint, the colors, the size—everything was a new experience. It was like meeting the same person a second time; the feeling and the first impression could never be the same if you only saw them through a screen.

"So expressive, Kim." Taehyung rolled his eyes at Jiwon’s mocking tone. He wasn’t in the mood to be expressive, and it’s not like he was obligated to be.

"Anyway, Jiah is pretty worried. You know how she is, especially when it comes to you."

Taehyung nodded in silence, even though he was aware she would never see the gesture. Jiah was… she was like a mother to their small family. She was the one who turned them, the one who took care of them and taught them how to maintain their composure, always patient and loving with everyone. Taehyung couldn’t recall a single time when she had ever raised her voice at any of them.

He had always known, just like the others, that she had a certain weakness for him, something he associated too much with the fact that she had witnessed him fall apart upon finding you lifeless that night. She was the one who worried about him, who paid to give you a proper funeral, who helped him get through his sleepless nights, and who showed him a completely new world. She was the mother Taehyung never had, and he was grateful every single day for everything she had done for him, despite all the trouble he had dragged her into.

"I’ll be back soon, I just… I just want to say goodbye properly."

He stopped again in front of the painting he had submitted. That small pang in his chest had returned and, although for a few seconds he regretted it, the weight lifted when he saw someone else stop in front of your artwork to take a photo. He had managed to immortalize your memory—that was all that mattered.

At last, he would no longer be the only one completely in love with your art.

There were a few seconds of silence in which neither of them seemed to know what to say. The stillness was broken by Jiwon's soft and—unusually—understanding voice.

"Are you really okay over there, alone? We’re all a bit worried about you."

Taehyung let out a soft chuckle, lowering his head to glance at his elegant brown oxford shoes. When he was still human, he had longed to wear a pair like these, and now that he could afford them, half of his wardrobe revolved around them. You would probably be just as enamored with them as he was.

"I’ll be fine, Jiwon. It’s just a few days, it’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing."

He made his way toward the museum exit, but not before giving the painting one last look. This would be the last time he saw it—this was the final farewell. He sighed, running his tongue over his dry lips.

"Besides… I need to do this alone."

"Alright, okay, I get it. It’s your healing process and all that cheesy crap you love." Jiwon let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Even miles away, Taehyung could feel the worry in her voice. A part of him was touched by it. It was nice to see that, despite everything, she still cared for him.

"Just… call us if anything happens, okay? Jimin is about to lose his mind."

"Jimin is always about to lose his mind," he chuckled under his breath, politely nodding to the guards watching the entrance.

The first thing he saw upon stepping outside was the sky, painted in pastel hues, with a faint trace of stars beginning to emerge, preparing to turn it into a beautiful nocturnal canvas with the moon as its protagonist.

"I’m going to hang up. I need to go somewhere else before heading back to my hotel."

"Alright, I get it, you’re bored of me." Even without seeing her, Taehyung knew she was smiling on the other end of the line.

"See you."

And with that, the call ended, leaving him alone with his own thoughts once again.

He wished that becoming a vampire had meant his emotions—like his heart—simply stopped functioning. Life would be easier that way. Carrying the weight of his emotions would be… probably a little more bearable.

The soft sound of Taehyung’s footsteps echoed through the dark streets of Paris, faintly illuminated by the streetlights surrounding the small, quiet alley he had chosen to escape the bustling crowd—and, in turn, his own thoughts. He had stopped by the bar he had wanted to visit for so long, but after spending a couple of hours sitting at the counter, sipping a drink he could barely taste… it was dull not being able to savor it the way he once did.

He gazed up at the night sky stretching above him, noticing how the stars seemed much closer, as if they had gathered there just to shield his eyes, rather than simply existing as part of nature’s design.

Tomorrow, he would probably buy a ticket back to Korea, still debating whether to purchase a first-class seat or a regular one. Jiah had given him more than enough money to indulge in any luxury he desired, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. He had his own savings, and not just a small amount—old trinkets he once considered worthless centuries ago were now worth millions, a fortunate advantage for all of them.

A soft melody from a nearby radio pulled him from his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the old record store beside him, still open for some reason. It had a distinctly vintage, understated charm—exactly Taehyung’s style. He studied its exterior, noting the yellow sign with red lettering perched atop the roof, reading: Le cœur de la musique.

In the display window, several vinyl records from the ’70s and ’80s were neatly arranged, among them the famous Can’t Help Falling in Love with You by Elvis Presley, the very song now enveloping the alleyway with its gentle notes and romantic lyrics.

Taehyung truly loved that song. He closed his eyes, letting the music seep into more than just his ears—letting it settle into his body as well. With graceful movements, ones that seemed almost ingrained in him, Taehyung began swaying to the melody. He had been a great dancer in his youth. When you were both just children, you had asked him to be your dance partner so you could practice. The two of you had ended up falling completely in love with the warm, intimate feeling of it. Even when your bodies had grown cold, even when death gnawed at your bones and drained your souls, neither of you had ever stopped dancing.

His memories of you returned, vivid as always; he could almost feel the soft scent of your skin against his nose, the sensation of your hair brushing against his rough fingertips, your forehead resting gently on his shoulder, your breath against his chest. It was almost as if you were still there with him, dancing in the empty streets of Paris, in front of an old record store, your hearts swaying in perfect harmony beneath the stars.

His feet continued moving across the pavement until a soft click snapped him out of his trance.

Instantly, all of his senses sharpened. He halted his movements at once, scanning his surroundings for whoever had made that sound. He knew it was a camera. And he knew it hadn’t been close—if it had been, he would have smelled the person’s blood by now, wouldn’t he?

His dark eyes flickered with a brief glint of alertness as he surveyed the alley. That’s when he finally noticed her. At the far end of the alleyway, a young woman stood frozen in place, her face still partially hidden behind the camera lens aimed directly at him.

Before he could even think, his feet carried him forward, ready to demand why she had captured such a personal moment without his permission. But then, the delicate scent of strawberries and roses reached his nose. And right after—her blood.

Sweet. Addictive. More tempting than any other scent he had encountered in his 175 years of existence.

For a fleeting moment, Taehyung swore his heart beat again, just from the sheer intoxication of it. His gums began to itch as his fangs pressed against the inside of his lip, the thirst for blood growing exponentially with every step he took. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the overwhelming urge to feed suffocating him, clouding his mind.

Until she lowered the camera.

Until he saw your eyes.

Large. Bright. Filled with life, staring at him from the end of the alley.

His heart—still lifeless, still incapable of pumping blood—felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. And though he had no need to breathe, he swore the air caught in his lungs.

Did that make sense? Of course not, but you—standing right there, smiling at him as if you hadn’t died in his arms over 170 years ago—didn’t make sense either.

And yet, there you were.

The same eyes. The same lips. Your hair was different, yes, but everything else… everything else was exactly as he remembered. Exactly the same as the day death had stolen you from him.

Was this some kind of punishment? Retribution for the countless lives he had taken in his early years as a vampire?

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!” you blurted out the moment you noticed the man standing just a few feet away from you. A soft, warm blush quickly spread across your cheeks—not only from the embarrassment of being caught photographing a complete stranger without permission but also because that very stranger, the one now standing before you, was breathtakingly handsome. And now he was looking directly at you, so intensely that you could feel his gaze burning into your skin.

“I-It’s just that I was on my way back to my hotel, and I saw you dancing alone. You had this melancholic expression that was just so captivating from here and… I’m sorry, that’s no excuse for what I did, I’ll delete the photo right away!”

As you fumbled over your apology, nervously gripping your camera once again, Taehyung took the opportunity to examine you—every detail of your face. You had the same beauty mark beneath your left eye. The same faint scar between your index and middle fingers. Even your voice—one he remembered as if it were his own—was exactly the same.

Your clumsy way of speaking.

The pink flush on your cheeks.

Your long eyelashes.

There was no doubt in his mind. The young woman standing before him was you.

“I…” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “What’s your name?”

He watched as your eyes lifted to meet his. He couldn’t help but notice how your lips parted slightly at the unexpected question.

Ah.

He still remembered the way your lips moved against his—soft yet intoxicating, slow yet sensual, always keeping him on edge. He remembered the way you used to smile whenever he playfully nibbled on your lower lip.

He missed it.

He missed you.

“Oh! S-Sorry, how rude of me,” you chuckled nervously, carefully lowering your camera so that it hung freely around your neck. The strap dug slightly into your exposed skin, but it was the safest way to carry it without accidentally dropping it. “I’m Y/N. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Y/N,” he murmured, savoring every letter of your name.

He knew it. He knew it. It was impossible for you to be anyone else.

His eyes began to sting as the reality of what was happening finally settled in.

After 175 miserable years—

You had come back to him.

Looking exactly as you had the last time he saw you.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said softly, reaching out to take your hand in his own, gently, fearful that the moment his fingers brushed against your skin, you would disappear.

But you didn’t.

You were still there when his lips pressed lightly against your knuckles, inhaling your scent as discreetly as possible.

So this is how you smelled when you were full of life.

Without an illness slowly stealing you away. Your blood had the sweetest scent he had ever known, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes at the steady, rhythmic beat of your heart echoing in his ears, proof that you were alive, proof that you were here.

Taehyung had never believed in God, but now, with you standing before him— he could only describe this as a miracle.

Masterlist.

[werecreature-addicted]

Imagine an alliance between 2 tribes, the werewolves and the humans, lately there have been many disputes and grudges between the two tribes, so they planned an alliance, a marriage, the daughter of the leader of the humans should marry the leader of the opposing tribe, a young werewolf with the desire to start a beautiful family

He coughs trying to calm his heart as he imagines the great difference in size between the two and the good sex they would have COF COF

You were ready to do whatever it took to keep your people safe, and if marrying the Alpha of the werewolves to keep the peace, so be it. Really this was a good thing, it would double the land your people had access to, double the resources and riches, not to mention werewolves had proven to be formidable adversaries, and they were sure to make invaluable allies. so why were you shaking? why were you so scared? this was clearly the right thing to do for you and the people you served.

You supposed the fear was natural. you'd spent almost all of your adult life fighting these monsters. almost dying to their sharp claws and vicious teeth. it would probably be a while before you stopped seeing all werewolves as a monolithic enemy. Although, you already knew all werewolves weren't bad. When you were a child you would sneak away into the woods and play with a werewolf pup around your age. Now looking back you cringe thinking about how dangerous that was, no doubt one of you would have been killed if either of you had been caught. Still, he'd been sweet, if one werewolf child could be kind, couldn't they all be?

Your wedding was hardly even a ceremony. Guards on both sides lined the walls of the office, fully armed and tense, ready to strike if something should go wrong. you smiled tensely at your husband-to-be as you signed the paperwork officially making you a married couple, he did not smile back. The marriage license meant almost nothing to him, werewolves sealed their romantic ties in a different way.

Every human in the room goes stiff as the werewolf alpha tilts your head to the side, cupping your jaw with one hand and pulling the collar of your shirt to the side with the other. your heart races and you try to be pliant in his hands, but your mind is flooded with your memories from battle. how many times have you been bitten by a werewolf? how many times had you felt the searing pain of their bear trap-like jaws clamping down on you, crushing your armor, and tearing your skin? he bites you just as you start hyperventilating. You scream. he's killing you, he's going to rip your throat out this was all a trap, you're going to die.

He lets go of you and you collapse, your legs shaking too badly to keep you up, The werewolf pulls you back into your arms, licking at the wound he just left, you struggle, still panicked. "sorry, I know it hurt, humans are so weak," he murmurs still licking at your neck. it does soothe the pain, slowly you start to relax too. you hadn't died, he hadn't betrayed you. you were bound together now, Mated as they called it.

You put yourself together again in time for the celebratory banquette. you were a warrior and a leader, you had to be stronger than this, or at the very least look stronger than this. You stood statuesque next to your new husband at the head of the table, humans and werewolves alike cheered in joy, the war was over, the tribes united. People ate and talked merrily, although no one seemed brave enough to cross the invisible boundary line, werewolves ate with werewolves, humans with humans.

there was a lavish meal set in front of you but you didn't feel up to eating, instead, you examine your reflection in the back of a spoon, despite the wound only being a few hours old it's already scared over looking months old. You knew werewolves had some healing properties, you were surprised this magic could be transferred to humans.

"Does it hurt?" you jump at the rough voice, you'd almost forgotten your husband was right beside you.

"no. I'm just surprised that it doesn't," you admit. he reaches over and lays his clawed hand on top of yours comfortingly.

"I'm sorry it scared you," he says and you feel your face go hot you were embarrassed at your reaction. you knew he was going to bite you as a way to mark your union, you should have been better prepared. you look in his eyes, they're a strange yellow color, it's captivating, even if his expression is stoic his eyes are looking at you kindly. you remember again the werewolf boy you were friends with, and you wonder if he remembers you if he's even still alive. You hoped he was, you hoped you could see him again in this new life.

you blink, realizing you'd gotten lost in thought just staring at him. "I- It's alright I mean. I'll live," you stammer. He squeezes your hand reassuringly.

"Of course, you're so tough a single bite wouldn't be enough to take down my mate," he's teasing you you realize, it makes you smile a little. this wouldn't be so bad after all.

