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gav-san · 1 month ago

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Soul Shanked 1/4

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Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: Marked and Mildly Deranged Length: 8.5 K+

“What Is a Man?”

You were nine.

Curious. Bright-eyed. Holding a weathered story scroll in your lap and trying to puzzle out a sentence that read:

“The man took her hand gently…”

You blinked.

Then wandered down the palace hall to where Elder Gloriosa sat on a veranda cushion, drinking bitter tea and scowling at birds.

You approached carefully, the way one does when poking a large, judgmental cat.

“Elder Gloriosa,” you asked sweetly, “what’s a man?”

She froze mid-sip.

Then very slowly lowered her cup.

Her eyes narrowed. A wind stirred. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried.

“A man,” she said at last, voice grave, “is a selfish, sweaty beast.”

You blinked. “…Oh.”

She stood, joints cracking like angry firewood, and began pacing.

“They are crude and ugly. Faces like scarred potatoes. Hair like wet dogs. Smell like smoked failure.”

You clutched your scroll.

“Are they… dangerous?”

She wheeled on you like you’d asked if snakes could drive ships.

“They drink until they are stupid. Then they fight each other shirtless. Then they find someone smaller, usually a woman or a child, and try to hurt them with charm and shoulder width.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Shoulders?”

“They are weaponized.”

She knelt beside you, eyes wide and tragic.

“They are sentient, but not like us women who are graceful, and poetic. No. It is chaotic. Sticky. Loud. They grunt and wave their bits about like cursed barnacles.”

You turned white.

“Bits?!? What are bits?”

“Weapons.”

“I thought they were gentle. The story said—”

“LIES.”

She slapped the scroll from your hands.

“They cry when you beat them and scream when you ignore them. They name swords after their mothers and ships after their regrets.”

By now, you were backing toward the door.

She followed.

“They talk over you. They interrupt. They grow hair everywhere. Even places that should not be hairy. Backs”

You were shaking.

“They eat with their hands. Laugh like donkeys. Think they deserve power just for breathing! And worse—they believe in themselves.”

A pause.

Then, low and grim:

“And sometimes… if you’re not careful…they look at you like you’re a goddess.”

You blinked, trembling. “Why is that dangerous?”

She stood tall. Looked out to sea like she could see all her mistakes lined up on the waves.

“Because you might start to believe them.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

Carved protective runes on your bedframe.

They were crooked and backwards, but you meant them. Slapped a training dummy that vaguely resembled a chin. Painted it red. Called it “Captain Grossbeard.” No one said anything otherwise.

You marched around the temple halls muttering,

“I am the storm. I am the sword. I fear no man.”

And in the dead of night, wrapped in your blanket and resolve, you whispered with all the righteous fury your little heart could muster:

“No man creature will ever get me.”

You meant it.

With every scrap of fire your nine-year-old soul could summon.

You were ready.

Unshakable.

Unseduceable.

Untrickable.

—

Fate, however, was not so humorless.

The women of Amazon Lily came in every shape and size. Towering warriors, thunder-hipped sword dancers, graceful archers with legs like spears and tempers like fire.

The empress, Boa Hancock, was as fierce as she was beautiful.

And then there was you.

No statues in your honor. No warriors fighting over your affections. No chaotic marriage proposals from lovestruck pirate captains or suitors turned to stone in the palace courtyard.

You were level-headed, practical, and, according to Hancock, a ‘reasonable creature, which is to say, only mildly insane’.

Meaning, you had come out of the Amazon Lily once before and survived without succumbing to the filth of men.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

You didn’t crave glory or attention. You liked routine. Simplicity. Being useful. And so, when Amazon Lily needed someone to run messages, inspect trade ships, deliver threats with a smile, or retrieve a tea shipment from Sabaody, you were the one they sent.

Alone on a small ship from the Amazon Lily.

The usual route consisted of very few direct interactions with men and their ilk, and it made a nice diversion for regular work.

There was no clue that today would be any different.

You stepped off the longboat onto Sabaody soil, paid the toll, and adjusted your cloak. You're frowing, striking, and very out of place in your Amazon Lily cloak and braid adorned with shells. A curved staff rests across your back.

And then your palm ignited with a dash of heat, and as you lifted it you immediately noted the soft, glowing script that appeared.

You stared at it.

At first, you thought it was a prank. Some weird ink. Maybe pollen?

You rubbed it.

It stayed.

You squinted.

“Shanks.”

That was the word. Slanted. Gold. Elegant. Disgustingly confident cursive. Written in soft cursive, right across the center of your palm.

“What the-“

You blinked.

You rubbed harder.

You shook your hand like it was cursed.

“What the hell is a shanks? Did someone infect me with a disease?”

A nearby vendor looked up.

You glared at them. “Don’t look at me. I’m having a medical emergency.”

You ducked into a quiet alley, and stared at the name again like it was a venomous snake.

Shanks, the word unchanged by your poking.

What. The. Hell.

You ran your thumb over it. Tried spitting on it. Rubbing it with dirt. Muttered a few prayers under your breath. Nothing helped.

It glowed cheerfully back at you.

Mocking you.

A type of fish? A devil fruit?

A disease?

Written in soft gold, right across the center of your palm. You narrowed your eyes at the thought of what your sisters would say.

“She caught a case of the shanks.”

“We had to put her down.”

You sat down on a crate and buried your face in your hands.

This couldn’t be happening.

Across the sea, ten miles away, Red-Haired Shanks sat cross-legged, watching his crew bustle on the deck with a sake jug in hand.

Suddenly, his chest warmed.

He looked down.

There it was.

A name.

Written like it had always belonged there, just under his collarbone.

He grinned like an idiot. “Well, well.”

Benn Beckman, nearby, didn’t even look up.

“That’s new.”

“Well,” Shanks replied easily, tipping back his jug. “Begin the preparations gentlemen!”

He paused. Then added:

“…I’m about to meet the love of my life.”

Benn took a deep drag of his cigarette.

You pushed open the door to Shakky’s Rip-Off Bar with one foot, the other braced against the crate of sealed scrolls you’d brought from Amazon Lily. You were sweating—not from the load, but from sheer existential dread.

The gold-etched name on your palm had not gone away.

If anything, it was glowing harder, like it enjoyed your panic.

“Shanks.” Cursive. Fancy. Aggressively smug. “More like shit.”

You hadn’t dared ask the people of the island, many unfortunately men. Or the harbor guards. Or the fish vendor who said something about a ‘Red-Hair being back in town.’

Nope.

You were going to get through this like a professional.

You were fine.

You blink at the smoky interior like you’ve just entered a dragon’s den.

Shakky waves.

“Welcome, darling. Ignore the mess.”

You drop the crate onto the floorboards with a solid thunk, flex your poor back, and approach the bar like a soldier on a battlefield.

Shakky doesn’t even blink.

“You okay, sweetheart,” she says smoothly, sliding a glass of something chilled your way. “Hancock’s still upset about the soap?”

“She’s considering burning the supplier’s house down.”

“Reasonable.”

“She sends her regards,” you say politely. “And says if the soap supplier raises prices again, she’s sending snakes. Plural.”

“Duly noted.”

You glance around, subtly inspecting the room for… her male creature. The old one with the excessive amount of body hair. Glasses, holding a drink like it’s a character trait, excellent at harassing you.

The coast is clear.

For now.

You exhale.

And then you whisper urgently:

“I have a medical question.”

That earns a slow blink from Shakky.

She tilts her head. “Go on.”

You glance around again, then yank off your glove and slap your palm down on the bar like it’s a crime scene.

“What is this?” you hiss.

There it is.

That damned glowing word.

Shanks.

Still smug.

From the corner, a chair creaks.

You jump.

Rayleigh, lounging in the shadows with a bottle, squints toward your hand.

Motherfucker, how does he hide like that.

He ignores your glare, and for once, you want an answer enough to let him look.

He squints harder.

Then bursts into a laugh so loud it nearly knocks the rum bottle over.

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

“What,” you demand, “is so funny? Am I dying?!”

“Only emotionally,” he chuckles, wiping his eyes. “Oh, you poor thing. Couldn’t have happened to a worse woman”

Shakky smirks. “So it was what I suspect.”

You slam your hand down again. “What is happening?! What is a shanks? Why is it on my skin?! Is it a threat? A disease? Some kind of cursed pirate STD?!”

Rayleigh leans forward, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“It’s the name of an old cabin boy of mine.”

You stare at your hand.

Stare at him.

Back at your hand.

“Shakky,” you say flatly. “Is this Shanks a man creature? Did he put a hit out on me? Has your pet husband gone rogue?”

Shakky chuckled, to your consternation.

Rayleigh chuckles again, this time gentler.

“Don’t worry, girl. That’s just a soulmate mark.”

You freeze.

“…Is that a disease?”

Shakky wheezes.

Rayleigh falls off the couch laughing.

You try your best not to spear the man-creature, as you know he’s Shakky’s pet.

“What is so funny?”

“Not quite. It’s… uh, a romantic thing.” Shakky explained with a hand wave, “Like love.”

You clear your throat.

“Love? Like the concept of the curse?”

“Happens when the other half of your fate gets close. Ten miles, give or take.”

Rayleigh winks and you growl.

You sit at the bar, hand still glowing, eyes wide and glassy like someone who just saw their own funeral invitation written in cursive.

Across from you, Shakky pours you another drink— alcoholic, by the look on your face you’ll need it.

“I need clarification,” You croak, not touching it. “About… everything.”

Rayleigh grunts. “She’s gonna need a chart.”

Shakky smiles gently, lights a cigarette, and leans on the bar like she’s preparing to explain gravity to a baby.

“Okay,” she begins, “So. First things first: A man is a person—usually taller, louder, and hairier than you—who you will find deeply aggravating.”

You rolls your eyes, which she ignores.

“They have a different biology. You don’t need to worry too much about it unless you plan on—”

“Absolutely not. I’ve seen yours.”

Rayleigh cackles.

“—Right. So men exist, unfortunately. And outside of Amazon Lily, they’re… everywhere. Now, a soulmate is someone the universe pairs you with.”

“Like… like in combat?”

Shakky pauses.

“No. Not like a sparring partner. More like someone you’re cosmically drawn to.”

You blink.

“That sounds awful.”

Rayleigh wheezes.

“Now,” Shakky continues, trying not to laugh, “Soulmates usually feel a pull toward one another. A bond. Attraction.”

“Like gravity?”

“Sure. Except you might want to kiss them.”

You stare at her.

Then, slowly:

“Why would I do that?”

Rayleigh is fully keeled over now.

Shakky takes a drag of her cigarette and starts listing on her fingers:

“Sometimes people in soulmate bonds end up in relationships. Romantic ones. Emotional connections. Some get married. Some have children—”

You immediately shove the barstool back and stand, horrified.

“Children?! With a man?! That’s what the glowing means?!”

“Not automatically,” Shakky says quickly, clearly entertained. “You don’t have to do anything. Well, to have children you do-“

You cut in.

“Except battle a mythical threat no sister has bothered informing of-“

Rayleigh laughed. “This is going to be fun.”

Shakky grins. “Amazon Lily doesn’t really get male soulmates. It’s not a popular topic.”

You stare at your glowing palm like it just personally betrayed you.

Rayleigh leans back, finishing his drink.

“Best advice I can give you?”

He raises his glass.

“Run now. Or start emotionally preparing.”

You’re already pulling your glove back on like it’s a warding talisman, halfway to the door.

“I was just doing a supply run,” you hissed, pacing Shakky’s floor like a woman betrayed by gravity itself. “I was not emotionally prepared to be icked by destinies assigned man-creature’s.”

Rayleigh was wheezing.

“He’s not that bad, really,” he managed between gasps, one hand slapping the table as his shoulders shook with laughter.

You turned on him sharply. “You know the disease?!”

That was it. Rayleigh whooped like a man being punched by fate itself. He doubled over, tears streaking down his face. You suspected a heart attack was imminent and sincerely prayed for it.

Shakky, far calmer, sipped her tea.

“He comes here on occasion,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “I told you, Rayleighs former cabin boy.”

You looked at Rayleigh, her man-creative and gave him the most disguised look a woman has ever made at him, further sending him into cardiac arrest due to laughter.

You stared down at your palm—the cursed red name that had scrawled itself across your skin like a traitorous tattoo.

Shanks.

The name of doom.

An ill-conceived destiny.

A man.

“Does the shanks disease know?” you asked darkly. “Does he get infected as well?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Shakky replied brightly. “He probably saw your name appear and immediately said something dramatic like, ‘Finally.’ He’s a romantic.”

You went still.

Stone still.

Rayleigh hiccupped mid-laugh, coughing.

You slowly looked between them, horrified. Betrayed by scrolls, tea, and fate.

Then you whispered, utterly mortified.

“I have to flee this island.”

Rayleigh gave a very enthusiastic “Bye bye sweetheart” and Shakky sighed as you fled.

You returned to the docks like a woman possessed.

No delay. No farewell drink. You left the scroll receipt unsigned and muttered something about “soul rot” and “spontaneous name infections” to the stunned sailors as you boarded the ship you used to arrive..

By the time the anchor lifted, you’d already burned a loose scarf and were halfway through scrubbing your palm with seawater like it might dissolve destiny.

It didn’t.

You stared at the elegant, glowing “Shanks” etched into your skin like it was a personal attack.

Shanks barged back into Shakky’s bar, glowing.

Literally.

His shirt was half open and his smile was full chaos. Right across his chest, gleaming like sun-kissed treasure, was your name.

He skidded to a stop in front of Rayleigh and announced, proudly:

“I need a drink,” he said, voice easy. “Something celebratory.”

Rayleigh didn’t even look up from his drink, already smirking. He seemed like he was restraining himself.

“Good news?”

Shanks tugged his shirt open just enough. Gold script shimmered faintly over his heart.

A name. Yours.

Beckman glanced up, sighed. “Don’t encourage him. He’s high on bad ideas.”

Rayleigh squinted. Blinked. Set his glass down a little too hard.

Then dropped his glass and howled with laughter.

Shanks was still proudly displaying his chest like it contained the One Piece itself. He rotated for better lighting. He even leaned into a patch of sun filtering through the bar window, just so your name would really sparkle.

Rayleigh had only just stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes with a bar towel and wheezing, “You’ve got no idea what’s coming, do you?”

Shanks blinked.

“…Coming? You mean the great adventure of love?”

Rayleigh snorted and almost choked on his drink again.

Shakky, merciful and amused, stepped out from behind the bar and gently placed a hand on Shanks’ shoulder like she was about to break bad news about his boat engine.

“Sweetheart,” she said patiently. “Have you met the owner of that name?”

“Shanks grinned. “Not a clue. But I got a feeling you do.”

Shakky shook her head slowly.

“No, no. This isn’t a vacation. Not without armed backup and a plan for extraction.”

Shanks stared.

Stared harder.

“…Why?”

Paused.

Rayleigh grinned. “Tell him, Shakky.”

“She’s from Amazon Lily.”

There was a pause.

Shanks tilted his head. “…The Amazon Lily?”

“The very same,” said Rayleigh, pouring another drink. “Land of no men, no mercy, and statues made from the unlucky.”

“She’s not just from there,” Shakky added. “She’s one of them. Top of her class. Favorite of the Empress. Tried to file paperwork to have her mark declared a battlefield injury.”

“…The island that turns men into stone with eye contact and keeps them as warning statues?”

“Exactly.”

His smile faltered.

Shanks’s smile twitched.

“…Wait. So you know who she is?”

“Oh, we know,” Rayleigh said, far too pleased. “We’ve known since earlier today, when she stumbled in here clutching her hand like it was cursed.”

