#phantom my other husband you look good too

[whispeyrains]

Hrrrrggghh Skade finally posted their Arknights Anniversary art and its gorgeous! 😍 but, the placement of characters here. Hm. Why is Executor front and centre. Are you trying to tell us smth Skade

[oceantornadoo]

ch4 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: some mild dubcon groping but reader is into it she just hates him. (or does she????)

masterlist | next

Your mother doesn’t come to your wedding, understandably so. Her lack of presence makes the day seem less real. However, one Johnny MacTavish decides to become the Scottish mother hen you’ve been missing.

“Everyone decent in ‘ere?” A chorus of yeses ring out. Johnny opens the door to the bridal dressing room with a smile, looking suave in his tuxedo. “Shite, was hopin’ to sneak a look.” He winks at your nearest cousin and she flutters her eyes. Even as a married man, Johnny likes to flirt and fluster women. It helps hide his marriage to Simon and provides you with much entertainment.

“How’s the blushin’ bride?”

He walks over to your vanity, taking in your bridal makeup and hairdo. Johnny whistles low, reaching out to ruffle your hair, which you stop by smacking him. “The bride is hungover and not in the mood.” He shrugs, then takes a sip of your champagne on the vanity desk. “Y’r fault fer doin’ a hen do the night before. Nice job slippin’ the hag, though.” It’s your codename for Aunt Riley. She’s always been suspicious of him and Simon, making little comments here and there that have put her on his shitlist over the years.

“Thanks. I can say, the London nightlife didn’t disappoint. I might throw up at the altar though.” He snorts and takes a seat in the empty chair next to you. “Price was pissed last night. Called Simon while we were mid-” You cover his mouth with your hand. “Don’t finish that sentence. As far as I’m concerned, you guys haven’t even kissed.” Johnny licks your hand, making you squeal. “Can’t believe he called Simon like I’m a little kid and not a grown woman.”

Johnny doesn’t answer, instead popping a chocolate-covered strawberry offered by a passing waitress into his mouth. She’s been the one supplying you with Gatorade until you switched the champagne half an hour ago. Can’t believe the bridal suite has a waitress. John Price is too rich for his own good.

“The Shepherd family’s gettin’ bolder. Can’t blame ‘im fer not wantin’ ya to die before the weddin’. Would be bad publicity.” You scoff. It might be true, but John has never seemed too concerned about your health. Except that night in the park, when- never mind.

“Ya nervous?” Johnny asks. You shake your head. “Trying not to think about it. I’m more focused on not tripping in front of multiple mafia families. I’d never live it down.” He smiles, then squeezes your knee over your white dressing gown. The look he gives you is too knowing and you hate it. Instead of holding his gaze, you turn to the mirror and will any stray tears away. “You probably need to go soon. I think they’re putting me in my dress in a few minutes.” He nods, dark eyes full of understanding.

“Ya look real bonnie, doe. Gonna make a beautiful bride.” You nod, swallowing down the thickness in your throat. “Thanks, Johnny. You look handsome in your pink bowtie.” It’s the same color as the bridesmaid dresses, a horrid shade your aunt insisted on. He winks, then rises out of his chair. Johnny squeezes your shoulder, then kisses the crown of your hair like Tommy used to do. “Simon’ll walk ya down the aisle. I’ll see ya on the other side.” And just like that, he’s gone.

-

“You know you’ve turned my life upside down in only a week, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know a small part of me will always blame you for it?”

“I know.” Simon sighs.

It’s five minutes before the ceremony. You’re all dolled up in your poofy dress with perfect makeup and a bouquet in hand. A phantom weight is heavy on your left finger, waiting for the ring you tried on only a few days ago.

“Ya know I’ll always be sorry yer father is mine.” Simon murmurs. You nod stiffly, swallowing down any emotion as you look at the closed church doors in front of you. The ones that will open in a few minutes, leading your path down the aisle and to your new husband.

“I didn’t have to come back. I could have hung up on you all those years ago.”

“I know.”

“I think a small part of me wishes I had.” You whisper, like a confession. He takes your free hand and wraps it in his own. “But I think a bigger part would do it all over again.” Simon squeezes your interlaced fingers.

