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pparacxosm · 2 months ago

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hunger is ugly

(blue-eyed son 3 !! which, as any third and final installation of a franchise ((back to the future and spiderman withstanding !!!)), is obviously the best one; i’m only half kidding; homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; see parts one and two; tw eggnog; tw coworkers; cw smut but nothing crazy; if you’re seeking closure don’t hold your breath; i’m sick of these two; they clearly don’t know what they want; and i refuse to take blame; tw fitted sheets; tw cocaine talk)

He once told you he couldn’t wear a suit. I couldn’t, he’d said, I’d look ridiculous in a suit. But he cleans up quite nicely, actually.

In fact, he looks good, and you’re not above admitting that. He looks better, actually. Healthier. And he looks handsome in his casual blazer and charcoal linen slacks. Oh God, are you gonna look frumpy beside him?

“I’ve always wanted to go to an office Christmas party,” he says.

You’re on the floor before him, straddling your full length mirror, and all your tumbledown, halfway gutted makeup products are strewn wildly about you.

Your bed, behind you, is a skeleton state, too. When he’d come over, he’d nearly laughed at the fact that you’ve apparently been so busy, your clean bedding is still sitting in a laundry hamper in the corner of the room, and you’ve been sleeping in the inserts on a bare mattress for who knows how long.

Patrick doesn’t pass judgment on the mess in your apartment. He still feels he owes you in some weird, kiss-the-hand-that-fed-you sort of way.

You’re not a slob. You always look put together when you leave the house. You’ve just had to focus on work. You can’t stumble at the finish line. Or… the glass ceiling. Or the penultimate rung on the corporate ladder. Whatever. If you can successfully execute this next product launch, who knows what other doors might open for you. Probably doors in buildings very similar to the one you’re already working in. But that’s nothing to sneeze at. Every morning, you see your reflection in those immaculate windows.

So anyway, it shouldn’t matter. Things just get away from you sometimes.

Patrick’s standing above you pensively reflecting how many undone buttons says Corporate Shindig Eyecandy (Please Give My Date That Promotion) as opposed to Reformed Tennis Heartthrob. His shins are sort of bracketing your hips.

“Well, it’s half an office Christmas party, and half—like—a congratulatory… thing. For Deirdre’s successful proposal,” you murmur, leaning forward, tugging your temple to flatten your eyelid and flick on your liner.

“Aw, what?” he frowns, “Deirdre? We fucking hate Deirdre.”

You laugh. You try not to delude yourself, not to let these moments exist in some flowery vacuum in the eye of your mind, not to ask him to fix your bedding for you. But it’s hard.

Whoever let Sam replace the DJ halfway through the party was either a genius anarchist or too drunk to care.

You know it’s probably the latter. You down the cognacheavy eggnog from your glass and make a disgruntled face. You don’t know what you expected. Shania Twain is belting from the speakers while Sam wiggles his headphones in a dumb, awkward dance.

He’s pretty funny, all things considered, but you’d still like nothing better than to whack him up the head with an ink cartridge.

One of the blousy interns from your department is haplessly flirting with Patrick, pretending he bumped into her and made her plash some eggnog on herself, but she’s trying to be selfaware about it.

“Oh gosh, isn’t this such a cliché: the boss’ plus one wiping a dairybased drink from the subordinate’s—… oh no, I know she’s not technically my boss, but she’s sort of my senior within the company, like on the general corporate ladder, argh, I know, I hate it!”

She could’ve said superior, you think, instead of senior.

You’re feeling too pissy to go and save him from that failed interaction. You turn your back to the crowd and look out of the glossy black windows. That chorus keeps stomping its pointed heels over your fragile nerves.

The best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun!

Do you have a little fun? Are you a Good Time? You have to laugh. It’s just a stupid song. But you need the validation.

That’s why Patrick picks the wrong moment to come and talk to you.

“Hey, this chick is chasing me with a napkin around the room.”

You snort. “Not my problem.”

Patrick leans against the buffet, delivering a wry salute when Sam points at him from the DJ booth and winks. “That guy’s something,” Patrick chuckles, “He asked me to sign his dick.”

“Did you?”

Patrick hums like he’s ambivalent and places a large hand on the small of your back. “Would that be good for you, if I did?”

“I’m fun, right?”

You swirl the remains of eggnog in your glass. You ask the question like he’s been holding out some big secret from you.

Patrick blinks. He scoffs in disbelief, but also smirks pointedly at your glass. “You’re asking me?”

You stare at him through the briar lace of your eyelashes. Everyone who’s met him today has had their own lashes drenched in laughter. You hadn’t realised it first. You’d figured those were mutually exclusive things, downandout charm and the breathing room of comfortable success. But no. He’s charming, anyway. It’s just that he’s not haggling for scraps of generosity anymore so much as he’s lapping at the fleeting dregs of likability. And you hate that you notice that, and you hate that you notice him, that you know him, in a sense. Because what are you supposed to do about it?

“Everybody loves you. Just… be objective.”

Patrick still laughs. He rubs his stubble. He should’ve shaved this morning. He thought he was doing something for you, something nice, by coming with you to this thing and wooing everybody’s pants a little tighter, but maybe he’d missed the mark. “You know I can’t be objective.”

“Why not?” You sound petulant, leaning angrily against the buffet. You’re old enough to know what he’s saying, of course. He’s being nice. He’s telling you he thinks you’re fun, that the rest shouldn’t matter, but then he doesn’t need anything. Even when he had nothing. So he wouldn’t get it. He wouldn’t notice.

Patrick tilts his head and narrows his eyes in that way he does when he’s vivisecting you, then clears his throat. “You’re drunk.” He laughs again, a little gratuitous. Then, after a while, “I have fun with you. You’re engaging.”

“Engaging?” you echo, frowning. “Seriously? What am I, an essay?”

“No, I just— Jesus, what do you want me to say?”

You clench your jaw. Okay, you are drunk and you’re at this office party from hell and a hard rain’s a-gonna fall, so goddamn it, he will call you fun.

So you get right into his face. You’re good at that, even if you barely reach his shoulder. “Tell me I’m fun, because I am, and you think I am.”

You try to swat his hand away, but his palm stays put, a hot magnet just above your tailbone, and he doesn’t even look like he’s doing it on purpose. It’s just that he feels an emptiness in his stomach, depressing but also thrilling. Like taking a hit. Like you’re a little bag of white powder. Beyond the dark windows it starts to snow. He used to do a bit of coke, when everything around him dropped dead and started to rot, and he couldn’t stomach the smell. He doesn’t seem like the poster kid for moderation, but the coke was good, and he didn’t let it be any more than that. In fact, at times, the coke was great. The coke was fun. But he couldn’t live with the coke. You understand? He couldn’t settle down in New England and raise a cat with the coke.

“I don’t think I can win with you,” he murmurs, and, for his part, he at least sounds like he needs to change that.

It’s supposed to be a comfort fuck—and you call it fuck in your head dismissively—but it’s too raw and unknown. You’ve spent so much time in this questionable relationship with existence in his life. In and out. You thought you’d learned him, or at least learned the both of you, but his hands on you, his mouth on you—it’s frightening, finite, foreign. Somehow divorced from this man who, for all his egofueled casual mania, doles out intimacy like free samples.

This is what it feels like to watch him unravel, but it’s not just beggar’s desperation. No, he’s making room for someone else beside him in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

He keeps touching every part of you, frantically, trying to feel all of you, sinking his head between your thighs with a groan of relief, immersing himself in another body. But not just any body, because he keeps mouthing your name. As if to remind you that he is here, and you let him in. Because it matters that it’s you, that someone who knows him is letting him in. He’s humming to himself as you come against his fingers and mouth.

... hunger is ugly... souls are forgotten... I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it...

You like his full weight on you, sinking you into your undressed mattress, trapping you, suffocating you under his bottomless gloom. He has one hand on your thigh. He lifts it at an uncomfortable angle, sinking his cock deeper into you, making it ache. How does he know you like that, anyway? He doesn’t. He noticed.

You want to resent what he’s doing here, which is trying to ‘win with you’. Because he’s been on a winning streak, and you’re not about to spoil that.

And these demeaning, mechanical thoughts probably aren’t reflective of his inner monologue at the moment, but it’s easier to believe he doesn’t respect you than to contend with this whole thing.

You want to tell him, you don’t know what I like, but he starts talking about this tournament. There’s a match in Boston, for real this time. You’re having trouble paying attention.

You fall asleep with him still inside you, head on your chest, and you, crushed comfortably by his weight.

You wake up before him. He must have rolled off you in the middle of the night. He’s sleeping next to you, one hand stretched towards you, head on the pillow at a strange angle.

You turn away quickly.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing in and out, staring at the heap of his cocktail wear on the floor. You feel sore and stupefied. You feel cramps in your muscles. You feel weak in the best and worst way possible. You keep breathing in and out, hoping you’re keeping quiet.

But he wakes up anyway.

You can feel his gentle eyes on the slightly hunched line of your back.

“Hey.”

“Morning,” you mumble, throat dry. Why does it have to be morning? Why does it always have to be morning?

“Come back here,” he says, as if it weren’t morning.

You shake your head softly.

His silence is edifying. It goes on for too long.

“You’re not gonna stay, are you?” you ask, serious and formal, gripping the edge of the mattress. You clench your jaw, body taut.

You can hear him swallow, throat working to get the syllables out.

“I’m not, like… leaving you.”

You close your eyes.

“No, I mean—yeah,” you chuckle miserably. “You’re probably doing the right thing. The best thing for you.”

You feel the tears slide out one by one, and your shoulders shake slightly.

“Please don’t cry.” He’s using that soft and primordially tentative voice he uses with your cat. “I’m not worth it.”

You look over your shoulder at him. “Then why is it so fucking hard to watch you go?”

It’s only recently you’ve started getting angry with him. You used to get grudgingly amused, perhaps vaguely reproachful, but now his stupid face just makes you livid.

His eyes tremble pensively. “I don’t know. But that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You turn your head away, rolling and wiping your eyes at the same time. “I just don’t see how it could work.”

And there’s a door he could open for you. There’s something he could say at this juncture to reassure you, momentarily, that it could. But he can’t bring himself to lie, because he cares about you too much to take a bump of that powder.

He hangs his head and looks at the beautiful line of your back, memorising it.

Then he gets up.

“I’m gonna make coffee, then we can get that fucking fitted sheet on, alright?”

You nod absently. You don’t turn to look at him as he puts on his clothes.

He comes up to you before he leaves. He runs his finger under your chin and lifts it up. There’s a kitten scratch on his cuticle.

You could come watch the match.

But he doesn’t say that. You haven’t seen him play since New Rochelle. “I’ll fill the demon’s bowl. I think she’s starting to like me.”

You laugh, wiping more tears.

Patrick takes that hand, your hand, wet with tears, and brings it to his mouth. He kisses and licks the salt away. He keeps it there for a moment longer than he should. You gently pull away.

You only exhale when he’s gone.

Toby slinks out from behind your mirror, swishing her tail back and forth in contempt.

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, shut up,” you whisper.

#challengers #challengers fic #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig angst #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig fluff #i mean barely #if i had a nickel for every time i wrote a fic about having sex with patrick zweig during christmas season #i’d have two nickels #which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice right?#bitchy coworker deirdre #toby the cat #shania twain is team tashi #and i can’t believe this is the first time i’m tagging this but #bob dylan is team tashi

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tang3r1n · 7 months ago

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cute idea but hero!chizome grappling with a hopeless crush on all might’s daughter figure (jus a chick he took under his wing izuku style)

like UGH. he’s such an old-school gentleman FUCK. he sends flower bouquets with your favorite flowers and like a 4 page letter with the most beautiful and eloquent language used to talk about how in love he is, and he talks like he’s fucking dying. exhibit a;

“i would lay myself at your alter, goddess, my insides laid out for your tasting, your pleasure— please eat of my flesh, consume me whole and let me feel accomplished as a simple, filling meal for you.

oh i beg of you, let my soul forever intertwine with yours, let me feels the silk of your skin, the heat of your breathe, plunge your hand into my heart and cherish it. sink your teeth into my neck and devour me.

i yearn for you, lovely thing. warmly, obsessively, lovingly, carnally, i can only hope you pity my foolish desires— my insane ramblings of fanatic and desperate attempts to gain your affections. please, please by the grace of all that is just and fair, let me worship you. let me treat you as you want to be.

i pray to no god but that of your body, of your mind, of your soul. there is no religion outside of your teachings, my muse. your word is my law, my written oath, music in the grand hall, the rain, the air, the existence of love. i would sooner accept death and the failure of my life’s work than to even acknowledge the existence of beauty that shines brighter than yours.

i beg of you, let my lowly hands hold you, let my soiled and ugly form touch and feel you, let me court you, my fair woman.

let me love you.”

omfg and he’s so petty. randoms in the street and fellow heroes flirting with you? he’s sighing and scoffing dramatically before completing dissecting their speech patterns, body posture, heroing skills, physical appearance, literally anything he can to make them leave you two alone

i feel like he doesn’t care abt how he looks (i mean duh no nose.) but the second you mention liking muscles he’s suddenly finding excuses to flex and stretch around you non stop, he’s doubling up his workout routine and bulking like a MOTHER FUCKER to see if you’re staring yet.