“She asked me if soulmates were a disease,” Shakky muttered, eyes distant. “Dead serious.”

Shanks blinked.

“She meant it,” Rayleigh added, raising his drink.

Shakky nodded grimly. “And now she thinks she’s been infected. By a man-borne plague.”

Shanks slowly sat down, the light dimming behind his eyes.

“So what you’re telling me is—my one and only soulmate… is an Amazonin Lily Warrior, sworn off all men-”

“Correct,” Shakky said.

“…and thinks I’m a walking biohazard.”

“Bingo,” Rayleigh toasted. “To fate.”

Shanks groaned as Rayleigh drank an entire shot and Shakky smiles sympathetically.

Benn refrained from commenting.

Shanks exhaled. “Okay, I can work with that. At least it saves me the trouble of a chase. So I can’t visit the island without—”

Shakky: “No. Don’t cause a war.”

“…” Shanks tilted his head,: “…Can I send something?”

Rayleigh huffed, “Only if you want Boa Hancock to hunt you like a rabbit.”

Shakky smacked his shoulder.

Shanks leaned forward, face in hands. “Maybe I’ll write her a letter?”

“Start with an apology. And maybe… include clarification that you are disease free.” Shakky, dryly replied.

Shanks chuckled.

Then he drew a long breath, adjusted his coat, and rolled his neck with deliberate calm.

He looked up, steady and sure again.

“I’ll speak to whoever’s in charge first- Hancock, right. Properly. Face to face.”

There was silence.

“No.”

Beckman didn’t even look up, but reached for another cigarette.

Shakky blinked. “You’re going to what?”

“I’ll reach out to Hancock,” Shanks said. “Ask for a meeting. Just talk. Emperor to Empress-”

Rayleigh started laughing again—slow, wheezing laughter that didn’t stop.

“She’ll listen,” Shanks added. “If I’m respectful. If I make it clear I’m not a threat.”

Beckman groaned. “You are the threat.”

“She won’t turn me to stone on principle,” Shanks reasoned. “I’ve got manners.”

“You’ve got audacity,” Shakky snapped.

Rayleigh wiped his eyes. “You’re going to walk into Amazon Lily. Alone. After giving the Empress’s favorite a soulmate mark. And you think reason will win her over?”

“I’m an emperor,” Shanks said, shrugging. “Surely she won’t deny a simple conversation.”

“Not with her,” Shakky muttered. “She turned a man to stone for saying hello too confidently.”

“I’ll be diplomatic.”

Beckman sighed. “You’re going to get yourself turned into an art feature.”

Shanks leaned casually on the bar, unfazed. “If she kills me, at least I’ll go out looking good.”

Rayleigh raised his glass. “Send us a statue. I’ll put it in the garden.”

“Life-sized,” Beckman added. “We’ll use it to hang hats.”

Shakky poured herself a double shot of something unlabeled. “You’re all idiots.”

Shanks gave her a slow, confident smile. “What would you do if fate carved a name on your chest?”

“Button up my shirt,” she snapped.

He only chuckled.

“I’ll ask nicely,” he said again. “That’s all I’ll do.”

Beckman exhaled. “Give me one hour’s notice before you sail. Just so I can update your will.”

Rayleigh raised his glass one last time. “To love.”

“To statues,” Shakky muttered.

Shanks smiled and tapped the spot over his heart.

“You don’t meet fate halfway by standing still. Besides, if she kills me, at least it’ll be interesting.”

The moment you reached home, you marched into the palace, slapped the crate of trade receipts down with enough force to rattle the columns, and declared in a clear, unshakable voice.

“I’m never leaving again.”

Ran raised a curious eyebrow.

“Did someone insult the empress?”

“No,” you muttered, pulling your glove back on. “Worse.”

“…worse?”.

“I am spiritually unwell,” you added. “I have been afflicted.”

Gasps echoed across the hall.

The guards stood. “I’ll call for the snakes.”

“No, I need to speak with the Empress, right away.”

And so you were whisked away to Boa Hancock.

You stood before the Empress, palm out, the glow flickering like a curse that wouldn’t die. It shimmered just beneath the skin—his name, etched in gold, resting traitorously against your lifeline.

You had come to her for wisdom. Reassurance. A solution.

What you got instead was—

“WHAT. IS. THAT?!”

The words cracked like a whip across the throne room.

You flinched. Somewhere in the rafters, a dove actually keeled over.

“I—I don’t know,” you stammered, holding out your hand like it might explain itself. “It appeared when I stepped off the ship to go visit Shakky. She said…it might be a… soul… thing?”

Silence.

The word no one dared say hovered in the air like a ghost.

Soulmate.

You didn’t speak it. Neither did the Empress. But every woman in the room felt it sink into their bones like a divine hex.

Hancock was frozen on her throne, eyes locked on your palm. Her expression was a war between horror and something much worse: recognition.

Then she moved.

“What disgusting, treacherous man has dared mark one of my-“

She Grabbed your palm like a curse, reading the name with visible recoil.

Then, she snatched a report scroll from a nearby guard—half unrolled, seawater-stained, stamped with the last Sabaody ship logs. Her eyes scanned the names fast, each flick of her gaze more furious than the last.

She stopped cold.

Her hand clenched around the scroll.

Her face went pale. Then dark.

Then incandescent with rage.

She screeched.

“Shanks!”

You blinked. “You… know him?”

“Know him?!” she roared. “KNOW HIM! Everyone knows him! Do you have any idea who he is? What he is?! The threat he is to women everywhere?”

The word hit you like a slap. It’s not that you didn’t memorize many male pirates, but your experience was limited. To be frank you never memorized male names if you see them regularly.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Rayleigh mentioned he used to train him—”

“Rayleigh’s old apprentice?” Hancock barked. “He is not some scruffy cabin brat! He is a global force of nature with a bounty in the billions and diplomatic immunity because no one wants to risk his crew tearing through the Grand Line like a divine plague!”

Your knees shook. Blood rushed to your head.

“Oh.” You squeaked.

“Oh?” Hancock’s voice shot up an octave. “Oh?!”

“I mean, that’s… it could be worse, right?”

“Worse? He’s one of the Four Emperors! You might as well have gotten branded by a tidal wave!”

Were those stars forming at the edge of your vision?

“Shanks!” You choked, feeling dizzy. “As in Red-Haired Shanks?!”

You were a trained warrior, a scholar of naval threats, and a woman of discipline—but your knees still buckled a little.

You did know of the fucking Emperors who ruled the sea.

You stared at her. “He didn’t do anything—he wasn’t even there! I never saw him!”

“Exactly!” Hancock shot back. “You never even saw him, and still—still—your soul reached for his?!”

Her sisters in the court murmured in terror.

Gloriosa, ancient and unbothered, sipped her tea in the corner. “At least it’s not Kaido.”

“Not the point!” Hancock snapped.

She rose to her feet, the motion sharp and dangerous, her cape whipping behind her like a flag of impending doom.

She pointed at your palm. “That’s not a name. That’s a problem.”

You looked down. The mark still glowed innocently.

Warm. Gold. Unbothered.

“Is there a cure?” You squeaked, not really joking. “Or a way to hide it? Perhaps he’ll find it inconvenient and ignore it?”

Hancock paced now, one hand in her hair, the other gesturing wildly. “He probably doesn’t know every detail, but make no mistakes, he’ll figure it out. He’s a famous romantic- and that man Shakky houses for some reason- he has a soft spot for degenerates. And when he finds out? Oh, he’ll come. Of course he’ll come. Men like him always do. Smiling. Apologizing. Making it worse.”

You stared.

“You think he’s coming here?!”

She stopped. Slowly turned back toward you.

Then said, with the seriousness of a woman already preparing her war face.

“Start practicing your ‘go to hell’ and for the love of the sea gods— do not accept rum from him. Don’t even leave the belly of the Lily, lest he discover a way to…compromise you!”

The entire palace erupted in chaotic wailing.

Sandersonia fanned herself. “A pirate has claimed her!”

Marigold shouted, “Prepare the ship! Prepare the cannons!”

Hancock paced, furious and rattled.

“He’s powerful. Annoyingly flirtatious. Laughs like a goddamn wind chime. And now he’s tethered to her?! One of my own?!”

You raised your gloved hand slowly.

“We have time, don’t we? I didn’t meet him. I didn’t even see his ship. I ran.”

“You ran correctly.” Hancock whirled, pointing a dramatic finger. “We must break the bond before he discovers it!”

“Is that possible?”

“I will try anyway.”

You fainted.

The message was hand-delivered with the kind of care usually reserved for ceasefires and war declarations.

Shanks had written it himself—ink smooth, edges clean, the handwriting firm and respectful. No roses. No flirtation. Just facts. Just a name. Send with a female on an aligned crew.

And an apology.

To Empress Boa of Amazon Lily,

I write with great care and no intent to offend. It has come to my attention that a mark—bearing my name—has appeared upon one of your own. I understand the nature of such an event is complex, unwelcome, and possibly distressing.

Know that I intend no intrusion. I ask only for the chance to discuss with you the implications of such an event.

With respect,

Shanks

The return message arrived exactly three hours later.

Folded into a seared chunk of driftwood.

Branded across the front in aggressive knife marks were two words:

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Beckman, watching from the deck, just sighed.

“She’s going to try and sink the ship if you push this.”

Shanks unfolded the second, more official scroll tucked inside the burned envelope.

It read:

Should the Yonko known as Red-Haired Shanks approach the shores of Amazon Lily, he will be considered an active threat and treated accordingly.

There will be no meeting.

There will be no negotiation.

This is your only warning.

Shanks folded the message quietly.

Then he looked up toward the horizon, where the Calm Belt lay—still and wide.

“…She didn’t say I couldn’t send word again.”

Beckman rubbed his temple. “You’re going to escalate this into an international incident with that carefree attitude.”

Shanks smiled.

He simply turned, opened a second scroll, and began to write again.

To Empress Boa Hancock,

I got your message.

Dramatic. Charred edges. Good handwriting.

I understand your position. You’re furious, protective, and probably trying to have me classified as a natural disaster.

Fair.

But I’d like to remind you—I’m still asking.

Politely.

I didn’t choose this mark. Neither did she. But it’s there, and now so am I.

And like it or not, this situation now involves me.

I’m not trying to provoke anything. I’m not trying to cause a scene.

If I were, writing first would not be my opening move.

So please—don’t make me come to your island while I’m still being nice.

A quiet meeting. Just once. If you refuse that?

Well.

I’m famously bad at hearing no.

You know where to find me.

Shanks

He tied it with red twine. No wax. Just a smile on his face like he’d already made peace with whatever storm followed.

Beckman, watching, groaned. “You do realize she’s going to throw that in the ocean.”

“She might,” Shanks said. “But I wrote it anyway.”

“She might also fire a cannon.”

“I’ll duck.”

Beckman pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re flirting with death.”

Shanks grinned. “Only if she’s interested.”

The second letter was delivered by a trembling pirate courier, who clearly had no idea whether handing it over counted as a diplomatic act or an execution request.

Hancock ripped the thread binding with one fluid flick of her nail.

She read the first line.

Then the second.

Then she froze.

“Don’t make me come to your island while I’m still being nice?” she repeated aloud.

The entire throne room fell still.

Gloriosa slowly set down her teacup like she was bracing for a seismic event.

Hancock kept reading—face locked somewhere between seething and visibly calculating the surface temperature of lava.

“He thinks he’s being polite?!”

“I believe he does,” Gloriosa said cautiously. “Shanks is notorious for his diplomacy.”

Hancock’s eye twitched.

“I will polish the cliffs with him!”

“He did ask before he came,” Murmured Sandersonia helpfully. “Could be worse.”

“He’s still asking,” Marigold added, eyes wide.

Hancock hissed through her teeth. “You don’t ask an Empress. You bow. You beg. You certainly don’t smirk through the ink!”

“Technically, there was no smirking visible,” Gloriosa offered.

Hancock whipped around. “He charmed. In calligraphy!”

Gloriosa held up her hands. “I’m just the tea auntie.”

Hancock stomped to the edge of the dais, fists clenched, hair fluttering in her fury.

“He thinks this is a game. A charming letter. A little rogue diplomacy. He doesn’t understand. I will petrify him into a lawn ornament.”

There was a long silence.

Then Gloriosa spoke again. Quietly.

“…Should we inform her?”

“Absolutely not. She is in a fragile state, thanks to that pig.”

You were sitting in the palace garden, sipping tea, watching a bird hop sideways in the grass.

It was peaceful.

Which was suspicious.

You’d learned that silence in Amazon Lily usually meant someone was planning something—or someone had just made a very bad decision.

But today?

Today was—

“Hmm,” you muttered, looking down at your hand.

The mark glowed faintly. Again. For the third time this week.

You shook your head and pulled your sleeve back down. “No.”

You weren’t going to think about it. You weren’t going to ask questions. And you absolutely weren’t going to read into the fact that every time it flared, the guards on duty went tense like someone had set a cannon off three islands away.

Across the courtyard, a group of royal guards were whispering urgently with Marigold and Sandersonia. You caught snippets:

“…He wrote again.”

“…Still polite, technically…”

“…‘Don’t make me come while I’m being nice’—is that a threat or a proposal?”

“Empress broke a vase.”

“Make that two vases.”

You blinked. Then looked back down at your tea.

No one had told you anything.

And if the Empress breaking crockery over international pirate diplomacy was about you?

…Well.

You didn’t want to know.

You picked up a scone.

Ignorance was peaceful.

#shanks x reader #one piece shanks x reader #one piece #soulmates #romance #quickfic #gav story

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sleepingdiaryzzz · 8 months ago

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hold on,hold on,Yandere!Conner Kent x reader🙏🏻

(sorry for bothering😭)

U ain't a bother and if anybody tells you that u do, then, they gonna face my pinky, my thumb and my fist they gonna run. 😼🐺🧏🏽‍♀️ nobody messes with my first ever anon 😠👊

Anyways

The night has fallen quietly over Metropolis, the cityscape softened under a blanket of stars. The world feels smaller somehow, contained within the walls of your apartment where Connor sits, angled slightly toward you, his gaze unwavering yet serene. He has that brooding, intense look—a mix of steel and tenderness—that you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his. It’s as though he’s carrying a burden, one he won’t let you see, and yet you feel its weight as if he’s drawn you into his orbit without permission.

“Connor,” you say softly, trying to break the quiet, “you’ve been… around a lot more lately.”

His eyes flicker, something shadowy dancing behind them, a vulnerability he usually keeps hidden. He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his gaze travel over your features as if memorizing every detail. The room feels charged, the air between you like the fine thread of a spider’s web—delicate and unbreakable all at once.

Finally, he speaks, his voice hushed but firm. “I just want to make sure you’re safe. Is that so wrong?”

There’s a faint, haunting cadence in his words, something raw and possessive yet laced with an almost tragic reverence. You feel the intensity radiating off him, a barely restrained storm beneath his calm exterior.

“Nothing could happen to you,” he continues, almost to himself. “Not on my watch. I’d make sure of that.”

You’ve always known Connor’s protectiveness runs deep, but tonight, it feels like there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. An edge, a quiet desperation that clings to the room, thick as fog.

“Connor…” you say his name with a gentle tone, hoping it might pull him out of whatever dark place he’s retreating into. He’s so close now, leaning forward, his hand reaching out as if compelled by some invisible force. When his fingers graze your cheek, his touch is featherlight, as though he fears you’ll vanish.

“If I could keep you here,” he whispers, his tone taking on a dreamy, almost poetic quality, “locked away from the world… I would. Not because I want to take anything from you, but because I… I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

It’s a confession wrapped in longing, and you see the truth of it in his eyes, where constellations seem to burn just for you. There’s something about his gaze that feels eternal, as if the universe itself has handed him the task of guarding you.