“Best thing tha’ ever happened t’ me, ya know that?” Your smile is weak, eyes watery as you catch his gaze. “What about Johnny?” He smiles under the mask. “Tha’s a different category, love.” You laugh, small and hollow. 

This feels like goodbye. You know it’s not, you’ll only be 200 miles away, but you’re both aware of the new boundaries around this marriage. London will be your home now, and any visit to Manchester will have to be approved, and probably accompanied, by John. That’s all it’ll be - a visit. A few days at most, doing the rounds and seeing friends and family. You’ll never live there again, never run your bookshop, never chat with regulars, never- you stop that line of thinking before you ruin your makeup.

“If he hurts ya, you call me.” You nod, but that’s not enough for Simon. A gloved hand tips your chin in his direction, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’ll call me. An’ Johnny if I don’t answer.” You nod again, firmly, which finally satisfies Simon.

“C’mere.” You hug your big brother with all your might. He’s careful, turning your face to the side so you don’t ruin your makeup. His hands tighten around your shoulders while yours can barely wrap around his torso. He’s always wearing suits but this one feels different, more structured and finely woven.

“Simon, are you wearing designer?” He stiffens, pushing you off him as you start laughing. “‘M alway wearin’ designer, comes with the job.” You shake your head vehemently. “No, you’re always wearing Fred Perry. This fabric is fancy, it’s like Dolce and Gabbana.” Your brother decidedly does not answer.

“Simon! Are you wearing Dolce to my wedding? Are you trying to upstage the bride?!” Only you, his all-knowing sister, would be able to tell he’s blushing under his mask. In an uncharacteristic move, he scratches the nape of his neck, looking off to the side like he’s suddenly interested in church architecture. “Johnny picked it out.” You slap his arm and he moves to ruffle your hair, before remembering it’s in a fancy wedding do. “You’re an absolute git, this is completely unfair. I demand you go to the nearest mall and pick something off the rack.” That comment finally dismisses the dark cloud that’s been hanging over you, sending you two into a laughing fit. 

“I wish Tommy was here. He’dve torched that suit.” His eyes crinkle in a sad smile. “I know, love. I know.” Simon kisses your forehead and you lean into his shoulder, wishing the moment would never end.

But all good things must.

A frazzled assistant, one of your Aunt Riley’s minions, practically sprints over to you. “Doors,” he wheezes, “doors opening in thirty seconds.” And just like that, he’s gone. Probably a cake emergency or something of the sort.

“Do I look okay?” You take one last glimpse in a nearby mirror. You’re wearing a traditional veil, something Simon turns up over your head to hide your face. Despite the hideous dress, the rest of your look turned out quite nice. The flowers are decent, your makeup looks great, and you were even allowed to pick out your own jewelry. A win is a win.

“Most beautiful bride th’ church’s ever seen.” Simon puts out his arm like a gentleman, letting you wrap your own around it. “I love you, Si.” He takes a second, and you swear he’s holding back tears. “Love ya too, kid.”

-

Most of the ceremony passes in a blur.

Lots of flowery words, preaching about commitments you’d rather not think about. Some scripture or Latin thrown in there, but you’re really not paying attention. You’re more concerned with the man in front of you.

Your veil is a little sheer, allowing you to see him in all his groom glory. His eyes are dark, fixated on yours, and you’d be an idiot not to notice how handsome he looks. His tuxedo is sharp, and he’s got a flower tucked into the pocket. A heliotrope, a purple that matches well with the pink bridesmaid dresses. A half memory comes to you, something about heliotropes and eternal devotion, but you tuck that away under your might be mad box.

Finally, it comes to the vows. You haven’t written any and neither has John, instead deciding to use the olden ones. It frightens you, to have this surly man swear you such promises.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

He takes off your veil and you swear his breath hitches. It’s just a split second, but the muscle of his throat freezes and you’re captivated by how manly he looks. All bitter thoughts of enemies can be paused for a moment, you reason.

“You may now kiss the bride.” And he does.

It is not a polite kiss. You don’t know why you thought it would be.