[pearlywritings]

Surprisingly

synopsis: for the public eye, the head of the Oak Family and his wife are a loving couple. In private they are astonishingly content with each other too.

pairing: Sunday x fem!reader

tw: fluff, arranged marriage, reader is halovian, established some time before the game quest on Penacony.

word count: 2.8k+ words

Nothing supports the man’s prestige and public image more than a proper marriage with a proper woman. So, I want you to meet this very woman, my child…

Two months, fifteen days and one hour. That’s exactly how long ago Sunday became a husband. A role he didn’t imagine himself playing, not with the role assigned to him from above. But, it was Gopher Wood - his adoptive parent basically, who brought you to him and announced his grand plan. And even if the head of the Oak Family had his doubts initially, a thorough conversation held with and without the Dreammaster, plus your immaculate background and some more specific matters proved to him that you were indeed chosen rightfully. He wasn’t sure if it was Mr Wood’s way of helping him, offering you as an aid at handling some of the work-related matters but with the seemingly perfect image of being wed - the elder gave no answers, however Sunday knew better than to question some of his schemes.

And so, your union was sealed. The ceremony wasn’t something exceptionally huge, none of you wanted that, but it was public enough for everyone and their mother to be talking about it. A couple of perfectly sterile interviews, some joint photos and three or four public appearances together, and people have been fooled enough to believe that.

That was enough.

Something as shocking as a wedding would avert the public eye and serve a great purpose in deceiving the people. After all, newlyweds are far too busy for one of them to be plotting something, right?

Right. So right, that Sunday himself was in a somewhat daze for the first week. But it’s understandable - on top of his regular responsibilities he had to prepare for the wedding and get to know the person he was about to spend life with better. Surprisingly, you turned out to be very understanding and supporting from day one, actively participating in whatever additional activity served on the man’s plate. It was weird, new and confusing, but above all he caught himself considering it not unwelcome.

You are astonishingly easy to work with. Well-versed in the matters of Family (but he shouldn't be all too surprised, given who brought you to him), soft, yet - when needed - firm spoken, not afraid to face the crowd in your husband's place for a public announcement and taking a portion of his responsibilities without any questions asked. If not for your interactions outside of all of that, Sunday would've thought you were his secretary and not a wife (but even a secretary wouldn't have known as much as you are aware of).

You are…comfortable. Sunday should really reproach himself for giving in so quickly, but it’s so hard not to. Maybe his vigilance is lulled with security of his patron’s choice or maybe it’s his own longing for normal civil interaction with someone close, but it didn’t take much time to start entertaining your sparks of curiosity.

Oh, how curious you are. Despite being trapped in a loveless marriage, you’ve been willing to learn about him from day one, trying to unfurl at least one tiny secret of his every day. He knows that because you are methodical, because you write it down (and you don’t hide the fact - when he, alarmed, asked or rather demanded you to show him that little notepad of yours, you just did so, with an explanation of your reasoning.)

Speaking of getting to know each other better… It’s still half an hour before your recently established tea time, but… But maybe he could summon you earlier? 

I hope, my child, this woman will become your reprieve. You are not obligated to love her, see her as just a companion, but feel free to treat her as a continuation of yourself. I educated her to match you specifically, after all.

As a continuation of himself… Isn’t it cruel to speak such things of a sentient being? Isn’t it putting one into the position of submission? 

Somehow it feels bitter on the tongue when he thinks of you.

His hand reaches for the bell, but promptly stops before the fingertips can touch the polished metal. Ah, of course, he asked to not be disturbed today. So, let him not violate his own order. He can find you on his own, not to mention, a small walk around the building might help clearing up his mind. Lately, he’s been thinking too much.

Spacious halls of the Dewlight Pavilion are empty, he knows as much, yet he hopes he won’t have to roam for too long, as the gloved hands push the doors of the meeting room. Today you two decided to work from the main Family residence in need of some materials here, and since no congregations were scheduled for the day, the building was all yours.

Each step of his is muffled by the carpet, lining the exactly 39 stairs, every next one lifting some of the weight from his shoulders and smoothing the deep frown of light gray brows. When his heels click on the small podium with the additional three steps, Sunday feels like his head is cleared. 

Stepping on the carpet again, he finally ends up in the big hall with the 5 Lineages symbols and a big City Sandpit in the middle. Quickly fishing his phone out of the pocket, he swiftly unlocks the screen and finds your name in the recent calls, dialing it.

When did it happen that conversations with you outnumbered ones with his sister?

You pick up the phone after just two seconds.

“Hello? What is it, Sunday?”

Ah, straight to the point, he admires that. And the calmness of your tone is surprisingly grounding.

“I was wondering if you’d join me earlier,” he speaks softly, barely holding off from calling you ‘dear’. It’s not wrong for the spouses, but how would you react? He asks strange questions lately. “Tell me where you are, I’ll come fetch you.”

“To answer your first question, I’d love to,” the young man might lie to himself, but he swears he heard your voice sweeten just a little. It makes the little wings behind his ears flutter, which he is quick to still. “As for your second one, however, you might want to look down.”

Sunday follows your instruction without much thought, looking right at the red carpet covering the marble floor.

“...I don’t believe I understand.”

He hears you chuckle, a tinkling sound, lacking any malice. His left wing slightly jerks as the favorable noise fills his left ear through the phone.

“The City Sandpit, beautiful. I am not far from the origami birds’ nest.”

As he moves to round the table, your husband’s heart skips a beat. You called him beautiful, you have done so on multiple occasions already. You praised his intellect, you gently clapped for the perfect choice of the clothes for the day he made, you agreed with him on the most mundane things incorporated into your daily lives. And not once it felt forced or fake. You were surprisingly sincere with him - he would’ve thought that with the Dreammaster’s upbringing you’d have been all mastered flashy smiles and sickly sweet polished words.

But here you’ve been, admiring him in your own quite blunt kind of way.

He immediately spots your tiny figure among the fake buildings on the city’s layout. You are waving at him with a smile.

“Found me,” he hears again in the speaker, but now also from you as well.

“Found you,” Sunday echoes, reaching his free hand to you. When he curls his fingers, you understand and, clutching the strap of the bag hanging from your shoulder, carefully climb onto his open palm.

Your husband is careful, finishing the call and putting the phone aside, before cupping the other hand under the one holding your sitting figure. Bringing you closer to his eyes he can see all the little details on the pretty pale blue dress you left home in this morning, with your second pair of clipped wings wrapped around the waist like another skirt. Then his gaze skims along your neck, adorned in one of the pendants he gifted you and then up to the first pair of wings, bigger than his when you are your normal size. 

He doesn’t have an opportunity to marvel over your intricate halo, because your eyes capture his in a vice, looking at him inquiringly.

“Didn’t expect you to take a break earlier. I thought you liked to stick to your routine.”

This was probably the first thing you learned about your back then betrothed.

“I do,” a tiny smile adorns his pale lips, “however, today I managed to wrap the most attention-requiring matters up earlier. Now only the mundane cases are left.”

“Good to hear that,” you hum, swinging your stocking-clad legs a little. His golden eyes look over your form once more, capturing the image of surprising comfortability in the hands of a bigger being, one that could crash your body so easily at the moment.

“I do wonder however about the reason behind your current predicament,” the male tilts his head in an inquiring way. “I believe I’ve never seen you enter the City Sandpit.”

Well, not to count the very first time he was giving you a tour.

“Oh, as I said, I know your routine, so I usually leave it before our meetings. I actually enter it quite often when we stay here,” is your answer that makes Sunday’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Pardon?”

“It’s easier to do paperwork this way,” motioning to the bag still on your shoulder, you then huff in annoyance. “If only you knew how eager your subordinates to bother me whenever you are unavailable. I am well-informed of my seeming position as the “lady-of-the-house”, but I’ve never signed up to be a link element between you and them, let alone a pawn in someone’s game of becoming first to seek your favor. Pardon me for my straightforwardness, but I much prefer interactions without actual feedback from the interlocutor if the situation doesn’t require otherwise. Except for you, of course.”

Except for him.

“You are my equal. You can always order them not to bother you,” drawing his hands closer to the chest, Sunday turns and starts walking closer to the table’s side where the gates are located.

“As if,” he glances down and catches just the end of your eye roll. “Mister Wood would have had my head if I ruined your picture as little as being distant from your inner circle. I’d much rather prefer just to hide away when needed and return to my secondary duties once I’m done with the primary.”

With the Dreammaker’s upbringing you would think a person can’t be as open-minded. Sunday is sure that it was no different from his - after all you have the clipped wings to match his. But, it seems, you found a way to temporarily escape from the suffocating clutches. Today he learnt a new thing about you, and, surprisingly it warms his soul instead of feeling repulsed.

He carefully puts you down just in front of the gates from the city’s side. Almost knocking off  a little ”DO NOT TOUCH” card near it, your husband moves to the right to let you step out. And in a couple of seconds of blinding light you stand before him in all your tall glory.

“Thank you for making the trip across the city so much shorter,” you grin, shaking the bag’s strap down your shoulder and rolling it, before unwrapping the wings from around your waist and spreading them in a stretch.

“It was my pleasure,” his tone is even, yet the gaze with which he watches you move gives him out. To this day and probably for a long while the levels of intimacy that used to be unknown to him yet which you display are going to surprise him. Sunday almost feels an annoying twinge of upsetness when you rewrap your wings around the dress’s skirt. Though it lets him see a couple of ruffled feathers and he has to suppress the urge of his hand to reach and fix them for you.

Yes, there is some intimacy between you lately, but not close enough.

“If you give me a moment to drop off my papers, I’ll be swift in joining you,” your voice breaks the man out of his self-restraining thoughts, and he lifts his eyes from your waist back to your face.

“Ah, it won’t be necessary. I’d like to have our tea time back at the meeting room, I have some things to discuss with you.”

“So official,” you smile, taking a step to join his side. “Alright then, let us be on our way up. Would you like to fill me in on the agenda of our ‘meeting’?”

“Sure,” Sunday chooses to ignore your teasing, but habitually offers you his elbow to hook your arm in it. “My sister is going to visit soon and she seems to be quite pissed at me.”

“Miss Robin?” Your question is laced with puzzlement. “I assumed from your stories of her that she is hardly in a sour mood.”

“It is true, yes,” your husband sighs, leading you up the first set of stairs. “But I would’ve been mad too if my sibling had gotten married and I did not know a thing.”

“She does not know about us?”

The man nearly halts in his ascending. If he didn’t know better and where your thoughts and loyalties stood in this marriage, he would’ve believed you are offended that he kept such an important fact a secret from his only family member. Nevertheless, he continues his walking.

“I sent her an invitation, you know that. But it seems the planet she’s been on is pretty far away and she’s gotten my message only recently, on her way back. I loathe to admit it, but now I feel very bad and the situation itself is iunjust. I am aware we were in a rush, all because of the- you know why,” he sees you nod from the corner of his eye and feels your fingers carefully dig into his arm, “but Robin has always wanted to be a maid of honor at my wedding. And I ripped this opportunity from her.”

And I am not going to get married the second time. This he did not voice out loud.

For a moment you both fall silent. You get lost in thought, Sunday does so too, analyzing his own words, wondering if this speech of his was too personal, if it was painting him as weak in your eyes.

And his own.

You speak only when he reaches for the knob and twists in to swing the door open and lead you two inside.

“So, how much time do we have before she gets here?”

“Maybe a couple of days,” he breaks the lock of your arms and gets a hold on the strap, sliding the bag down your shoulder and turning to put it aside for the time being. “Why asking?”

“You are a good brother, I can see that, “ ah, here you are, praising him again. “And it’s obvious you care for your sister and wish to give her the world. I suggest organizing a small party for her. This way she could experience what she missed and get familiar enough with me. I can negotiate with Mister Wood, I am sure I can convince him - he has some sort of a soft spot for you, Sunday.”

Surprisingly, it twists something uncomfortable in the halovian’s stomach.

“It sounds… delightful. However, are you certain you’d like to go to such lengths for Robin?”

“Well, she is your sister,” you chose the table farthest from the one your husband has been working at and grab the back of the chair to move it so you could sit, “and I am your wife. I’d love her to believe in us too. If I am not overstepping, of course.”

That’s actually not a bad idea. If almost four months ago someone - even you - suggested he let his sister and future wife meet, he’d be hesitant. He knows his little sister, he knows how perceptive she is - he is not so sure he wouldn’t have cracked under her inquisitive questions about whether he was happy with the arrangement or not. Plus leaving her sad and aching for brother if he let her know of the unjustness of the situation and still chose to proceed with the wedding is just too much for him.

Now he, at least, will not be lying that he is content if being asked.

“I accept your offer and thank you profusely for it,” Sunday slightly bows his head, to which you shake yours, reaching your hand out to beckon him to join you.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ll have time to thank me later, once we’ve already done something, alright?”

Surprisingly… It is indeed alright.

[lunar-wandering]

Personally, I think the reason for that is because Macaque has actually shown up again after being killed, but before episode 9.

Especially since there's no surprise from Wukong at all- he instantly knows who it is when he sees the symbol on MK's back, but he, for some reason, doesn't actually interfere until Macaque takes MK's powers (and it's kinda implied that he'd been watching, why else would his first sentence be "Enough"? I personally like to hc that it was Wukong giving Macaque a brief benefit of the doubt, but y'know.)

Some of this could just be because all the details about Macaque and Wukong's past weren't entirely planned out at that point, but still.

To be honest, as interested as I am in seeing the fight that took Macaque's life, I am also interested, if not more so, in seeing what their actual first meeting post-Macaque's death was like.

Not sure if I’m over-analyzing but

I jut realized that while SWK expresses genuine surprise that Azure Lion is there in front of him, openly saying “I [killed you] myself, how are you here?”… he never expresses such a thing with Macaque.

Sure, it did take him a few episodes to go “Hey wait a sec” with Azure, but it literally is never brought up with Macaque… There’s only anger and taunting.