“You mean a lot to me,” he says finally, each word slow and deliberate, as though he’s trying to etch them into your soul. “More than you know.”

In that moment, his love feels like an uncharted ocean—beautiful and terrifying, with depths you’re not sure you’re ready to explore. But his sincerity anchors you, and, despite the intensity of his words, you can’t help feeling safe, cocooned in the quiet power of his devotion.

(A/n: is it just me or do you guys also feel suspicious of how I could post every day despite saying I'm too lazy to do so... Maybe my laziness hasn't kicked in yet which is weird and scary considering I'm writing dis rn in front of my 10 homework activities, and yes I am doing it last minute but so what...? I'm too lazy to do all of em and rn I'm don't know what I am talking about... I love yapping but I'm a introvert does it make me a extrovert when i talk too much but not as loud? Guys I'm turning crazy, I need someone to talk to and all my best friends are busy idk why they've been busy since last week....my gf is not replying for like 20 minutes now...im going crazy. Also sorry for spamming the Batfamily tag even though it's not the content I posted, I just feel like it's more famous than the others and also idk how to tag... Though mainly because I'm scared of being a flop hehe...)

#yandere dc #yandere connor #yandere conner kent #yandere connor x reader #yandere connor kent x reader #connor kent x reader #connor x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere batman x reader #yandere batman #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #😺– request

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ghostlynightpanda · 29 days ago

Note

hii I was wondering if u could do gyokko or gyutaro from demon slayee with reader finding them beautiful?? (also I don't remember if I already asked u something so if ur working on that then you can choose to ignore this one or do it's few weeks later)

Under the Streetlight

Synopsis: After years of hiding in the shadows, Gyutaro meets a girl who sees past his monstrous form and calls him beautiful—unraveling his loneliness and awakening a desperate need to keep her by his side forever.

warnings/content: Gyutaro x fem!reader, fluff (I think), 3.691 words

The red light district never slept.

Laughter and music bled from paper lantern-lit windows, casting wavering shadows on rain-damp cobblestone. Perfume mingled with alcohol and the scent of lacquered wood. The district pulsed like a living thing—breathing, humming, wanting.

But not for him.

High above the silk and glitter, in the suffocating crawlspace between rooftop tiles and the ink-black night, Gyutaro crouched. Hunched. Watching.

It was better than sleeping.

Usually, he stayed curled within Daki's body, dormant and drifting through her senses like smoke. She didn't like when he came out too often—said it ruined her rhythm, scared the clients. Her voice always had that biting edge when she said it. Sweet and cruel. "Go back to sleep, nii-chan. You're too ugly for this part of town."

He never argued. Not out loud. But lately, he found himself peeling away from her more often. Just slipping free like mold off old walls. It didn't matter if she got annoyed.

She had people. Clients. Friends. Women who whispered behind silk fans, men who begged to see her smile.

Daki sparkled. The district welcomed her with open arms and honeyed words.

Gyutaro? He lived in the rot. In the leftover corners no one wanted to look at.

So he wandered. Not for food—though sometimes he considered it—but more for... something else. Maybe boredom. Maybe the quiet churning ache that clawed at him when he watched her laugh with some drunken noble. Or maybe—though he'd never admit it, not even to himself—he was just lonely.

Lonely in the way monsters are lonely. Not tragic. Not poetic.

Just forgotten.

He slinked down into an alley, half-shadow and half-bone. His spine curved with the unnatural looseness of something dead but breathing. Overhead, a woman's laugh rang out, glassy and delicate.

Gyutaro flinched, more from habit than fear.

He wasn't afraid of humans. They were afraid of him. Or worse—they were disgusted.

He curled his lip. The walls here smelled like sake and piss. Way different from the perfumes his sister bathed in nightly. He should go back. Let her complain, let her yell about him "ruining the atmosphere" or whatever nonsense she picked up from her fancy clients.

But his legs kept moving. Soft footfalls. No sound. No echo. Just a ghost pacing cobblestones long after midnight.

No one saw him. No one ever did.

And he was starting to wonder if anyone ever would.

He rounded another corner, where the flickering lantern light barely reached the ground.

And that's when you turned it.

Rushing. Not looking.

Bam.

Your shoulder clipped his chest—solid, sharp. He staggered a step, less from the impact than from pure surprise. No one touched him.

Not unless they were dying.

You gasped lightly, almost stumbling. "Ah—I'm sorry! I didn't see you—" You bowed, hands pressed to your sides. "Forgive me."

He stared.

What...

His hand twitched. Instinctively. A sickle began to form in his palm, creeping from his skin like a second thought made manifest. One clean slice. One heartbeat. That's all it would take.

But then you looked up.

And smiled.

Small. Apologetic. Like someone who'd bumped into a stranger in a hallway. Not a monster in the dark.

You didn't recoil. Didn't scream. Didn't flinch or spit or stare at his face like it was something out of a nightmare. Your gaze brushed over him, unfocused, gentle, moving on like nothing about him was worth gawking at.

You just... smiled.

"Sorry again," you said, stepping around him, your voice light, genuine. And then you were walking away, shoes clacking lightly against stone, vanishing into the lanternlight like it had all been nothing.

Like he was nothing.

But not in the way he was used to.

Gyutaro stood there frozen.

The sickle didn't move.

Neither did he.

You had apologized to him.

Not because you feared him, not with that brittle desperation he saw in people who sensed what he was. But like you meant it. Like it was natural. Like he deserved an apology. Like he was just another man in the street.

His heart, shriveled and monstrous as it was, stuttered once—confused.

That smile... It hadn't looked forced.

Not laced with panic. Not tight with politeness. Not the kind people gave when they had no other choice but to survive a moment.

It had been real.

He turned, craning his head after you, body melting back into the darkness without a sound.

Who the hell were you?

He should've let it go.

Just some clumsy girl in the street. Just a stupid smile. Just a nothing-moment.

But it wasn't nothing.

And he didn't let it go.

Gyutaro stayed in the shadows long after you disappeared into the twisting alleys. His body clung to the walls like damp rot, eyes glowing faint and feral in the dark. He should've gone back to Daki, back to the stink of makeup and blood and muffled screams beneath silk pillows. But he didn't.

Instead, he followed.

You didn't know, of course. How could you? People like you never looked up. Never noticed when something crawled along the rooftops like a spider made of blades. You walked with the confidence of someone who belonged. Like this place was yours.

He watched you step through the red-draped door of one of the most expensive houses in the district. The kind with golden lanterns and guards that pretended to be polite. That's her home, he realized. You weren't a courtesan, and definitely not a client. You were something more dangerous—untouchable.

A manager's daughter.

Daki had complained about your kind before—smug little brats born into silk and lacquer, thinking they owned everything because they were born with clean hands.

But you hadn't acted like that.

Gyutaro perched on a slanted roof and watched through a crooked gap in the wooden tiles as you greeted one of the maids with a warm smile, your voice too soft to carry. Later, you passed a crying girl in the courtyard and stopped, kneeling to wipe her cheek. He thought he saw you press a candy into her hand. Just like that.

What kind of game is this?

He waited until the house fell quiet before slipping away.

But he came back the next night.

And the one after that.

It became routine. No—it became ritual.

Gyutaro watched you from the shadows every evening, crouching in beams or behind crumbling rooftop ornaments. A quiet parasite. A lurking ghost. He memorized the rhythm of your steps, the way you greeted every servant by name, how your smile changed slightly depending on who you were talking to. It wasn't fake, he realized. Not polished or for show. It was real.

And that terrified him.

Because it meant the smile you gave him had been real too.

He learned your schedule. When you left the house, when you returned. Who you talked to. How long you stayed in the market. You always bought the same snacks—sweet red bean buns. You gave one to the vendor's child every time without fail.

Why? What were you getting out of it?

And worse: why did it make him feel something he didn't have a name for?

He started thinking about you when he wasn't watching you. Found himself drifting away from Daki sooner, earlier, hungrier. Not for blood.

For... you.

For that smile again.

The one you gave him like it meant nothing.

The one that meant everything.

He'd watched you for seven nights.

Seven sunsets bleeding into smoky lanternlight.

Seven evenings spent crouched beneath eaves, breath shallow and invisible, watching you drift through the district like a ghost made of soft laughter and apologies. Every step you took, he memorized. Every glance, every quiet word exchanged with others. You smiled at nearly everyone, but none of those smiles matched the one you gave him.

That one was different.

That one was his.

It gnawed at him. Turned his mind raw with hunger he didn't understand—wasn't sure he wanted to understand. Something clawed inside his chest, whispering that one smile wasn't enough. He needed to see if it had been real.

So tonight, he waited in your path.

Right there, beneath the crooked wooden arch where the lantern's light swung lazily, half-sick and golden. The exact place where your steps always slowed, where you always paused to adjust the ribbon slipping from your sleeve.

He timed it perfectly.

Footsteps.

And then—

Bam.

Your shoulder collided with his chest again.

You staggered slightly, and his body went tense, almost bracing for the scream—because this time, it was definitely his fault. He'd materialized out of nowhere, stepped right into your path like a madman.

But you didn't scream.

You let out a soft, startled laugh. "Ah—again?" you murmured, blinking up at him.

There it was. That same smile. Small. Warm. Real.

You bowed lightly, hands at your sides. "I swear I'm not usually always running into people."

He blinked at you, mouth parted but silent.

You tilted your head, suddenly aware of the way he was just standing there. Taller than you remembered, thin and strange—like he didn't quite belong in his own skin. And yet… something about him held your gaze. Not fear. Not disgust. Just curiosity.

"You okay?" you asked gently.

His tongue flicked along a fang, but he stopped himself from answering the first thing that came to mind. The ugly things. The defensive, bitter things. Instead, he shifted his posture—slightly straighter. A little more human.

"I… I was just walkin'," he rasped. His voice was gravel, sharp-edged and underused. "Visitin' my sister. She… works here."

You blinked. "Oh? One of the houses?"

He nodded slowly. "I… wanna buy her out one day. So she doesn't have to work no more."

There. A lie. A sweet one. The kind you might believe.

Your expression softened. "That's… really kind of you."

And gods, the way you looked at him then—like he'd said something good, like he wasn't filth in the gutters—it nearly undid him. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to curl, to claw, to hide. But your gaze didn't falter.

He didn't know what to do with that.

So he did nothing.

"Well," you said, stepping around him again, "Try not to sneak up on me next time, huh?" You chuckled—light, teasing. "Third time's a pattern."

And with that, you walked away.

And Gyutaro—bloody, broken Gyutaro—stood frozen in the lamplight, throat thick with something that felt too human.

Tomorrow.

He would wait again tomorrow.

And the next night.

And the next.

He stopped hiding.

Not all at once. Not boldly. But he didn't slink from rooftop to shadow anymore—not when it came to you. Now he simply walked. Slow and crooked, just like everyone else in this city, as if he belonged. As if he had a place to be.

And every evening, he made sure his path crossed yours.

Same time. Same place.

He'd shuffle by under the warped wooden arch, pretending not to notice you.

But you always did.

"Evening," you'd say.

Just that. One word. Light, effortless.

But it hit him like a heartbeat cracking open.

The first time, he almost missed it—too stunned by the sound of your voice aimed squarely at him again. The second time, he managed to grunt something back. Barely audible. A sound more than a word.

But you smiled anyway.

And then it started to grow.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… naturally.

"Back from visiting your sister?" "Did you try the sweet buns today? They sold out by noon." "You always walk this path, huh? Must be fate or something."

Little comments. Casual nothings.

But you stopped to say them. You stopped for him.

No one stopped for Gyutaro. People flinched. Avoided him. Looked through him like he was a smear on the side of the street. Even Daki only acknowledged him when it was convenient or when she needed something.

But you?

You chose to speak.

Even if it was just about the weather. Even if it was only for a few seconds. Even if you walked away right after, your words still clung to him like warmth on cold skin.

He began to anticipate the moment—marking the slow countdown in his mind until your steps echoed again down the street. His clawed hands would twitch at his sides, unsure what to do. His shoulders would tense, stomach knotting with something that felt like hunger but wasn't.

Sometimes, he even replied. Still rough, still awkward—like every word was a cracked nail being pulled from wood—but he did it. And you'd smile.

Every. Time.

One evening, it rained. Soft and cold. You were walking without an umbrella, arms tucked around yourself. He could have ducked away, waited for another night. But he didn't.

Instead, he slowed just as you passed him, and for the first time, you stopped completely.

"Didn't think I'd see you out here in this," you said, brushing damp hair behind your ear.

He shrugged. "Rain don't bother me."

You nodded once. "Me neither."

And you both just stood there for a second. Not saying anything. Just existing. In the same space. No shadows. No secrets. Just two people beneath a flickering lantern in the rain.

When you walked on, your footsteps slower than usual, he stayed rooted in place until you were out of sight.

That night, he didn't return to Daki at all.

He climbed to the roof of the old tea house instead and sat staring at the clouds, turning your words over in his head like they were the only ones that had ever been spoken to him kindly.

"You always walk this path, huh?"

Yeah. He did now.

It continued with longer pauses.

A heartbeat more here, a question there.

You didn't just say hello anymore. You lingered. Let your steps slow naturally when you saw him rounding the corner. You smiled like always, but now it came with more.

"Rough day today," you said one evening, rubbing the back of your neck. "Clients complaining, paperwork piling up. I don't even work for the house, but I end up doing half the ledgers."

He blinked, unsure if that was directed at him.

It was.

You glanced at him, eyes crinkling. "You ever have one of those days where even silence feels loud?"

He gave a slow nod, unsure how else to answer. But you didn't seem to mind. You kept walking beside him. Not close. Not quite touching. But with him. A few steps shared. A space bridged.

The next night, you told him about your childhood.

Not all of it—just a thread. A detail. The way you used to sneak leftover sweets when no one was looking. The time you got caught hiding in the rafters of the tea room during a performance. You laughed at yourself, soft and fond, like these moments meant something. Like you trusted him enough to share them.

And Gyutaro—he listened.

No one ever talked to him like this. Not unless it was with an edge. A bribe. A command. But you told him stories for no reason. You just wanted him to hear them.

You asked him questions too.

"So… what's your sister like?" "You said you want to buy her free. Do you two talk often?" "Is she younger than you? You seem protective."

He didn't lie—at least, not all of it. He said she was fiery. Proud. That she had her own kind of beauty people couldn't ignore, but that she got lonely sometimes. That he was always watching over her, even when she didn't realize.

Your gaze softened at that.

"I think she's lucky," you said.

He ducked his head. Not used to praise. Not used to being seen as something good.

Some nights, you talked about books. Or your favorite street food. Sometimes you asked what he liked, and he'd fumble through answers that didn't feel right in his mouth. He didn't know what he liked. Not really. But when you smiled and nodded anyway, like his answers were valid, he found himself wanting to know—just so he'd have something to tell you next time.

Each conversation stitched another thread between you.

He didn't know what this was. It wasn't hunger. It wasn't need.

It was want.

Wanting your words. Your voice. The way your eyes held his like they weren't repulsed. Like you saw a man, not a monster.

It terrified him.

And still, he came back every night.

Something shifted.

It wasn't sudden, but it was unmistakable.

You still smiled at him like you always did, but lately… it lingered. There was something else in it now. Not just kindness. Not just casual friendliness. Your gaze had changed—warmer, softer. Like you were seeing something in him he couldn't see in himself.

Gyutaro noticed. Of course he did.