He’s hungry. He catches the small of your back in one hand and your waist in the other, dipping you back in a picture perfect moment. His lips devour yours, delivering small bites and licks before pulling back so suddenly you think you’ve imagined it. You blink and you’re standing, your hand wrapped in John’s, as you look out at the cheering crowd. Mr. and Mrs. John Price.

-

You try to avoid John during the reception, which takes place in the backyard of the local country club. It’s hard to do when you’re supposed to thank everyone as a couple. You greet mafia and community leaders and business owners and politicians, all with the same sweet smile and John’s hand on your back. Do they know this was arranged? It’s hard to tell from the venomous sincerity dripping from their foaming mouths, eyes scanning the four-carat rock on your hand like it’s a prize to be won.

At least you’ve been allowed to change into a lighter dress. The reception dress is shorter, falling respectably right above your knees with long sleeves and a low back. Not low enough to show off the temporary tramp stamp smudged on your back. You keep the veil in, a cute detail that the inner little girl in you adores. If only this was a wedding you wanted.

Thankfully, champagne is in constant supply. You must have drunk at least four flutes now. That, plus your lack of food due to your hangover, makes you sway. John, who has not spoken to you directly at all since maiming your lips at the altar, notices. He tugs you away from the crowd, finding a secluded bench tucked away behind a tree. It reminds you of the garden you met him in a few nights ago.

“Thank god. One more sweaty handshake and I would have keeled over.” You murmur, mostly to yourself. He grunts, taking a seat next to you on the bench and loosening his tie.

“Who said you could sit next to me?” Uh oh. Drunk you is talking.

“‘S gonna be like that? We’re barely five minutes in, sweetheart.” He drags a hand down his face in an exhausted and adorable manner. No. This is the enemy. You must remind the both of you of that fact.

“You’re the enemy.” You poke him sternly in the shoulder, which sort of ruins the effortless effect you were going for. “You finally gonna tell me wha’ I did t’ you? Or is this our next ten years?” You frown at his words, crossing your hands over your chest. He’s acting like you did something wrong, not him. Out of the corner of your eye, you see John avert his gaze as you inevitably (and accidentally) push up your tits. Interesting.

“You ruined my life.” He barks out a laugh. “‘Ve ruined a lot of people’s lives. Need ya t’ be more specific.” Instead of answering, you slide down awkwardly into the grass beneath you, leaning your head back on the bench. It’s nighttime now and the only thing in the sky is the North Star. John’s star.

“You told my father I was a weakness and,” you hiccup, “and you told him to send me away. And lookwherethatgotme…” You trail off, eyes fluttering. Your eyes feel a thousand times heavier than normal, and everything hits you at once. Your lack of sleep from your night out, the stress of the day, the emotional conversations - they all boil over like a pot on the stove. “Think I’m gonna sleep now…” John hums, still next to you, and you drift off to the sound.

-

When you wake up, your head is throbbing. Why are you sitting on grass? There’s a suit jacket covering your front, keeping you warm from the night’s chill. Your neck throbs from laying back on the stone bench. There’s a stink in the air, a nasty smell, and when you turn to your right, you see your new husband smoking. Jacketless.

“Nice nap?” You nod, embarrassment coursing through your veins like a drug. “How long was I out?” He flicks the ash of his cigar onto the grass. “Long ‘nough people thought we were consummatin’ the marriage.” Oh. That was…not something you needed to think about.

“You feelin’ sober? Remember anythin’ you said?” You shake your head. Unbeknownst to you, John is frowning. The last few hours are a blur, a black spot in your memory. There’s still alcohol in your body, but a headache is starting to form as well. 

“Let’s get some food in ya. Can’t have my new wife droppin’ dead at the weddin’.” You let him help you up, slipping on his jacket to cover the grass stains on your dress. That’s the only reason you don’t take it off.

-

The rest of the night gets easier. Dinner saves you, but then Johnny’s putting drinks in your hands and your cousins are pulling you to the dance floor. You have an emotional dance with Simon, a not-so emotional one with John, and then you’re passed to a slew of people to make nice with. 