….seriously, what actually happened, and did he actually kill him or not?

[mokulule]

Almanac - Chapter 2

So ya'll have given me some amazing and lovely comments on A Man has Needs (which I'm delighted was so well-received), and I had a really shitty day so I wanted to upload something. Sadly don't have energy to write, but this was already done so here ya go. Ship: Dead on Main First | Masterlist

Chapter 2 - September 25th, Uranus at Opposition

Jason awoke slowly. He felt groggy and worn like he’d gone a round with Bane and, now that he thought about it, maybe also Black Canary; his ears of all things hurt for some reason. Groaning he pushed himself up, taking in the green and black bedspread… this wasn’t his bed. He looked around; bare stone walls with a strange almost purplish tint - no windows he could leave out of.

What happened yesterday? There had been something… an emergency? Shit. He rubbed his brow hoping against hope to relieve the sharp headache there. What kind of truck hit him? Come on brain, work.

Bruce.

Bruce had called him. He breathed slowly through his nose. Urgh, his brain was like a tangled ball of yarn that had been left to the mercies of a cat. Slowly he picked at the treads, trying to untangle them. Dick had been there, and Tim and Damian. And Superman? Why was Jason on a league mission? Jason wouldn’t have joined them unless the world was-

Oh, the world had been ending.

There was an invasion and John bloody Constantine and a ritual- and Jason was a small bit of supernatural insurance but that didn’t matter because-

Because!

His head throbbed sharply and he curled up on the bed with a whimper. Shit. Why? Okay, no remembering right now. He slowly unfolded and squinted at the room, there were two doors. One by the head side of the bed, which seemed the least likely to lead outside and one opposite. He confirmed the first door to be a bathroom, which left the other to lead- He opened the door into a windowless hallway. Looking left and right he didn’t see an end either way.

The hallways had the same purple tinted stone walls as the room. It was lit by green torches, but somehow they didn’t cast green light. Instead the light that hit Jason was more blueish. He decided not to think about that and moved on.

He walked hallway after hallway. The only change was the tapestries. Since they were the only thing that changed he couldn’t help but look at them. There was a man, large and armored with a flaming crown and his hand raised with something shining from it. Jason went down some stairs and another hallway had a tapestry with the same character directing an army of skeletons and other creatures fleeing from them. This theme continued through many hallways. World upon world, the king and his army conquering all on a backdrop of Lazarus green. Then finally something changed, seven robed figures stood over the fallen king.

Jason then stood in front of a winding stairwell: Up or down?

He looked down; there was something down there…

Dazed, he took a step down, before he shook his head and walked up. He had to get out. Walking down in a building he didn’t know what floor he was on was just asking to be trapped in some sort of basement, and he’d already walked down one staircase already, when the only other option had been to backtrack.

A sarcophagus was opened and the King released. In the next hallway someone in a black and white mech suit was fighting the king and Jason blinked at the sudden genre shift. He hadn’t expected that from the tapestry story.

The next one had several people pushing the sarcophagus closed again presumably to seal the king, but one figure especially niggled at Jason’s brain - the small one, the black and white one. He was familiar. He walked faster, urgency pressing him to find the next tapestry, he rounded a corner and there!

There were two tapestries on either side of a door. The first tapestry had a purple robed figure crowning a kneeling black and white figure in front of a crowd. Several were recognizable from the previous tapestry. But Jason didn’t look at that picture long he was drawn to the last tapestry; the one who only showed the new king:

Human skin tone, compared to all the light greens and blues. Snow white hair. Crown hovering over his head, and on the index finger on his right hand where it was folded over his chest was a green ring with a skull crest. The backdrop was a nebula of colors and only on the edges were the Lazarus green. The king’s eyes were closed, but Jason knew they were green.

He knew.

And as a key turning in a lock Jason remembered. He bent over holding his head with a groan. The invasion. The ghost king. His sacrifice, which apparently meant he was to do nothing for the rest of his life. Screw that! What was the ghost king gonna do? Un-save the world? Jason didn’t think so. He needed to get out. He very carefully avoided thinking of the risk of his brains melting out his ears if he angered the king again.

The door. Jason’s eyes snapped to it. It looked completely innocuous. He had been lead here for a reason. Fight or flight? Fight his body screamed at him. His chest rose and fell, his heart picked up speed in anticipation and he reached for the brass handle. His hand closed around it, it was cold and solid in his grip. He exhaled slowly out his nose counting down.

3

2

1

He burst into the room, hands on hidden knives, ready for anything! Then he froze.

This was the room he woke up in. There was that rumpled spot on the bedsheets from where he’d slept. He grabbed his head, there had been no tapestries in the hall he stepped out in, he was sure. No he was not gonna let this get to him he had to find a way out. He stepped out into the hallway through the still open door; the tapestries were gone.

He walked the opposite direction this time, but only five turns in he stood in front of the open door again. Shaking his head he kept walking, there had to be a way out. There were less tapestries now, but every now and then there’d be a tapestry of the King sans crown fighting someone. It seemed to be some of the more prominent people that had been at the coronation and then there were some others; a large plant creature, a person that looked part tornado, someone who looked like the night sky itself.

The message was clear: give up. See all the ones who has been defeated. What do you think, you can do?

Jason punched the wall next to the most recent tapestry.

“Let me out, you bastard!” he snarled.

Predictably there was no answer, but a small part of Jason had still hoped something would happen. His shoulders dropped.

A familiar door materialized in the corner of his eyes. He turned his head to better see and yup, that was the door alright. He sighed.

“Fuck you.” But Jason was tired. He didn’t know how long he’d walked the hallways. He opened the door and walked the few steps that took him to the bed collapsing on top of it, in the spot he’d made earlier. He couldn’t be bothered to go under the covers.

Oo o oO

They say doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result is a sign of insanity. Tim would probably argue something about scientific methods and statistics in return, but Tim wasn’t here, just Jason.

So here’s what Jason knew:

He’d sacrificed his life to the Ghost King to save the world. The Ghost King had no interest in Jason and had just dropped him in a never used room like one of those gifts you really don’t want but can’t refuse. Oh, and the castle was magical and delighted in showing him right back to his room every time he left it.

Leaving the room was pointless. Jason knew it was pointless. But Jason couldn’t just stay in this room, hence the repeated insanity, but at least out in the hallways some things changed, even if he always ended up where he started.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He’d lost count of how many times he’d slept. It was pointless anyway, he didn’t know if he could even count sleeps as days anyway. He was locked in a battle of wills with a fucking castle.

“For a magical castle, you’re boring, you know that?” He spoke to the ceiling. It didn’t even have any enchanted furniture or household items to talk with.

Jason wasn’t sure quite when he’d started feeling hungry, only that it shouldn’t have taken that long. Water came out of the tap in the bathroom, so at least he wasn’t thirsting. After the hunger came the lethargy. He was sleeping more and his forays out into the hallways were shorter.

The world was a hefty price to pay and maybe Jason’s suffering was just a part of his toll, but Jason would have taken being a servant or slave over this. At least then he’d have something to do. There’d be a focus, something to fight. He wouldn’t just lie here with nothing better to do but insult the walls.

next

-

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[system-to-the-madness]

A Warm Welcome - Dazai Osamu x Reader

Pairing: Dazai Osamu x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: fluff Word Count: 2 493 Warnings: Dazai level of suicidal thoughts, food Summary: Dazai comes home to a warm flat and a homecooked meal A/N: For those who don’t know: kotatsu are those Japanese tables with a heater and a blanket

Dazai Osamu had gotten used to coming home to cold and dark apartment and no one to welcome him. Not that he had ever made the experience of coming home to a brightly lit up and cozy apartment with a warm welcome. Really, he usually was only glad to have a home to come back to in the first place.

Now that he was standing outside his front door, key in hand, eying the slither of orange light that crept through the gap between door and floor, he wondered who had broken into his apartment and turned on the light. He knew that he hadn't forgotten to turn it off. In the morning, when he had woken up, it had already been light outside and at night he barely ever turned it on to begin with, preferring to make his way around in the dark.

So, who was in his flat now? Had one of his enemies found him and was waiting inside to kill him? Honestly, after the day he had had, Dazai would gladly show his murderer-to-be where he kept the kitchen knives, should the other have been forgetful enough to not have brought a weapon.

But what would you say? Would you be sad if he died? Or would you be mad at him, for walking into such an obvious trap? Why did he even care about what you would think? You were his co-worker, nothing more.

Well, his co-worker, who he had been enamoured with from day one, who he had never treated with anything but utter respect, in whose presence he kept his suicide-talk to a minimum, because he had once seen how it upset you. And you were the only co-worker whom he had told about Oda, the only co-worker, who had ever gotten him anything for Valentine's Day.

It had been a cute, light pink box with a heart on it, and handmade chocolates inside. You hadn't signed your name, only a card with the word "Enjoy!" but he knew your handwriting well enough to know the box had been from you; he didn't need Ranpo to figure that one out. And you hadn't told him they were just friendship-chocolates either, which meant they had been the real deal. Valentine's Day had only been last week, so he hadn't yet had the chance to gift you a bag of chocolates back, and he wasn't sure about how to go about it either. He wanted to be so much more to you than just a colleague, but he could hardly ask you out out of nowhere, could he?  Well, not that any of this mattered anymore, with his sealed fate waiting behind the unlocked door of his flat.

He sighed. Of course it would never work out between you and him anyway, you were too perfect for a suicidal maniac like him either way. So, he twisted the doorknob and let himself into his flat.

"I'm home," he announced loudly to his intruder, before he even realized that his flat smelled deliciously of food, or that there was soft music playing from the kitchen. What kind of assassin would put on a soundtrack to commit his crime? Oh no, he was going to get murdered by an absolute nutcase, wasn't he?

"Welcome back!"

Dazai startled at the sound of your voice. Why were you here? You were in danger with the assassin around, weren’t you? Or were you the assassin? What had he done to upset you enough to warrant you wanting to kill him? Apart from his everyday behaviour that was. Had you expected an answer to the Valentine’s Day chocolates earlier?

“You’re just in time for dinner! I made curry,” you let him know, poking your head into the short hallway with a grin before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Diner? Curry?

You weren’t here to kill him? What an unexpected turn of events…

Confused, Dazai toed his shoes off in the genkan and slipped past the door into the living area. You had set up two bowls, two sets of chopsticks, spoons and cups on the kotatsu in the area Dazai usually used as his living room. You had even plugged it in already. Dazai couldn’t remember the last time he had used this thing. It had come as part of the flat, but usually Dazai ate in a café, restaurant, or the convenience store, and even when he ate at home, he never had plugged in the kotatsu. It always gave him the feeling that the soft blanket keeping the heat trapped under the table would cause a comfort he didn’t know how to deal with.

Blinking a few times, trying to make sense of the situation, he turned towards the kitchen, where you were standing at the stove, stirring something in a big pot. It smelled delicious.

“I hope it’s okay I let myself in.” you spoke over your shoulder in Dazai’s direction. “Kunikida called and say you had a… well, a day, and I thought it would be nice if you got to eat something proper tonight.”

“Why Curry,” Dazai asked, ignoring his increasing irritation. Kunikida had called you to tell you to look after him? Did he even have time in his so tightly planned schedule for things like such a call? And how had he even noticed? Did this ideal-obsessed former math teacher actually have a heart after all?

“It’s the comfort food, isn’t it?”

Dazai got distracted by the beeping of an electrical appliance on the kitchen counter. A rice cooker? Dazai didn’t own a rice cooker (doubtlessly proof of how much he cooked on his own). Had you brought your own rice cooker just to cook for him?

“Is it,” he asked back, finally remembering to answer your rhetorical question.

“Well, I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t love curry on a cold winter evening.”

Right, cold. His flat wasn’t cold as it usually was when he came home. Instead, you had turned on the AC in the kitchen. Dazai wiggled his toes in the plain black socks he wore. He could actually feel his toes for once.

“I’ve never thought of it like that,” he admitted.

“If you have a different comfort food, I can try making that for you next time,” you offered.

Next time. Next time. He liked the ring of that.

“I don’t really have a comfort food,” Dazai mumbled, almost hoping you hadn’t heard him over the humming of the extractor fan. But of course you had, your movements stopping for a moment and Dazai could already hear you asking ‘Why not? What kind of food did your mother always make for you? That’s probably your comfort food’, but the question never came. Instead, you continued stirring for a moment before you replied.

“Then I’ll just make all kinds of different foods for you, until you’ve found a comfort food.”

Dazai swallowed hard and nodded, even though you couldn’t see him.

“Okay,” he agreed.

It was such a strange idea, such a weird concept, to come back to a home that was not dark, but instead lit up by the gentle light in the kitchen, to a flat that was not cold, but warmed by the AC that had been turned on, to a person welcoming him home, to warm food, the promise of a full stomach. Was that really what other people got to experience every day? This gentleness of someone else, directed only at him? How had he never thought about how nice something like that would be? How much more precious life would feel with someone who cared?

“I’ll- I’ll go take off my jacket…”

Quickly apologising himself from the kitchen, he disappeared into the bedroom. In one quick motion he slipped out of his coat, throwing it into the general direction of the wardrobe, and ran his hands through his hair while pacing up and down. What was going on with him? Why was it so important to him that he had come home to someone waiting for him? No, not someone, not anyone. You. Dazai exhaled with a small sigh, stopping in his tracks. The worrying, the overthinking had time for later, he decided, now all he had to do was enjoy the food you had made for him.

When he came back into the kitchen, you had just scooped some rice into the bowls that had been standing on the kotatsu. Taking a glance at Dazai, you giggled.