AAAHHH idk i just love chizome and need him insanely badly.

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unknownperson246 · 5 months ago

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Hi!! could you do a Kelly Nickels X Fem reader fic where Y/N is one of his bandmates’ sister and they hook up right before they’re formally introduced to one another? very smutty! thank you! <3

hii im very sorry its late but here it is ❤️❤️

So Tight

Words: 1,112

Warnings: *smut* *cussing* *cheating* *cum play* *cum eating* *p in v* *teasing*

✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:*

Kelly Nickels was in your garage with your brother. Kelly Nickels was there to form a new band. He had fun with L. A Guns but they decided to quit so Kelly formed another band. He still didnt know all the supposed member's names and he didn't know anything about them. He was there to test the chemistry with all of the people who were chosen by him to be in his new band. They didnt have a name yet either. No one had any idea who anyone was. All the men knew Kelly from L.A Guns. It was like the forming of Velvet Revolver except no one knew each other. Kelly wanted them to be interested in the band instead of using Kelly.

“So why do you guys want to be in this band?”

“I am here to have fun and to test how I like being a rockstar” one of the men spoke up.

“I love rock and roll and want to be a guitarist,” Your brother said.

Kelly gruffed and he got frustrated.

“Do you have any drinks?” Kelly asked your brother.

“Yeah there in the fridge. You can go up there and grab whatever you want” Your brother says calmly trying to show excitement that a rockstar is in his home asking for something to drink.

Kelly went up the stairs and saw your thongs along the stairs. He grabbed one and threw it back on the ground. He walked up to your fridge. He saw 6 bottles of beer neatly placed on the inside of the fridge door. He grabbed one taking the top off with his teeth. He closed the fridge door. He jumped when he saw your face. You hear the beer bottle cap fall on the ground. It makes a klink sound when it collides with the tile floor.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry I thought you were my boyfriend. You must be my brother's bandmate. I’m Y/N. He said he formed the band but I know thats bullshit. He is not that bright” You say smiling not knowing you scared him shitless. He introduces himself before speaking to you.

“I’m Kelly,” He says before he speaks again

“He told you that?” Kelly asks you raising his eyebrow.

“Yep,” You say.

“I mean I formed the band. He might remain in the lineup” He tells you putting his beer bottle down on the countertop of the kitchen.

His back faces you. He takes small sips of his beer.

“Well, it was nice meeting you Y/N,” Kelly says as he walks towards the stairs that lead to the basement which leads him to your garage.

“Wait. Kel” A nickname for him slips out of your mouth.

“Can I call you Kel?” You ask him.

“Sure,” Kelly says

“Do you have a wife?” You ask in a flirty voice.

“No.” He answers trying to leave.

“I saw you hold my thong.” You say.

He turns around and looks at you. His cheeks turn red. “I’m sorry” He immediately apologizes.

“You can make it up to me,” You say flirting with him.

“How?” He asks you.

“You know where this is heading,” You tell Kelly.

You approach him. You throw your arms around Kelly's back. You sink your teeth into Kelly's lower lip. You can low and soft groans from Kelly. Kelly holds your legs and you wrap your legs around him. He watches your thong with thin straps peek out from your v-line that are covered by your low-rise jeans. He holds your sides just above your hips which causes your crop top to show more of your upper body. He puts you on the countertop and undoes his pants. He grabs your shoulders and he takes you off. He turns you around so you're bending over the countertop. Your tits and stomach are pressed on the harsh marble countertop. You feel yourself getting wet by the second after he smacks your big ass unexpectedly. His hands go to the hem of your pants and he tugs downwards. He sees your thong. He pulls down on it. He removes his pants halfway making sure he has enough time to pull them back up in case anyone comes into the house. He looks over his shoulder anytime he heard a creak paranoid that someone was about to find them fucking in the kitchen. He tries to hide what he is doing. He puts his cock on your entrance.

“You ready?” He asks you to make sure you're prepared to take him.

“Yeah,” you whine for him to hurry up.

He slowly slides his cock in teasing you. He feels your tight walls and starts to thrust inside of you quickly trying to make you both come quick. He holds your hips. You're too weak from him being inside of you so he holds on to your hips making you both collide with each other. He quickly slides in and out with ease.

Your fingernails scratch the countertops leaving several heavy and noticeable marks. He kept looking over his shoulder while thrusting.

“Kel” you moan as your moist lips part.

“I’m going to come” you shriek.

You feel your orgasm take full effect on your body. You try your best to not get knocked over by Kelly’s heavy movements. You feel him panting on the back of your neck. You purposely clench his cock with your pussy.

“So tight” he pants.

He takes his final thrusts. His head goes back and his legs shake as he holds your hips tight. He feels your come dripping on his cock. He withdraws and his come squirts on the kitchen floor.

“Shit” you both laugh.

“Get a napkin,” Kelly says to you.

“There is no need for that,” you say while he watches you go on the floor and clean it all up with your tongue.

You pull your pants up while cleaning his come on the dirty kitchen floor. He watches you in amusement.

“You ate my come!” He says smirking while pulling his pants up.

“If I had the dick that had the come in it then I can eat it off the floor,” you say making eye contact while cleaning his come.

You hear footsteps from the basement stairs and you quickly get up acting normal. Your brother watches you talking with Kelly.

“I see where you’ve been,” your brother says to Kelly.

“Kelly this is Y/N and Y/N this is Kelly,” he says smiling having no idea of what you both just did on the kitchen counter.

You both smile and shake hands as if nothing happened between the two of you.

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youremyonepiece · 11 months ago

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salty afflictions

sanji x gn!reader (no pronouns used), reader's pov

your powers come with unique dietary restrictions, but sanji's not one to back down from a challenge (especially not if it's you).

warnings: none, light fluff (please lmk if there are any i should add!)

word count: 1.9k

"okay," sanji says, tone verging on exasperation, "let me get this straight." he peers at you through his furrowed curly eyebrows, but there is no malice in his stare-- only disbelief. "you can't eat salt?"

you laugh uncomfortably at the question. the rest of the straw hats have their eyes fixed on you as well, waiting earnestly for your answer. most of their plates lie forgotten in front of them; only luffy is moving, shoveling food into his mouth with both hands, but he too is staring directly at you. sanji is standing in front of you, a matching plate balancing on one of his hands. your own grip tightens around your carrot as you shift and shrink under the weight of everyone's combined gazes before taking a small chomp to hopefully diffuse some of the tension.

it doesn't work.

it makes things worse.

the carrot feels like dry mulch as you chew and swallow it loudly. everyone else simply continues to stare, the moment dragging on as they wait for you to respond.

you let out another uncomfortable laugh once your mouth is empty before clearing your throat. "um, yeah," you finally manage to say. you resist the urge to slam your head into the dinner table at your eloquence and continue, "the salt content in my body would get too high. i'd be no different than a puddle of sea water. which would, um-- which would be bad."

you can't stop another laugh from defensively bubbling through your lips. sanji notices and moves away to put your plate in front of luffy (with him around, no food would ever go to waste). "well," he says, pointedly nonchalant as he takes his seat and leans back to take a drag from his cigarette. "i love a good challenge, and you certainly are a lovely one." a smirk forms around his cigarette and just like that, the tension in the room shatters. you throw a grateful look in his direction as the crew's attention turns away from you and back to their dinners.

"typical sanji," usopp says with a playful roll of his eyes before shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth. "still, that must suck."

"yeah," you say in response. "i mean, i'm used to it, but i definitely miss some foods. it saved my life, though," you say with a shrug, "so it is what it is." you take another bite of your carrot, larger than the last in hopes of deterring anyone from asking you any more questions.

you feel someone's eyes on you again and turn your head to see sanji staring at you. there's still a smile on his face and in his eyes-- you can't help but hold your breath as you meet his gaze. he's looking at you as though he’s just discovered a new type of fish, you think to yourself. like he can't wait to experiment and discover the best ways to filet, bake, fry you up.

unlike with the others, being under sanji’s gaze doesn’t make you squirm in your seat. instead, you find yourself feeling comfortably warm-- you’re always comfortable with sanji. he’s been nothing but considerate and thoughtful from the start, and you knew he would never do anything to hurt you.

well, he would never do anything to hurt any woman, not just you.

you ignore the turning of your stomach-- get real, he would never feel the same way about you-- and instead avert your eyes to take great interest in your carrot. wow, it sure is orange--

"you'll have to allow me to borrow some of your time later, sweetheart," sanji says, interrupting your riveting thoughts. "we'll figure out what i can cook for you. can't have you going hungry, now can we?" he winks at you and you feel the heat creep up your neck and into your cheeks.

“um-- sure,” you say, and you're sure your face is bright red. gosh, did you have to be so awkward?

to your relief, though, franky starts talking excitedly about his ideas for new upgrades on the sunny, and with that the flow of the conversation is thankfully diverted away from you and the side effects of your hydro-hydro logia devil fruit. you finish your carrot as quickly as you can before quietly excusing yourself from the group and scurrying out onto the deck.

and though you don’t dare look up to confirm it, you swear you feel sanji’s eyes on you the entire time until you’ve left the room. but no-- there’s no way. you’re imagining it, letting your fantasies get the better of you. he wouldn’t have watched you leave, not when nami and robin were still in the room with him.

(if you had looked up, though, you would have found you were right.)

you’re sitting on a bench by nami’s tangerine trees the next morning after breakfast, absentmindedly flipping through a novel you borrowed from robin. it’s an unusually calm, placid day, the weather perfect and the soft breeze refreshing. the kind of day you want to spend outside and doing nothing. it’s easy to zone out the various noises from your crewmates: luffy’s joyful yelling followed closely by chopper’s worried shouts, zoro’s rumbling snores, nami’s playful teasing at usopp’s desperate rambling, sanji’s... footsteps?

you look up from the book to find the blond man walking calmly towards you with his blazer slung over his shoulder, an easy smile gracing his lips. it grows as your eyes meet, but he doesn’t speak until he comes to a stop a few feet away from you. “hello, gorgeous. got a minute? i wanted to get your thoughts on a few dishes i whipped up earlier for you.”

be cool, you tell yourself. be calm, casual-- “yeah, of course! i’d love to!” great job.

but you can’t feel upset for too long, not when sanji’s face lights up at your response. not when he’s holding a hand out for you to take. your cheeks grow warm (surprise, surprise) as you pause, taking in the sight of the kind man in front of you and his breathtaking smile, before reaching out to take his hand.

you’re hyper-aware of his fingers against yours as he gently guides you to the kitchen and can’t help the wave of disappointment that washes over you when he pulls away to drape his jacket over a bar chair and roll up his shirt sleeves. he motions you over to the table before turning away to grab a couple plates from the kitchen counter.

“so,” he begins as he places various dishes in front of you, “i normally use salt in just about every dish i make. it’s a flavor enhancer-- without it, most foods would taste flat and bland.” he places the last dish in front of you before straightening and flashing one of his brilliant smiles at you. (if you were in a cartoon, your heart would have just doki-doki-ed out of your chest.) “but there’s other ways to bring flavor into food, and there’s beauty in simple foods, too.”

you take in the various foods in front of you; each plate contains no more than maybe five spoonfuls of food, but there are so many. salads and soups and stews and snacks-- so many foods you hadn’t eaten since getting your powers. sanji pushes one of the plates closer to you-- a colorful pile of leafy greens and veggies, topped with what looks like olive oil and a freshly squeezed lemon wedge-- and takes the seat across from you. “salads, of course, are an easy answer. the best salads use fresh vegetables and high quality oil, and as long as you balance the flavors well, you won’t even miss the saltier ingredients like cheese.”

intrigued, you bring a forkful to your mouth, and-- wow. you never had been a huge fan of salads, especially since they now consisted of the majority of your meals, but this is easily the best salad you’ve ever had. you clean the plate within a couple seconds, much to sanji’s apparent delight.

and so he continues, explaining his reasoning behind each dish and watching intently as you practically inhale the food. “sanji,” you say in between dishes after what must have been over half an hour of food tasting, “this is amazing. i don’t think i’ve had food that tastes this good ever-- not even before i ate my devil fruit. i can’t believe you did all this for me.”

it’s his turn to blush at your words, and for some reason his bashfulness makes you feel embarrassed as well. you shut your mouth and look back down at the plate in front of you: cauliflower chunks he had coated in a spiced batter before frying and coating in a sauce made from nami’s tangerines. it’s true, though-- every single dish you had tasted had been phenomenal, so clearly made with kindness. you had resigned yourself to eating raw veggies for the rest of your life, and the fact that sanji had come up with a whole slew of meals that you could eat despite your power-induced diet, that too within a day of learning about it... no one had ever done something so thoughtful for you before.

your thoughts are interrupted by an unexpectedly acrid scent-- is something... burning? you look up from the plate, frowning, and almost immediately spot the smoking pan on the stove. “sanji! the pan!”

sanji, who had been staring at you with a dazed look in his eyes, seems to come to his senses with a few blinks. he glances backwards towards the stove and does a double-take in shock before leaping to his feet and rushing over to the burning pan. “merde! so sorry, love-- i must have forgotten to turn it off-- i was so excited to see your reaction--” he hisses suddenly, pulling his hand back with a jerk.