It’s 2am when the party finally settles down. People have gone home, thankfully including your aunt, and you say your goodbyes. John takes you back to the Ritz, a silent, quick car ride. You’re thankful for the quiet but confused all the same. The air is charged, like you just had an argument and lost. Is he mad? Regretting this? You don’t know him enough to tell, and that irks you.

The elevator takes you to the penthouse this time. Only the best for the king of London. John stands beside you, no hand on your back. It’s entirely businesslike: the walk to the room, shutting yourself in the bathroom, donning pajamas and a dressing gown. You would shower, but you need to finish your routine at the vanity.

If this were a real wedding, maybe he would have carried you in his arms over the threshold. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off you, ravishing you in the entryway. Maybe he’d whisper in your ear, “Mrs. Price”.

Instead of that fantasy, you’re tipsy and angry about the fact that you are now Mrs. Price. Maybe that’s why you say it.

“I’m not a virgin.” You’re at the vanity, taking out the mountains of jewelry that pour out of every crevice of your body. It’s the last thing to remove before the weight of your wedding is off your shoulders. The mirror is giant, big enough so you can see John stop unbuttoning his shirt when you say the words. “You’re not?” You shake your head. He frowns. “Might as well send ya back now, get my money, and-,” he stops. Maybe it’s because you’re staring hard at his reflection. You don’t even like him, but the champagne and sting of rejection cut deep.

“Was jokin’, sweetheart. Didn’t expect you t’ be a virgin. Too much pressure, honestly.” Oh. Oh. He’s always called you sweetheart, spit it out like poison designed to kill. This is the first time he’s said it kindly and your heart curls around the word like a sleepy cat. Which will absolutely not do.

“Will make it easier, I reckon. ‘S a tight fit.” He winks jokingly and you scoff at his insinuation. He’s being oddly jovial, a 180 from the car ride, and you need to ruin this truce before it becomes permanent. 

“Sure, that’s probably what your exes have said. It was probably a ‘tight fit’ because they weren’t wet, John. Ever heard of foreplay? F-o-r-e-p-l-a-y, look it up. I expect-”, except you don’t get to tell him your expectations because he’s shut you up with a calloused hand around your throat. It’s not violent and you know he wouldn’t hurt you, but the shock factor hits its target.

“Yer used t’ yer brother an’ his men, crude jokes an’ the like. I get it. But I demand respect an’ you’ll respect your husband now. Got it?” He isn’t blocking your airway, just holding your throat with his hand like a collar around it. He stands behind you with his unbuttoned shirt, giving you a glimpse of his hairy torso, hard with muscle. “The same way you respect me?” You mutter. He straightens in the mirror, his hand loose. A thumb caresses your jawbone, one stroke then two, before he pulls it away completely like it never happened. “I’m tryin’ to. Let’s agree on that, yeah?” You nod stiffly, sobered and treading with cautious feet. Is this how he’ll be? Acting like a military captain, an all-consuming force?

“And, sweetheart.” He grabs your free hand, the one lying on the desk. His large paw engulfs your own, bringing it to the outline of his cock in his boxers. You can feel the weight of him and, against your will, you squeeze. He’s thick, no, girthy. The fabric is thin, allowing you to feel the ridges of his cock, the veins, and its shape. Your hand acts of its own accord, sliding down until your thumb brushes the mushroomed tip. His cock twitches in your hand and you jump in your seat, snatching your hand away like it’s on fire. His chuckle is low and bruising, a damning caress. 

“Thought so.” And your new husband walks away. 

When you toss your silk dressing gown into the hamper for housekeeping, neither of you comment on the wet spot that’s soaked through. That’s the closest you get to consummating your marriage tonight.