“Your hair is all messy,” you laughed, making him run his hands over his hair self-consciously. Oh dear, was he blushing? “How much curry do you want?”

Dazai stepped behind you to the stove, placing one of his hands at your waist, not missing the way your breath hitched. At least he wasn’t the only one out of their depth here. Glancing into the pot before you, he couldn’t help the way his mouth started watering. In a thick, brown sauce, that smelled deliciously of many different spices, he could make out pieces of onions, potatoes, and carrots.

“As much as possible,” he chuckled, brushing his nose against your hair, and pressing a quick kiss to the shell of your ear before he drew back.

Instead of an answer, he received a chuckle that warmed him even more than the warm air from the AC already did. Standing beside you, he waited until you had finished topping the rice with the curry, and handed him a bowl, before he followed you to the kotatsu and slipped in opposite you.

It seemed like he had been right in the assumption that you had turned it on, because his legs, up to where the blanket was pooling around his hips, immediately got engulfed in comfortable warmth. He didn’t even realise he was sighing until the gentle sound of your soft giggle reached his ears.

Blinking his eyes open, having closed them in bliss, he quickly sat up straight, grabbing the chopsticks you had laid out for him and folding his hands.

“Thank you for the meal,” he announced with a smile that was a bit too bright to be quite genuine. He wanted it to be genuine, but how could he ever bring across his gratitude for you taking care of him like this?

“Thank you for the meal,” you replied, and Dazai could feel your eyes on him as he picked up a piece of carrot, covered in the brown sauce.

As soon as the food touched his tongue, his throat closed up. Not in the way it would have if the food was disgusting. Quite the contrary really. The carrot had been boiled soft, the sauce added a rich, spicy flavour to the sweetness of the vegetable. It tasted like heaven. And it had been cooked by you for him. How could he ever find a way to express to you how much this meant to him? His nose was itching suspiciously with the burn of rising tears, but he willed them away, and instead focused on chewing and swallowing his first bite, the food immediately starting to warm up his stomach.

When he looked up from his bowl, he noticed you had also started eating, focusing on your food rather than on his reaction.

“I think, you don’t have to cook different foods each week for me to find my comfort food,” Dazai said, making you look back up at him. Quickly he scooped some more curry into his mouth.

“What do you mean,” you inquired, you head gently tilted to the side.

“I think, my comfort food is curry,” Dazai admitted, “as long as it’s made by you.”

His heart definitely skipped a beat it shouldn’t have skipped at the away you were smiling at him now.

“Is that your way of asking me to cook for you again?”

For a moment Dazai was tempted to answer the way he always would have. Something cocky, something that hid the way you had wormed yourself into his sad heart. But with the flavour of the curry you had made just for him, lingering on his tongue, with the warmth that spread from his stomach, he just couldn’t seem to pull on his usual mask.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, and Dazai felt you nudge your food against his knee under the kotatsu. “I’d be happy to cook for you again. Oh! We can make it a weekly date! Curry-Tuesday! How does that sound?”

Dazai nodded, quickly focusing back on his bowl, before you could see the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him and drag him under.

“A weekly date,” he asked instead.

“Yeah, I mean like- oh! Not like that, I mean like a-”

“Why not like that,” Dazai asked. “I think I’d like it better if it were like that.”

 “You mean, like-”

“Like you, letting me take you out on days when you’re not making curry, that is.”

For a moment you were quiet, quiet enough for Dazai to fear you could hear his loudly beating heart over the quiet humming of the AC.

“I still gotta make up for the Valentine’s chocolates you gave me, right,” he added.

“So… curry-cooking dates and other dates? That sounds like a lot of fun,” you finally answered, and Dazai couldn’t care to hide the sigh of relief that escaped his lips at your agreement, his heart settling down at least a little bit.

“It does, doesn’t it,” he laughed, finally looking up from his bowl again, meeting your eyes. Even in the rather plain light of his living room, your eyes glimmered brightly as if they were shining from within.

You nodded in agreement, biting your lower lip, before you broke into a giggle.

“What?” Dazai watched you both in confusion and amusement, as you flopped backwards against the floor.

“Just-,” you shrugged, before leaning back up on your elbows. “I’m just happy, ‘s all. Am I not allowed to be happy?”

Dazai stretched out his legs under the kotatsu, nudging his feet against yours and letting you intertwine them with one another.

“On the contrary, my love,” the nickname slipped over his lips without his permission, but he couldn’t be bothered to correct himself at the sight of how bashful you grew. “We’d have a problem though if you weren’t.”

You laughed again, covering your face with your hands as you sat up properly again and shook your head.

A/N: It’s Curry Tuesday, because is Japanese that’s an alliteration (curry = カレー - karee, Tuesday = 火曜日 - かようび – kayoubi), also: this is actual karee-kayoubi footage right here

Dazai kept his eyes on you a moment longer, trying to memorize your flustered and amused reaction before he dedicated his attention to the curry again. There was something so infinitely soft and comforting of coming home to finding you waiting for him. Sure, the food was nice, but it was only meaningful because you had made it for him. Because you had turned on the kotatsu and the AC to warm up the flat. Because you had welcomed him home.

Tags: @un-lawliet

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

How would you rank the characters living under Jack's reign in the bad future from who's having the "best" time vs who's having the worst? (excluding Jack himself obv he's having a good time lol)

6-Hannibal Roy Bean

Being stuck in this undersized, undignified cage and blown up to a size where you can't even move, and labeled as "The Musical Fruit" are all humiliating.

But Hannibal's been locked up for centuries before, so this is hardly going to break his spirit, especially Jack is mortal and getting very old, so it feels like the immortals in the dungeon have this mindset that they can sort of just wait it out.

Granted, Hannibal does look weirdly mishappen and... mushy? So I wonder what exactly Jack has done to his body to make him end up like this.

With how distended and full his lower body looks now, and with the suspicious absence of Hannibal's only companion, I sort of suspect that Jack somehow forcefed Ying-Ying to Hannibal...? But even if that's not the case, the absence of Ying-Ying is another form of torture for him, since that's the only other being who he truly likes.

5-Master Fung

Master Fung is as skilled and untouchable as ever. Moreso in fact, because he seems like he doesn't really get winded by battles anymore. His mind may have dulled somewhat, but his physical form and skill has sharpened with age during the time skip.

The gladiator shows they're forced to put on are miserable for everyone, but none of Jack's bots are able to even scratch Master Fung, and he beats them without a sweat.

He has an easier time against Jack's lion-bots than he did against the real jungle cats, who he also handily beat.

And Master Fung's confusion and memory problems seem to stave off despair, at least. Though he's still having an awful time here.

4-Wuya

Hers is mostly another humiliation thing, but unlike Hannibal's, Wuya's also has this visceral, creepy factor to it. Jack apparently forcibly changed her clothes and did up her hair in accordance to his own taste for cheerleaders, complete with pigtails and his initial.

In addition to that, she's also suspended over a pit of boiled lava. The rising heat from that is probably the physical torture, along with just how uncomfortable the chains are.

But the worst part for Wuya is probably that Jack has somehow stolen the powers that were sealed away from her and is in control of her stone golems now, to add insult to injury. That probably stings more than any aspect of this setup.

3-Le Mime

Also in this gladiatorial thing, but Le Mime's never really been shown to be able to fight and he can't even take a hit from his own scrawny arm. And since he's just cowering here, the lion bots apparently have some way of getting past his Miming, so he can't protect himself behind his invisible walls.

He's got nothing he can do but weather the humiliations and pain of these losing battles.

2- Chase Young

His torture devices is definitely the most intricate.

Water drop torture, stripped of his clothes (including his underwear because those boxers notably aren't Chase's), suspended in this metal contraption with a paintbrush spreading something over his abdomen.

Chase's is also the only torture device that is surrounded by bloodstains.

And he's in a dungeon with Wuya and Hannibal, the people who he'd least want to be trapped with. None of them are gagged, so they both could at least take as many pot-shots at Chase as they wanted to. Those two are better at getting under Chase skin than anyone else, and even though Chase probably shot insults back, it was 2-against-1 there.

And the first and only line we get from Chase implies that he's been on the edge of hope waiting to see Omi again after all this time with no word on his fate. Despite everything that's been happening, Omi's still been on his mind this whole time with no answers for 80 years.

So he had quite a bit of both physical and psychological torture to deal with.

1-The Monks

They have frequent gladiatorial matches and an awful living situation. Old age has definitely slowed them down, so their matches probably don't end without injury like Master Fung's do.

And they still never found out what happened to Omi and Dojo, after all this time. They're all mentally beating themselves up over that, and over the state of the world. They're crushed by this feeling that they've failed in their duty towards it, and they don't know if their friends are dead or alive.

And the end, minutes after they find their first spark of hope in decades, where they're all brutally murdered. They're extremely painful deaths, too. Clay is shot by lasers, Raimundo is crushed, Kimiko is pulled apart limb-from-limb.

Taking that into consideration definitely makes them number one on this list. Can't have a much worse time than that.

Honorable Mention: Omi

He was only there for a little bit, so I can't really rank him anywhere on the list. But watching all his friends be brutally murdered in front of him certainly left an impression.

And Omi's the only one who will have any impression of all this at all. Whether you think the space-time merging of the alternate timeline left ripples of memories in the others or not, this is just a bad future of the main timeline, so no one's actually experienced it. Omi's the only one who'll remember this nightmare. It's seared into his memory for good.

[littlemsshoney]

Hannibal obsessed with one of his patients

Hannibal Lecter × patient!reader

Warnings: unhealthy dynamics, obssesive relationship, slight stalking, Hannibal being emotionally manipulative, mental health issues (he caused)

At first you were just another patient, a potential pawn or a future extravagant dinner he would enjoy some Friday night. Another lost and troubled soul that was unfortunate enough to find him.

There was something about you that caught his eye. The way you talked, the way you carried yourself.

However his interest grew like a forest fire, a burning insatiable hunger consumed him more and more with each one of your sessions.

He started taking notes of every little detail of your life and with some research of his own he soon knew every aspect of your life. Where you live, where you work, who your friends are, which cafe you spend your Saturday morning everything in.

He knew that he should feel bad for crossing such a line between a therapist and a patient but he didn’t really. After all, it wasn't that hard. With your social media your life was practically an open book for everyone to read and enjoy and if he didn’t then he was sure someone else did.

Only the thought made him angry. It wasn’t about your safety but more about his hurt ego. He had his eye on you, no one else should change that and he should make it known.

Of course he had always been a fan of traditional courting so don’t be confused when you start bumping into him in the most random places at some point with the excuse of cheering you up even being invited to one of his glamorous dinner parties. All of those situations you tried to avoid and refuse gracefully, not because of being aware of his true intentions but rather because you knew there was a thin line you shouldn’t cross.

So you didn't leave him any other way. He truly wanted to be gentle and kind with you and treat you like the precious, vulnerable creature you were in his mind but you just won’t have it the easy way, will you?

The thought of being patient- one of the tarits he awlways took pride on- now felt like a real torture. He wanted to consume you whole. There was something about you that reflected some part of him, an unknown familiarity of your pain. He wanted to break you down, then pick up your parts and build you up. Then do it all over again.

Your sessions were heavy at least. Raw honesty from your part and emotional manipulation from his all to serve the creation of an intense bond, a codependent relationship.

Your wellbeing and mental health had turned into a chess game and the game was anything but fair. In less than two months your whole well being was hanging from a thread and only he could help you or tear you apart.

One can only imagine the sadistic pleasure he took from your vulnerability and pain. Comfortably he sat at his armchair watching as you fell apart in front of him each week feeling worse and worse. All he had to do was just watch and enjoy, proud of his creation.

In his free time he recalled how beautifully you cried, so broken and desperate for him to fix you but all he wanted was lick your tears and take you in. He imagined you being under him, crying - from pleasure - his name rolling off your tongue over and over again.

Soon he had you feeling as if the whole world had turned against you. You couldn’t even trust your own judgement, you had cut ties with most of your friends -Dr Lecter advised you that none of them were genuine-you had become more and more isolated, you felt like you’re turning paranoid.

And then the final act of his play

“I’m really sorry I didn’t know where else to go” and like clockwork you deliberately walked onto his trap, basically sealing your own fate. All he had to do now is hold his door wide open for you to come in.

And then checkmate. That eventful evening standing on the doorstep of the only person you thought truly cared about you. He let you in and like a wounded bird he took you into his arms with such generosity and kindness in contrast to everyone else in your life. The irony.

“It will all be alright”

You wrap your arms around him, holding onto him for dear life, holding onto the only person that seems to understand you and actually wants to help you. As you cry on his shoulder he rests his chin on your head and gently caresses your hair.

Despite your persistence to resist him you are finally giving in. He kisses the crown of your head and though you know it is wrong you let him. You would let him do anything to keep him and he knows it.

Frozen in place you close your eyes as he kisses your forehead, then your eyes and cheek. You know what comes next yet you do not pull away, you don't resist what’s inevitable. A second passes and he doesn’t move, you open your eyes to see him staring at your lips. Now you know you want it, you feel his hunger as your own and you’re starving for it.

Grabbing him by his expensive tie you kiss him, not gently as he did but with desperation and need to be seen and understood.

Pleased he lets you have control just this once for the rest of your time together. He knew you would soon come to realise it’s only him you ever needed.

[blueberri-blu]

Serious \|/

[rise] leo x reader (post movie)

Movie Spoilers!!

Angst to Fluff <3

Prompt 7: "I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you!" "And I'm trying to subtly avoid it!"