He tried not to. Tried to keep his head low, voice quiet, body hunched like always. But your eyes—damn your eyes—they didn't let him hide. You looked at him like he'd done something good. Like he mattered. Like he had hung the stars and the moon in the sky just for you.

And gods, it wrecked him.

One evening, under the lantern's soft flicker, you asked him something small and simple—what his favorite part of the district was.

He blinked, surprised, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Uh… I dunno. Don't really look at it much like that. But… I guess the river bridge. At night. It's quiet."

You lit up like he'd said something brilliant.

"I love that spot. It's beautiful, especially when the lanterns reflect on the water."

You turned your head slightly, looking at him with that same brightness. That same unshakable gentleness. And then your smile curved, softer than soft.

"But I think I like it more now."

His brow twitched. "Why?"

You just looked at him, your lashes low, that smile deepening into something glowing.

"Because now I'll think of you when I see it."

His heart didn't beat often anymore. But it did then.

He froze. Shoulders tensing. Fingers twitching at his sides. That aching, breathless tightness rising in his throat again. You could see it—the way his eyes darted away, the way his whole posture shifted like he didn't know what to do with his body anymore.

You giggled.

Not mockingly. Not mean.

Just… soft and surprised.

"You're getting all shifty," you teased gently. "Are you—are you blushing?"

His jaw clenched. He turned his face slightly away, as if he could somehow hide the darkened flush that had bloomed across his scarred cheekbones.

And you—bold now, teasing, kind—tilted your head.

"You know," you said, voice just above a whisper, "you're kind of beautiful."

His entire body went still.

Not shocked. Not angry.

Just… undone.

He stared at you like he couldn't believe you were real.

You stepped closer, no fear in your eyes. "And cute," you added with a soft laugh. "Definitely cute."

Something in him cracked open, fragile and trembling, like a frost-covered leaf finally catching sunlight.

He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to say anything. But you didn't ask him to. You just smiled like the sky had cleared, like there was nowhere else you'd rather be than here—with him.

And for the first time in Gyutaro's life, he felt wanted.

It was too late now.

You had wormed your way into the marrow of his being—uninvited, unstoppable.

He used to wander the Entertainment District out of boredom. Bitterness. Loneliness. Now, it was because of you. Only you. Everything else had faded into background noise.

Each time you smiled at him like he mattered… it chipped away at the emptiness inside him.

Each time you called him beautiful—gods, he could barely stand it.

You meant it. He could see it in your eyes. You weren't lying. You weren't mocking him. You looked at him like he was something rare. And it broke him in the best and worst way possible.

So he made up his mind.

He couldn't let you go.

Not back to your ordinary life. Not back to the danger, to the people who didn't see you the way he did. He couldn't bear the thought of you vanishing from his nights—your voice gone, your scent gone from the corners of the street, the warmth of your laughter just a memory.

No. He needed you beside him. Always.

That night, he stood waiting under your favorite lantern—rusted iron with a paper shell painted in faded peach blossoms.

You spotted him before he could speak, already smiling. But he didn't shuffle or look away this time. He stood taller. Straighter.

And then he asked:

"You wanna come with me? Just you and me. A date."

Your smile faltered—but only for a second. Then it bloomed wider than he had ever seen. Your hand rose to your mouth, eyes lighting up as color rushed into your cheeks.

"A—A date?" you echoed, voice breathless. "With you?"

He nodded slowly. A little stiff, a little unsure. But he didn't take it back.

You bit your lip, then laughed softly. "You're serious," you said, like you couldn't believe it. Then you stepped closer, eyes wide with wonder. "Yes. Yes, I'd love that."

Something shattered in his chest.

He didn't know what to do with your excitement, your giddy blush, the way you looked at him like he'd handed you the stars instead of just a question. It hurt—gods, it hurt—to see you happy. Because he knew. He knew what he was planning.

But he couldn't stop himself.

If this was what it took to keep you—to keep you looking at him like that—then he would do it. No hesitation. No regret.

He'd take you away. Make you his. Change you.

If that was the price for your love, for your voice calling him beautiful again, again, again—

Then he'd pay it.

Willingly.

Masterlist

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #gyutaro #upper moon six #gyutaro demon slayer #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro demon slayer x reader

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strawberry-bubblef · 3 months ago

Note

Hi, can I request Rook with a reader who seems stoic at first, but is secretly really emotional? They usually keep up a neutral facade, but privately they get super hyper from things they like and cry really easily from just finding things beautiful or tragic. Thank you so much!

Rook with a Stoic but Deeply Emotional S/O

From the moment you stepped foot into NRC, Rook had been watching.

You carried yourself with a quiet confidence. Calm, composed, polite. You rarely raised your voice, your expressions were mild, and your reactions were always measured. You had the presence of someone who had learned to control themselves in every situation, someone who had long ago decided that emotions were best left hidden where they couldn’t be used against you.

But Rook saw more.

He saw the way your eyes flicked quickly across landscapes during art class,catching the smallest details in a painting of a forest, lingering just a heartbeat longer on autumn leaves or golden sunlight. He noticed the little pause in your breath when music swelled during a performance, the way you’d tuck your hands in your pockets when you were trying to hold back from reacting to something that clearly struck you.

He noticed the things you didn’t say, just as much as the ones you did.

And yet, he never pushed.

Rook had always admired subtlety. After all, what was a more thrilling hunt than peeling back the layers of a soul wrapped in mystery?

But then… one night changed everything.

It was late. The campus was quiet. You’d thought you were alone in the botanical garden, your face turned up toward the stars. The moonlight bathed your face in silver, and your eyes shimmered not from the reflection, but from the tears clinging to your lashes.

You were crying. Softly. Silently.

In your lap lay a book, its ending tucked beneath your hand. Rook knew the story,tragic, poetic, and bittersweet. A tale that ended with a goodbye too painful to speak aloud.

He should’ve left. Given you your privacy.

But you turned slightly, sensing someone nearby, and your eyes met his.

For a heartbeat, you froze. The usual mask you wore,the quiet, composed expression,shattered under the weight of being seen.

Your lips parted as if to explain, to excuse it, but Rook simply placed a hand over his heart and stepped forward.

“Ah…” he whispered, voice so gentle it almost didn’t feel real. “I always suspected the truth… but this is breathtaking.”

You blinked, stunned. “What… truth?”

“That beneath your perfect stillness,” he said, crouching in front of you, “there lives a soul that feels,beautifully, deeply, immensely. And oh, how magnifique it is to witness it with my own eyes.”

Your throat tightened. You quickly tried to wipe your face, embarrassed, trying to retreat into that old neutral mask.

But Rook reached up, ever so softly brushing your cheek with his gloved hand. Not wiping away the tears,but cherishing them.

“You don’t have to hide it,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “Not from me.”

You stared at him for a long moment. His eyes weren’t teasing. He didn’t look at you like you were fragile or broken or dramatic. He looked at you like you were a wonder.

And for the first time, you let the emotion wash over you in front of someone else.

You talked.

You told him about how you’d always loved tragic stories, not because they made you sad, but because they made you feel. How you’d learned to keep yourself composed because people never knew how to deal with someone so… sensitive. How you cried when you saw people reunited, when the sky was too beautiful, when the right song played at the right moment.

How it was easier to pretend to be stoic, quiet, and controlled,because it protected you from the world.

Rook listened to every word like it was poetry. Like your voice was a melody he’d been waiting to hear his entire life.

And then he said, with such genuine reverence, “You are not a contradiction. You are a masterpiece of balance,of quiet grace and unspoken wonder. And I shall count every tear you shed as a privilege to witness.”

Since that night, nothing changed… and yet everything did.

In public, you were still calm, poised. But Rook always knew when something delighted you,when your eyes sparkled at a performance, when your hand twitched toward a beautiful flower, when you had to bite your lip to keep from crying at the ending of a play.

He never outed you. Never made you uncomfortable.

But in private?

He indulged you.

Brought you music that would move you. Shared stories that he knew would leave you crying or smiling for hours. Sat beside you as you clutched your pillow and rambled about your favorite things, voice breaking from joy.

And every time he saw the tears, the laughter, the quiet awe,you’d see it reflected back in his smile.

Not mockery. Not confusion.

Adoration.

English is not my first language !

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderlands headcanon #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #Rook Hunt #rook hunt x you #rook hunt x reader

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ayumigotabittoolonelyquitted · 3 months ago

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Jjk men and their type (my opinion) drabbles

Synopsis: jjk men and their girl types this is basically a drabbles and I m just saying , this isn't canon and they might even date someone completly different from what I said who knows. (In canon course ',;) )

Characters : gojo Satoru, geto suguru, choso kamo ryomen sukuna and nanami kento.

Warning ⚠️: I swear this ain't canon don't get your sweet little heart in pain.

Requests are open!

Looks wise course 😔

CHOSO — goth/emo girls

He definitely has a thing for emo/goth girls. We're talking black eyeliner that could slice a man, chipped black nail polish, oversized band tees, and fishnets. If she listens to old My Chemical Romance or some underground post-hardcore band? He’s done for. He’s giving "silent protector of the spooky girl at the back of the venue" energy.

GOJO — baddies

Gojo likes baddies, period. Glammed up, fashionable, probably the kind of girl who knows how to make an entrance. Hair always done, nails always fresh, lashes fluttering like wings. Think high fashion, a lil mysterious but very visible. Bonus points if she’s taller or wears heels,he likes someone who challenges his ego just a bit.

GETO — beauty that isn't quite describeable

Geto is into quiet, ethereal beauty. Think long, silky hair (any color, as long as it flows), elegant dresses, and those girls who look like they read poetry under candlelight. Soft eyes, maybe a resting sad face. She doesn’t even have to talk much,he’ll fill the silence. Something tragic in her gaze? He’s already in love. (Ayumi ; Hey hey geto's my bitch ��)

NANAMI — soft, elegant women who give him peace

Nanami likes the clean, classic beauty. Timeless style, minimal makeup, neutral tones. Maybe a bit of librarian-core or soft academia. He’s into grace, posture, the girl who wears a watch and always smells like expensive perfume. She doesn’t need to be loud,he loves subtlety and intelligence in her aura.

SUKUNA — unhinged bad girls who’d burn the world for fun

Sukuna’s taste is feral. He likes the dangerous girls. The ones with piercings, intense eye makeup, something unpredictable in their walk. Maybe she’s got tattoos. Maybe she stares back when he stares. He’s into the kind of girl who might stab him in his sleep and he’d wake up like, “hot.” Think femme fatale, but with rage issues..

Personality wise

Choso kamo

Choso is so emotionally starved it’s insane. He falls for someone gentle, nurturing, but not a pushover. Someone who talks softly but holds space for his grief, who listens without judging. He needs warmth. The type who quietly notices his pain and says, “You don’t have to explain,I’m here.” He’ll be loyal until the end. Bonus if she’s a little quirky or awkward,he finds it endearing.

Gojo Satoru

Gojo acts like he wants a girl who worships him, but in reality? He’s obsessed with the one who doesn’t. The one who teases him, rolls her eyes, and treats him like he’s just some guy (because underneath all that power, he is just some guy). She’s witty, sharp, probably emotionally unavailable,he loves the chase. But if she’s also secretly kind? He’s ruined. He’ll try to make her laugh just to see her smile.

Geto Suguru

Geto is drawn to idealists with a hint of melancholy. He falls for the girl who sees beauty in broken things, who’s poetic, introspective, and quietly passionate about the world,even if she feels like she doesn’t belong in it. She has convictions, but also sadness. He sees her and thinks: “She understands me.” If she loves people even when they hurt her? That’s it. That’s the one. (She is me , me is her 😝)

Nanami Kento

Nanami needs someone stable, but not boring. Someone grounded, emotionally intelligent, kind without being naive. He appreciates responsibility and depth, someone who values calm over chaos. But he also secretly loves someone who brings little sparks of spontaneity into his life,a soft rebellion against his rigid structure. She reminds him it’s okay to rest. That he’s allowed softness, too.

Ryomen Sukuna

Sukuna falls for the one who challenges him. She’s not scared of him,she’s intrigued. Bold, sharp-tongued, unapologetically herself. She doesn’t try to fix him, she meets him in the fire. Maybe even matches his cruelty in her own way. She’s a bit unhinged, a little morally grey. He’s obsessed with her defiance, the way she doesn’t flinch. She might hate him,but he’ll love her for it.

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aventurineswife · 9 months ago

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I would like to ask which of the HSR characters would be their favorite type of Goth Girl and how they interact with the goth girl reader.

HSR characters and their favourite type of Goth Girl

Hmm, that's a good question! I'm not very familiar with fashion, so I had to look up the different subtypes(?) and styles of Gothic fashion. Here’s what I came up with, but keep in mind—this is just my opinion on these specific characters!

Blade – Traditional or Occult Goth

Blade would gravitate towards a goth style that embodies the Traditional or Occult Goth aesthetic—dark, intense, and reminiscent of ancient mysteries. This style complements his own fractured soul and aligns with his sense of danger and fatalism.

Blade would admire her goth style in a quiet, intense way. He’d likely avoid compliments, but his lingering gaze would speak volumes. Occasionally, he’d make cryptic remarks about her choice of symbols or accessories, intrigued by the darker meaning behind her look.

He’d invite her on nighttime walks, where they could talk about life, pain, and purpose. Blade would share his own views on suffering and self-destruction, finding solace in knowing that someone understands the allure of darkness without flinching.

When she shares her own struggles, Blade would respond with empathy, quietly urging her to embrace her scars. He’d consider her as a kindred spirit, united by a mutual understanding of darkness, perhaps even guiding her towards finding strength in their pain.

Kafka – Elegant or Victorian Goth

Kafka would be enchanted by an Elegant or Victorian Goth style, one that exudes mystery, timeless beauty, and a touch of refined danger. A style that combines old-world charm with darker, alluring elements would captivate her attention.

Kafka would treat her as her accomplice, matching her elegance with her own polished look. She’d appreciate her ability to blend dark, regal sophistication with subtle danger and would often compliment her in her composed, low-key way.

She would revel in their shared love for all things dark and alluring, occasionally teasing her with whispered secrets and mysterious invitations, making her feel like part of an exclusive, hidden world.

Whenever the reader/she reveals a darker or emotional side, Kafka would listen intently, then offer her hypnotic words of wisdom, nudging her towards a balanced yet sophisticated approach to their emotions. She’d subtly manipulate her into embracing her elegance as armor.

Sunday – Dreamy or Romantic Goth

Sunday would be drawn to a goth style that embodies a sense of ethereal beauty and dreamy mystique, like a Romantic or Dreamy Goth. This aesthetic, filled with delicate lace, ethereal black layers, celestial accessories.

Sunday would admire her goth look as if she's an angel of the night, often complimenting the dark beauty she bring to his Sweetdream Paradise. With poetic and enigmatic language, he'd express how she reminds him of a serene vision, free from the pain of the waking world.

Behind closed doors, he’d reveal a gentler, protective side, seeing her as someone worth preserving in his dream-like world. He’d subtly ask her about her philosophy on life and pain, curious if she'd share his perspective on a reality without suffering.

Whenever she displays a darker or more melancholic side, Sunday would be there to “soothe” her spirit, gently guiding her towards his paradise—although this “soothing” might actually involve urging her to escape painful thoughts.

Robin – Ethereal or Pastel Goth

Robin would admire an Ethereal or Pastel Goth style, with softer tones like lavender and violet combined with traditional goth elements. This blend of gentleness and depth aligns with her own music and tragic past, which holds an undercurrent of beauty amidst sorrow.

Robin would feel a comforting connection with the reader’s look, as it aligns with her own aesthetic of blending light and dark. She’d often give small, heartfelt compliments, noting how her style reminds her of a bittersweet melody.