“sanji! did you burn yourself?” you’re on your feet, too, reaching his side within a blink of an eye. you take his hand in yours without hesitation, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“darling, you should stay back, the fire--”

within seconds, you’ve doused the stove in water using your free hand. you then turn your eyes back to sanji’s burn, frowning in concentration as you coat the reddening skin with your cold water. “it doesn’t look too bad,” you murmur, eyes locked on his wound, “but you should still have chopper check it out.”

“will do,” he responds softly, and you freeze-- his voice is so close. you were so close.

you look up, throat dry as you meet his eyes. you feel your cheeks heat up yet again, but you can’t bring yourself to step away-- you can’t bring yourself to move. “you should--” you stop to clear your throat-- “you should be more careful.”

“i always am, but something about you makes me forget where i am.” he must see the question in your eyes, because he quickly adds, “in a good way, of course.”

“yeah, um-- same,” you say intelligently.

he laughs at your response, eyes full of affection as they remain on you. “c’mon,” he says, softly tapping your cheek with his uninjured hand before stepping slightly away from you, “we still have a few dishes to go.”

gosh, you think, stunned in place as you watch him move back towards the table. this man is truly going to be the death of you.

#one piece #sanji x you #sanji x reader #sanji fanfic #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji x reader #one piece x reader #one piece x you #if i had a nickel for every sanji fic i wrote where sanji takes you to the kitchen to eat his food #id have two nickels #which isnt a lot but its weird that its happened twice #i have so so many fics that are 80 to 90 percent done #hopefully there'll be a lot of posts coming soon 🤞🏽#my writing #youremyonepiece

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crsssie · 7 months ago

Text

doomed to fall, doomed to love

word count: 10.8k || banner art by @/retired-peach on insta

warnings: game-typical violence, mild eerie descriptions

summary: just how far can luck get everyone?

Fate is decided from birth, the Moirai weaving and threading the life of each one born, including the gods — something far preceding the existence of all, warmth and existence of night around the fates as she lets go of her daughters and her son.

There is no moving fate, and unless you were wise enough, there was no threading through the holes of life to abuse your aforementioned fate.

Moros understands the fates the most, his sisters raising him from youth, understanding that once a thread was cut, there was no way to restore it. Death would claim the soul, and they would live the rest of their days in the underworld. There is something far more concerning through all of it, his eyes curious as a child, watching as his sisters would tell him the fates of all those determined by it. The entire world would be in his hands as he watched his sisters thread and weave the fates of the world, strings twisting amongst each other to symbolize a meeting.

He had been shown his own string, one that could not be cut even if his sisters tried.

"Gods can not be cut, only threaded." Lachesis hummed.

"May I thread my string with someone else?" He blinks up, staring at the first thread of his life, the way it split from night's.

"Perhaps if you show us the desperation we seek."

Moros has no need to speak to anyone other than his assignments. When he approaches, someone is aware that their time is up. When he steps close to humans, most know that it is not far from the time that they will meet death. When he brushes his hands against a string, his sisters know that they do not have much time left. Even for Odysseus, when his fingers finally pinched at the string, the inevitable was coming, and it was more than apparent that there was a touch of doom to his skin, a touch of demise burned at his fingertips — fitting for the god people referred to as doom.

Even when he had doomed an entire family, his brother's assignments stacking until his own brother stopped functioning, he had not much of a reaction. Human emotion is fickle. The need to feel something specific was fickle. When his sisters threaded and weaved human lives like tapestry, he had no say or need to feel for the souls he would never meet. His portion was not in the house, but with his sisters, whom he both adored and feared, fingers reaching for strings when he deemed them fit. When he would bring the doom of one, then there would have been no say otherwise. Shortly after one's doom was always one's demise — death. Though, his younger brother had been out of service from the doom of his beloved. Perhaps he should not have messed with the string in the first place. Lachesis had felt bad, though Clotho had rambled about how amusing it was to her. There was no sibling relationship where unnecessary. Had night truly wanted them to feel for one another, she would have not sent everyone so far from one another.

Moros does not have time to stutter and stumble over fickle emotions.

"We have a small assignment for you," Atropos speaks. When she spoke, it always meant something important.

"Is it another thread?"

"No." She shakes her head, eyes closing. "Perhaps, you will find this one matters. Just let us do the weaving and do not touch the thread of this one."

Moros nods slowly, understanding his sisters as he is told where to go.

In the deep depths of the underworld, Moros is sent to greet someone in the depths of the underworld, a shade with something akin to charm that could have rivaled Helen of Troy. It did not matter to him, for all he was there to do was supervise. The shade had tried to escape the clutches of the underworld too many times, and it seemed that death himself could not stop them anymore, and perhaps doom could keep them in place and kill all hope that they would be able to slip onto the surface of the world. Moros finds it ironic that a person who could escape the fates would be left to his hands. Perhaps, this is fate as well.

So, your strand is tied into his hair, fastened to hide the existence of your fate in his hair, forever embedded in a part of him, perhaps. He knows his sisters have a plan for him, and he trusts that the most they would do is perhaps play a harmless joke, so he sits there as Clotho chatters about, detailing the shade and their life in Greece, fastening his hair into a delightful design as he stares at himself in the mirror, blinking slowly at the singular silver strand that reflects the light deeply hidden in the strands of his hair. He does not give so much of a reaction, thanking his sister instead, lips curled upwards sweetly that he always had, even as a child.

"Ehem." He coughs as he catches you sneaking to follow the prince through the gates to the temple.

"Oh... are you my new bodyguard? Doom?" You raise a brow, lips quirked up cheekily as he recalls the description given by his sisters. The prettiest human to have ever graced Greece. The person who had been so dazzling that perhaps they could lead nations to demise and countries to ruin. To him, such beauty was pointless. To him, his sisters will string the fate of the people around him, and there was no reason for him to care or attend to such pointless things. In such a way, perhaps he is apathetic to such things, but only a fool would be able to resist such a situation.

"Come on." You lean in to bat your lashes at him, grinning cheekily. "Please? Just one chance. I die to the lord each time anyway. Please?"

"No." He stares down at you through his own lashes, heart unmoving as you huff and stand straight.

"It's so boring here!"

"And the overworld is more entertaining?"

"Oh, gods, no." You wave your hand. "I prefer watching the young prince destroy the king in battle instead. Also, it is quite a sight to watch. Have you seen such?"

"I am afraid I am not in contact with neither the prince nor the king."

"Hm." You tap your chin, fingers reaching for Moros as he flinches back out of reflex, refusing to let you doom yourself in such a way. "Woah, woah. Formalest of apologies, doom. I was not aware you disliked being touched."

"No, that is not it." He sighs. "Do not touch me for the sake of yourself."

"Will I be cursed?"

"Perhaps there is a fate that is worse than death. Do not wish to find out."

"Hm..." You tap your chin again, leaning against the railing of your place as you stare down at the bull and king return to their original positions, willing to fight whomever had the guts. "Say, Doom."

"Yes?"

"If I defeat the bull man and the king, may the fates grant me a small wish?"

"I am not the fates."

"But surely, they sent you here?"

"I can not change fate."

"Surely, you can convince them?"

"I can not. They are far less forgiving than I."

You shrug anyway. "How about from you?"

"I do not gain much from watching you seek thrill, young soul."

"Perhaps you will. If you are entertained, shall you grant me a small wish?"

"And what might this small wish be?"

"I wish to meet the fates."

"That will not be possible."

"Then how about some knowledge about you? It does not need to be related to the fates. You are my new guardian, after all."

He blinks twice — which you take as a confirmation, hopping over the ledge of the seats in the colosseum, weapon forming in your hand as the king laughs at you for challenging the two. Moros settles in the crowd of shades, hood thrown over his head to cancel his identity, watching as your axe swings and swings, spinning in circles as you cut and tear at the other two shades, your laughter growing manic by the moment as you strike down the bull first, the shield clamoring as you strike again and again, aiming for his head. Doom sees the death of mankind often, though not the mania that was moreso visible on your face.

He ponders over just what he should tell you about himself. Perhaps that he was raised by the fates? Or that he knows not much of his mother? Or perhaps, he should tell you that the horns on his head are fake. He is not accustomed to getting to know others, so perhaps, your curiosity was warranted. For the doom of mankind himself to force a shade to stay still was more than entertaining enough. Perhaps he was sent here for the entertainment of his beloved sisters. Thus, when your axe finally slices through the king while he shifts, victory hangs over your head as you wink up at Moros. The crowd gasps as another shade swoons, and Moros understands perhaps why you were so valued even during your time alive.

"Help me up, would you, dearest doom?" You wave your axe to work as leverage, and Moros towers over instead, leaning down to grab your wrist to pull you back up. You flip back up with ease, the weight of your body long gone after you had become a shade.

What would he say in a situation like this? Well done? Good job? "Well job." He pauses. "My apologies. Good job."

You laugh, mouth open as your body shakes, hunched over as Moros collects himself and grimaces at his own awkwardness.

"Is that your fun fact? That you can't speak around people that even the gods are jealous of for their visage?"

"That is not, brave shade. There is no amusement in revealing such things at such haste."

"Then what would such a fun fact be?"

"The horns on my head," He hums, leaning down to tower over you. "Are not part of me."

"So they are part of your accessories?"

"You could frame it that way." He hums.

"Okay, well, fun fact about me." You point at yourself, axe dissipating as you hum. "You found the wrong shade, quite unfortunately. The fates did not send you to me."

Moros raises a brow.

"My sister recently broke out." You pause, glancing at the rest of the shades as you close your eyes. "There are two runaway shades, and quite unfortunately for you, it just so happens that my sister is the prettier of us two."

"And you, brave shade?"

"The distracter." You grin, hopping on your feet as you shift around him. "She'll be back in a little! Looks the exact same as me!"

Moros finds that there is another shade with the exact same visage as you, and she huffs when Moros approaches, stuck in place as she meets eyes with him and blinks rapidly.

"Fuck." She huffs. "Let me through, won't you? I only wish to fight the lord..."

"So you are the shade." He hums.

"Did my sibling tell you that?" She huffs. "I only wish to fight the lord. They are content with the bull and the king, but I am not. If I defeat him, then I would be granted immortality, no?"

"That is not how it works." He sighs. "You are no Odysseus nor Heracles. You can not escape the clutches of the fates."

Your sister only grins at him, knowing something that it seems he does not.

"Four slipped past the hands of fate and left the underworld." She points. "One controls the fates the same amount. Though, worry not. I am not that one."

"The fates will make sure you do not escape. My fingers will brush through your thread." He hums, pinching at the strand in his hair. The shine and luster fade immediately with the pinch of the strand, and your sister huffs, finding that her weapon has been removed from her hands and she is officially bound to Elysium. She grumbles, sulking on the side as the king and the bull return to fight the prince.

"Ah, would you look at that." She grins. "The prince got a helper."

The prince's blade slices through the bull as you spin, knocking again and again against the king's armor, bloodthirst visible even from where Moros is standing. If there were a personification of him to the people, it would have been you. He does not have the luxury of questions, watching as you finish the king as he turns around, the prince grabbing you as the two of you storm off. It is not his place to interfere. He has doomed your sister to stay in place forever. That is enough. His assignment is over, it is that simple.

He returns to his sisters, their fingers delicate as they discard of the string in his hair.

"I met the young girl's twin."

"We know." The smile.

"Do tell, sisters, who might they be?"

"A shade that is not to be worried over." Atropos is the one to answer. "It does not matter what that shade does, since their string has long been absent."

"Was it stolen?"

None of his sisters reply to his question.

"It is fine," Lachesis hums, rethreading your sister's string into the tapestry. "We only needed you to take care of that one."

"And not the one I met?"

"No." Clotho stares up at the remaining threads. "However, since you there is not much to do in the time being, feel free to visit the shade."

"That would not be possible. I would interfere with the young prince's day to day excursions." He recalls the way you had joined the prince so simply, almost as though it had been a normality.

"Is that so?" Lachesis grins, almost knowing something he does not.

"It worries me when you smile like that." He blinks.

"It does not hurt to visit the shade. We will summon you back for any needs."

"Can the human race live without doom?"

"Not if you doom everyone at once." Atropo points at a section of string. "Brush."

Moros brushes their strings with his hand, pinching some, brushing down others. The darkness that imitates death seeps into the strings of the living.

"Halt." Lachesis panics. "Moros, young child, that is quite enough."

He stares at the soldiers in war that he has just doomed.