-

i dont care if this is in london, im using miles. deal with it

-

@heretoreadanddrinktea

@peachyxrosie

@joufrance

@galactict3a

@exactlyyoungchaos

@trulovekay

@alleycc

@abox-of-rocks

@orangehibiscus

@mismatchsposts

@nova-willow-541

@throwing-up-butterflies

@grossitsluca

@evans-dejong

@popcornlauncher

@earthcole

@backfromthedeadhehehe

@baduzzxy

@thegreyjoyed

@cutelibrariangf

@dearghostling

@mrsmalfoy1005

@all-by-myself98

@snburntandsad

@baklovers

@rmikaelson01

@leon-thot-kennedy

@the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned

@barcelonaaababe

@brokenandemptyhearts

@sleep101

@ontopofthefridge

@lilynotdilly

@teenagellamaangel

@harperdoodle

@ii-angelsrolltheireyes-ii

@violetisheresworld

[evilminji]

You know what I never see explored?

"Not on MY watch!" Superfan Dash Baxter. The young, limnal, quarterback built like a tank and willing to hit like one.

Because let's be real here. Imagine that scenario: Dash, heading to practice with his Bros. His best friends. The team. When? Oh shit! It's PHANTOM! Best day EVER right?

Except it's NOT.

Somethings wrong. He's not as graceful as he usually is. There is no clever comebacks. He looks beat up, man. What HAPPENED? Everyone looks confused when Dash looks around. But before he can call up to him?

Phantom is Shot Out Of The SKY.

Hits the football field HARD. The entire team is already running. Full sprint. It's those fucking GIW. Already driving onto the field and tearing it up. Jumping out, weapons primed.

Phantom's not... oh god, he's not getting up.

He looks hurt. Really hurt. Those bastards are closing in.

Dash's team? Has his back. They're also fans. Friends of his. Not a single one hesitates. They put their BACKS into it and welcome these sick fucks to Tackle Practice. With a follow up of "Taste Your Own Teeth". Amity special, coach would be proud.

But Dash... fuck, he can't wail on these guys AND protect Phantom at the same time. Kwan tells him to go. Throws him his keys. His car is least shit. Dash owes him SO many pizzas for this. First pick on movies for LIFE, man.

It hurts to leave his team behind. His best friend. But Dash has to GO. He can already hear the Fentons closing in. He grabs Phantom, his HERO, and runs for his life.

Barely manages to peel out of there in time. Floors it. Calls Paulina, obviously. She and Star are doing a spa day thing. She picks up because she KNOWS he wouldn't bother her if it wasn't serious. And-!

Oh...

Oh fuck.

In the rear view mirror. The Fentons and GIW just screeched onto the road behind him. Closing distance FAST. What does he do? Paulina he can't... he WON'T hand Phantom over!

And of course she understands. For God's sake, she in LOVE with the guy. He's never heard her sound so scared and furious. They'll get phantom over her twice dead body. She and Star are making some sort of noises, chanting, and...?

Giant Amazons with swords? GHOST Amazons. Suddenly in the road, jumping over his car to attack the cars behind him. Paulina what the FUCK?? She been talking to her Abuela, APPARENTLY. Who's friends aunt's "roomate" was particularly good at communicating with the dead. So OBVIOUSLY Paulina got her to send notes and studied them in secret.

Gotta be able to speak to you future husband's family in their native language. You win brownie points. Gives her a step up. "Not the point"? It's kind of a point! Giant warrior women! Who-?

Paulina made friends while practicing.

Of course she did. Why is he even REMOTELY surprised she chose the giant terrifying Amazons to be beasties with? He's know her for years. He should know better by now.

.....he feels small asking. Hates that his voice shakes. But... but what do they DO, 'Lina?

What he hates even more is the little shake in his childhood friends voice, even though she's trying to sound certain and strong. What they Do? What they DO is Dash drives his ass the her house, gets in her BETTER car, which she is going to load up, and they leave Amity.

She has LOADS of money. All sorts of jewelry. They're very last season. Frankly, she.. she can't WAIT to pawn them if they have too. They just have to drive. Get Phantom as far away from those freaks as possible. Get help.

And? It could go so many ways from there? Paulina LOVES Phantom. How will she reconcile that with her views on Fenton? How will Dash? Seperated from their roles as "the popular ones" and "the crazy people's son". Knowing that... that Danny likes her TOO.

But she's been AWFUL to him. She said so much. DID so much.

Do the even? LIKE each other? Or just the IDEA of each other? The person they made up in their heads.