She’d enjoy quiet moments with the reader, perhaps inviting her to her studio, where they’d share their thoughts on beauty, darkness, and the ways they each express their emotions. Robin might even dedicate a song to her, inspired by her unique blend of innocence and mystery.

When the reader is feeling down, Robin would offer soft-spoken support, listening patiently and reminding her of the beauty in every emotion, treating her struggles like notes in a beautiful song that deserve to be heard.

Aventurine – Cyber or Industrial Goth

Aventurine would appreciate a goth style that leans into cyber or industrial aesthetics—think metal accessories, bold colors, and futuristic touches. This type of goth aligns with his strategic mind and love for taking calculated risks, mixing sophistication with an edge.

Aventurine would be fascinated by her bold look, often pulling her aside to compliment her style in a playful, flirtatious way. He’d likely buy her accessories, such as metallic chokers or bracelets, to enhance her look and treat her style as another high-stakes investment, always encouraging her to be bold.

With his knack for creating excitement, Aventurine would take her to the casinos or exclusive places where they could revel in the aesthetic together. He’d suggest that every encounter and style choice is part of a larger game, creating an atmosphere of thrill and risk, which he finds irresistible.

When the reader shares her darker feelings or thoughts, he’d humorously encourage her to “double down” on it, teaching her to gamble with her emotions, to transform them into something powerful and alluring.

I hope you like it! I tried my best, and it was challenging to decide styles (and writing for a female reader as I'm used to writing for gender neutral) and all, so I really hope you enjoy it 🫶❤️‍🩹

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baiwu-jinji · 7 months ago

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Thoughts on Yuwu and Update

Long time no see dear friends! :) I just finished a big work project and, more importantly, I finished reading Yuwu :P I’m acutely aware that there’re TGCF asks in my inbox I still haven’t answered, I need to re-familiarise myself with the books and I promise to answer them in the coming weeks. For now I want to share some quick thoughts on Yuwu.

1. I’ve seen people pointing out Yuwu’s problems with structures and plot holes, then again these are never Meatbun’s strong suits. Meatbun has always been best at flooding her readers with intense emotions and making us sympathise with even the worst of her characters. I think the best-written character in Yuwu is Jiang Yexue. While Mo Xi and Gu Mang are so strong-willed and incorruptible as to be almost inhuman, Jing Yexue shows how terrible it is to be truly alone in the world and the despair of emotional isolation, and how the best of intentions will turn to bottomless hatred and bile if they’re never repaid with recognition and kindness. The tragedy of Jiang Yexue is that everything and everyone he cares about has only brought him more misery and isolation. If he hadn’t cared about his mother so much, he wouldn’t have to put up with her insults and denigrations that trampled over his good will and planted the seed of bitterness that skewed his perception of the world. He wouldn’t have to be pained by his mother’s abandonment, yet still kept her murderous plots against Yue Chenqing a secret – if he had been more unfeeling and exposed her crime and his role in stopping it, he would’ve won the favour of his family and improved his personal standing. If he hadn’t cared about Yue Chenqing so much, he wouldn’t have to silently suffer the deprivation of his own resources for the sake of benefiting Chenqing, and to save Chenqing at the expanse of his own agony due to poisoning by demonic energy. If he hadn’t loved Murong Chuyi so much, he wouldn’t have looked to him as the only source of solace and salvation and bared his feelings in a moment of vulnerability, and then be completely abandoned and left terribly, terribly alone when Chuyi rejected his feelings.

However I have reasons to believe that Jiang Yexue is the author’s personal fav, because she uses the most beautiful imageries to describe him – not even Mo Xi and Gu Mang get this treatment: his eyes are like gardenia flowers in clear pools, his smile is soft like dew and breeze over flowers, his skin is like fresh snow and immaculate jade. Even his name paints the most poetic imagery: 江夜雪, which means “snow falling on river in the night” – there is purity in darkness, gentleness in the bitter cold.

2. About Mo Xi and Gu Mang. There’s something so tragic about choosing the weight of the entire world over the love of your own heart, and choosing to be true to yourself but failing the one you love the most. Mo Xi and Gu Mang are made for each other if only for their boundless energy, determination, endurance, and capacity for pain. Anyone more faint-hearted than Mo Xi wouldn’t have been able to hold on to Gu Mang. Still, I don’t think Meatbun provided a satisfactory answer as to why Mo Xi is so unwavering in his attachment to Gu Mang, despite all appearances of Gu Mang neglecting, abandoning, betraying, and mortally wounding him. Li Qingqian is given as a counterexample of persistence in love not ending well, so what gives Mo Xi the strength to persist beyond what normal people can bear? Meatbun seems to give an answer in this paragraph: “in this world, to love or not to love is something that can always be changed, but only the heart forever remains as itself. Mo Xi has never been one to make commitments lightly, the day he determined to confess his love to Gu Mang, what he gave Gu Mang wasn’t his love. It was his heart.” So what is the difference between heart and love? What does it mean that love changes but the heart doesn’t?... Despite the obligatory happy ending, Ximang has always had a tragic undertone; Mo Ran and Chu Wanning can only hope to be as star-crossed as Ximang. Mo Xi’s name, 熄 (xi), means to extinguish a light or fire, and this word 熄 is repeated used in allegorical expressions of how Mo Xi’s hope for Gu Mang to recover or return his feelings is extinguished. Mo Xi’s own name is a testament to the hopeless love between Ximang.

3. I think the stories of almost every major character in Yuwu points to one line Mo Xi said to the emperor – 人贵有情, which means “emotions/feelings/attachments are that most precious human thing”. It doesn’t mean that feelings will always lead characters to make the right decisions or make them better people, but that feelings are the most unignorable and persistent drive behind the characters’ actions – even when you’ve lost everything and discarded your humanity, your feelings for those you love will still be there, shaping your destiny, tormenting your heart, making you care. The Three Gentlemen of Chonghua are defined by the Buddhist virtue of self-control, but eventually we see the love or hate that drives them, and their virtuous self-restraint is just a façade.

4. It is very apropos to Chinese history (and modernity) that the nation is ultimately destroyed not by an evil outsider, but by infighting and the ruler’s mistrust towards his own people and his ill-will to dominate.

5. When Meatbun wrote that Gu Mang was confused by the emperor’s carrot and stick strategy, Meatbun actually used the phrase “carrot and stick” in Chinese, which is amusing given that it’s an English expression used in ancient Chinese context. Talking about writing fantasy ancient China in the age of globalisation.

#yuwu #remnants of filth #ximang #jiang yexue #mo xi #gu mang

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hazelira · 9 months ago

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in the eyes of a wallflower

You always felt like a wallflower.

Not in the poetic, endearing sense people sometimes use to romanticize loneliness, but in the literal, sinking feeling of being unnoticed and unseen. It was as if you were the wallpaper of the world—blending in, unremarkable, easily ignored. People passed you by without a second glance, just as one might pass a dull, peeling wall.

Lately, you have started to believe you are the problem.

The whispers in your mind had grown louder, each telling you that you weren’t good enough, that maybe you were the "ugly duckling" in the grand tapestry of life. It didn’t help that people left, and it hurt a little more every time they did. You began to think maybe you had this tragic flaw—something fundamentally wrong with you that repelled others. They’d always start friendly, some even calling you pretty, but by the end, they distanced themselves. The harsh truth echoed in your head: “Maybe your victim mentality drives them away.”

You were aware of that gnawing habit of expecting the worst and assuming everyone would eventually leave. The overthinking, the insecurity—how could anyone stick around when you were in a constant spiral of “what ifs” and “whys”? You wanted to stop feeling that way and letting those thoughts rule you, but you didn’t know how.

Until he came along.

The Australian transfer student, Jake. He was everything you weren’t—confident, charming, effortlessly radiant. He lit up the room like a wildfire. Everyone noticed him and wanted to be around him, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself wish you could be part of his orbit, too. But that’s all it was—a fleeting thought. Why would someone like him ever notice someone like you?

You sat alone in the courtyard that afternoon, knees hugged to your chest, trying to blend in with the garden around you. In your head, you were just another leaf on the tree, another petal on a flower that didn’t stand out. The other students were like vibrant blooms, and you? You were the wallflower. Always.

A shadow crossed your view, and you looked up, startled. It was Jake, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours. He smiled, that easy grin you had only seen from afar.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, his accent lilting with an ease that made your heart flutter.

You blinked in surprise, your mouth opening slightly before you nodded, trying to find words but coming up short.

He plopped down beside you, the two of you sitting quietly. The sounds of the courtyard buzzed around you, but all you could hear was your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“I’ve been meaning to say hi,” Jake started, his tone light but sincere. “You’re always here, and I see you around a lot. Thought I’d introduce myself.”

You frowned slightly. “You’ve... noticed me?”

Jake chuckled softly, the sound like a breeze through autumn leaves. “Of course. How could I not?”

You looked away, staring at the ground. The doubt crept in like it always did. “He’s just being polite,” you thought. “He’s probably saying this out of pity. He’ll leave, too.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” His question was gentle, but it caught you off guard. You glanced back at him, startled by how he read your thoughts so effortlessly.

“It’s not that,” you muttered, though the lie was evident in your voice. “It’s just... no one notices me. I’m just... there.”

Jake shook his head, leaning forward slightly, his expression softening. “That’s not true. You’ve been beautiful all along; you don’t see it. But I do.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words sinking in. You tried to laugh it off, brushing it aside like you always did when someone complimented you. But the look in his eyes stopped you. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t being polite. He meant it.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking,” Jake continued, his gaze steady on yours. “You think you’re invisible, like you don’t matter. But you do. You don’t have to be the loudest or the most outgoing to be seen. You have this... quiet strength. You don’t need to be anything more than what you are.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “But people leave. They always do. And I don’t know how to stop feeling it’s my fault.”

Jake exhaled slowly, his hand reaching out, resting gently on your arm. The touch was warm and grounding. “Maybe it’s not about stopping those feelings,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s about accepting you’re enough, even with them. You don’t have to fix yourself to be loved. You don’t have to be perfect. You have to be you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t know how.”

“Then let me remind you,” he said, his voice a quiet promise. “Every day, if that’s what it takes.”

In that moment, something shifted inside you. The weight of being unnoticed, unloved, and invisible seemed to lighten just a little. Maybe it wasn’t about changing overnight. Perhaps it was about letting someone see you, really see you, even when you couldn’t see yourself.

You weren’t just a wallflower. You were more than that. And Jake? He saw every bit of it.

Maybe you could learn to see it, too.

#hazelira #enhypen #enhypen angst #pov #engene #kpop fanfic #x yn #enhypen comfort #enhypen drabbles #jake angst #jake comfort #enhypen jake #jake sim #jake #jake drabble

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captonite · 28 days ago

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Just Five More Minutes (It’s 2:47 A.M.)

(Feat. sleepy girl stubbornness vs. overprotective Winchesters)

“You look like you’re melting,” Dean said flatly from the other side of the couch.

“I’m not,” Chubs muttered, slumped sideways like a wilted houseplant, eyes barely open.

“You’ve read the same sentence six times,” Sam added, glancing up from his laptop. “You’re not absorbing anything.”

“I am,” she argued, voice thick with exhaustion. “It’s just�� post-midnight reading is poetic. Has soul.”

“You just drooled on your own sleeve,” Dean pointed out.

Chubs blinked slowly. “Poetic drool.”

Sam closed his laptop with a sigh. “Okay, c’mon, bed. Now.”

“Nooo,” she groaned, flopping further into the cushions like gravity had just quadrupled. “If I sleep, the next day starts. My free time ends. I lose. I reject the passage of time.”

Dean stared. “You sound like a raccoon who discovered philosophy at 2 a.m.”

“I am a raccoon,” she yawned. “A sleepy, tragic raccoon who just wants to live in the moonlight and not have responsibilities.”

Sam stood up and walked over to her. “You’re going to regret this in five hours when you’re miserable and grumpy.”

“I’m already miserable,” she pouted.

Dean knelt in front of the couch. “Baby girl, listen. I love you. But you’re gonna have permanent eye bags if you keep doing this.”

“I already have them. They’re called character.”

“You’re literally swaying while sitting down.”

“I’m dramatic. It’s part of the vibe.”

Dean reached out and gently scooped her into his arms, bridal style. She let out a soft “hey!” but didn’t really fight it.

“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

Sam followed, already dimming the lights. “You wanna listen to something? I can put on one of your sleep playlists.”

Chubs mumbled something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like “Taylor Swift and thunderstorm sounds.”

Dean placed her on her bed with exaggerated gentleness. “There. Comfy?”

“I protest this injustice,” she said, yawning halfway through the sentence.

“You can protest from under the blanket,” Sam teased, tucking it around her.

Dean brushed her hair back. “You’ll still have your after-midnight girl magic tomorrow. Promise.”

“Not the same,” she sniffled. “The air hits different after midnight. It's like… velvet hours.”

Dean blinked. “Okay, who gave her a thesaurus and a Monster Energy?”

Sam just smiled, kneeling at her bedside. “Hey, you wanna hear a secret?”

Chubs blinked up at him sleepily.

“My favorite hours are the ones when you sleep. ‘Cause that’s when you’re safe and peaceful.”

Dean ruffled her hair. “Mine too.”

That made her pause, eyes softening. “...Okay. But wake me up gently. Like, bird sounds or something. Or whisper my name like in a movie.”

Dean snorted. “You got it, Sleeping Beauty.”

She yawned again, finally closing her eyes. “Don’t forget the birds…”

A few seconds later, she was out.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x sister!reader #sam winchester #sam winchester x sister!reader #supernatural #supernatural fluff

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happypotato48 · 1 year ago

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Wandee Goodday EP 3 Unhinged Tangent Thoughts

Another week, another naughty fun time with our beautiful doctor x boxer BL. accompanying my unhinged thoughts this week is this random musical number that popped up in my head while i was watching this ep.

I would burn down the world for you Yak!

Renaissance painting ass shit right here. also we know they're gay for each other can we tone down the purple now.

One Eyebrows a day keeps the heteros aways.

I love this unconventional family so much your honor. anyways, Buddy!

Yes! calls out those bitches whoes watched too much romantic movies/shows. it's me i'm bitches 😔

She seems nice.... Ugh i can't even hate her god damn it show! anyways hope this show would not put her through too much shits with paring her with Ai Phi Ter and all.

That's how you do seduction Dee take some god dang notes!

That eyes. these brothers and their forking beautiful soulful eyes. these ones feels like a gentle breeze in mid summer day before the rain fall. god damn these men making me be poetic and junk, ahhh. also here Yei tease Cher by calling him ซ้อ "Zor" which mean sister in law in teochew. it's commonly use now a days as a way to refer to a wife of a establishment owner.

Finally he dressed like what he is on inside.

Did i just turn on grey's anatomy by mistake?? joke aside i liked that they flesh out more of Dee motivations for the scholarship so it not just him being a petty bitch.

Look at you two, being supportive fuck buddies and whatnot. aah a good and supportive dick. BL is indeed a fantasy.

Is nobody in this dang hospital have works to do lol.

Yeah i understand Yak here completely. cause like Boxing and Football are like two of the most sacred places for them straight men in thailand. it probably scarier to be out in these fields than a lot of other careers.

อีดีนี่ จะตอแหลก็หัดให้เนียนหน่อย.

Side boobs! ok slut, i know what's you're up to.

Yak you know making that face is not going to stop Dee.

I stan this unashamed whorish behavior.

Oh, Dee is indeed come from school of grey's anatomy tragic doctor backstory.

He got me. all of its.

You dorks i love you two so much.