"I wish he would have picked up some of my kind sentiment." Lachesis mumbles. "Off you go now, brother."

Moros ends up back where your sister is — in the stands in the final room of Elysium, watching as your axe mutilates and mangles the shield of the king, switching with the young prince of the underworld when he delivers a final blow to the bull. Your sister catches him up on what has happened since he left, and he watches as the prince takes you to lead you outside. You are not bound to Elysium, but you are bound to the underworld. A shade could not escape no matter how many attempts it took. Or, perhaps you were simply a shade that would die against the lord.

Moros nods at your sister as he follows you to the temple, staring at the prince as he blinks.

"Why, hello? Who might you be?"

Moros nods his head, holding out a boon for you instead, watching as you observe it.

"What happened to no shade leaves the underworld?"

"Perhaps it is the simplicity of being given free reign over you."

"Wow... your sisters must really love you." You mumble. "It is doom, your highness. Moros."

The prince nods. "Honored to meet you."

"Honored to meet you as well, your highness." He nods.

"Will this let me one-shot the lord?" You twist the boon into your axe, watching as the blades thread with the purple of doom's eyes.

"No, but it works similar to death." He takes a step back, bowing at the prince as he disappears from view.

"So... 9999 damage?"

"Your summon only does 3500, does it not?" You raise a brow.

"Yes. Perhaps you will escape unscathed this time from the underworld." The prince grins.

Moros watches as you kill the ruler of the underworld, the prince watching in awe as you accidentally snipe the lord himself with a concerned look on your face. To inflict doom on someone it different to the person, so the doom of the ruler of the underworld would have simply been to die without getting to fight. You glance at the boon on your axe, taking two steps back as you watch Moros appear before you.

"Doom."

"Did you enjoy the boon?"

"It is rather sly, you are aware? I may be punished for it." You speak, waving goodbye to the prince as he rushes to tend to his mother's cottage.

"Nothing the fates can not fix."

"That is a shame, dearest doom." You shake your head. "I am the determiner of my own fate."

"Is that so?" He raises a brow. "When your string resides with the fates?"

"Perhaps."

To Moros, it does not matter — he finds that it is just how you are. You thank him for the boon, offering to return it to him, but he shakes his head, following you as you rush into the overworld, settling yourself in the queen's cottage to tend to the plants with the young prince before he returns to the styx. You, on the other hand, make no move to return. Instead, you call the boatman to return you to your place, thanking him with a couple of obols as you wave goodbye to him.

To the fates, it only mattered when their conflicts were in conflict with their brother. They have no problem with the young one deciding his own fate — a benefit of being raised by them, perhaps.

Atropos notices the way Moros' string starts fraying ever so slightly.

"Should we worry?"

"No. If it falls, then it would simply belong to him. After all, he is our dear brother."

Moros glances at the threads of color in your hair reflected under the sun one final time before he returns to his sisters. Color, reminding him of something far too familiar for comfort. So, he listens to the order from his sisters, fingers brushing the correct strands, pausing when he goes to check on his own string. His own string is fraying, and although he would not die, it was still worrisome.

"Atropos, did I do something?"

"No, child." She shakes her head, continuing with the tapestry. "It seems there is something else causing it to wear down."

Moros stares at his string, watching as it frays further.

"Is this someone else's work?"

"That is for you to find out, dear child."

Moros returns next to you, boon still in your axe as you slam the bottom in the ground, the young prince landing a particularly lucky hit as both the bull and the king die, grinning at you with a thumbs up as he throws you over his shoulder to bring you with him. He lingers close to you, watching as the lord falls to your blade again, and you stay behind to greet him. Perhaps, you find it a formality — something he wonders if you would ever consider to be a routine to you. Perhaps he could weasel — no. To have such thoughts is not possible. He is moreso curious to know who just this interferer with fate is.

You tilt your head. "Much on your mind, dearest doom?"

"That is not the case. Why do you stay behind each time?"

"I prefer to spend as little time around the garden as possible when the prince is present." You glance at the fish that shows up, stabbing down with the bottom of your axe as you fish out a sturgeon. "Ever had fish?"

"Gods do not need to eat to survive."

"Doesn't stop the olympians from feasting and partying all day." You shrug, glancing at the fish. "I should get to the prince soon."

"Is that not a rare fish?" He raises a brow.

"Not sure." You hand the fish to him, the river denizen dying in his hand as you do, his brows pulled together in a furrow.

"Guess that fish's worst fate was to die." You step past the entrance to the underworld, pausing as you wait for Moros to follow after you.

Moros finds comfort in the strange silence you offer him, watching as you take over the garden as the young prince falls to the ground and returns to the Styx, your work only a short while after before the boatman comes to bring you back. His older brother does not care for the lord, it seems. Much like the Moirai, Chaon does not care whether or not the lord of the underworld cares for such small matters. You step onto the boat, him following after shortly, watching as you stab at another fish in the Styx, tossing it onto the boat as the boatman groans in disapproval.

"No fish in the boat?"

"Haaarhh."

You toss the fish back into the river, watching as it comes back to life.

"Shade."

"Yes, dearest doom?" You tilt your head, raising a brow.

"The strand snaking around your handle." He glances at the way a string shimmers from the inside. "What is it?"

"Oh?" You grin. "Surely you know, dearest doom."

"Is it the string from the Moirai?"

You grin. "My string has always been for myself."

"I was not aware that the fates gave shades their own string." They do not. Moros wonders if he can pry the truth from your lips so he does not need to break the trust he has established with you so far. Perhaps, he is hoping you'll be honest and truthful with him, telling him that you had stolen the string. Perhaps, he was foolish to think of you as a thief. Perhaps, he had just not wanted to acknowledge you as anything else.

You laugh instead, refusing him an answer.

Moros finds that it's a little worrying, but as he steps out of the boat and offers you his hand, he wonders if he could just play dumb.

You take his hand, thanking the boatman as you hand him the obol once more.

"Doomed now, are you not, brave shade?"

You glance at his hand, laughing. "Perhaps my doom is to fall in love with you."

Moros flushes with color at your words, cheeks warming and skin darkening with your flirty remark. "You worry me, brave shade."

"Am I interrupting your work?"

"I am but my sisters' helper." He hums.

"Mm. I see." You step foot back into Elysium, sliding down the cliff to find your residence. Moros follows after you, uncertain of how to go about all of this. Perhaps this is what his sisters meant when they had told him to visit you. It is not a visit, but a stay, perhaps. He is stuck by you, returning only on occasion, spending his days with you as you fight your way out of Elysium with the prince. He takes notice of the way you deactivate his boon while fighting on occasion, the prince's boons taking over for the most part, watching as it seems that there is always some higher deity playing the cards perfectly for the prince to win.

Moros wonders if you are some sort of deity since your thread is missing from the fates.

"Brave shade." He tilts his head, watching as you send the prince down the river.

"Yes, dearest doom?"

Perhaps there is a sense of realization at the name that you have given him, but he fights every single part of his body that reddens and flushes at the name that he should have grown used to by now. "Would you tell me how you received your thread?"

"I was born with it, dearest doom." You glance at your axe, waving as the prince returns with the satyr sack for the guardian. "I am not a thief nor a genius. I am simply lucky."

Moros wonders where he has heard that before.

"Will you take me to meet the fates?"

"I can not do that." He shakes his head, still, following you as you follow the prince to the fight with the lord. The prince wins without much aid, and you wave goodbye to him as he rushes off to the cottage, leaving you alone with Moros once again.

"Not at all?"

"There is no chance, brave shade." He hums.

You sigh, stepping past the gates of the underworld to the queen's cottage, helping out the prince before he passes. Though, this time, Moros finds that you do not leave.

"Are you not returning?"

"Mm..." You hum, lying down in the grass, eyes closed. "Just a little longer."

"And how much longer is this... longer?"

"Just lay on the grass. It is the queen's domain. There is no doom for the grass."

"Every other footstep of mine killed the grass, brave shade."

"The float." You yawn, closing your eyes. "Dearest doom, entertain my thoughts, would you?"

"And what might those thoughts be?"

"If I cut my own string, would I pass?"

"Only Atropos can cut the threads."

You sigh, reaching for his hand in the grass, lacing your fingers with him.

"You'll—"

"It is fine." You hum. "I will be fine, I assure you."

"Brave shade, pray tell, why do you not call me by name?"

"I fear that you will get attached to something fleeting." You hum, turning to your side to grin at him. "Just as I do not refer to you by name, you do not refer to me by name."

"And if I wished to?"

"That is a shame, dearest doom." You grin. "The fates would not allow that."

"And how would you know?"

"Call it instinct."

Atropos notices first — Moros' thread falls completely down, broken from both night's and their own threads, on the ground as Clotho picks it up to hold on to. Lachesis notices shortly after, watching as Atropos ponders over what to make of Moros' thread. They do not bring him back just yet, curious to see just how desperate he was to continue the arrangement with you, fingers laced with yours in the grass, his ability to doom torn away from him for the time being.

"I wonder how desperate he is." Atopos hums. "Let us start."

It happens all too fast.

Moros is called back, watching as the underworld falls to time, although safe with his sisters, he is unsure as to whether or not you are safe — and when he retrieves the list of minor prophecies, his sisters disappear as well. He is alone, he realizes. He stays at the crossroads with the young princess, stumbling and stuttering over his words, cursing himself when he remembers that he is no different than from when he first met you. Perhaps you are doing well elsewhere, but he can not help but think of you while at the crossroads.

It is until the princess brings back an axe that is eerily similar to yours as her weapon that Moros wonders if perhaps you are alive.

"Is this a different aspect, princess?" He tilts his head at the axe.

"Oh, why it is." She agrees. "The aspect of Tyche. It seems to help me dodge, and the weapon feels much lighter. Is there something wrong, Lord Moros?"

Moros shakes his head. "It looks familiar, that is all."

"Well, uncle gave me the awakening phrase."

Moros hums, tilting his head as the princess hands the weapon to him, letting him observe the axe as he notices his boon is still there, just dull.

"Do you wish for an enhancement?"

"Hm?" The princess tilts her head. "Is that possible?"

Moros reaches for his boon, purple glowing once more, threads reweaving across the blade, stopping when the boon glows and the princess tries swinging again, accidentally breaking something in the process, pursing her lips.

"Lord Moros, do tell... how much damage does this do?"

Moros averts his eyes. "You may want to ask war of such."

The princess blinks at him, jaw hanging before she closes her mouth. "Will I kill time?"

"I am unaware of how much health time has, thus I am unable to answer."

The princess returns much quicker, this time around, Moros glancing at her and bowing as she holds the axe and grins, almost wincing.

"How was the weapon, princess?"

"Who wielded it before me? It seems you know of its previous owner."

"The wielder was a shade I knew." He hums. "They were not bound to the underworld."

"Then, perhaps they were not a shade at all." The princess offers. "Perhaps, they were Tyche herself."

"There is no confirmation for such. Had it been such, I would have known." He pauses, brows furrowing as he notices the strand still wrapped around the weapon. "May I see it once more, princess?"

"Of course." He hands him the axe, watching as he forces his finger into the wrapping around the handle, expression darkening as he notices the lack of string. You are dead. Unless you had wrapped and stolen your own string embedded into your axe, there was no way you could have survived if someone else held onto your string.

"Is something wrong, Lord Moros?"

"There used to be a string of the fates embedded in the wrapping." He hands it back to the princess. "If the goddess contacts you through the weapon, do tell."

The princess nods. "Were they important to you, Lord Moros?"

Moros is quiet, closing his eyes. "A brave shade, they were."

"And you, to them? If I am not prying."

Moros goes quiet, averting his eyes instead.

"My apologies, Lord Moros."

"Do not fret, princess." He smiles. "May you defeat time once more."

"Thank you."

In a way, Moros wanders through the crossroads and wonders just how you were. It is unsafe to be in the house of the lord, but perhaps you are caught there. Or, perhaps as the other shades are, you are stuck where they are. He is unaware of if there is ever a possibility that you could have survived if you had not been a shade. The Olympians armed themselves relatively quickly, though failing again and again to defeat time. It is not an easy feat, he believes. While he is sure that the princess will succeed, he wonders if the princess will have the same luck that the young prince did in the days that he had fought alongside you.

When the princess returns, she is ecstatic.

"Lord Moros!" She rushes, and it feels a little strange to see the princess so overjoyed.

"Yes, princess?"

"The goddess contacted me!" She notes. "She sends you here greetings. Do you know her, perhaps?"

"Did she leave a message?"

"No, she had only mentioned your boon and to thank you. Perhaps the brave shade is none other than the goddess?"

"That would be quite the predicament, princess." He hums. "Though, I am sure there has to be a better explanation."

"Surely. I shall ask if I see her again." The princess hums. "Shall I convey some words?"

"I would like to meet the goddess, if possible."

"Oh, how surprising! I will convey such words. All the best." She waves, rushing off as Moros ponders over just what that greeting could mean.