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Emotions were running high, to say the least.

Everyone was coping anyway they could

Donnie was locked away in his lab, tinkering with his tech in hopes of making it safer

Raph was cooped up in his room, refusing to come out, practicing anger management

And Mikey kept practicing and practicing his mystic magic.

Leo on the other hand? He kept on going as of his usual self.

Albeit, he was a bit more serious, but he was acting as if nothing had ever happened.

You thought maybe he just didn't want to talk about it so soon. But days turned to weeks, turned to months. And now it had been 7 months after the invasion, and he had yet to talk about it.

You asked all of his brothers if had opened up and talked to them, not needing to know the details, just wanting to see if he had been able to speak to someone about the traumatizing event. Yet, everyone said no.

Leo had his lips sealed... Other than his typical one liners and puns, that is.

You were determined to get him to talk, to anyone, really, it didn't have to be you! You just wanted the best for him, and suppressing his feelings just wasn't the way to do so.

You were going to trap him. No way for him to escape, no way for him to avoid you, nothing.

You promised Leo a romantic night out. A rooftop with fairy lights, blankets and pillows, his favorite foods and snacks, the whole works.

"A surprise you say, and what brought this on Mi amor?" "oh nothing, just thought I'd do something nice for you, mi rey" (mi rey = my king) oh he was putty in your hands, especially after that nickname. And so you two continued on with your day as normal.

Once evening rolled around, you texted Leo the address, and started your trip there.

Surprisingly, you were the first to arrive, meaning you could double check everything, just in case.

Poor Leo arrived and practically melted, the scene was so romantic, with New Yorks city lights making a beautiful background for your two's night out.

You ate dinner, had a dessert, and then just laid together under the fairy lights.

"Oh, mi vida (my life) you have truly outdone yourself, really, you've swept me off my feet." "I'm glad Leo, really, I know these last few months have been... Rough" "haha, right ... Ahem, anyway, that dinner was impeccable, mi amor, this whole date has been delicious, yet I still have room for more... *Wink* because I could just eat you up!" His fingers went to your sides, tickling you to the point of you not being able to breathe. The only sounds you could make, were wheezing.

"LEOOOOOO STO- HAHAHAHA- STOOOOOP" He only stopped when he noticed your face was too close to a blue hue.

"ok, ok, ok, my hands *jazz hands* are up, officer"

You sighed, "Leo... Look, you... You're great, really, and... I want you to know that, I love you, so so much, ok? And, all I want is the best for you!"

"I'd sure hope so, we are dating y'know"

"Leo... You know what I mean Mi Rey"

"Of course I do! This romantic gesture, your loving words, are you going to propose to me mi amor?"

"Leo..."

"I mean, I do believe we are young, but, he'll! I'd say yes!"

"LEO!"

"Mi Vida!"

"I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you!"

"And I'm trying to subtly avoid it!"

...

You stared at each other. And that's when you saw it. The fear. Leo was scared, you could see it in his eyes, it swirled around, grabbing him, choking him. He quickly looked away, feeling the lump in his throat grow bigger and bigger

"Leo... I know it's hard to talk about but... You can't keep it bottled up, it will only make things worse, mi rey" "... I know but..." He looked back up at you.

You could tell he was struggling, so you took hold of his hand, and started rubbing hearts in his palm. "It's ok, Leo, take your time" you said softly.

Your voice always calmed him. You were kind, and calm, a grand contrast to his... Grand and expressive personality. He loved it.

"y/n, I- my brother's, they're all- they're all struggling and I- I just wanted to-" he broke into a sob. You hugged him, tightly, allowing him to melt into you.

You took deep breaths, knowing Leo would mimic your breathing.

As he calmed down a bit, he continued "all go my brother's, they're all, they're all struggling so much, and I- all I want to do is- is cheer them up y'know? I- I wanna be their rock, I wanna be your rock too" you sighed, hugging him tighter "Leo, as much as we all appreciate the sense of normalcy you've given, that's, that's not the way to do so. What your brothers and I want is to bond over this big traumatic event we've all faced, together. You don't have to talk to me about it, it could be anyone, so long as you're not keeping it to yourself, mi vida"

It was Leo's turn to sigh. He turned, looking into your eyes, they were a bit red from his crying, and a bit puffy, but he seemed... Relieved.

He then buried his face in your chest, and continued

He talked and talked, about his fears, his regrets, how he wished he could've done more, how he was so scared, how he tried his best, and still almost failed

You and Leo were there all night. Until the sun came up, waking you both. He seemed... Lighter, as if a weight heavier than life itself had been lifted off his chest.

And all Leo could think about, walking hand in hand with you on his side, back to the lair, was how much he loved you, every part of you.

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[txttletale]

could you elaborate on your thoughts on boom and 73 yards ( i agree with you i am just struggling to put into words why.)

boom was whatever. the initial conceit of the doctor being trapped and having to stay calm was really cool! i really like that. the ambulances that euthanize you if you're not deemed worthy of medical care and the tacky chatgpt hologram ghosts were both really cool ideas. it just doesn't stick the landing for me, the twists are contrived and fall apart given any thought whatsoever. like what the fuck were any of the soldiers Doing if there just straight up weren't any enemies. it's a twist that sounds cool to say more than it has any meaningful impact on the story or the stakes. i guess 'the arms manuifacturer created a fake conflict' is the intended emtional stakes there but that would hit like a hundred times harder if it was an actual conflict between two factions and people were dying, right? like if anything sending a christian militia to blow themselves up tae fuck on a nowhere planet instead of presumably killing actual living people is an improvement, surely?

also the resolution was dumb as fuck lol i am a huge hater of power of love saves the day shit not because i'm a cynical misanthrope but because it never fails to make me say 'oh so i guess nobody ever loved anybody before lol' and this is no exception like if one chatbot can shut down the whole operation beacuse he loves his daughter are we meant to believe that no other parents or hell nobody who loved anybody else for any reason died in this fake war before? it's cheap and schmaltzy and unearned. anyway the first twentyish minutes of this are all-time great doctor who and gatwa/gibson were incredible in it but it absolutely falls apart into a confused pileo f some of the worst Moffatisms at the end

73 yards on the other hand was incredible! obviously like it requires you to approach it with a different mindset to most of doctor who, right, doctor who usually furnishes you with the big explanation scnee where the doctor says 'well the ghosts were actually particle wave vectorforms created with the necros radiation from the god-king's techsceptre' or whatever--this is the usual narrative mode of sci-fi--but 73 yards is fantasy, right, this is the twilight zone, this is 'wouldn't that be fucked up?'. i interrogate the technical and logical specifics of boom so much when i think about it because that's the language boom is speaking, boom is framing itself within this logical, a-to-b worldview, the satisfying click-together puzzlebox. but 73 yards is a nightmare or a folk tale, right? kate stewart¹ says it herself, 'when faced with the inexplicable, we make up rules and apply them to it'.

so yknow reading it that way it all clicks together beautifully, right, (apart from russel t davies' embarassing swing and miss at Political Commentary in the middle. we get it davies you wrote years and years. we know. trust me we know). the doctor and ruby disrupt the binding circle, free mad jack, and are punished -- the doctor, as perpetrator, with being banished (perhaps in jack's place) and ruby with her worst fear coming true constantly, until ruby defeats mad jack, re-sealing him and fixing what she broke, at which point the circle rewards her by reversing the punishments. and the core horror i think is very effective and unsettling! the idea that there is something that someone could say to turn everyone against you, the closest people to you in your life, your own family, the institutions that are meant to deal with the exact problem you're having--that's fucking terrifying! and yknow i think especially as an autistic trans lesbian something that speaks to me a lot

so yeah. i think that boom establishes its logics and framework and then trips and falls onto its face while 73 yards does the same and then makes perfect use of them. that said i think in 20 years people who are autistic about doctor who will be like 'did you know in the 2020s there were two episodes in a row where the doctor caused the entire plot to happen by stepping on something' and thjatll be the main thing they're remembered for

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

*NSFW* I'm Alive (Yandere!Monster x GN!Reader)

CW: Dead Dove, dub-con, death, gore, inhuman anatomy, sexual non-sexual penetration, mind control, angst, you have been warned

Breathing hurt.

His entire body convulsed as he inhaled, the writhing mass that was his body cracked and groaned as it pulsed. He was once a man, though he no longer remembered much of his previous life. There was a torso emerging from the ball of flesh that was his lower half, and sometimes when he closed his eyes he could recall owning a pair of legs; but now he was just an abomination.

Trapped under the earth in what seemed to be the ruins of a temple or some kind of forgotten catacombs, he spent his days lying in a corner, eating the rats that came and tried to devour his body that reeked of decay.

Sometimes, he dreamt. There is a dream of a building called a "church", where a woman would clasp her hands together and speak to an invisible man. She called it prayer, and told him if he prays then her god will answer, but whenever he awoke and interlocked his red, skinless fingers together, the woman's god never granted him death.

Death never comes, nor does relief.

There was only rot, and pain, and rats.

Each and every day. He didn't know how he knew, because he hadn't seen the sun since becoming a monster, but he knew that there was such thing as a sun, and a sky, and that the day changed to night, which would become weeks, then years. And he knew that he has been down there for a very long time.

Then, one day, there was light.

And God granted him his relief.

.................................

The group of adventurers broke through the sealed entrance to the abandoned tower. It once stretched all the way to the heavens, but had sunk into the dirt centuries ago. Half of the excited group were thrill seeking scholars, willing to put their lives on the line to uncover the secrets of the Inverted Tower, and the other half were monster slaying treasure hunters, investigating the ancient rumors of forgotten relics. Among them was (Reader), a hero unknown.

The dreams began when they were just a child. Dreams of a man begging them not to leave, falling to his knees as the walls crumbled around the two and the familiar stranger's skin peeled off like cracking paint. A nun in the dreams would assure (Reader) that it wasn't their fault. But it hurt. It was too much for a child to see. Seeing themselves, but not themselves, a body foreign yet undeniably their own, reliving the moment when they chained a man to the floor, then locked the door and left him to die.

Now they stood at a hole in the ground: the magnet of fate pulling them into a place they felt would be identical to their dreams.

And they were right.

The halls seemed to be persevered by magic, dirty and dusty, but still fairly untouched by the erosion of time. Landing onto the top floor was like dropping into one of their dreams. Memories from someone else invaded (Reader's) mind, and forced them to recall things they never experienced before.

Adopted by the Tower of God, (Reader) was proud to have been chosen amongst all of the other orphans. Their skills were unmatched, as was their intellect. Only six years old, and the magical talent scouts had determined that they had what it took to learn to be a great warrior for 'The Cause'.

There was another child around (Reader's) age that had been adopted from a different country. He looked like an angel, with gold hair and eyes so clear and blue that they looked like the sky.

The floor shook dangerously as the group worked their way to the stairs. A healer tried to hold (Reader) back, concern filling his face. "You look really pale, do you need to sit down?"

"We literally just entered!" A thug stage whispered, nervous to make any loud noises. No one knew what was in the tower, but there had been many stories about monsters and demons. Some said that the devil himself pulled the tower into the earth out of jealousy towards God.

"I'm fine.." (Reader) wiped the sweat off their forehead with the back of their hand. "I'm just getting a weird sense of deja vu..."

The children entered the tower's chapel hand in hand. It was nearly empty, save for a nun kneeling before a terrifying statue of a cloaked figure. Despite wearing a habit, she was an unusual looking nun, with her eyebrows shaved off and tattoos visible from under her hood.

"Welcome, children." She gave a small smile, one that seemed more tired than welcoming.

"You look weird." The golden boy gripped (Reader's) arm tighter.

A genuine laugh erupted sharply, startling the kids. "I am a clerical nun."

"What's that?"

She revealed her hands to the small orphans before her. Sparkling light rose from her fingers like snowflakes falling backwards.

"The God that I serve gives me power. Power to cleanse the world of evil." The statue looming above the trio felt as though it heard her mention it; it's presence darkening and suffocating (Reader). "You were chosen because your souls glow stronger than most.. God has blessed you both."

"All you have to do is pray.."

An axe slashed through an attacking bat. Only on the 112th floor and the group had already began to run into creatures from the beyond. Lesser evils such as minion bats and living slime charged the group as ferociously as possible, mad with hunger. As they continued on, a growing affection for the young boy bloomed within (Reader's) heart, reliving someone else's journey of friendship and love, with a terrifying sense of anxiety. Each new remembrance of secret handholding and hushed murmurs behind closed doors gave (Reader) a rush of dopamine, but also made them fearful to continue. They knew there was a memory they didn't want to uncover; one that would connect to the dreams they've had since forever, and it scared them.

On the edge of puberty, (Reader) and the Boy could feel that something within them was changing, but being raised by a guild of monster hunters left them without the basic learnings of what was happening to their bodies and minds. The two were surrounded by loving adults who cared for the orphans like family, but continued to isolate themselves as they grew, relying on each other in secret more and more.

The two hid under the blanket, sharing a bed long after it was time for lights out. (Reader) held onto the Boy's slightly clammy hand, repeating a prayer in their head for God to make their heart stop hurting. It was as though they were allergic to their best friend and brother. Whenever he looked into their eyes they felt a tidal wave of emotion so intense it nearly brought them to tears. However, at the same time they couldn't leave his side. They wanted to hug him so tightly that his body would melt into their's.

"I don't like Mother Lillian." The Boy whispered through pouting lips. "She keeps making us take our lessons apart from each other."

"Haha. That's because you refuse to do your work when we sit together." (Reader) knocked their forehead against his lightly.