Holy shit this ep was great. i know that Dee gone a bit too far in this ep, but i can't be mad at him cause he said it himself early in the ep that he doesn't like to lose and he admited that its not a part of him that he think highly of. and after so many loses relentlessly pursuing Yak was probably the only thing he felt he in control with. and at the end he stopped and realized that its his own problems and it's not fair to drag Yak into it. what he did was not good but it's very human and it make me like him more as a character, flaws and all.

#wandee goodday #thai bl #bl drama #dumb boy unhinged thoughts

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604to647 · 1 year ago

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Code name: Hephaestus

3.2K / Marcus Pike x fem!reader

Summary: Marcus requests a change to his FBI Agent code name.

Warnings: None! Mention of cheating (obviously not Marcus! By Teresa Lisbon, that rat 😒).

A/N: This is written for Round 2 of beskarandblasters's Pedro Pantheon challenge - I sort of misinterpreted the challenge, and instead of making Marcus an actual god, I envisioned a more allegorical story? I hope it still works! I've always found the myth of Hephaestus to be rather tragic, but learned recently (to my delight) that in some renditions he goes on to have a happy second marriage with Kharis (sometimes called Aglaea), so that's how this story was born. The parallels I draw aren't terribly subtle (in fact, you could accuse me of sort of hitting you over the head with them 😅) but in our story, Lisbon is the bare equivalent of Aphrodite (just go with it 😂) and Jane is Ares; takes place in a Mentalist AU where Marcus doesn't go to DC. This is my first time writing Marcus so please be gentle (I'm nervous about this one!); endless thanks to @morallyinept for her character files which helped me get a better handle on our dear Agent Pike (I think!) Thank you for reading!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / please see @clawdee's pinned post for the other Pedro Pantheon works.

Today is the day. The day Marcus Pike’s approved request to change his FBI Agent code name goes live. You’re exceptionally proud of him.

It’s incredibly rare for agents to ask for, never mind actually change their sanctioned code names; the amount of paperwork and pain in the ass database updates required were enough to have most requests denied, never mind that most agents had sentimental attachments to their top-secret monikers. If anything, it only ever happened if circumstance necessitated – say a higher-ranking officer transferred in and used the same code name in their previous office. No one ever asks to change just because. Especially not to a name that had been whispered around the office for the better part of three years and made said agent the butt of a cruel joke.

Hephaestus.

Whispered in the hallways and meeting rooms of the Austin FBI building whenever his back was turned, Marcus good-humouredly admitted that there was some cleverness to it. And though there was no real malice behind the nickname, it was inescapably insulting.

You had hated it enough for the both you.

When you took up the job as the Austin office’s head of Public Relations, Marcus had been one of the first agents to welcome you and make you feel like your contributions and hard work were appreciated. From your previous time in the private sector, you know that a lot of people in public service think of PR as window dressing, just frivolous adornment, but Marcus told you that he found your job to be terribly important.

“How can we protect the public if the public doesn’t trust us? You make our jobs look inspiring and glorify our hard work so that we can do it another day.” You’d never heard of your job being spoken about so poetically. You would come to learn that you weren’t the only one who marveled at Marcus’ ability to look at things from an unique, often beautiful, perspective.

His valued role in the FBI’s Art Squad was never up for debate – no one else could unravel intricate mysteries and solve cases that required expertise and appreciation for the artistry of old and new creative masters the way Marcus did. His analytical mind and problem-solving prowess when it came to art crimes were second to none in the Austin office, and some might say the whole of the FBI. No, respect wasn’t an issue for Agent Pike.

However, as you would learn from one of your colleagues over a casual cup of coffee in the breakroom, even if they respected the hell out of him, the parallels between Marcus and his unofficial handle were too apparent for even the most high-browed FBI agents to ignore.

“I see you’ve met Hephaestus. One of our best.”

“Hephaestus?” you muse out loud. The God of Fire and Volcanoes? That didn’t seem to make sense to you… but hang on, if you recalled your Greek mythology correctly, Hephaestus was also the patron god of artisans, craftsman, metallurgy, sculpture. In your estimation, that aligned a bit more with the handsome Art Squad agent. Your co-worker nods at your assessment but encourages you with a knowing expression for you to keep going.

An unbelievable thought crosses your mind, “Omigod, it’s not because of the limp, is it?”

The circumstances were well known around the office, but it had been Marcus himself who told you about the injury he sustained while on a case that effectively removed him from active fieldwork two and a half years ago. He had given an overzealous art thief chase, and when the perp had been caught, they made one last ditch attempt to waylay the famous Agent Pike… with a bullet. Though otherwise well recovered, the injury had left Marcus with a limp which permanently assigned him to desk duty. When Marcus told you the story, it had been without any bitterness, but with an air of graceful acceptance, acknowledging his injury as a “risk that comes with the work.”

You couldn’t help but admire his steadfast commitment to the job and even-keeled approach to obstacles most people might deem to be insurmountable.

And besides, as you understood it, being taken out of active fieldwork has done nothing to slow down Marcus’ career. He took his reprieve from field work and used it as an opportunity to emulate some of the great artists he had spend his life admiring by becoming something of a creator and maker himself. Seeing a need for technology to become better integrated into the Art Squad’s investigative methods, Marcus began working closely with the FBI’s Tech division to develop new and innovative technological tools to fight art crimes; he became the architect behind celebrated programs and gadgets that aided in the detection of high-quality forgeries, and sophisticated applications that simplified the digital forensics in smuggling schemes. He was something of an in-house hero – you had seen some of these tools at work, and the details in these designs were sometimes as beautiful as the traditional art hung in museums.

The trajectory of Agent Marcus Pike’s career was undoubtedly on the rise. But even though no one, not even Marcus, viewed his limp as an impediment, you still thought the comparison to what the Greeks had considered Hephaestus’ deformity to be in bad taste.

But it was worse than you thought. It wasn’t just because of the limp.

Your eyes widen in horror and your heart clenches painfully for Marcus when your co-worker tells you about Lisbon and Jane.

Most of what you knew about Marcus’ marriage to Agent Teresa Lisbon you learned from your friends at the office. That he had given up his promotion to the D.C. office and stayed in Austin at her request (or as you saw it, a condition) before agreeing to marry him three years ago. Teresa was partnered with a civilian consultant, Patrick Jane, with whom she previously had a close working relationship in California. It was the Austin office’s worst kept secret that their "working relationship" had evolved into a romantic and sexual one… even as she remained Marcus’ wife. The affair has been going on for the better part of two years, with everyone, including Marcus, privy to the fact that his wife and the mentalist were more than just partners in the field.

You’re incensed and indignant on your friend’s behalf.

As a rule, you don’t judge what goes on in other people’s relationships – it’s none of your business and you know from experience that no one ever truly knows what goes on between two people behind closed doors. But this isn’t behind closed doors. It’s at work.

It’s one thing to have an affair. But it’s really another to flaunt your boyfriend in your husband’s face. And it’s an entirely separate matter to do it at the work place you and your paramour share with your spouse. You find yourself grinding your teeth and tapping violently at your keyboard whenever you draw up notices about the cases that Lisbon and Jane work. You might very well even have refused to do it, except that in most cases, their success could be partially credited to Marcus.

Because while Teresa did not find her husband worthy of being loyal to, she did deem his superior intellect worthy of helping her when she couldn’t quite puzzle out her own casework, or she found it advantageous to have an in with the new golden boy of the Tech division. You couldn’t minimize Lisbon and Jane’s work without minimizing Marcus’ contributions as well. Besides, it would be unprofessional to let your personal feelings bias your work, no matter how justified you felt it might be.

Even if you didn’t find her treatment of her husband to be reprehensible, you had a hard time connecting with Teresa. While you do consider her to be a good agent, she was vain, smug and in your opinion, entirely too caught up in the appearance and perceived clout of being partners with the celebrity “Mentalist” consultant: Patrick Jane. Jane, you couldn’t stand at all – quite frankly, his impulsive and unpredictable behaviour and frequently caviller attitude towards proper police procedure made him a risky asset. You didn’t think it did the FBI any favours to glorify his exploits and for your part, you try not to do so.

While you quietly seethed on his behalf, Marcus remained unflappable, professional and generous when it came to all the reasons he had been bestowed his not-so-secret nickname. It struck you as slightly odd that a man as kind-hearted and considerate as Marcus could let such insult and cruelty roll off his own back when he most certainly would not be tolerant of it being inflicted on others. That’s one thing you learn about Marcus during the time you spend with him, be it in the Tech basement learning about all the new innovations you might have to announce, or the lunches and breaks you share – he is giving. Benevolent even. Bestowing on others the kindness that he’s not always shown. He puts the good of others, the whole, ahead of himself. It’s the whole reason he went into law enforcement.

Not without some effort, you forbid yourself from developing and nursing a crush on your married friend. His honour wouldn’t allow it, you’re sure, and in truth, neither does your own dignity; instead you nurture a friendship that you come to value highly with a man whose company you enjoy very much.

Once, you told Marcus that you thought he had the soul of an artist. He had scoffed adorably at this, but listened appreciatively as you explained your assessment. Yes, Marcus has a great appreciation for beautiful things and fine art, but he seemed to see beyond the piece itself – feeling the conviction and emotion behind every brush stroke, chiseling tap of stone, hammering of soften metal and listened to what they had to say rather than what his eyes told him. He appreciated art for the artist, and you thought only another artist could be capable of that.

And what of his new passion for his work in Tech? Sure, Marcus wasn’t literally chasing down bad guys in the streets anymore, but he was still pursuing them with vigor, now to the dark corners of the internet. What was an artist but someone who reworked and shaped what was familiar in order to shine a new light on them? Didn’t artists breathe new life and purpose into what others might see as irrelevant once its obvious usage was no longer?

And his vibrant outlook went beyond his work. You talk animatedly over your shared lunch takeout, the one that Marcus picked up from a local Moroccan restaurant that he’s always wanted to try but had no one to try with. “Take this food, for example,” you say. “It’s something new and maybe you won’t like it, but you’ll try! And when you do, it won’t just be for the flavour on your tongue, but you’ll taste the culture and history behind these dishes. You’re going to enjoy the culinary experience no matter what; even if you’re not guaranteed to like everything.”

And you know he’ll do it again! Try another cuisine or restaurant he hasn’t before, or see a play or movie he’s never heard of! Because artists take risks! Even ones with low stakes because that’s what life is for. You tell Marcus that the friend you see before you is dynamic and has the gift of seeing the potential in things (and people) where others don’t. He takes leaps of faith and reveres life.

Marcus tells you that you might actually be the poet that you usually accuse him of being. And though he thinks you make him out to be grander than he is (you are in PR after all!), he still thinks about your words a lot. He supposes that perhaps he's always been an artist of sorts.

An artist creates, builds, molds – and Marcus has always firmly believed in making the best of what one is given; to see and encourage as much beauty in something as possible. It was an artist’s gift to translate the mundane into the extraordinary, and even if he wasn’t necessarily successful, the artist wasn’t supposed to want more than or try and change what fate has handed him. Or so Marcus had thought.

Before he met you.

Something about you and your friendship made Marcus think perhaps he didn’t have to make beautiful the cards that he had been dealt. That it was okay to admit if something wasn’t right and not try to mold or craft it into something just this side of tolerable. It was okay to want better, to strive for something that was actually good. Lovely.

Little by little over the past year, Marcus has been taking his life, his pride back. And it fueled his desire to reclaim this name he had been mockingly bestowed and reclaim its godlike power as his own.

Yes, he’s ready to proclaim loud and proud: Marcus Pike is Hephaestus.

Marcus Pike is a lover of the arts. An admirer of those of his fellow man who choose to create and construct, artisans and craftsmen who spin and cast stories and convey moments of deep and relatable emotion using earthly materials, metal, stone, clay, canvas, and accordingly, live on far beyond their own years.

Whose brilliant mind combines the industrious and the creative, leading the advancement of innovative technology and its implementation within the ever-evolving discipline of crime fighting.

He might never be fit for active field work the way he once was, but a renewed commitment to physio has made him stronger and leaner than he’s ever been. He wields weights in the gym like a blacksmith might a hammer, forging muscle and strength on the anvil of his own flesh. Far from caring about physical appearances, he sculpts his body into something hard and powerful for the calm it brings his mind, but there is no doubt about it: Marcus Pike is a physical specimen to behold. Limp or no limp.

And yes, Marcus Pike married a woman who did not love him and who did not deserve him. She cheated on him with someone she thought was her equal, all the while overlooking and dismissing the quiet power and steadfast devotion of her husband. And Marcus accepted this insult for a long time, because he thought he had to make something beautiful that wasn’t, that he could love her enough for the both of them. But he’s come to realize that he did it mainly because she made him feel like that was all he was worthy of. But no more. The ink on the divorce papers has been dried for many months and now he positively basks in the love and grace of a woman who sees his true worth.

You.

The code name change is for you too, he likes to think. Marcus doesn’t want you to feel pity for him or the parts of his life that lent connotation to this name, not that you ever did. But he wants you to know that he feels every bit the man you’ve always treated him as: confident, virtuous, strong.

Your Agent Hephaestus.

Some time after he started divorce proceedings, Marcus had reflected a little more on your and his friendship. It was easy and joyful. You respected one another. That you were objectively beautiful was neither here nor there; Marcus was a loyal partner to the core and truthfully didn’t even consider the attractiveness of other people while he was in a committed relationship… but now that he was no longer, he had to admit that he was very attracted to you. And not just your pretty face and alluring figure, but all of you.

You’re kind-hearted and smart, generous and compassionate. You care. He sees it in the way you conduct yourself at work – putting your all into making his fellow agents and analysts shine, making sure that no one was overlooked and that others feel seen and valued. It’s certainly how you’ve always made him feel. You’re sweet and funny – the friends that you make at the office, himself included, would attest that you were sometimes the best part of their work day.

And you’re open and joyful; up for trying and learning new things – never conceited or self-important, you wear your appreciation for the wonders of life and what it has to offer on your sleeve. Your job is about making others look good, but you yourself rarely cared about clout or public accolades - your hard work and confident demeanor speak for themselves and unironically, you come off looking fantastic and everyone liked you, just cause. One thing you never were was cruel or heartless – you give everyone a chance and extend grace to others even under stressful or difficult conditions. The only thing you’re intolerant of is when others exhibited those self-serving attributes. Once in a departmental meeting, some dinosaur had tried to cover up his own mistakes by throwing a young analyst under the bus – you had put a stop to it before the old man could finish his fib with a cutting and deliberate comment about the importance of integrity at the FBI. Marcus had discreetly chuckled to himself and thanked whatever deity looking out for him that you seemed to always be on his side.

Yes, Marcus admires you exceedingly.

A year ago, he had asked you out, nervous that you may not see him the way he now sees you, terrified of ruining your friendship. You had been hesitant, but not for that reason – of course you’re attracted to Marcus, he’s one of the finest men you've ever known, but you worried that his heart might not be ready after what Lisbon had put him through. You should have known better than to doubt Marcus’ capacity for love. Taking a leap of faith in much the same way you admired him for always doing, you’re now happier than you could have ever dreamed. Marcus dotes on you and makes you feel cherished like a goddess. Sharing a life with him makes everything better: food tastes better, sunsets are more colourful, music sounds more harmonious; all because the man next to you makes everything good even better with his kindness and his care. And he worships at the altar of your body like no one ever has, and you doubt ever could; Marcus loves on you with such devotion and wickedness that you regularly see the heavens themselves.

Marcus is an artist reborn – having taken something already amazing and precious, and transforming it into something even more beautiful. Something that makes his life complete.