Moros wanders about the crossroads, taking note of a handful of things, pondering over the things that you had once told him when you were with him. You adore the color of his eyes — finding that he looks best with longer hair, and despite your hatred for how his horns looked at times, you always helped it back on his head when he finished laying in the grass. When he catches reflection of himself in the waters, he ponders just for a moment whether you were lucky enough to escape the grasp of time.

When the princess returns, she brings news of the weapon.

"The one who provided the weapon is still alive." The princess reports.

"Alive? Provider?" Moros senses some strange sense of hope snake up his back. Perhaps, you are... alive. Perhaps, you... escaped. Perhaps, you were spared the cruelty that the rest of the house received from time. He wonders if he could ever recall the name of your beloved weapon that the princess now wielded. Hope, you had called her. He does not recall the goddess of whom had blessed it prior to holding his boon. It is a predicament, he finds.

"Yes." The princess hums. "I had run into a shade near the surface."

Moros frowns. It could be you, but he doubts that time would have given anyone the grace to flee or transform.

"The weapon has a name, according to the provider."

"Do you know of it?"

"No, I was not informed." The princess mumbles. "Though, the axe used to be a shield, according to the shade near the surface."

"A shield..." Moros mumbles. "Thank you, princess. I wish you luck on your next run."

Moros ponders just where his sisters might be. They had disappeared, leaving behind the threads in the room — all of them turning into webs for arachnids rather than strings that would resemble the strings of life. Perhaps, they had been restricted willingly rather than out of surprise. In order to throw off time, they had taken the sacrifice, and it bothers him to no end that perhaps they too are stuck in time. The human world must be in shambles at the moment. It must be exhausting to deal with so much at once.

"Lord Moros."

"Yes, princess?"

The princess pauses before asking. "What were the fates like?"

"Lachesis is kind, Clotho speaks often, and Atropos is the cutter."

"Mm." The princess nods. "Have you gone to the springs? They are good for relaxation."

"I suppose I am due for one, princess, but I am unable to do so at the moment." He smiles. "Shall I save the salts for some other time?"

"Up to you, Lord Moros." The princess smiles. "Best of luck."

When the princess returns to the shade, she finds that they are a person this time. Perhaps not the goddess, but similar in appearance, similar in beauty. The princess greets the goddess on the surface, coughing up blood and fighting every last doom in her body to be able to stay just long enough to invite the goddess back with her, the symbol of her boon replaced with a full moon as the princess coughs.

"Oh, dearest, what has happened?"

"Oh, goddess, I ask of you, would it be possible for you to return with me to the crossroads? Lord Moros has requested of your presence."

"It is a shame, I do not know how to get there without the boatman. Are you able to take us both, goddess?"

"Yes, I am." The princess offers, holding her hand out. "Though it will hurt since I must die for it."

The goddess laughs, taking her hand. "What is godhood if not a death every once in a while"

The princess returns, catching her breath as she blinks, squeezing her hand a little to see whether or not the goddess had come with her, pleasantly surprised when she has. She had not tried it before, but she supposed that

"You know, it's a real pain to travel like this all the time, princess. Why don't you just do it the olympian way and teleport?" They raise a brow, squatting down to catch their breath from the aftereffects.

"Unfortunately, this realm is only accessible by magic."

"Ought to hurry up and beat the life out of time, then." They sigh, standing up as Moros locks eyes with them.

"Dearest doom?" Their lips quirk up, stepping towards him as he blinks twice to confirm he's not as so desperate as to start hallucinating you. They do the work for him, fingers reaching for his bicep as their palm smoothes against his skin, his heart shaking as he stares at you, blinking slowly. It is an attachment. He does not have your string, nor does he have his own, yet he is here, heart rattling against the bars of his chest, staring down at you as you beam. "Dearest doom."

Moros knows it is not you. Your hands are warm and your body is the same, but he knows it is not you. To him, it is not you, it is someone else in your skin.

"... you are not the shade." Moros frowns, yet making no move to recoil from their touch. Your touch is the same, but you are not the same person. There is an uncanny feeling in his body as he takes a step back, blinking a second time. "I sealed you to Elysium. Did the Moirai send you here?"

"Ah, it's a shame. It seems you recognize our differences immediately." Your sister sighs. "Alas, a nymph can not imitate a god."

"There is no way they are a god."

"Perhaps." Your sister shrugs. "Though, I am unaware of their presence either. I only received the luck of fleeing with their weapon."

"And the shade?"

"Your brave shade is missing, doom incarnate." Your sister grins at the princess instead. "Apologies, princess, but I am not the one doom is looking for."

"Whom are you looking for, Lord Moros?"

"A brave shade." He hums. "They will recognize the name."

"Perhaps, once the underworld is restored, you will find them." The princess hums. "Nymph, do you know of said shade?"

Your sister shakes her head, turning to stare at the axe instead. "I may not be of help in finding the shade, but do grant me the honor of blessing their weapon, if you would."

"Of course." The princess watches as the nymph presses her hand to the weapon, blue swirling down the handle of the axe, water replacing where the thread of fate had once been, swirling up and down the weapon.

"It is not much, but it shall enhance the boons you receive from other olympians." She hums. "May your battle be smooth, and your wins be bountiful."

The princess nods, rushing off as your sister spares a glance at Moros.

"Do you miss them?"

"Miss is perhaps not the word."

"Long?"

"Along those thoughts." Moros hums. "Did you see them before the underworld was taken over?"

"I did not. I was handed the axe along with a blessing, and next I knew, I was in Olympus with the gods." She hums, watching as the princess leaves. "They are not as stupid as to vanish without a plan, however."

"Surely, they are alright." Moros pauses. "At the very least, still around."

"They are around. We are weakly connected by the same source, after all." Your sister hums.

"Pray tell, young nymph, of our brave shade?"

"Well, I do not know much of them." Your sister is frank. "All I knew was that they had found me in the underworld and adored smothering the prince in battle due to his hard-headedness. Perhaps they found the untameable tempting. To them, the prince was just another entertaining character in their life."

"Much like the fates, no?"

"I'm afraid not." Your sister pauses to think of her next words. "Similar, but not the same. There is nothing you can do in the face of luck, after all."

"The face of luck... surely they had blessed the prince with it?"

"Perhaps." Your sister quirks a lip up in the sneakiest of smiles.

And Moros wonders, just perhaps, you had loved her too.

When the princess returns, she greets the two with a bow, before starting with her report, bringing to light that her father was still alive, though chained. The two listen, eyes focused on the princess as she asks for aid of your sister.

"I can not help you with such, princess." She shakes her head. "Though, our brave shade did indeed mention noticing the cracks in the walls. You are never sure of what creeps between the tiles of the residence."

The princess takes note of watching the cracks in the wall, defeating time again and again, wondering as to which crack in the wall that shade could have been referring to. Though, near her fourth time, she takes note of the crack on the mural being larger, just enough for her to peek through the debris, seeing the same glow of doom and her magic behind, noting a singular shade stuck in place, unmoving. Dead. The shade does not move nor act, and it is stuck in place, staring into seemingly nothing as the princess continues observing for as long as she is able to.

Then, a snap of the neck, a meet of the eyes, and the princess leaves.

It is eerie. The shade does not look real, pupils dilated, missing a soul. The stare lacks life, though it seems as though the depths of the underworld were reflected in its eyes. It is a shade that keeps its human form, though not significant enough for the princess to actually note who they are. Perhaps, she would ask around, but she would not get the time.

"There is someone behind the mural in the main hall." The princess notes, glancing at your sister. "Is it them?"

"Do you remember the way they looked?"

"It is hard to describe, but those eyes... lacked a soul." The princess looks down. "It is a shame. I shall see if I may get a better look."

When the princess defeats time once again, she takes note of the crack in the wall, peering behind it as he spots the shade once more. That enough is an incentive, her magic blasting through the wall as she steps through, staring as the shade mutters quiet nothings to themselves, pupils dilated, quiet mumbling heard by no one. The princess stares, watching as the shade takes a step forward, eyes widening further at the sight of their weapon. The princess takes another step back, staring at the webs across the room, webs of what she can only assume as string similar to a spider's weaving across the room with the shade in the center.

"Elpis... Elpis." They scramble, reaching for the weapon as the princess jumps back, ready to attack. Rather, the axe does not listen, halting as the shade steps forward again, chains around their feet stopping them as they drop to their knees and stare at the weapon in the princess' hand. The princess stays still, hearing time tick behind her as she is forced to flee, trying to pull the weapon with, only to realize it has started making its way towards the shade.

"No!"

"Elpis." The shade cradles the weapon, forcing the princess to flee without it.

In her final glance, she notes the way the block around the shade seems to shatter, and the mural rebuilds itself — the princess wondering just who the shade was.

Once returned to the crossroads, your sister seems unimpressed.

"I lost my weapon." She stares up at both your sister and Moros, dejected, brows furrowed.

"The weapon must have heard its name." Your sister hums. "It is unknown, as only the owner of the weapon, in this case, our brave shade, can call for it."

"It must have been a bad memory." The princess mumbles.

"I doubt it." Moros watches the summoning grounds of the crossroads. "I shall keep an eye out for them. They have always been lucky."

When the princess returns a second time, she enters once again, noting how the webs have disappeared and the shade has started threading with the string.

"Dear shade."

They continue to mutter to themselves, pupils dilated as they continue knitting with two of the hardened strings from the weapon, the axe now discarded to the side.

"Dearest shade, may I retrieve the weapon?"

They do not spare her a glance, fixated on the weaving of the tapestry in their hand.

The princess retrieves it anyway, watching as the shade looks up to stare at her, unbothered, unimpressed, a stare unnerving the princess.

"Dearest shade... are you bound?"

They stand up, shackle around their ankles worn out from time, and they pull along the thread, following the princess with her weapons as they pull and pull, pulling until all of the threads weaved across the roof of the room are in their hands, rushing after the princess as she brings them to the crossroads. The threads all follow them through the magic, landing on the ground with a heavy thud as they settle themselves in the corner to continue weaving.

Moros recognizes your soul at an immediate glance, leaving his place to help you untangle the string in your hand, stopping when he remembers he knows not of whose thread is whose and who he is dooming.

"Brave shade."

You are not a brave shade anymore, pupils far too dilated to be safe, hands brash as you untangle the threads, coverings on your hand as you pull and pull, laying each thread to the side as you continue searching. You are looking for a thread, and whether it be yours or his, he is unaware, but from the few threads weaved through your hair, he finds that perhaps you are not searching for either of your strands.

"My sisters." Moros rests on one knee, glancing at you as you do not react to him. "Are they safe?"

You ignore him, continuing with the string, work frantic and paced as you continue threading through them.

"Who are you searching for?" Your sister helps you sort, and you glance at her, voice scratchy, barely a whisper, as you speak.

"T-time." You start again, discarding thread after thread as your sister sits down to help you.

"Whose threads are these?" She hands you another one, pausing when you barely muster an answer once more.

"N-non." You continue, reading the threads between your fingers as Moros is forced to stare. He finds himself glad that he did not rush immediately to help you out. If all creatures other than the humans' threads were in your hands, then surely there could have been bad news had he doomed the wrong one.

"Go on." Your sister stares at the princess. "You must continue to fight while we continue with this. May Elpis guide your way."

The princess takes the axe, rushing back towards the underworld as she takes one final glance at the three of you.

"Do you have Atropos' scissors? You can destroy one's godhood with one pair."

You glance at Moros, baring your teeth as he blinks.

"You have become the scissors."

He notes down who you have found, watching as you bite certain strings and rip them. In a way, you have become someone he does not recognize. You bite and tear at certain strings, and he wonders if it is to help the princess or to destroy the trouble in the underworld, but as you find that golden string of time, he watches as you hand it to him, eyes wide as he blinks.

"I am not able to doom a titan."

You shove it at him once more, watching as he takes it from your fingers, the parts that he holds turning dark.

"Keep it." Your sister stares at the way he holds it.

You stand up, holding your hand out for his, wrapping the string around his fingers as though it were some sort of decoration. He wears it, glancing at the way your fingers seem so much softer than during the times that you wielded an axe, almost as though you had been forced to regress in time and become someone who knows neither him nor anyone else. Perhaps, this is who you simply are now. Perhaps, you will return once time is broken.

"Doom." You blink at him, reaching back for your project as you thread and thread again.

"Dearest, doom." He tries, and you blink at him, unreceptive of his words.

"Doom." You point at the decoration on his fingers, staring as the entire string turns dark.

"My time is up," Your sister stares at her fading fingers. "Stay safe. I must return to Olympus now that you are here."

You nod at her, waving as she disappears. Perhaps deep down, you are still aware of the bond that you shared with your sister. While he is not family to you, she is — so it is really not all that much for you to remember that she is your sister, trust placed in her so much more vivid than the one placed in his hands. It is deserving, he finds. You have forgotten all of the time that you spent with him due to the regression in time. Rather, you still trust him enough to brush your fingers against his skin and understand that his doom will not hurt you.