In the black of their room, they couldn't see the Boy's face blushing, so they assumed that the heat they felt was coming from their own cheeks.

"Schoolwork is boring... I'd rather spend time with you."

The thing on the ground floor could smell his salvation. That prayer he had mumbled in incoherent words for decades was finally heard by his God. A person who's name he hadn't forgotten despite his language skills diminishing to nothing but grunts and groans had finally come for him. He would no longer be alone.

A horrifying sound of flesh ripping echoed throughout the corridor as he tore his body away from the wall he had begun to fuse to. It was agony, dragging his living corpse across the floor, but he knew that it would all be worth it.

Soon.

(Reader's) talent for the arcane accelerated, like a snowball gently tumbling into an avalanche. Praise and recognition were no strangers to the young teen, but as their recognition grew they were kept apart from their best friend for longer and longer intervals. While it hurt to be away from him, the genius had no idea the absolute trauma the separation was inflicting on him.

Mother Lillian held her bleeding forehead, tears falling not for herself, but for the young man she saw as her own son. The Boy stood above her with a candlestick holder raised high above his head, ready to swing again. This was the scene (Reader) interrupted, lashing out on instinct with a holy light, hoisting their best friend off his feet with a frantic wave of their hand. "STOP!"

Blood continued dripping from the tattooed cleric as her aging body was pulled into her other child's arms. It wasn't a deadly strike, but a second surely would have ended her. She was powerful, but took a vow long ago to only use her magic against evil, so even having her brow split open she refused to defend herself, because that would mean that she thought her adopted son was evil.

And even though he didn't believe it, she did love him.

"It's all her fault! She won't let us be together! She's keepING YOU AWAY FROM ME!!"

Moisture sweat from the walls.

The heat was becoming unbearable. Cooling potions were being consumed in fairly consistent dosages as the party descended. But it wasn't the earth's core, nor the presence of hell itself that caused (Reader's) fever.

They could still feel the sting of betrayal when they threw their best friend off of their mother.

"No.. that wasn't me.." the hero wobbled on their feet, fingernails clawing at their scalp.

A clay vase nearly toppled as (Reader) clipped their hip on the corner of the little table it was resting on.

They could see the Boy watching them from behind the ugly vase, and it made their stomach feel strange. His shoulders had grown wide and his chest broad. The Boy no longer looked like a boy, and (Reader) couldn't block out the odd, scary new feelings they had for him.

"STOP!!" (Reader) took off, slamming their face into a wall with a force loud enough to draw the attention of skeletons.

Said monsters hobbled closer to the group of panicking adventurers, drawing the attention of the dizzy and confused hero, who recognized the tatters draping the undeads' bones immediately.

Clerical wizards and holy people smiled at the young adult knowingly as they tried to explain, with all seriousness, the illness plaguing their body whenever their "brother" was near.

"Calm down!" The healer begged, trying to cool the panicking person down.

"No! You should all be in heaven! Why are you here?!"

Why am I here?

Whispers seeped out of the door to the Boy's room, whispers the jealous cleric-in-training on the other side did not recognize. Unable to contain their envy, (Reader) burst into the room, only to see their exhausted blonde friend standing alone in the center.

"[•••••], who were you talking to?" They demanded, eyes narrowed and shaking. At hearing his own name his cloudy eyes widened, accentuating the bags hanging heavy underneath.

"I was just praying.." His arms engulfing his angry "friend" instantly dowsed their fire, almost hypnotizing them with his touch into forgetting that they thought they had heard a second voice. "If I'm.. If I can be as strong as you, then we'll be able to spend more time together, right?"

Your God wasn't listening, so I found a new one.

As (Reader) remembered a life that wasn't their own, so did the abomination from the basement.

Each floor that their bodies drew closer also brought back pieces of their souls; souls that could only exist together.

He came to me, and offered me a deal.

The Man woke his old friend when the sun wasn't close to rising, climbing over their body under their blankets. As soon as their lips parted to question his actions, his tongue was in their mouth.

With no light to guide them the two kissed passionately and without experience. They didn't know what they were doing, just that they needed to feel one another.

(Reader) greedily grabbed the sides of his face to pull him closer, legs shifting to feel his body against their own, instantly stopping at the realization that his face was wet under their palms.

"[•••••]?" They tried to pull back as he leaned in, trapping them against their pillows. What they first thought to be tears was too warm and thick to be water. Roughly pushing him back, (Reader) illuminated the small space with magic, frightened.

Blood leaked down and smeared across his cheeks as [•••••]'s bloated, red eyes were on the verge of popping.

"Shit, we finally got passed them!" The barbarian wheezed out. "Those boney bastards were fucking tough, no thanks to you!" He directed that last part to the nearly comatose hero being supported by the healer.

"no.."

The young magic user barely heard the sick patient whimper. They had been muttering gargles of nonsense for a few levels, so it was worrying seeing them lucid and frightened; eyes round of scared, pointing at the door the barbarian was about to open with all their strength, shaking. "No..."

"Why were they so tough..?"

The door swung open with a loud bang, and a tendril shot through, piercing the barbarian's skull and splattering the scholar behind him in brain matter.

"He had made a pact with a devil."

A man bubbling alive screamed in agony as he attempted to tear off his hands to rid himself of the holy chains keeping him tethered to the floor.

Mother Lillian made an audible sound of pain as she choked back her feelings. Years of meditation and worship, and she could not keep a stoic face despite this being her job. So many exorcisms she performed. So many monsters she'd slain.

But this was her son.

"We can exer-"

"We have already tried that." (Reader) felt their world shatter. "This was a contract, not a possession."

A paladin in golden armor offered a sorrowful expression that seemed genuine. "The only thing we can do is to put him out of his misery."

"No!" They cried out, attempting to launch themselves at the godly man as their grieving mother held them tighter to her chest. "Let me see him, please! I can talk to him! Convince him to give up the name of the devil, so we can hunt it down and save his soul!"

"That's-" The paladin was cut off by Mother Lillian's icy glare. That was a long shot. Not only would it be a reckless waste of human life to hunt down a devil for one man, said man was delirious, borderline demented. There was no reasoning with him.

Bloody holes where eyes once sat welcomed (Reader) as they entered the cellar prison.

Without his sight, he could still see. He saw with scent and sound. The sound of their blood rushing through their veins made their shape, and the natural odor of (Reader's) sweat identified the body. He smiled, another tooth falling out as he did so, joining the wet pile on the floor.

"(Reader)~.."

"Tell me the name of the devil you serve." They kept their voice even and still, despite the quake rattling their spine.

"You came for me~ Just like he said!~" A pop ended his sentence, one of his arms dislocating as he pulled on the chains to get closer.

"Just like who said?" (Reader) fell to one knee, leaning in as closely and as they safely as they could. "Please, tell me the name of the devil you made a contract with."

"And now you'll love me!" He squealed.

"I want to save you!" (Reader) grabbed his shoulders but was instantly repelled, throwing themselves away and back towards the door. His skin had slipped off and stuck to their fingers. "Please, please just tell me!"

"God made me strong so you would love me!"

(Reader) turned to run out.

"Wait. Where are you going?" His voice almost sounded like his own again. It pulled (Reader's) hand away from the handle.

"I need to hunt down the devil that did this to you." Their voice trembled, barely containing their tears.

".. what?" The smile was gone as more skin stripped off the decaying body. "No?"

The pain was beginning to return. It had left when his love entered, but now that they were threatening to leave.

"You can't leave? No! NO!" His face tore as he slammed his skull down onto the floor. "Don't leave me! You need to love me! Please don't go!"

Corpses lay around the detached person slowly coming to terms with their apparent reincarnation. They knew they never returned to that tower in their previous life. They spent their entire life searching for the devil that stole their first love's soul, and died bleeding out on a battlefield, forgotten by history and remembered by no one. Unknown to them, the tower with their forgotten family did not carry on their legacy, for it had sunk while they were searching and they had simply never heard the news.

Perhaps, there were no gods, only devils. Because even the most righteous people to have ever lived were damned to wander the tower as the undead instead of passing over to the afterlife. It wasn't fair.

(Reader) gazed up at the tumorous creature that had massacred their party with glassy eyes. The name they couldn't recall during their entire discovery of their past life rolled off their tongue as they reached out for him-

"Ydenn."

A language no longer spoken by a people that no longer lived; suddenly the language (Reader) had known their entire life was replaced by something much older.

Skinless hands grabbed (Reader) gently and raised them to eye level. "(Reader).."

He called them by their past name, bruising their hips under his fingers. (Reader) briefly worried that they were about to die, that all these years alone Ydenn thought they had abandoned him, and that all he desired for all these years was revenge.. but instead he pulled them close, smashing his face against theirs in a mock kiss.

Without lips his gums rubbed painfully against their lips, but it felt just as hungry and desperate as their first kiss under the covers. (Reader's) body may have felt different in his arms, but he knew it was them.

They parted their lips for his invading tongue, now longer and monstrous, it moved like a writhing worm inside their cheeks before pressing itself down their throat, pulsating and hot. Ydenn's hands tore off their top, effortlessly going through multiple layers to feel their bare skin against his raw muscles. He sat their body on his mound of flesh, unable to think of anything other than becoming one with them.

A bright light filled (Reader's) vision as their pants were removed, suddenly replacing the horrific scene with a pleasant dream. Lying in the bed they owned well over a century ago, Ydenn held them under his naked body, face red and glossy from his crying baby blues. "I finally have you again." With a wide smile he kissed them again, smiling harder when they eagerly reciprocated.

They pulled back just to say "I tried to save your soul, Ydenn! I'm sorry I never came back, I'm sorry for dying!"

Just like the angel (Reader) remembered him to be, his face cracked under the weight of his joy, hearing his love babble underneath him as though they were nervous of his feelings. "You came back for me~"

"I'm sorry it took so long." Now (Reader) was also smiling through tears. "I'm sorry I never told you.. that.. that I already loved you!"

(Reader) could feel his erection press against their thigh and willingly opened their legs, making room for him.

Ydenn's heavy pants hit their ear as he dropped his face into the crook of their neck, caressing his dick with one hand as he rubbed its tip between their legs. "Tell me you want to become one with me."

Shivers pimpled their skin in anticipation as they looked down between their bodies at his swollen cock. "I want to become one with you."

There was a searing pain that pieced (Reader's) core.

With a blink the dream was gone, and (Reader) was back facing the skinless half living corpse; a thick tendril made of gore and once-human meat penetrating their stomach.

Vomit and blood spat out across their chest as the throbbing entity began thrusting in and out of the wound it created. Their eyes gave away their shock at the treachery. The wound was too deep and too sudden; the immediate pain was already gone, and they felt numb from the waist down.

"Yd-Ydenn?" They choked on his name, but the gurgle of blood went unnoticed by him. Just hearing his name spurred him on. His teeth scraped against theirs as he began violently fucking the hole he had created. The tendril raped their abdomen like a prehensile penis while his hands ground their urine soaked groin against the growth that was his lower half. Each slap of their bodies bore the wound deeper, spraying blood and mulched intestine.

Between slaps were images of that dream, almost within (Reader's) grasp. They could almost feel pleasure, as they imagined running their hands through his hair as he pounded them into their bed.

They could hear the bed creaking against the hard wood floor as they reached their orgasm, excitedly moaning as they spasmed under his crushing pelvis. (Reader) could feel something building within them, threatening to pop as his dick slammed into something inside of them perfectly.

Just as it was spilling out, the rush of a climax vibrating their system, a loud thunk brought them back to their bloody reality.

Their glazed eyes lulled to the side to find the source of the loud sound.

(Reader's) severed bottom half lay on the floor, only attached to their torso by the stretched out intestines and leaky organs barely holding on.

The disembowelment of his lover didn't seem to phase the monster, still making love to them as more smaller, wriggling pieces of flesh penetrated (Reader).

They could feel the tendril writhe up into their chest, and wondered how they weren't dead yet. It rubbed itself against their heart, leaking an inhuman precum against their weakly beating organ. Through the black goop they thought they could see blue irises smiling back at them with happy tears.

"I love you, (Reader)."

Hot fluid splashed up into their brain as he came inside of their nearly hollowed out cavity, then the world went black.

There was a creature at the bottom of the tower, that no adventurer dared to attack. It never killed unprovoked, but it's kill rate was perfect.

It was a strange creature, a large ball of rotting chunks of human meat, held together by dark magic. Out of the tumor like creature sprouted two torsos, one more decayed than the other, and they were often seen embracing one another, creating ungodly sounds that echoed throughout the entire tower.

Though they forgot how to speak and see, their names never each other's mouths, repeating them over and over to one another without end. They had no need for sleep, nor rest. It was as though they forgot they needed to eat and even breathe.

They only needed each other.

[scoobydoodean]

sorry if this is old/annoying disk horse, or it's addressed later on in canon (i haven't been in the fandom long and i'm on season 6 of the show), but what do you think about john winchester being another righteous man? do you think he really was, or it was mostly just a manipulation tactic (from, if i am remembering correctly, the angels)? i remember the show saying he went through 100 years of torture and didn't break, which was a bit wild to me, but y'know what, sure. alternatively, any thoughts on the fan theory from samgirls that sam is (unintentionally) the righteous man?

feel free to ignore if this is not your thing, or if it really is just annoying disk horse to go through, but i'd love to know your thoughts.

"The righteous man" is a story familiar to the angels and the demons. The prophecy foretold about the righteous man was that he would 1) shed blood in hell, breaking the first seal, and 2) be the only one who could end the apocalypse.