Marcus doesn’t tell you, but he also put in for a code name for you as well. It’s not needed for the Public Relations department, and you’re not an agent in the traditional sense of the title, so you’ve never asked to be assigned one, but the paperwork for your code name has been submitted and approved. Currently on standby, if and when you ever choose to accept it, it will be ready to go live.

Perhaps someday in the future, should both of you wish it, you’ll agree to become Agent Kharis in both name and in life. Marcus cannot think of a code name more fitting for you than the name of one of the three Graces of the ancient Greek myths, goddess of Splendor, Glory and Adornment, and the beauty who saved Hephaestus from a life without love.

#pedro pantheon #marcus pike #marcus pike fic #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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princesssarisa · 4 months ago

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What are your general thoughts on Emily Brontë as both an author and a person? What is it that makes her so intriguing?

This is a very old ask, but I may as well finally answer it.

As an author... where to begin? Her poetry and Wuthering Heights both combine lovely poetic imagery with raw, dark, tempestuous Gothic themes. Her writing is unabashedly "coarse" (the favorite word of anti-Brontë critics in the 19th century) yet beautiful too. In Wuthering Heights, her characterizations are deeper and more complex than those in the works of some revered male authors twice her age. Even though the novel's two storylines are simple and fairly conventional in plot details (a tragic forbidden love story in Part I, an "evil uncle oppresses an innocent young girl" story in Part II), the ways in which they're told are unconventional and fascinating. In some ways the novel is mythic, fantastical, and romantic (in both the capital "R" and the lower case "r" sense of the word), yet in other ways it's bluntly realistic and full of incisive social commentary. It's hard to describe all the qualities that make Emily's writing intriguing, because there are so many.

As a person, she was fascinating too. Especially because to this day, she's so mysterious: she left so little personal writing behind and most of what we know of her we know through her sister Charlotte's writings about her. She was obviously an unusual person and her life story is full of intriguing contradictions.

The author of the most passionate love story in English literature apparently never experienced romantic love herself and died a virgin. By all appearances she was strong-willed and bold, yet at the same time she was shy and unhappy away from home. "Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone," wrote Charlotte, who also described her as having "a secret power and fire that might have informed the brain and kindled the veins of a hero."

Her blend of "masculine" and "feminine" qualities seems to have been unusual too: her teacher Constantin Héger wrote "She should have been a man – a great navigator…her strong imperious will would never have been daunted by opposition or difficulty... She had a head for logic, and a capability of argument unusual in a man and rarer indeed in a woman." Yet apart from the fact that she never married, she was content to live a traditional, domestic "woman's life," keeping house and baking bread for her family.

She wrote prolifically for her own pleasure, yet was reluctant to publish her work, and even more reluctant to step out from behind her male pseudonym and make her identity known. She was evidently the "odd" one of her siblings, and often "disagreeable," and her writing is likewise full of "odd" and "disagreeable" qualities. Yet the sibling she was apparently closest to, and with whom she collaborated the most as a writer, was Anne: the gentle, pious author of realism and social commentary, whom modern critics like to praise as both "the sensible Brontë" and "the most likable Brontë." Charlotte painted her as a "nurseling of the moors," who wrote from instinct, not education. Yet her writing shows a sophistication and social insight far beyond that description.

And the story of her death is like something out of a novel. Her stern refusal of medical care and her struggle to live her normal, active life to the very last day – the "relentless conflict," as Charlotte wrote, between "the strangely strong spirit and the fragile frame" – seems like something a fictional character would do. Yet there are multiple eyewitness accounts of it. In effect, she died like Don Giovanni in Claus Güth's production of that opera, although of course without the seductions and partying.

Among the people who knew her, she seems to have been divisive: her family adored her, but opinions from non-family members are split between positive and negative remarks. And through the years, critics and scholars have tried to explain her with countless theories (she was autistic, anorexic, a narcissist, an atheist, a lesbian, a trans man, a drug user, had a secret lover who died, had incestuous love for Branwell, stole Branwell's writing and claimed it as her own, etc.), some of which are more convincing than others.

A psychic once told me during a reading that in a past life, Emily and I were best friends. I'm not entirely sure who I would have been, then, because she had so few friends other than her siblings. My best guess would be either Martha Brown, the family's housemaid, or if I was male in that lifetime, then maybe William Weightman. Of course I don't know if that psychic's claim is true at all; I dabble in those things for fun, but I don't know if I really believe them. Still, it's tempting to believe, because I do find her fascinating.

#emily bronte #wuthering heights

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sunspearesque · 1 year ago

Text

‘Tis You, My Great Love

Summary: I've been betrothed to fear since the mists of memory, “the bride of despair,” they named me. And there, by the shore, you found me… sorrow veiling my face, and wounds blooming like tulips in my hands. But lo, you, my great love, now stand, lifting the veil and bidding my fears depart with each tender kiss. “Stay,” I say, “stay for all eternity.”

A/N: hello hello beautiful friends!!! i wrote this piece while feeling extremely sentimental and sappy after a conversation about motherhood with my best friend.. i was contemplating motherhood, marriage, and intimacy in general, but then tried to imagine how that would translate to Nala's and Oberyn's relationship.. so, this fic is mainly fluff with a sprinkle of smut :3 and lots of poetic dreams… hope you enjoy it! <3

Pairing: Oberyn Martell × OFC from WoV

Rating: E (18+ only)

Content: established relationship (marriage); talks of motherhood; fear of loss and abandonment; fear of motherhood; talks of dreams; pregnancy; childbirth; fluff on steroids with a sprinkle of smut; dad!oberyn (my favorite oberyn to write); brief p in v sex; oral (m!receiving); breeding kink

WC: 2.6K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

“Love me so strongly that the echoes come to me here, at night, in the hours of insomnia, where I am waiting for you. I kiss you, I kiss you madly.” — Albert Camus to Maria Casares, Correspondence, January 9, 1950

His breath, slow and warm, caressed her neck as he nestled closer. His arms, like bands of fire, encircled her soft belly. With a grip as tight as the grasp of a man fearing the loss of paradise slipping through his fingers, he held her close, as if she might vanish like the elusive dream of Eden he chased in his sleep. Just when he thought he could taste its waters, they turned to fire, scorching his throat and consuming him in flames, jolting him awake from his slumber. Yet now, she mused, he sleeps peacefully.

She traced her finger over the scar adorning his shoulder, much like the marks she bore on her own body from bearing their son—for when love leaves its mark upon us, not even the shadow of fear can erase it.

Her fingers deftly threaded through his raven locks, prompting a soft hum from him as she pressed a tender kiss upon his brow. Never before had she known such serenity, as sleep gently stole her away in his arms.

—

The sun, basking in its warm and inviting glow, reached its luminous tendrils into the chambers of their castle. The soft sounds of nature at dawn whispered promises of new beginnings. These beginnings ushered in healing and prosperity to souls who had yearned for the clasp of death for so long, forgetting how to revel in life's joys and surrender to its tender embrace.

Life in Dorne, akin to a nurturing mother, a goddess, a woman… the dunes of sand beneath their calloused feet, and the blazing sun in the sky, stood as an impregnable fortress of strength akin to Nymeria, their burning star. She was the mother of both land and people, her warmth forging indomitable resolve within her children. She is the sun—their sun blazing fiercely, instilling in them an unyielding grit against any rival, yet within their hearts lay a gentle warmth that embraced love as steadfastly as a sacred oath.

And like the sun and the earth and Nymeria, Nala harbored the urges of motherhood within her, which was a concept that she held in reverence, yet it also stirred a deep sense of dread within her. She longed for the life burgeoning deep inside of her, for a part of herself to wander this realm and embrace life under her vigilant care and unwavering devotion. However, she couldn't shake the haunting memory of how motherhood had claimed her own mother's life, how she harbored guilt for the tragic fate her mother endured.

If only I hadn't been, she might have fled the castle and escaped her dire end...

This lingering wound within her soul was the sole reason she had shunned the idea of bearing children until she met him.

He, adorned in all his splendor, tended to her wounded soul the very instant he professed his love to her, at a time when he himself was most in need of solace. This bastion of a man, generous, gracious, and gallant, freely bestowed his love, protection, and tenderness, even amidst the shadows of his wrath and vengeance.

For you, my great love, I ache with an unbearable keenness, feeling the wounds within me slowly mend, sewn shut with the thread of your love—a needle of devotion stitching together my injured being. Though painful, it is an insatiable need, a piercing sting I have yearned for throughout the passing years. It closes the chasm within me, that gaping void where the winds of despair and sorrow once freely roamed, leaving me as naught but a specter, undeserving of love, joy, or autonomy.

Your love, my great love, is what ignited within me a hunger for life after an endless fast of fear—fear of loss and abandonment. Your love bestowed upon me the strength to embrace love once more, despite the inevitable sacrifices. Did you know that you visited me in my dreams? You kissed me with such tenderness and held me close. “I was adrift,” I told you, my voice laden with fear, “take me..” I whispered, “Take me with you.”

When she pledged herself to him in marriage, she knew she needed to fear no one beneath the gaze of Gods and men. With him by her side, no rivals could breach her defenses; even in death, his spirit would haunt any who dared to harm her through all Seven Hells and beyond.

You told me once, do you recall? As we strolled the shores, my steps were heavy with dread or joy, or perhaps it was the dread of the joy that awaited me. I struggle to remember the last time genuine happiness graced my soul before that day. When the sweet taste of happiness touched my sorrow-laden lips, I froze in place, wary that this cruel existence might snatch it away, as it so often does.

You whispered to me, my great love, your love with such fervor, you told me how it frightened you, unable to resist the pull of our inevitable fate. “How could I?” you pondered, “You are inescapable.” You told me that sorrow is the price of love; to shun one is to forsake the other. Yet, you vowed not to evade me, you kissed me and swore to me that you would not allow my love to elude your grasp.

You told me how I melt into your dreams, whisking you away in my embrace mere seconds before the phantom hands could encircle your throat. Those same hands, which once tormented you each night, wrenching you from slumber, now find themselves impotent against your newfound peace. You impute to me your salvation, though I doubted my own. You rekindled a dormant tenderness within me, long thought doused by the harshness of life. ‘tis you, my great love, who rescued me… It was not I who saved you, but you who saved me.

She recalled a day they spent amidst the Water Gardens, a few moons past:

Reclining upon the grass, the soothing melody of a nearby water fountain lulled her into a serene state of repose. The laughter of Dorea and Loreza filled her ears, joyfully engaged in play with their father. Nala shut her eyes, savoring this heartening moment with those she holds most dear.

“W–Wait, papa, wait,” Dorea uttered between pants, attempting to conceal her sweet giggles. “I heard Arianne say that you engage in battles,” she inquired, her small hand resting on her waist as she sought to extract the truth from him.

“Yes, I do,” Oberyn replied, seated on the grass, attempting to catch his breath after chasing them all morning. “Why would Arianne tell you that?” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter, intrigued by the smirk that widened before Loreza jumped on his back, encircling his neck and hanging from it, ambushing him. “Papa, fight!”

Nala opened her eyes to witness the victorious father, besieged by little hands and tiny feet, playfully striking his stomach and chest, surrounded by laughter that compelled him to yield, lying flat on his back.

Dorea brandished a stick of wood, pointing it at his face, and murmured, “Surrender!” with a broad, toothy grin. Loreza, seizing the opportunity, delivered a playful punch to his soft middle. “I surrender, my lady, I surrender!” he exclaimed with feigned fear and defeat, eliciting more giggles from Loreza. “Have mercy on this old man, my lady, please!” he continued, jesting while maintaining his scared demeanor.

“Loreza,” Dorea commanded with a stern expression, feigning seriousness, “this soldier will join our army,” attempting a deep, authoritative voice. At that moment, Oberyn stealthily swept them both from their feet and hoisted them onto his shoulders, prompting a chorus of screams and laughter. “You shall never trust your enemy, girls,” he declared, his voice playfully admonishing.

Her faith in his paternal prowess never wavered, evidenced by his eight resilient daughters. He showered them with love and fierceness to such an extent that Nala's own heart ached with longing to bear his child—a primal yearning that twisted within her.

Each time he lay with her, she offered fervent prayers to the Gods, beseeching them, “Grant this union fruitfulness, let it take, let life flourish abundantly within me.”

When the soft stirrings of life within her ignited a radiant glow from deep within, his love grew even more tender, gentle, and expansive; even greater than the swell of her stomach. She marveled at the dichotomy of this fierce and dreaded man seeping such tenderness. How could hands, once stained with the blood of his foes and weathered by battle, now caress her with such delicate care, as if she were the most delicate of petals?

“Tell me,” he panted as he thrust into her, “Tell me how much you love me, Nala.”

“I do,” she said, her words strained with pleasure, melding into a moan, “I do, my viper, I adore you.”

As she entered the throes of labor, he sat steadfastly behind her, his legs parted to rest on her sides supporting her back against his chest, his words of praise gently murmured into her ear. Amidst his curses at the Gods, he avidly wished to shoulder her pain, to bear it in her stead.

When they were greeted by the piercing cries of the fruit of their love—a child, glorious and perfect in every way, red and squealing, a reflection of his father in demeanor, soul, and visage—she cradled him in her arms, while Oberyn enveloped them both in his protective embrace.

Their eyes locked upon the tiny, fragile form before them, and as a rare tear escaped his forbearing facade, she reached out to brush it from his cheek. With a tender whisper, she said, “Look, my love, he bears your likeness.”

She reclined upon her side, nursing their son at her breast, nestled between herself and Oberyn. His gaze lingered upon the tender scene, his eyes laden with unspoken emotions that he dared not voice, lest tears betray him.

Do you remember, my great love? Do you remember how the fear wilted, its head bowed in shame? The fear that once gripped me, releasing my hand as it gazed upon you with eyes filled with dread.

“Fret not,” you whispered to me while I sat in sorrow by your side. Though you lay in a deep slumber for days, your voice broke through the darkness just when I feared I might never hear it again. When all semblance of peace metamorphosed into a looming specter, jeering at me, taunting my joy and desperation. “Oh, you naive child,” it sneered with a voice steeped in bitterness. “I am no child,” I retorted, yet I felt the weight of my old fears returning. “You never learn,” it spat, before your voice shielded me from impending despair. You whispered, “Fret not,” and I believed you, my great love, as I always do.

And now look... Look at him... How can one lay bare their heart to the world, a heart with little hands and tiny feet, and not fret?

—

Gently opening her eyes, she sensed the chill of the empty space beside her—a void she cursed and despised. Rising slowly from her slumber, she beheld him: bare-chested, glorious, as beautiful as a man can be, cradling their son in his arms.

Their embrace enveloped them in warmth, their skins melding as one, while the soft cooing of their child resonated faintly in the chamber's silence. Amidst the peaceful atmosphere, punctuated only by the hushed footsteps of her husband and the tender sounds of their boy, her heart pounded within her chest like a Sand Steed galloping across the Dornish plains, threatening to burst forth. The love she felt surged within her, surpassing all expectations, growing fiercer, more profound—unbearable. It was a love that dissolved her fears like the northern snows beneath the scorching sun.

In the treasured instants shared with his children, Oberyn found solace in moments where the chaos of the world faded into oblivion. Each time they gathered around him, their youthful spirits ignited a spark of joy within him, particularly in those tender early years when they sought refuge in their father's arms. Yet, amidst this warmth, a pang of sorrow lingered as he gazed upon his son, his thoughts drifting to memories of his nephew Aegon, the son of his sweet sister Elia.

He couldn't help but imagine how Aegon might have flourished had fate been kinder to him or his sister or their mother. A gentle touch from Nala drew him back from his sorrowful reverie, and as he turned to meet her tender smile, he leaned in to press a soft kiss upon her lips, mindful not to disturb the slumbering child cradled in his embrace.