"Brave shade."

You stare up at him, batting your lashes as he stares.

"Brave shade." He tries again. "How are my sisters?"

You tilt your head.

"The fates. The Moirai. How are they?"

You blink at him. "Safe. Moved. Safe."

"Moved." He exhales. "Then why do you hold the strings?"

You stare at him blankly, going back to weaving. It is as though you are possessed, but it reminds him of someone his sisters once had mentioned to him. Someone who had weaved the fates during the times that they had been raised by mother night. Perhaps, you have become them. There is a sense of uneasiness as you settle down next to where he typically stands — next to the prophecies as you thread and weave, fingers making quick work, only greeting the princess with a quick nod while you listen to Moros speak to the princess.

"Lord Moros, how long do you suppose I am stuck fighting time?"

"Twenty four." You speak instead, still working on the paper. "Every hour."

"Once each hour?" She blinks, horror written all over her face.

"Cycle. Rotation." You go back to weaving, going quiet as the two ponder over your words.

"Princess, how many times has it been?"

"Well over twelve."

"Then, twelve more times." He closes his eyes. "We are the closest you can be to the fates at the moment."

You thread another string through, watching as the princess leaves.

"Brave shade, do you believe she will succeed?"

"Must."

Your words are more than enough comfort for Moros as he watches the princess return again and again. Must. Not yes, nor no. You have just enough faith in the princess that she will succeed, even if it kills her. The gods can not die, you seem to be aware. Even while brushing your own hair, covering of your hands missing at times of such, strings in your hair glowing with each brush of your fingers.

"Lucky shade." He hums. "Dare I say, lovely shade."

You pay no mind to his words, tugging at the string and throwing the tapestry out to check the design.

"For someone?"

"No." You go back to it, focused the entire time through as Moros continues to greet the princess. She reaches her final leg of the run, close to ten, though, you stop her before her final run, staring up at her as you offer her the tapestry in your bare hands, marks from the weaving and threadwork visible on your hands as you try to get up — only to stumble from your lack of muscle.

"You're alright, lovely shade." Moros catches you, steadying you as you hand it to the princess.

"Cover time." Your instructions are simple, and it makes Moros wonder just who you were. The princess leaves her axe with you, leaving with her weapon. Perhaps, you knew the fates similar to the way he did. Though, as you settle back onto the floor, threading your fingers through your hair with a closing of your eyes, waiting for the moment that the princess would follow your orders, and you would be freed for enough time to give her proper instructions you had learned on pure chance while collecting the threads of fate in the room.

There is a sudden strike of the bong of doom as the princess follows your orders, and you waste no time racing through the underworld — gone in a blink of the eye as you steal the axe, Moros feeling every slash of your weapon as a result of his boon, your summon of him too quick for him to react, only arriving once you enter the residence. He dooms the shades that would have attacked, standing guard as you reach the princess.

"Stay still, princess." You tie the bottom of the orb, axe striking down as his soul shatters, body no longer capable of hosting his soul as you tie the pieces into the threads of the tapestry. There are never enough sacrifices — never enough people with a soul as shattered as time's. You order the princess what to do, and for the first time, Moros wonders if he is the servant or you. It seemed that you always knew how to outplay fate just by a slight step.

The princess listens surprisingly well to you, following your orders as you hand Moros the tapestry you wove.

"Take this to the fates. They have returned."

"And you are certain, lovely shade?"

"Certainly, my Moros." You turn to stare at him. "Drop not even a single piece."

"You can not order the Moirai as such."

"Tell them the brave shade ordered it. Go on." You bare all your teeth at him once more, teeth no longer metal to cut life, eyes back to the familiar look that Moros had grown so used to. He takes note of the lack of threads in your hair this time, finding them in a satchel instead. Moros takes everything you instruct him to, returning to where his sisters once resided.

His sisters are back, surprisingly. They waste no time in glancing at the thread of time woven around Moros' fingers, chuckling as they put everything back up, staring at the tapestry of dead strings and fragments of time, wondering if there was something their sweet brother had wanted them to do with it.

"The brave shade." He pauses. "Mentioned you would know what to do with such."

Lachesis laughs, taking the package from Moros as she kicks open one of the boxes. The package is dropped within and sealed away.

Moros blinks at how even Atropos cracks a smile.

"Should I know something... of the shade?"

"Worry not of them." Clotho hums. "They are the sly one, that shade."

"Did you employ their help?"

"No. Though, it would be best for you not to know."

Atropos places her scissors down, retrieving a string as she places it in his hands.

"Mine own?"

"We have seen that desperation that so wracks through your body." Lachesis hums. "You asked us once, if your string could be in your possession."

Moros takes it, staring at the thread of doom in his fingers, pondering just what he could do with it.

"Now, go on. You have little time while we reorder everyone's fate." Clotho hums. "Go on."

"Much obliged and appreciated, dearest sisters."

Moros makes his way back to you, watching as you break the constraints of time with your axe, luck perpetually on your side as everyone comes out unscathed, even as far as barely missing the feet of the lord himself with the breaking of his chains. You do not give instructions to any of them, only bowing and staying quiet as you lead them back to the hall, eyes glued on the prince as he reunites with his lovers and family. A gentle nudge from you is enough for the princess to join them, a smile on your face as you grin.

"What is after this?"

"Nothing much, my Moros." You glance up at him, grinning. "Death is restored."

"It shall take some time for them to be able to rest."

"We are aware. Shall we return to the meadows?"

"Perhaps in time." You meet eyes with the lord, bowing as he nods.

"Olympus seeks thee."

"I will be there, your majesty." You bow. "I trust you shall do well with the fates for the time being."

"I suppose." Moros nods. "I have a gift for you, from the fates and I, lovely shade."

You stare up at him as he loosens a thread from his hair, placing it in your hands as you stare at it. You hold onto it, loosening a thread from your hair as well, grin on your lips as you twist the two together, letting your axe fall as you wrap the handle once more. That enough has you pleased, lips curled upwards as Moros watches the string replace the water once more. Now, rather than the string of your own fate from long ago, it is both of you entwined for eternity.

"Now, you are with me all the days, wherever I go."

"Do not break it, lovely shade."

"I would not dream of it, my Moros."

You assist the princess in the overworld, letting the princess last as long as possible with the blessings from Olympus, on the final stretch now that time itself was destroyed. His loyal subjects and the dead struggle more now that their ruler is gone, falling in greater numbers and failing to get up as you back the princess up. In a way, it almost reminds you of the prince and his runs again and again. Perhaps, you were simply fated to take care of the two. You had long forgotten your age, after all.

"Princess," You glance at her, offering her a hand as she catches her breath. "Take a small break here."

She heaves, grumbling to herself as she reasons with you that she must go on."

"There are no reinforcements coming from time's side." You nod. "I assure you. How is your weapon?"

"I am alright. Thank you... shade?"

"Brave shade is fine." You nod.

"Pray tell, if I am not prying, of your relationship with Lord Moros?"

"It is hard to describe." You hum. "I am not too certain of it either. Perhaps the answer will find us both eventually."

The two of you work your way up to Olympus eventually, helping clear out the remainder of the troops and breaking through the siege with ease, laugh on your lips as the bong of doom rings again and again with each swipe of your axe. You become something akin to a sign of doom despite the nature of your presence for certain people. Are you violent? Perhaps. You prolong the ability of the princess to stay on the surface and Olympus, fingers smoothe against your axe as you cough up the grime from all of the blood on you. You smell of metal.

"We have arrived, it seems, good shade." The princess stares at the gates, and you grin.

"Shall we?"

"If you would." She pushes open the gates, blood following where she goes, gunk around her as she grimaces at the attacks. You find that she is stronger than her brother in that sense. She is capable of undoing the incantation of the fates — fighting even up to Olympus. It is commendable, you find. You are sure the prince would have liked to have been able to break free of the fates in such a way. Though, as the princess finishes the rest of the forces alongside the Olympians, you find that there is not much to worry of.

"I wonder if the prince could do the same." You open your arms for your sister, a relieved cry on her lips as she sighs.

"You're back."

"Yes. Time has been restored."

"Restored or destroyed?"

"Something akin to that." You hum. "Worry not. The fates hold time now."

The concerned look on your sister's face is more than enough to make you laugh.

You leave the princess with a bow, returning to the underworld, back to Elysium where your cottage is, lips pulled into a grin as you find Moros waiting for you. He stays outside your door, almost as a guard, though not quite one. You stand there, waiting for him to take notice and open his eyes from a moment of rest. You find it amusing that what the mortals feared so much was resting simply outside of an abode that you reside in.

"My Moros." You raise a brow as Moros looks up at you, getting off his knees. "Join me for a little? It appears both the princess and prince are fighting their way out at this time.

"Has Elysium been restored?"

"It appears so." You grin. "The princess had returned shortly after I had."

"How long had you been watching me?"

You grin.

"Then, I suppose if that is what you will for, I shall comply. I have just a handful of time before I am to return to my post."

"May I join you after?"

"Perhaps another time."

Thus, Moros finds himself back in the colosseum where he first met you, watching as you glance at both the prince and princess fight the bull and king. The colors remain the same, and in a way, time has been restored, back to how things should be. Had he not been there for it, perhaps he would have thought of the fall of the house as something that could have been written in the myths. He is sure the princess would have told Homer to be quiet in such a situation, but he finds that she is too occupied with dealing with the king, trying what her brother had done so many times.

"Say, my Moros." You turn to glance at him, his own heart racing as you grin at him. To him, there is no greater luck than to be able to spend time with you. Even when his sisters call him every now and then for the doom, he finds that he prefers spending time in your presence, staring at the threads in your hair as he reminded of his own sisters, some strange sense of familiarity deeply embedded in your own souls and threads as he stares at his thread entwined with yours, always. "Moros?"

"Yes, lovely shade?"

"Will you grant me some knowledge of you if I were to defeat the bull and king?"

"Not to meet the shades this time?"

"No, my Moros." You grin. "Knowledge of you."

"You possess the thread of my fate, why fight the king and bull for something I can give you?"

"So you would tell me well job again." You hop down, axe forming in your hand much like the first time you fought in Elysium while he was present — except this time, Moros is aware of what to tell you. Even if he does not profess it, he is sure that you would know better than anyone of such emotions. He is certain that you would not turn him down — your own emotions embedded deeply in the acceptance of his fate with yours. To him, perhaps you will spend eternity beyond together, his hands only warm against your skin and not harming. He has little to worry of, yet he offers you the choice anyway because he loves you.

You finish both the bull and the king, waving at Moros as you wave your hand for a lift upwards, his hand warm against yours as you settle next to him, grin on your face indicating and awaiting an answer to your request. You blink up at him expectantly, wondering just what it was that would take him so long to answer you to. Though, as his skin flushes with warmth from the time you had spent together, he hums.

"Knowledge of me, lovely shade?" He holds onto your fingers, thumb brushing your knuckles as he closes his eyes to think.

"Nothing left, that I do not know of?"

"That I adore you to the ends of the fates, perhaps." He hums, clumsy smile on his face as you blink at him.

"Truly?"

"Truly, truly, do I adore you." He smiles. "Until time itself dies, do I adore you."

"Enamored, even?" You tease, watching as his skin darkens from embarrassment, words still coming out nonetheless.

"Why of course." He hums. "After all, you are stuck with me for eternity now."

"Then eternity it shall be."

#☾.fics #SURPRISE MF GUESS WHO'S HERE TO KICK OFF THE TAG WITH A BANGGGG (two nickels now HAHAHAHA)#moros x reader #moros hades x reader #hades 2 x reader #hades x reader #hades 2 #hades #reader insert #hades game #hades game x reader

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loveofbots · 1 year ago

Note

Sfw and nsfw head cannons for tarn please? Reader or cannon don't really care.

Shoutout @starscreamscorpse for calling beloved Tarn ‘mista taint’

I (lovingly) hate tarn so please take this with a grain of salt

SFW:

- Tarn is a loner in all senses of the word. He doesn’t ask for help, not even Nickel. He trusted people before and that led to his empurata, and then his abandonment from the academy, now he simply directs his team without confiding in anyone except Decepticon high command.

- To tarn, being a Decepticon is a belief. I know we joke about him dick riding megatron (he does) but the Decepticon cause gave him purpose. It gave him someone to believe in, a support system even.

- Advocate for universal healthcare, most likely due to Nickel’s influence.

- Tarn actually likes to sing. Even as Damos! I imagine he sings by himself most days, and actually writes his own music. In his perfect world, maybe he’d be a prodigy and launch Cybertron into an age of art. But of course, his story is one of tragedy.

- Tarn is harsh on the DJD. He may be friendly but he has a short temper, and will easily snap at people he considers his ‘friends.’ He’s also highly critical, as we know he started putting Decepticons on the list for increasingly petty reasons near the end of it.

- He’s probably not as grossed out by us squishies as he tells himself. Although he agrees that transformers are better- he would begrudgingly ‘keep the fleshling alive’ if he was instructed to. Because his singing does not affect humans the same way it affects his own race, he would probably grow very fond of singing to them.