The bit about John being the original righteous man and not breaking on the rack was Alastair's manipulation tactic in 4.16 "On The Head Of A Pin":

I had your pop on my rack for close to a century. [...] John Winchester. Made a good name for himself. A hundred years. After each session, I'd make him the same offer I made you. I'd put down my blade if he picked one up. [...] But he said nein each and every time. Oh, damned if I couldn't break him.

And then a little later:

ALASTAIR: You know, it was supposed to be your father. He was supposed to bring it on. But, in the end, it was you. DEAN: Bring what on? ALASTAIR: Oh, every night, the same offer, remember? Same as your father. And finally you said, "Sign me up." Oh, the first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch... That was the first seal. DEAN: You're lying. ALASTAIR: And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break. We had to break the first seal before any others. Only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line. When we win, when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester. Believe me, son, I wouldn't lie about this. It's kind of a religious sort of thing with me.

John was never "the righteous man" meant to shed blood in hell though, so Alastair is lying at least in part (when he says it was "supposed" to be John). The concept of "the righteous man" originates with the angels/god, and Gabriel says in 5.08 that the archangels were always told it would be Dean and Sam who would be the vessels of the apocalypse who would end things, for the purpose of narrative symmetry with Michael and Lucifer.

You sorry sons of bitches. Why do you think you two are the vessels? Think about it. Michael, the big brother, loyal to an absent father, and Lucifer, the little brother, rebellious of Daddy's plan. You were born to this, boys. It's your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other. [...] Why do you think I've always taken such an interest in you? Because from the moment Dad flipped on the lights around here, we knew it was all gonna end with you. Always.

@swordofsun makes an excellent case here that while the angels knew Dean was "the righteous man" the whole time, the demons may have believed it was John they needed for a time. However, there's also reason to suspect the demons found out rather early that John wasn't the person they needed to break (Dean is offered a crossroads deal to trade his soul for John's by 2.08) so it's unlikely John was tortured for anywhere near 100 years in Alastair-torture-chamber-time. Alastair has a motive to twist the truth. He's noticing water dripping from a pipe about to break the devil's trap, and wants Dean distracted so he doesn't have time to warn Cas and Uriel. Alastair is also an extreme sadist, and he knows that John is a sore spot and that telling Dean not just that he broke the first seal but that his father was supposed to break it but was unbreakable would cause Dean immense emotional pain. It's not only something that causes Dean to feel incredible shame and guilt, but continues the narrative of Dean inheriting burdens intended for John that he can't carry.

any thoughts on the fan theory from samgirls that sam is (unintentionally) the righteous man?

Alright. So. In the sense that Sam shoves Michael and Lucifer in The Cage thus "ending" the apocalypse it was foretold only "the righteous man" could end, I get what the argument is here. The problem is that from a practical standpoint, Sam doesn't break the first seal, so he already isn't the righteous man because of that. Additionally, Dean's arrival at Stull Cemetery is what actually allows Sam to take control over his body again. Without Dean showing up, Sam would never have taken back control of his body and the apocalypse would have happened anyway. So in a sense, the prophecy still transpires in a roundabout way through Dean breaking the first seal, then ending the apocalypse by showing up at Stull, making Lucifer angry (which destabilizes his control) while drawing Sam's consciousness to the surface so he can shove Lucifer and Michael into The Cage.

Practicalities of whether Sam fits the prophecy aside, I think the desire to frame Sam as the righteous man likely comes from a misplaced belief that the title of "righteous man" conveys actual status. The title of "righteous man" itself was a manipulative tactic intended to instill a sense of duty in Dean (that honestly worked very poorly because Dean simply isn't like Michael) and a sense of envy and inadequacy in Sam that would drive the brothers apart. The concept of "the righteous man" wasn't ever an honor or reward. It was a burden and a horror. It was a title bestowed on someone intended to be horrifically tortured, used, objectified, and forced to kill his own brother for the (alleged) "greater good". It is a huge mistake to envy that title and see it as a sign of status instead of shoving aside the curtain hiding the Wizard of Oz and recognizing that "the righteous man" and "the boy king of hell" were glorified titles for angel condoms being manipulated and used.

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

What about something with the reader being a siren who ends up luring one of the Beasts in?

Requested Prompts #31 - 💓

It was yet another shitty day in this god forsaken tank, you missed your home in the ocean, hell, you missed your singing voice! If only that jerkwad noble hadn't captured you as some kind of 'fishing prize'. Doing literally anything would be better than being in this stupid tank! Your ear fins perk up in alert as you hear the echo of footsteps from outside your tank, two pairs to be specific. What was going on? Was that jerk trying to show you off again? You idly scratch at the magical collar on your neck, the one that restrained your beautiful song that would set you free from this hell. Of course, your mind then went to a territory that was a bit... darker. What if he was attempting to sell you? A horrifying thought, but not one that wasn't above him. Would you end up on some other rich jackasses plate? Or... would you get a fate considered worse than death? You're thoughts paused as you heard the jingling of bells. No noble would be foolish enough to wear bells, so then... Had the jerkwad gotten some new toy? You're thoughts were confirmed as you saw the jerkwad noble walk past with a blue-tinted jester in tow. The new cookie looked at bit tall, but not taller than the noble, and had fluffy white hair that had blue as an underlight. The Jester was decked out in blacks and blues and had little bells on his hat that resembled small berries. " And this," The noble begins, a smug smile on his face. " is my prized possession." You glared at the noble, yet also kept an eye on the jester who looked at you with something akin to bewilderment. " Is that a gem mermaid?" You heard the jester ask, calling your attention to him almost instantly. " Hah! I wish, this is actually just a siren." The nobleman grumbled, " Either way, Jester, you already know where your room is. And I've already told you the consequences for stealing and running away, so don't get any ideas." The noble then haughtily walked off, leaving you with the fresh meat inside this twisted mansion. You looked towards the Jester, who let out a groan. " Aaah... Man, I'm not really a fan of being owned." He complained, putting his arms behind his head and leaning back. " And I can guess you aren't really a fan of it either, huh?" Your brow perked up with curiosity, " No, not really." You decided to say, catching the jester off guard. " You can still talk?" He asked, surprised as he turned his head towards you. " Man, I thought that jerk would have had you completely silenced." " I... Think he's just a sadist, giving me my voice yet taking away the part of it I can use to escape..." You sigh, lazily swimming closer to the glass. " Let me guess, you lost a bet with mister jerk-face over there and now he has you as entertainment until he decides to kill you off." " Hm, I guess you could say that." The jester chirped, " But then again, I lost on purpose." " Why would you even do that?" You said after pausing to think for a moment. " You were forced to sign a contract, right? Like all the other jesters he had?" " Yep! The thing is, I didn't use my real name!" The jester hummed, stretching his back. Now that was odd, you knew that jerky mc-jerkface's contracts don't get sealed if the name is fake. So then... How? Unless this cookie was lying to you... " Impossible, he would have known and forced you to write your name." You stated, and apparently your statement was hilarious to the jester because he soon burst out laughing. " Well, the name did belong to me at some point, and it still worked so I guess it doesn't matter!" He chirped, bending over backwards to look you in the eyes. God, just how flexible was this guy? It was like he was made of jelly. " Anyways, what's your name? It must be lonely here, being trapped all by yourself." You don't even know how this cookie got you to open a conversation with him so easily, and yet, you were eager to find out more about this mysterious jester. Maybe he could aid in your escape somehow? hopefully? " ... It's Reader Cookie."

[chromatic-lamina]

Law couldn't kill his biological parents

Because the government had done it for him. 👇

Doflamingo, on the other hand— ☝️

Law did, however, inadvertently enclose his sibling in a death trap 👇

But, like Cora, he didn't pull the trigger.

(but also, like Doflamingo, he didn't die).

Doflamingo, like Law was not responsible for the loss of his and Rosi's childhood protection and innocence 👇

And Homing seemed to be more ineffectual (at least in the anime) than Law's Dad, although he was up against a LOT, but obviously underprepared. Guess the slaves did all the fighting and defending in Marie Geoise. I don't think it's reason enough to get your brains blown out.

Conversely, Law's dad was proactive and there seemed to be little reason for Law to despise him. His individual actions also hadn't brought on the ire of angry mobs over sustained periods of time, but Law did experience this once h'ed lost everything.

And the people of Flevance were collectively targeted for who they were. Both fathers were generally targeted for what they represented rather than who they were. Likewise, Law, and the Donquixote brothers were targeted in similar ways. All three carried a hereditary affliction, depending on which way you look at it.

BUT I believe that Law deeply wanted to believe both Doflamingo's words about blood ties, and Cora's words about Doflamingo not going to shoot him because he was his brother (despite Cora also saying two chapters previously that Doflamingo would expect Cora to die for him if he consumed the Ope-Ope no Mi, because Doflamingo would expect Cora to perform the eternal youth operation).

I believe that Law wants to believe the words of the brothers, because there was nothing more shocking in the world for him (up to the point of Cora's death) than to have his sister and mother and father (and classmates and teacher) die in front of him. And as said in another meta:

He had stayed behind to look after Lami: An action which ironically saved him from perishing with his classmates, but which might have sealed Lami's fate. I don't think he could imagine deliberately harming his family. Of course, he is 13 on Minion Island, and is not Doflamingo's 28 years of age. (And 10 year old Doflamingo definitely protected Rosi, before he killed their father).

Law did, nonetheless, show that at a young age he was able to inflict harm on fairly random strangers when he shanked Cora, not without provocation (but he paid Buffalo off in ice cream, so the child or the psychopath were both perhaps evident in Law. Seeing as we know canon events, my cash is on the former. Without intervention, though, who knows?) Provocation might have been wearing the name genocide.

But, back to family. Considering how upset Law was with the loss of his family, and understandably how traumatic it is to have a loved one, loved ones, one's whole town, slaughtered in front of you, especially at the age of eight or slightly older (yes, when Doflamingo shot Homing, he was the age that Law was when Flevance fell (10 years), then...

...then I really don't blame Cora for not being head-over-heels in love with his brother. I find claims that Doffy's actions "weren't that bad" puzzling. I think there are some things and states of being that you can just never return to. Violation is violation, and at the age that Cora was (eight-years-old) the effects run deep (but, c'mon, you're in the same room as a killer who happens to be your brother; you're being held by your father, and then you're covered in your father's blood, brains and bone shards? Did his dying body fall on you? And your brother's still holding the gun? And you're eight? Even as an adult, I don't think I'd recover).

Homing should have fought and protected Rosi, though, in this instance, and stepped up as much as he could have, and maybe he did. And, yeah, Doflamingo was seemingly influenced and manipulated by his much older (bar Vergo) executives, but he's the dude holding the smoking gun in the end! I'm not saying he's not a ten-year old victim too, but he's a scary one, especially due to his youth. Others (protagonists) in the One Piece world have escaped ineffective or cruel parenting with far less bloodshed to others or their kin (antagonists, not so much).

I love Doflamingo. He's a fabulous villain with a tragic back story. He's complex, layered and fun to write. And the nature/nurture argument rages hugely with him, and yeah, his pragmatics do make some things good for some people some of the time. But that man knows how to move goal posts, and the posts are booby-trapped.

Anyhoo, maybe this is another dive into the parallels between Law and Doflamingo that veer off into very different paths. And that I love a bat-shit-crazy Donquixote Family AU as much as the next person, BUT I think that Cora was rightly very wary of his brother and that he has/had good reason to be. In canon-verse, if he hadn't died (so AU canon-verse!) I can't see him returning happily back to the Family. True, though. You mess with fire, you get burnt, but Doffy is far from a saint, and I think Cora's aware of that at an intrinsic and self-preserving level.

[radioactivepeasant]

Free Day Friday: Trespasser

(From the poll: "In Which the Demolition Duo made it to the Wastelands without being banished because They Are Trespassing)

Damas was not, by and large, a religious man. He didn't worship Precursors -- there were some who insisted that his ousting from Haven was divine punishment for his arrogance -- nor spirits. If spirits could be killed, so could Precursors. That made them oracles, elders to be respected for unique perspectives on time, but not gods in Damas’s opinion.

Which made it an oddity to find him in the temple.

He sat on the shallow steps, staring up at the six carved heads meant to represent Precursors. More insectoid than Oracles, or perhaps just more elaborate. They seemed to wear headdresses over their bizarre masks.

"If you, by action or inaction, let Mar die, then at least have the decency to tell me," he whispered into the empty air.

"You always foretold a future moment of need that my House would answer. Has that need passed unnoticed that you stay silent while my bloodline ends? Or does my son live?"

The masks were silent, of course. Carved stone could neither hear nor speak.

Ungrateful wretches. Damas had a fleeting thought that perhaps they'd allowed -- or even orchestrated -- the abduction of his little son because he wasn't servile and "pious" enough for their tastes.

Damas wondered if spirits could harm Precursors. If perhaps the "Good Grandmother"*, She-Who-Hears-Them-Cry, might take an interest if something in this temple had been directly involved in bringing Mar to harm.

Má took her payment even from the hides of fellow spirits, after all.

"Even if you were capable of bringing him back unharmed, I very much doubt you would," Damas whispered harshly to the open air. His throat bobbed with a painful, bitter anger.

"But if you took him, you owe blood-debt to my House, old ones. So grant closure or sit in your realm knowing that I will seek answers among others as old as you."

Was it wise to threaten the Precursors? Damas neither knew nor cared anymore. Two years he'd barely survived having his heart metaphorically ripped out of his chest.

What more could they do to him? Really, what could they possibly do that could be worse than not knowing?

No answer arrived, not that it surprised him. Damas sighed and braced his elbows against his knees, head in his hands.