“Why did you not awaken me, my love?” Nala murmured, her gaze tenderly fixed upon their son.

“I wished for you to rest,” he replied softly, his eyes warm as they met hers, before he moved to lay their child gently in his crib, nestling him into the plush bedding.

Returning to their bed, he settled himself against the sturdy wooden frame, patting the mattress beside him, inviting her to join him. She approached, crawling between his legs, prompting a raised brow and a smirk from him. “And what might you be doing?” he inquired.

“I long to savor you,” she declared simply, positioned between his spread legs and deftly undoing his breeches.

“And your wounds, my love?” he gently reminded her. “You are not fully healed yet.”

“This will be my remedy,” she replied, her voice hoarse and tinged with sleep and yearning, almost on the edge of a whine.

She felt his cock swell and throb in her grasp, searing and already slick with desire. With gentle strokes of her hand, she evoked muffled groans from him, meeting his gaze as she whispered, “I love you beyond reckoning…”

Lowering her head to his glistening tip, she teased the slit with tiny licks, relishing every drop of his precum. His head fell back, a deep moan escaping his lips before she buried him in her mouth.

She swallowed him deeper and deeper until he was fully sheathed within her throat, his leg jerked beside her as she moved him in and out of her wet and wanting mouth. A low hum accompanied her fervent ministrations, her hand tenderly caressing his soft belly, a part of him she had adored over the years.

Pulling him from her drooling mouth to catch her breath, she panted between words, “If not for my wounds, I would not have wasted your seed anywhere but deep within my cunt,” she licked his sensitive tip, and he whimpered quietly, “taking me day and night… today and tomorrow and the day after, and spilling your seed within me over and over ‘til it takes,” she confessed before taking him again, squeezing him within her tight throat, his primal groans filling the air and filling her with an immense sense of pride at her actions.

She swallowed around him once, then twice, until she felt his warm, salty cum spurt into her eager throat, eliciting a guttural growl from him as he filled her up and came down from his climax. She withdrew his softened cock from her mouth, gathering the seeping cum from the corners of her lips before eagerly sucking her digit clean. Crawling up to lie atop him, she rested her head upon his heaving chest, pressing kisses to his golden skin. He enveloped her in his arms, holding her tightly, yearning to merge with her until they became one.

You, my great love, ‘tis you who will always reign until the end of times, in every lifetime, in every plane of existence.

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ofcowardiceandkings · 2 years ago

Text

so in those [mumble mumble] years between BotW and TotK, the Zora replaced the weathered and unreadable monuments with new history writing by Sidon, and their contents have left me hmm emotionally compromised ??

i was gonna list em out in full but then i read them all and Sidon waffles so much bless him LOL

full transcripts below (+ the 11th monument in the Domain itself) expect Sidon being an adorable goof, Zora Deep Lore, waterbending, SO much gushing over Mipha and Link, Zelda being a sweetheart, and surprise Yona content !!!

just for clarity, i've highlighted the first word of each on-screen chunk of text ... i love Sidon so much but he's so verbose i kept missing the full log lol but im glad he went all in, its earnest, descriptive and poetic :') 💙 RIP the stonemasons ...

Learnings of the Zora, Part One The Waters of Zora's Domain As told by Prince Sidon

Long, long ago, right here in Lanayru, incredible transformations, both subtle and drastic in nature, shaped the land. The tall mountains birthed clouds, these clouds cried tears of rain, and this rain filled our deep valleys past the brim. In time, this overflowing water became the Zora River, which bred waterfalls that fell and nourished the vast Lanayru Wetlands. Perhaps it was inevitable that my Zora ancestors, who wandered in search of precious water, would finally settle here. The mountains of Lanayru are blessed with high-quality stone. The structures built from said stone are solid yet refined. Just like the Zora and our domain, our buildings exist in harmony with the water. It is a beautiful symbol of our way of life. If you go to the edge of the domain, close your eyes, and listen closely ... you shall be greeted by the gentle sound of water. This kind, soothing sound is a testament to the happy life the Zora are so grateful to have found here. As one born of royal Zora blood, my duty is as clear as it is unshakeable. I, Sidon, swear here and now ... I shall protect our home with my very life, that the gentle sound of water may never cease in our beloved domain.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Two The Legend of Ruto, Our Great Ancestor As told by Prince Sidon

It is written that long ago there was a strong-willed Zora princess who was as meandering as a winding river. This princess, who was dearly loved by her fellow Zora, was noble as she was innocent. Her name was Ruto. One day, a powerful and wicked man tried to take over Hyrule and brought great ruin to the once-peaceful Zora's Domain. Our tales speak of falled Zora soldiers drifting down the river as it sadly reflected the chaotic retreat of the terrified Zora. Princess Ruto bravely fought back her tears and she bore witness to the tragic misery unfolding in the domain. Even amid her heartbreak, the Zora princess did all she coult to help the weak and elderly escape. Next she swam against the river's current and climbed the mighty waterfall to challenge her foe. The details of this fight have fallen victim to the haze of time. Few details remain. Still, it is said she was aided by the princess of Hyrule and the hero of legend, and together they saved Hyrule. So the legend goes. I, Sidon, prince of the Zoram cannot help but ponder these events as I listen to the Zora children play in all their innocence. As Princess Ruta's descendant, it is my fate to carry the torch of her brave acts into tomorrow and beyond. I shall not fail.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Three The Great King Dorephan As told by Prince Sidon

Several springs after I lost my dear sister, Mipha, a large group of Lizalfos attacked the domain. It mattered not that this was my first true battle. The expectations of those around me weighed heavy on my shoulders. The absence of Mipha, who had always been there to encourage me with loving kindness, was like a spear to my heart. As for my own spear, though I was highly trained for its use, it seemed to only cut the air and slash the water's surface. I was taken off guard by a surprise attach from three Lizalfos hiding at the water's edge, each with their blade fixed on me. I knew that my time had come ... and that is when the three Lizalfos disappeared, as quickly as they had arrived. In their place, I saw the towering figure of my father, the great King Dorephan, who had just bested my foes with ease. "Sidon, my son," he said firmly. "You allwed your heart to falter. That is the quickest way to fall on the battlefield." His words cut deep, but as I stood on the brink of dispair, a familiar gently encouraged me. "Your king needs you." Many soldiers later attested they were certain they had also heard the sweet voice of Mipha on that day. From then on, my heart was true and my resolve firm. By lending strength to our king, we were able to save the domain.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Four Two Sisters of Different Blood As told by Prince Sidon

When I was young, I had an irrational fear of strangers. I was particularly bashful around Yona. Paralyzed, even. She was already so mature in manner, and she treated me like a little brother, even though we were not related. There came an unseasonably heavy rain that quickly flooded the river. Us children, who were playing there, were swept away. I was battered by the water's strong flow, my fins helpless to resist. It was Yona who dragged me to the safety of the shore. The water continued to swell as the shore waned, but Yona was unflappable, sweetly comforting me as I shivered in fear. It was Mipha, my dear sister, who finally showed up to rescue us with other Zora adults in tow. I still remember Yona's face as she gazed up at Mipha in admiration. My face must have looked the same as I gazed at Yona. As a child, I had two big sisters. One by birth and one by chance. Yona looked up to Mipha, and I was in awe of them both. Before I knew it, years had passed, and my feelings for Yona became more difficult to quantify. Then, one day ... My father informed me that the amazing young woman who had once been a like a sister to me was to be my bride. Perhaps these feelings and memories are too dear and private to commit to history, but such is the tale of this Zora prince.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Five The Zora Armor She Left Behind As told by Prince Sidon

For some time after I lost my beloved sister, even in the light shining on the water seemed dark and dreary to my eyes. But as they say, time heals all wounds, no matter how deep. I can now speak of her with a smile, as is only fitting. I shall now tell the tale of the Zora armor that my sister crafted for her future husband, as per our ancient custom. One dark day, the domain was in great peril, and I sought help from a traveling Hylian to save our home. He was sparing with his words, yet I trusted him at once. As fate would have it, he was a childhood friend of Mipha's. My father, King Dorephan, troubled by the domain's suffering, requested his help. The swordsman agreed without hesitation. Father bequeathed my sister's Zora armor to this courageous soul, along with her hopes for the safety of the domain. The armor fit Link perfectly - so perfectly that councilman Muzu, who then harbored a hatred of Hylians, could not object. My sister had already left this world, and with her went the dearly held intentions that she had instilled within that special armor. Yet, with Link's help, she shined a light on the Zora in our hour of need, reaching between worlds with gentle fingertips.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Six The Story of Mipha Court: The Beginning As told by Prince Sidon

There was once a terrifying monster on Ploymus Mountain, loosing shock arrows on all who dared to cross its path. It was of utmost importance to drive the beast away, but as the Zora are weak to electricity, our efforts were futile. That is when a lone Hylian arrived at the domain. This swordsman who was sparing with his words ... his name was Link. Unlike us Zora, he was immune to shocks! Well perhaps that is an exaggeration, but one thing is certain. He was very brave. After careful preparation, he ascended Ploymus Mountain and defeated the foul beast all by himself. As if in celebration of newfound peace, clean water mysteriously began flowing at the top of Ploymus Mountain. That is when many Zora, if not most, voiced support for building a place that all could enjoy in that formerly frightful spot. Yet the many tree roots and stones made this task tricky, leading to a focus on the no-less-difficult matter of the name. "Zora Park" was too obvious. "Ploymus Park" only conjured images of the former terrors found there. When I candidly asked whether we should focus on the hard work at hand rather than the name, they all turned my way. "Prince Sidon," they asked. "Surely you must have a good suggestion?" To that, I fell silent, and stayed so for a long while. I shall write the conclusion of this story on another monument.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Six The Story of Mipha Court: The Conclusion As told by Prince Sidon

The first half of this tale can be found on another stone monument. If it is not too much trouble, I advise reading that first. I now present the conclusion. When posed with the task of naming this storied location, I, Prince Sidon, fell silent. After a time, I timidly proposed the one and only name that came to mind for this place of newfound peace. I suggested that we name it after my beloved sister who had long been lost to us ... Mipha Court. I worried they would think I was unfairly favoring my own family's legacy by naming it after my kin. A hush fell over the group. After a time, one of the stonemasons raised his voice in agreement. More voices joined his, one after another. The idea was embraced whlly, and the craftsmen all returned to their work. Though the work was grueling, from then until the completion of Mipha Court, the air was filled with laughter and singing. This incident drove home to my very core how much everyone loved my sister. I hope one day to inspire such admiration. If there is ever to be a Sidon Court, I must work tirelessly to earn that honor.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Seven The Prince and the Swordsman As told by Prince Sidon

The rain always stops ... except when it does not. This humourous saying was once repeated with a soft chuckle around here. Then, one day, heavy rain started falling in the domain, and no matter how many days passed it did not cease. Although the Zora are a water-dwelling sort, we came to miss the warmth of the sun and dry winds upon our backs. Alas, as fervent as our desire was, we had no means of stopping the cause of this unprecedented disaster. When all had given up hope, I, Sidon, took it upon myself to invite a Hylian to the domain. This young swordsman of few words was named Link. I trusted him at once, sensing great devotion in his kind eyes. It was immediately clear that my instincts were correct. Thanks to Link, we were able to face the thread head on. Our battle with the source of the disaster was intense by my newfound friend and I refused to yield until we finally triumphed. Sometimes, writen words flow so much more readily than those spoken ... Link, my dearest friend, you are an unparalleled swordsman, and I admire you so very much. He may lack fins and gills, but it matters not. This hero among heroes exudes magnificence tempered with steadiness. Though we are different, our hearts both yearn to serve a higher calling. I learned much from him, and I am eternally grateful. As I recall my best friend, it occurs to me that though the rains have ceased, perhaps a true adventure never does.

Learnings of the Zora, Part Eight The Princess of Hyrule As told by Prince Sidon

One that despicable disaster had ceased to plague Zora's Domain, a distinguished yet humble lady paid us a visit. This young woman who appeared with Link at her side was none other than Princess Zelda of the royal family of Hyrule. "I beg forgiveness," she said earnestly. "Because of the royal family, Princess Mipha ..." She paused, unable to continue. Small, silent teardrops tumbled down her cheek and hit the floor, one after another, each saying a thousand unspaken words. She gently wiped her eyes and lifted her gaze to meet the king's, speaking kind words of gratitude for Mipha's sacrifice. We knew well that what had transpired was the result of a decision shared by the Zora and by Princess Mipha herself. There was no need for the princess of Hyrule's apology, and even less so for her sorrow. King Dorephan, along with the rest of the Zora, were moved by the depth of Princess Zelda's sincerity. She had held that unthinkable disaster at bay for nearly 100 years with nothing more than the sheer force of her own will. Yet she was not prideful. She dutifully set to work, traveling across Hyrule to secure cooperation for the kingdom's restoration. She was adored by all, yet so humble. She possessed an inner strength, but now I am not so certain. I feel a strong calling one day to acquire this same sort of strength within myself.

Learnings of the Zora, Anecdote One The Solid Water and the Fluid Spear As told by Prince Sidon

The Zora are not associated with water because of our dwelling place alone. We each also, to varying extents, possess the ability to actually manipulate water. We use this gift for many purposes. We use it to swim faster, to achieve mighty leaps from the waves below, to gather fish, and so much more. For me, the true awakening of this ability that many of my childhood chums already possessed came upon me quite suddenly. One day as I was training at Veiled Falls, the rain slickened my grasp, causing me to drop my spear. I reached to grab it, but it was already too far away. Soon it would fall to the bottom of the cliff, never to be seen again. I knew that I must take old of it, and at that moment, droplets created a stream extending from my outstretched hand. The water stream twisted and turned until it finally took hold of my falling spear and deftly returned it to my grasp. In that moment, the water was solid and my spear fluid. This sensation forever changed my approach to spearplay. I was reminded of how my sister, Mipha, described it ... and everything clicked. Water and spear became as one. Gaining yet another layer of admiration for my dear sister, I devoted myself to my spear training from then on.

Learnings of the Zora, Anecdote Two The Great Task Entrusted to Me As told by Prince Sidon

I, Sidon, was entrusted with the great task of renovating the Zora stone monuments that had fallen to ruin. There are 11 stone monuments total find in and around Zora's Domain, including the one you are now reading. The former text written by my father, King Dorephan, could not be salvaged, and so sadly it had to be replaced. Despite my royal blood, whispers abound that it is improper for someone my age to write over the king's glorious words. Ah, but do they not realize that it was King Dorephan himself who ordered me to undertake this restoration project? Father says it is not set in stone that I shall be the one to inherit the throne, as it is not a matter of blood alone. If we ask the eternal skies above whether I am fit to rule, they shall remain silent, and so we must look to our fellow Zora. He urged me to use these monuments to share my learnings and speak to our people straight from my heart. Father is older and wiser than I. His sage advice is a gift. As such, I have inscribed my thoughts upon these 11 stones. I do not know how far-reaching my words shall be, but it is my hope that they will reach whoever needs to hear them most. Until one of the descendants writes over my musings many years from now, I pray they resonate with whoever reads them.

WELL there we are, thanks for the history lesson Sidon you absolute sweetie fhjdkdjf i have thoughts and feelings and emotions but i wont make this post any longer than it already is but i love these characters byeeeEEE

#the legend of zelda #the legend of zelda: tears of the kingdom #tears of the kingdom #legend of zelda lore #loz totk #loz lore #totk lore #totk zora #totk spoilers #tears of the kingdom spoilers #zoras domain #prince sidon #totk sidon #zelda blogging #botw/totk blogging

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