- Tarn’s the type to be creepy at first, but he’s just a lonely, hurt Mech on the inside. He takes advantage of other folks like Pharma to fuel his addiction, a gentle hand would help him by light years. Yet he pushes away (and kills) anyone who tries to help. Citing that they are trying to ‘cleanse him.’ Dumbass.

[NO MINOR ZONE]

- His only lover is his hand. I’m serious he gets NO bitches. Every time someone came on to him he would fumble like a dink. Helix is still trying to give him better pickup lines than ‘I won’t kill you… tonight.’

- For me Tarn is on the ace spectrum. He doesn’t want to participate in interfacing, but he likes to watch. You could probably find him in the corner at some swinger parties.

- Normally he doesn’t have time/is too tired to even try to get off. He runs the DJD he’s a busy Mech. Not to say he doesn’t have his own little fantasies.

- Top all the way. He WILL NOT bottom (unless you ask) Tarn likes to feel in charge, superior, loved. He likes to be serviced and he likes the idea of ‘capturing’ someone and making them obey his every word.

- is actually a super awkward bot. His old self- Damos- comes out when he is flirted with. He’s a bashful Mech that can’t take any praise.

- Likes the idea of his partner getting off to his voice, it makes him feel powerful that his voice alone could make someone so down bad (I am looking at you tarn fans)

- cw: drugs!!! He is the WORST person to give a doobie to, this mf takes one hit if a roach and is coughing all night. On another note, he probably does take medicine to help him sleep thanks to mama nickel.

#transformers #mtmte #lost light #maccadam #tf #idw #headcanons #implied x reader #Tarn #djd #ghost writes #x reader #I didn’t put this in but he definitely has a praise kink #nickel #helix #mista taint #cw: drugs

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rockn-rule · 1 month ago

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Hehe

I've defrosted

#ah ofc its the time of the year when i remember that i think about jack too much #also turns out i have three nickels #handsome jack jack frost and jack horner #so yeah everyone point and laugh #tsc #tsc3 #the santa clause 3 #jack frost santa clause 3 #martin short!jack frost #martin short! jack frost x reader #x reader #tsc3 jack frost x reader #jack frost headcannons #💙❄

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marvelobsessed134 · 3 months ago

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can i request a kelly nickels smut where he absolutely rails the reader please 💗ྀིྀ

(idk if your meant to put gender but female!reader please)

Down Bad

Pairings: Kelly Nickels x Fem!Reader

A/n: Ahhhh Kelly makes me so fucking feral I’m so glad you requested me to write for him 🤭 also sorry this took so long to get out & sorry if it’s short. idek if you even read my stuff anymore 😭💀

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, praise, degradation, dom!kelly, sub!reader, breeding kink.

Kelly had a rough day at the studio with his new band, L.A. Guns. Getting into a new band has always been kind of hard and stressful, getting used to new peoples ideas and all that. So it’s no surprise that when he came home he demanded you to strip in the bedroom and wait for him.

Now you’re in doggy position, clinging to the sheets as he rails his large shaft into your tight hole. “Fuck, that’s it.” He moaned, gripping your hips so tight, you knew there was going to be bruises in the morning (ones that will only make Kelly want to fuck you again). The bassists’ tip repeatedly hit your g spot as tears slid down your face in both pleasure and overstimulation.

“Such a good fucking whore. My fucking whore.” His words only made you impossibly more wet. “I’m gonna fucking cum inside this cunt, baby. Gonna make you pregnant with my child.” You rolled your eyes back, his words making your brain short circuit.

“Please, Kelly! I’m about to cum please cum inside me!” You begged.

“Such a needy little slut, always needing to cum all over my cock, huh?” Kelly sped up his movements and snuck his finger down to your clit to rub it in tight, hard, and fast circles making your vision white and turning your brain off for a moment. You clenched around his cock and squirted all over the length, while he released his seed inside you.

“We’re definitely doing that again.”

#kelly nickels smut #kelly nickels x reader #la guns smut #la guns x reader #la guns #glam metal

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skinomyteethh · 1 year ago

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to be or not to be?

pairing; kelly nickels x fem! reader

summary; thoughout kelly's newfound fame as bassist of L.A guns he had been acting different though you weren't sure if it was due to the restless nights they'd spend preforming or another aspect

contains/warnings; mentions of cheating. oral (female receiving). fingering. teasing. slight cum eating? little to no dialogue. may contain spelling errors :(

authors note; I need kelly nickels' magic stick in my mouth. also it deleted the damn ask so </3 anyways I hope y'all enjoy reading this!!!

cheating in the eighties or seventies rockstar scene was not at all unusual or taboo, it was extremely difficult to find a rockstar who hadn't cheated on their spouse. hell, robert plant not only had his wife maureen he also had a tour wife and a multitude of other groupies alongside him. these stories seemed to absolutely terrify [name], the thought of her boyfriend cheating on her while on tour was extremely stomach churning.

she sat on the sofa of their shared apartment, staring at the television emotionlessly and in deep thought until a phone call disrupted her thinking. a soft sigh parted her lips as she stood up and turned off the television, walking over to the phone in the kitchen, answering it.

"hello, this is [name]." she stated rather blandly, hearing the stumming of a guitar and clashing of cymbals as well as loud laughter. "hey babe, it's me, I just wanted to check up on you." his voice was somewhat raspy, it signaled that he had continued his excessive smoking habits. this whole rock 'n' roll scene seemed to be fueled off of addictions.

[name] hummed, maintaining her hold of the phone against her ear as she laid against the wall, fooling around with the coiled cord of the telephone before finally responding. "i've been alright, how about you? are you enjoying the tour?" her tone seemed curious yet curiosity was far from what she was feeling, she had her suspicions.

a short moment of silence came upon them, though it was shortly broken by the sound of Kelly chuckling. "it's been hectic, but i'm glad you're doing alright. we're heading back to Los Angeles later today!" just as she was about to respond she heard another voice, it was the voice of another female, she sounded extremely flirtatious and seemed to have a stupid valley girl accent.

"babe, sorry for cutting the conversation short but I have to go." he remarked, letting out a small laugh before hanging up. [name] stood still for a minute, the phone still in her hand, that whole predicament was strange, unsettling even. perhaps now Kelly was apart of the bunch of idiot rockstars who cheated on their partners/spouses.

she sauntered back to the sofa, turning the television back on. overwhelming thoughts began to fill her head as she leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. what if Kelly had been cheating on her during these past months? what if he had been cheating on her prior to those months? those thoughts filled her head as she slowly drifted to sleep.

at around mid-day the loud, almost uncanny creaking of the front door both opening and shutting startled [name] out of her sleep. she sat up, feeling slightly dazed, not fully awake. her eyes glanced back as she heard the rather heavy bass guitar case drop onto the floor. Kelly hummed placing a soft, quick kiss on her forehead, taking a seat next to her.

upon feeling his lips against her forehead all thoughts prior to his arrival began swarming back, causing her mood to sour. he noticed her sudden and rather drastic mood change, wondering what on earth could have caused it. "did you have fun with her?" her question caught Kelly off guard, what could've caused her to think he was with another woman, despite what others may think he was a loyal, committed man with no desire for anybody but [name].

"what are you talking about?" he queried, raising an eyebrow in confusion. [name] responded with a scoff, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "you think i'm stupid? I heard that girl Kelly." flashbacks seem to hit him like a wave crashing onto the shore. the girl whose voice she had heard was tracii's new groupie girlfriend, he would never and could never cheat on [name].

"that was tracii's girl." [name] rolled her eyes, her expression was tainted with judgement, she still thought he was lying. Kelly sighed, closing his eyes. he was somewhat irritated at her accusations, out of all the people in this horrid world Kelly thought [name], his girlfriend of however many years would know he would never even think of doing something like cheating.

and he was going to prove it.

Kelly was going to make her realize he still loved her. she was slightly by his abrupt actions as he somewhat roughly threw her onto their bed, haphazardly taking his clothing off. his eyes trailed down to her white lace panties, he trailed down and slotted his hand in between her thighs, tugging at the waistband of her panties with his pearly white teeth.

a soft, desperate whine escaped her lips as he tugged them down. he hadn't bothered taking them off of her completely, they were low enough for him to engulf in her pretty little cunt. his warm tongue began to eat her out rather messily, his chin was dripping wet with her arousal as he slightly nudged his nose against her clit, licking up and down her folds as if she were to be his last meal ever.

her hands roughly tugged at the roots of her jet black hair, moaning out random praises as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Kelly circled his tongue around her clit painfully slow, [name] glanced down at him, absolutely breathless, finally muttering a coherent sentence. "babe, please.."

desperation and neediness were clear in her tone as she quietly spoke. he hummed, bringing his pointer and middle fingers up to her lips. [name] shakily opened her mouth, enveloping his fingers in the warm of her mouth, coating them in her saliva so he could prep her and finally give her what she desired the most. after a minute or two he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, bringing them down to her entrance, inserting his pointer finger, then his middle finger.

[name] bit her bottom lip roughly, gripping the cool, white sheets below her as he slowly and rather gently fingered her. soon enough, one of her hands wrapped itself around his wrist, maintaining his fingers in place as she eagerly fucked herself against them like an absolute whore. Kelly simply watched her in amusement, placing soft, teasing kisses on her inner thighs.

her movements eventually became sloppier, less desperate and calculated, it signaled that she was getting extremely close to reaching the edge. he simply removed her hand from his wrist, pulling his fingers out of her. at that moment she seemed to despise the feeling of emptiness in her, whining as she took off his underwear.

Kelly desperately slotted his dick between her wet folds, the head bumping against her clit as he moved his hips back and forth, up and down. her arms reached up, and wrapped themselves around his neck, desperately holding onto him, loving the feeling. he halted his movements shortly after, grabbing the base of his dick, breathing heavily while he lined himself up with her hole, reaching his hand down, slapping her cunt before inserting himself into her slowly.

he moved his hips closer to her, watching as her soaking cunt absolutely devoured every inch of his cock. Kelly sighed euphorically as he finally inserted himself completely into her, bottoming out. [name] began to crave him even more than before, slowly moving her hips against him, his hands gripped onto her hips tightly, stopping her movements as he began to roughly thrust in and out of her.

each time their hips met her body felt an overwhelming wave of pleasure, her tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrust. Kelly leaned down, pressing his chest to her back, placing soft kiss on the back of her neck as she moaned breathlessly. he reached his hand under her, groping one of her tits, adding even more pleasure into the mix.

every thrust, every groan, every touch drew her closer and closer to her orgasm. her moans began to grow louder and her body became somewhat limp as she finally reached her high, cumming all over his cock. "that's a good girl.." he mumbled, continuing to thrust into her, overstimulating her sensitive cunt.

his hip movements became sloppier by the second until he finally spilled his load deep inside her. slowly and shakily he pulled out, once again slotting his head in between her thighs, spreading her folds open with his fingers, pushing whatever mixture of their cum spilled out back into her.

finally, Kelly sat up, laying his head against the headboard, breathing heavily. "I hope that showed you how much I absolutely love you and how I would never cheat on you hun." he mumbled, bringing her closer to him. [name] let out a breathless chuckle, laying her head down on his abdomen, glancing up at him.

"it definitely proved something like that."

#fanfic #kelly nickels #kelly nickels smut #kelly nickels fanfiction #la guns #kelly nickels imagines #la guns x reader #smut #kelly nickels fanfic

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lewkwoodnco · 11 months ago

Text

Be More - George x Reader

"Er...I think this dough's ready to be cut into the strips."

"Yes, chef."

He coughed awkwardly, too uncomfortable to come up with any decent sort of response.

a/n: am soooo salty i fell sick in the middle of my 12 days of fics '23 for xmas last year :((( so im giving myself a lil treat by doing a short series of valentine's fics! i SO don't know how souffles work if you can't tell so pls don't come for me, and a special special thanks to lisa @neewtmas for the apron idea heheh. all fluff, which is why I got all my angst fics out of the way beforehand if you'd like a lil palate cleanser :) also totally didn't make this a songfic cuz i was struggling to find a title :} btw I headcannon that george randomly zones in and out in everyday life and this has nothing to do with how much I may or may not do this myself ALSO was strongly influenced to post this earlier by the multiverse of George aka @oblivious-idiot @bella-rose29@bobbys-not-that-small heh

warnings/tropes: lockwood and george bromance supremacy!!! baking, lots and lots of valentine's day fluff, awkward georgeeeee

word count: 2.8k!

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

Lucy handed George a steaming cup of tea, which he gratefully accepted. The three of them were having breakfast as usual, and with the last strains of winter fading, Portland Row's kitchen was entirely too bright. He closed his eyes, pretending he didn't see the way Lockwood's hand lingered on Lucy's when taking his mug. They were bad enough on any normal day, but even worse nowadays, with Valentine's Day drawing achingly closer. He felt himself begin to nod off again from the gentle and comforting steam.