Stone grated against stone and metal to his left, and he turned his head swiftly.

There was a door there, one heavily fortified with traps. A hovering Sentinel eye kept watch for movement, designed to activate a spike trap if anyone tried to enter the lower levels without permission. And if someone managed to somehow get past that, the door would still be sealed. Whether by an enterprising ancestor of his or by meddling Precursors, that door could not be opened without an Heir of Mar. Damas was the only one who had ever been beyond it.

It should not have opened even an inch.

And yet Damas was witnessing the two mighty halves forcing themselves apart with a tortured groan born of idleness.

He was on his feet in an instant, ready for a fight. There was no chance that this heralded anything good.

"Whoa!"

That was a hu'men voice.

Damas’s hand hovered over his sidearm, ready to draw the moment he saw a face.

"And I thought this place was huge before!"

It was a young voice. High and a little squeaky.

"It just keeps going, doesn't it?" laughed a second voice, deeper, but just as young.

And then the doors were open wide enough to see the silhouette in between them.

And more importantly, to see the object glowing faintly in his outstretched fist.

Damas’s mouth was dry as he fumbled for the pouch between belt and leather armor where he kept his own amulet of Mar. He knew the shape by heart: twin comets orbiting each other, over stylized hands.

Thief-!

Pure, outraged, fury burned through his veins for a moment. Who had this scrawny figure stolen that amulet from? Heaven forbid it be Mar's amulet, lest Damas murder this boy before his very next step.

"Identify yourself!" Damas shouted, raising his gun.

The figure stepped into view. He was small, so thin his clothes hung loosely on scrawny limbs, but he held himself like a warrior.

"People!"

The animal curled around his shoulders sat upright and spoke.

"Jak! There's real people in here! We're saved!"

Odd reaction to a man pointing a gun at them.

The boy eased a step forward, hands raised as if soothing a frightened animal. He still held the incriminating amulet in his hand.

"Whoa, okay, put the gun down. I don't want to hurt anybody-"

He took a step too far and the sentinel flashed. The spikes shot up out of the floor with a faint shunk!

With a yelp, the boy leapt back -- he was surprisingly light on his feet for someone wearing boots two sizes too big. Then, as if the nearly fatal encounter was no more than a slight inconvenience, he backed up, got a running start, and launched.

He kicked off the wall, seeming to find handholds in the tiniest of crevices as he bypassed the spikes entirely.

Once on the ground again, the boy dusted himself off.

"You okay, Dax?"

"Just peachy, considering you almost dropped me!"

"Did not!" the hu'men boy protested in annoyance.

He really was small.

The general gangly sprawl of his limbs suggested he would gain an impressive height, but for now he just looked..small.

And entirely too excited.

"Who....do you- Where did you come from?" Damas demanded.

The boy pointed back down at the steps and shrugged before scratching his head.

"Exploring?"

Oh that green hair hurt to look at. It was filthy, and matted, like it hadn't been correctly washed in years. He couldn't even determine the age of the trespasser, what with the layers of grime embedded into every crevice of his face. The clothes were just as stained with sweat, dirt, and what looked to be bloodstains. From traps?

"Exploring."

Damas repeated the stranger's explanation incredulously. "How did you even get in here?"

The boy and the orange animal looked at each other for a curiously long moment. They seemed to be having a conversation merely by narrowing and widening their eyes in turn. Then, seeming to come to an agreement, they shrugged and turned back to face Damas.

The boy pointed down a barely visible flight of rough-hewn stone steps, lit by torches.

"We came up through the catacombs."

There were catacombs? He hadn't seen anything like that down there, and Damas liked to think he'd made it pretty far! He examined the stranger more closely, avoiding his eyes -- they're not familiar, you're just projecting your grief -- and avoiding looking at the talking weasel thing. He saw sunken cheeks drawn tightly against sharp cheekbones. A pale, barely visible scar across the bridge of his nose. Deep, deep shadows beneath his eyes. How large was the temple, altogether? Were there more people living below their feet?

"How...long were you down there?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Trust me pal," the weasel-rabbit said, "he smelled like this before we got in that zoomer."

"Hey!"

"What zoomer?!" Damas asked, feeling more confused than before.

"The one we took through the lava tube to the catacombs."

Damas was beginning to wonder if he'd somehow inhaled the monks' incense by accident.

The trespasser cringed as if only just noticing the bewildered and only barely softened hostility on Damas’s face. He shoved his amulet -- not his, it can't be his, there aren't any more of us left!*-- into his pocket and waved his hands placatingly.

Was there another Heir all this time? Is that why I was given no chance to protect Mar? Were my child and I expendable?

"Didn't mean to bother you," the kid apologized, "We'll just uh- huh. Actually, where are we?"

And then he looked to the door rather than Damas.

"Hey Oracle!" he shouted, and Damas was glad no monks were present to hear this and faint at the impertinance.

"Where the rot are we?"

Alright. This was now officially more of a problem than he'd first thought. Not even the monks were supposed to have found that Oracle down there.

One of the past Heirs who never inherited the throne had sealed it up the moment he discovered it long ago. After all, the discovery of light and dark eco being opposite poles of one energy might have thrown society into chaos and they didn't want to deal with the fallout. Even Damas was leery of reintroducing that knowledge outside of the Arena yet. Apparently this trespasser had no such thoughts.

He spoke to Oracles -- or pretended he did.

He held and used an amulet.

The boy was a mystery. And Damas hated not having the answers.

"You," Damas decided, wearing anger like a shield, "are coming with me. You have questions to answer."

The boy balked.

"No!"

He dodged before Damas could seize his arm, stumbling back amidst the columns.

"Uh-uh, I'm not falling for that."

"Falling for what?"

Damas was genuinely confused, and more than a little irritated.

The boy continued to back away.

"No, no I know how this goes. You're gonna take me back to the Haven Council, aren't you!"

*

"Haven?!" Damas sputtered, "Why the bleeding rot would I want to go there?! I'm taking you to my city!"

That didn't reassure the kid, who apparently was not fond of the leaders of Haven City.

Well, that was at least a bare minimum of common ground.

"You ain't takin us to no secondary location!" the orange one declared, pointing a skinny digit at Damas.

"The last time I got transported to a new place, I got kidnapped and experimented on for two years," his friend agreed.

Embleer Frith.

Damas stared at the boy. He squinted, as if that would give him insight into the unsettling response, then shook his head.

"You what?!"

What was he talking about? Experimented on?! That would explain the sudden shift from curiosity to distrust. But why-?

Damas knew. Deep down, he thought he knew.

If the boy was an Heir -- and he didn't even want to entertain the thought, but it had to be acknowledged as a possibility -- then that alone would be motive for someone like Praxis to torture even a young man -- or young boy?

If he was still obsessed with creating the ultimate war-sage, then an unclaimed and unattended Heir of Mar would be invaluable.

But if Praxis had been so focused on an older Heir, then perhaps it at least meant that he'd never gotten his hands on Mar.

That there was a stab of shame to follow that whisper of relief was an unsettling proof that he had not successfully hardened his heart as much as he'd thought.

"You came here from Haven?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

Thoughts of a breach in their defenses sickened him.

"And others will follow in pursuit of you?"

This time both trespassers scoffed.

"Only if they feel like sharpening their reaction time enough for a volcanic subrail," the hu'men said. He almost smiled.

The orange one nodded. "Jak here's the best driver there is! Also the most demolition-happy, but nobody's perfect."

Jak?

Now that was a name his spies had been mentioning a lot in their reports. An alleged juggernaut who had turned the Baron's own secret project against him and -- rumor had it -- even destroyed the metalhead nest.

Damas had been expecting someone a little...older.

* the "Good Grandmother" Damas is referencing is a spirit I made up for the Wasteland called Má Crocadeer. Fairly grisly figure with a crocadeer skull wreathed in flowers for a head, and a crocadeer's legs and tail. Her purpose is to punish those who deliberately cause or inflict harm on children. There's a lot of people in Haven who should avoid the desert for this reason.

[ghostlyangels1204]

Soap the flower girl

Cont: I got his idea after seeing a TikTok of something similar to this, at that moment this was all I could think of omg. Soap is the perfect man istg, teeth-rotting sweetness. Brace yourselves.

You wrung your hands together, the sweat pilling there becoming exceedingly more uncomfortable as time passes. You had the whole day, hour to hour, minute to minute, mapped out in your mind. Every detail filed down to a fine pointed edge- not even a speck of dust could evade your wrath. Not today. Johnny had his fair share of missions for work, but this one was his biggest. The day he would legally bind the two of you, your promises exchanged with rings and sealed with a kiss.

Everything was perfect, your support network were all there- fawning over you, surrounding you with all the love you could possibly imagine, and then some. Johnny was in his own room, the three men he dedicated his life to for years, right there with him. But then, just as Johnny was hyping himself up, with Price and Gaz by his side, Ghost had walked into the room with less-than-ideal news. Johnny’s niece, the sweetest little girl you had ever met, had come down with a bad sickness bug from nursery and was currently stationed at home in bed. Needless to say- you didn’t have a flower girl.

“Ach’ shite…”, He huffed out, his hand finding its way to his face in a feeble attempt to soothe the contracted muscles. “Ay’e, what the hell am’ I gonnae do now? We get married in ten minutes!”

“Alright buddy, it’s just some flowers on the aisle. Bet no-one will even notice…” Ghost’s poor attempt at relaxing the sergeant resulted in two pairs of eyes from Price and Gaz being launched his way. He really wasn’t made for being a wedding planner.

Price turned back to him, a hand coming down to clasp his shoulder, “Right mate, let’s just get you downstairs yeah, and we’ll see if anyone fancies stepping in?” With a final pat on his back, they all moved downstairs as a unit, Johnny walking about ten paces faster than the rest.

In the time it took for everyone to be seated, people had asked around if anyone could step in. But to no avail, as all the other kids were either too shy or too stubborn to step in.

“Nah we need a flower girl… fuck,” The three men looked on in concern, convinced Johnny was about to drop dead from a heart attack right then and there. And they couldn’t leave you as a widow before you even married the man. “Johnny… its flowers… some petals that are more littering than decoration”, “Aye’ shut your trap LT, it matters okay! It might not matter to me or you, but it matters to them…”

Just as he was about to give up and face the loss, Johnny’s eyes widened. A flicker of light beaming in those baby blues that both relieved, and scared the other men around him. “AYE I’M A GENIUS!” He all but yelled out in joy, hands coming up to shake Ghost’s shoulders. “I’m not wearing a tutu Soap…”, “Shut up LT,” On any other day, Ghost would’ve reamed him for speaking to him like that- but he decided to give the man a day off. Just this once.

“Right, here’s the plan. Music- ON. Gaz, walk. Price, walk, Ghost, walk. All the bridesmaids, walk. Ring bearer, as long as he isn’t sniffling into a tissue too, WALK. And then me…” His smile was so wide his face could’ve split into two parts. They all looked baffled at each other, “Soap mate, that’s great but… that doesn’t solve your flower girl issue?”, “Wait and see Gazalicious… just you wait!” They watched as he ran off back into the building behind him, temporarily getting lost as he darted in one direction then came back sprinting in the other.

Gaz, Ghost and Price readied themselves behind the doors, waiting for the music to begin and to walk down the aisle themselves. “He doesn’t have any C4 on him does he?” Price whispered to Ghost, extremely concerned for his undisclosed, ‘genius’, solution. “Screened him, from his bags all the way down to his boxers… got nothin’ mate.”

The speakers scratched and the music began to play. Your bridesmaids surrounded you, ensuring everything about you looked as polished and perfect as you planned. Air filled your lungs as you took a deep breath, you were in no way nervous or doubtful in your decision. You just prayed you wouldn’t fall down that goddamn aisle.

You watched through tearful eyes as you saw the members of 141 each take their turn. Walking towards their positions towards the front of the ceremony. His best men.

All your bridesmaids followed, your maid of honor planting a kiss on your cheek for good luck, pinkies crossing together. “I hope you enjoy the surprise babe,” she giggles, and before you can ask, what the hell is that supposed to mean, she takes her turn. Surprise? What the hell?

All of a sudden, the music changes to something you hadn’t planned. Oh my god, it’s all going wrong. You cast a glance towards the start of the aisle, through a different door than you were at, where Johnny should be walking down. And then you spot him. Immaculately dressed in his tux, which he refused to let you get a sneak peek at if you didn’t let him see your dress. “It’s only fair, bonnie”. Not a strand of hair out of place- definitely Ghost’s work.

But, he’d added some accessories…

A pair of huge sunglasses frame his face with a basket of white and pink petals slung on his arm. He stands there, shoulders wide, serious look plastered on his face. He turns his head from one side, to the other, and starts to walk.

Ever so delicately, for a man of his size, he grasps pinches of petals before dashing them down the aisle. Sprinkling the flora down to his feet with the grace of a ballerina. Gleeful laughs erupt from your family and friends at this ‘surprise’. He’s even got the officiant laughing. With another handful of petals, he twirls around in place, before launching the flowers to his left side, and then some to his right. Petal after petal is scattered as he makes his way down towards the arch. The final handful is blown gently from his hand, into poor Ghost’s face. The lieutenant can’t help but laugh along with him, all his moodiness still intact. Johnny places the basket down, before turning around, and the four of them gather in a group hug, cackling away to themselves as cheering surrounds them.

Silently, without asking or worrying you, Johnny had fixed a problem you didn’t even realise you had. You’re about to marry the best man you’ve ever met, and you couldn’t be happier.

Word Count: 1129