He felt a mild rap against his cheek, which he turned to see is from a well-aimed sugar cube launched from across the table by Lucy. He looked up to see her staring hard at him and Lockwood poorly concealing a snigger with his cup of tea.

"George. Have you or have you not got any plans for Valentine's?"

He takes his time wiping his glasses on his shirt sleeve before responding. "Nothing much. Though I've promised Y/N I'd spend the day with her."

He watched Lucy's expression carefully, and she seemed to be watching his. Truth was, with Valentine's drawing closer and closer, George was going into a mild panic. He hadn't exactly arranged it intentionally. They had been having a quiet chat on a morning when George had been too tired from the previous night's case to strictly follow, and suddenly she was waving goodbye, promising to see him next on Valentine's Day.

He had no idea what kind of a Valentine's Day he had agreed to, or how much of a filter he had had, and he had been dropping Lucy desperate cries for help, with decreasing subtlety. Was it a date? Was she expecting a date? Sure, they had went to that play together after Lucy fell mysteriously ill, and maybe they met up for lunch once a week. But she never referred to

His eyes slowly drifted close as Lucy and Lockwood's conversation morphed into gentle white noise, enjoying the warmth of the little sun streaming through their kitchen window. It felt nice to have a little break from his intense week of baking -

Baking! George snapped wide awake, clumsily climbing out of his chair and feverishly counting the stacks of meticulously wrapped, frilly pastry goodie bags lining the kitchen counter. It had become an annual Valentine's Day tradition for George to construct these small goodie bags of baked goods for a sizeable chunk of his extended family. He even roped in Lucy and Lockwood, and as Valentine's Day approached they'd all gather around the kitchen table at night, even if it was after a case, packing the delicaices George had spent the day baking, until one of them started dropping off.

It was tedious work, but they enjoyed it and were well invested in it - Lockwood fiercely so. When a cousin had remarked that perhaps the tradition was becoming a little tired at a family gathering last Christmas, Lockwood had accidentally-but-not-really smacked his head. George relaxed as he neared towards the end of the pile - just one more day of baking, and he'd be ready to send them off.

Lucy and Lockwood were mostly finished with breakfast anyway, so he chased them out of the kitchen and got to work. Once George had his first batch of cookies in the oven, he started planning for the supplementary baked goods. For instance, he was going to make a chocolate souffle for the three of them to share over a midnight supper tomorrow.

So when the kitchen door swung open, letting in a blast of cold air, George spun around scathingly, ready to threaten Lockwood with deflated souffles. But the hiss at the tip of his tongue withered when he saw who it was.

"...Y/N?"

"Hello. Baking, are you?"

George suppressed the urge to shield the vast volumes of confectionary goodie bags littering the kitchen's surfaces.

"...yes." With some difficulty, he slowly resumed his movements, explaining how this was something he did every year. In a way, he was grateful to have something to do with his hands, because the last minute or so reminded him that he had no idea what he normally did with his hands while standing.

"Oh. Need any help?"

It took George another half-minute to process her question. "With what?"

"With the baking, obviously."

"Uh...s'alright, I've got it all handled."

"No, please, I'd love to help."

George paused mid-stir, looking comically perplexed with a smidge of flour on his nose. "What for?" He bit his tongue, hastily back-pedalling since his tone sounded aggressively suspicious. "What I mean is, you wouldn't want to spend your day here, sweating like a pig - not that you sweat, and definitely not like a pig, no - I'm the one sweating like a pig..."

What he wanted to say was, their oven was ancient and so made the kitchen stupid hot every time he baked, but failed miserably. He set down his mixing bowl in defeat. Almost instantly, she stifled a giggle, trying to pass it off as clearing her throat, and George followed her gaze to his apron in horror. What the mixing bowl had previously been hiding was the horrendously cheesy 'kiss the cook' graphic on his apron.

It had been a ridiculous gag gift from Lucy, one that he had never intended to use but was forced to after his last apron caught on fire from one of his experiments with the skull. Bursting into flames would have been more useful now, He stood there, eyes watering from the heat, determined in his refusal to acknowledge both the apron and the smile she was doing a poor job of suppressing.

"Fine. You can start with the cookie batter."

About a minute or two later, it occurred to George that perhaps it would have wise to ask how much experience she had with baking. Not a lot, he soon discovered, when her bowl nearly flew off as soon as she switched on the egg beater. He dropped his mixing bowl instantly, waving away her apologies.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't expect it to be so powerful."

He cautiously adjusted her grip on the bowl, gently guiding her fingers to a better hold.

"No, no, it's my fault. Not much of a baker?"

"...no."

"Okay, so what you do is, use one hand to hold the - other hand - hold the bowl, and the other holds the egg beater like - no, not quite."

He took a step closer, placing his hands over hers, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from her body, and the smell of her shampoo.

The last time they had been this close was on their way home from that play. With Lockwood out of town for a client meeting, and Lucy developing a mysterious case of the flu, it was only the two of them crouched under a tiny umbrella as they walked home after the play. George would have been more than happy to walk in the rain, but she was the one holding the umbrella, and was firm in her resolve to not send him back to Lucy with a head cold. With the little space between them, their cheeks brushed against each other occasionally, sending a jolt running through the side of George's face.

"Well...this is me."

George nodded dumbly, staring hard at the chips in her front door's paint, agonisingly aware of her looking at his face. He didn't dare turn to meet her gaze; they were far too close.

"I had fun today, George."

He sighed and briefly zonesout. As short as their chat was, he remembered very little, his focus only returning when she pulled her key out.

"We should do this again sometime," she was saying, as she turned the key in her lock. When he finally looked at her, there were the tinies raindrops on her eyelashes. There was something so pure and unassuming about the sight that it tugged at his heart. It made him want...more. More with her. With a brief smile, she disappeared into her home, leaving him standing alone in the rain. He stood there for a minute, prolonging the moment for some unidentifiable reason. It was a nice door. She had a nice smile.

It was as though she had read his thoughts from his eyes, for a faintly embarrassed air hung in the kitchen after that. For the next better part of an hour, they engaged in this delicate dance as they floated through the kitchen, carefully staying out of each other's way, never in the same area for long. It wasn't until she was sifting the dry ingredients that they next spoke.

"Hang on, that might be too much flou-"

As George touched her elbow, her hand jerked, sending a sizeable chunk of flour into her mixing bowl, along with a cloud of it directly in her face. He was sorry, of course, but as she spluttered and tried to blink through it, he couldn't stop the amused twist to his features. When she caught his eye, she rolled her eyes and sent a fistful of flour into his eyes. Now it was her turn to laugh as George groaned through the smarting.

"You're right, Mr. Cook, it IS hilarious!"

George scoffed, struggling to maintain his sanctimonius, above-petty-acts front as he wiped his glasses clean with as much dignity as he could muster. But on the inside, his defences were crumbling fast.

"You're acting like a child."

She looked mildly apologetic for a moment, and George felt a flash of truimph, before she raised both her flour-coated hands and resolutely streaked them across George's face.

"Egg on your face. Or should I say, flour?"

With that, all pretenses of civility were thrown out the window. The both of them swept up as many ingredients as they could and migrated to opposite ends of the kitchen table, pelting each other with everything that could be pelted. George landed a few well-aimed chocolate chips into her hair. She soaked the front of his apron with half a jug of milk, which was nearly enough to send him into hysterics. So it went on and on and on, until they ran out of supplies in their immediate reach, before resorting to shoving each other's faces into bags and tins of baking soda and powdered sugar. This, it occurred to George as he was rubbing cornstarch into her red, wheezing face, is strangely intimate.

Again, there was this tugging sensation in his chest, the kind that made him want to sit in his armchair for anywhere from half a minute to half an hour. The kind of sensation that could not be held in words. The closest he could get was the wish for a never-ending summer, or perhaps orchards full of cherry trees as sweet as the first pick. But even that fell short.

Just as she raised two fistfuls of sprinkles, the kitchen door swung open. Lockwood wandered in, looking sharp as ever in his too-small suit. The two of them smoothly parted, their faces burning under the flour, and George suddenly became very interested in the pastry dough he was kneading. He felt rather than saw Lockwood looking back and forth between the two of them, wishing that he'd just take whatever he needed from the kitchen and got out. But of course, he knew better than to engage in wishful thinking, especially with Lockwood's mildly gormless smile plain as day. "Hang on. George, you do realise that-"

Whatever it was that Lockwood was wondering if he had realised was cut off by the jam tart George shoved into his mouth, because the answer was probably yes, Lockwood, of course I realised that completely inane observation.

"Out. Out. I won't have you compromising the integrity of my kitchen." With a little difficulty, George wheeled a spluttering Lockwood littering soft pastry flakes all over his clean kitchen floor out into the hallway. He shut the door firmly and turned back apologetically, only just seeing the flour in her hair as she watched on amusedly.

"I sure hope I'm not starting up a ruckus - or was it compromising the integrity? - of your kitchen."

George felt his cheeks warming as he returned to the kitchen table. "No, of course not. You never know where Lockwood's been, is all. You're different."

Had he been standing this close to her the whole day, he wondered, close enough to see the pretty flakes in her eyes, softer than any pastry he could make? How was he supposed to look away? And how did he stand it?

"Er...I think this dough's ready to be cut into the strips."

"Yes, chef."

He coughed awkwardly, too uncomfortable to come up with any decent sort of response, embarrassedly muttering something along the lines of how there was no need for any of that. As she got absorbed into getting the strips of dough just right, George glanced at the kitchen door, to see Lockwood silently making exaggerated kissy faces at him. George picked up his rolling pin and Lockwood fled immediately, without so much as a creak from the floorboards.

Now, they finally returned to their baking with proper focus, now that they were all tired out. She seemed to have picked up some skills pretty quickly, though he still kept an eye out in case she might do something that would, say, set her hand on fire.

An hour or so later, the phone started ringing obnoxiously in the hallway. With some difficulty, George peeled off one of his disposable gloves on his way to it. When he picked up the phone, he almost wished he hadn't, because it was that same cousin from last Christmas' gathering. As his voice wore on and on, George started wishing he had let Lockwood give him another punch or two, just to set him straight.

Suddenly, he picked out a few startling words from his cousin's nasally voice, which made his heart plummet, as the calendar in the hallway came into startling focus. He wandered back to the kitchen door, numbly hearing his cousin's complaints of why no one's goodie bags had reached yet. He blankly stared at her, and she stared back confused, slowing down her cutting of the strips concernedly. After a second or two, he hung up the phone, but was in too much shock to lower it.

"Today's date," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"Today's date. It's not the 13th. I thought it was the 13th. Today is the 14th. Valentine's day was today, not tomorrow."

Even as he was saying those words, the calm look on her face told him exactly what he had feared - that she had known all along.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought this was what you wanted to do!"

"Unpaid labour."

"What?"

"You spent your Valentine's Day doing exhausting, difficult, unpaid labour." He clumsily placed the phone down on the kitchen counter, struggling to find the right words as he fought against the embarrassment. "I am so sorr- just a minute, I might have some loose change somewhere here-"

"Don't." George was spiraling with shame, kicking himself for his oversight, and she still had the gall to look that pretty and kind. "I didn't mind any of it one bit, I promise."

"I promised you something fun."

"George, this is the most fun I've ever had baking, and I've been making pineapple upside down cakes since before I could - oh."

She broke off when she finally looked up to see the growing shock on George's face. She nibbled at the inside of her cheek nervously, trying to gauge his reaction.

"So you do know how to bake."

"Only a little?"

He took in the sight of her apologetic smile, the careful dusting of flour on her face and her suspiciously clean clothes. "You could have said."

"Oh, but I was having so much fun." George rolled his eyes. "I spent the day learning how to construct the most adorable pastry goodie bags I have ever seen, and I did it all with my boyfriend. Believe me, it doesn't get more fun than this."

Not for the first time that day, George stared at her in wonder, like he couldn't quite figure out how she was real. Even now, when all she was doing was merely existing, words failed him. He had a feeling he'd spend lifetimes chasing shadows, trying to pin what was gone before it bloomed, and he still wouldn't be able to find the right words. There was no other way to put it, or colour it - he wished they were more.

He hesitantly extended his hand, brushing just a speck of the huge handprint of flour on her face with his thumb. He turned, walking out into the hallway, but then just as immediately wheeled back.

"Your WHAT?"

TAGLIST: @dangelnleif @elenianag080 @snoopyluver20 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @avdiobliss @mitskiswift99 @ahead-fullofdreams @neewtmas @mischivana @houseoftwistedspirits

#if i had a nickel for everytime i wrote a george x reader fanfic where pastries were a siginificant part i'd have 2 nickels #which isnt a lot but its weird that it happened twice LMAO #also in case its not clear i meant the your WHAT to be referring to the reader calling him her bf sdfhajfalskf #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and co netflix #fanfic #george karim x reader #george cubbins #george karim imagine #george karim x you #george x reader #george karim #valentines day #fluff #Spotify #be more #stephen sanchez

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