They're afraid, tired, on the run. But free from school, the expectations of others, the baked in histories of a small town. Who ARE they as people? Do they like each other? COULD they?

I want to believe that Paulina really means it. That no one is at their best in middle and high school. They say and do stupid, mean, shallow shit. Because the world presses and presses and tells them it's all they are worth. Because they don't know who they ARE yet. Because she is a child. Not yet eighteen.

And Danny isn't perfect either. He saw a pretty, pretty face and got distracted by it. Didn't see how HARD she works. How smart she is. How ambitious and brilliant at reading people.

Are they trying to get to an Embassy? To Paulina's extended Family to the south, who would most certainly take them in, and would gladly fight gods for them? Or is this a crossover? Are they going towards other Heros? Older ones?

Is Paulina planning to pull a Lois Lane and Cause Problems On Purpose? Is Dash HAUNTED by "oh fuck, Wes was right." And now knows he's gonna have just... just WALK UP TO THEM. Broad ass daylight. Like "hello, I clearly know your secret identity! Please don't kill me!"?

Whatever the plan? Danny is in the back row of Paulina's once nice, now beat to hell car, bleeding irresistibly damaging acidic ecto-blood all over the seats. Wrapped up like a mummy. Texting Tucker.

The live tweets from Amity are... An Event. A Spectacle for the ages. His parents KNOW now, have speed run their grief STRAIGHT to RAGE, directed that rage at the GIW, and gone to WAR. Once a Fenton, always a Fenton. Jazz was right. "Anti-ghost" sentience testing once a week DID pay off.

Was it a pain in the ass? Absolutely. But results don't lie. He clearly passed. Is clearly sentient, emotional, and their son. All in hard numbers they ran themselves. Will it stop them attack FULL ghosts? Jazz has no idea. But it sure did convince them to put the GIW in a hole and fill it with concrete.

Danny's getting reports of "you SHOT MY BABY!" Being shouted in public. Sam has decided to channel her frustration at being unable to help him into Full Goth Dramatic Shit Stirring. Non-waterproof mascara, disheveled hair. Clutching a picture of him. Dramatic howling and weeping in the arms of her parents.

Apparently now that he's presumed DEAD, the Mansons ALWAYS loved him. Like a SON to them. A sweet, innocent child. Their daughters friend! The GIW are monsters and child killers, they decry.

And the Red Huntress is... Oh, yikes. Yeah he should call her. Val is one more bad thing happening from her villian origin story. At least she... PROBABLY... has killed anyone yet. Note to self: when Danny can actually move torso again, buy Valerie soothing anti-stress...everything. All the things. She responds to stress by punching. Deliver from safe, non-punchable distance.

All in all? My Dash? Needs more Dash! Give the popular kids a chance to prove they aren't just cardboard cut outs! That they can grow beyond the roles high-school and society has pushed them into! Give them some trauma! Why only Danny? Spread the psychic damage!

@stealingyourbones @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DP x DC prompt. ~“Unstable connection”~ Dead on main.

Part 9.3. "A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you." — Elbert Hubbard

~~~~~

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7.

Part 8. Part 9. New: Part 9.1. Part 9.2. Part 9.3.

Part 10. Part 11. Part 12. Meme break №1. Part 13.

Roy: Look, I’m deeply flattered that you decided to talk about your feelings with me because you bats are allergic to them, but you’re seriously telling me that you’re texting a guy from out of Gotham? What for?

Jason: Do I need a reason?

Roy: Usually not, but I know you’re paranoid.

A cookie flies straight into Roy’s head.

Jason: Shut up. I know how to relax. He’s just a guy. No harm from boyf- a friend.

Roy: What you see in him? No, I rather have to ask how he tolerates you. I deserve a reward for being your best friend.

Jason: Hey, actually, I like Bizarro a lot more, just so you know, jerk. And we actually have more in common than it seems. He gets along with dead people who hang out in his town a lot. And.. I don’t know, okay? It’s just easy to talk to him, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would yell if he found out about me something weird for any other stranger. He feels like home. Safe one. I can rest when I talk to him, you know?

Roy: So you trust him? With everything?

Jason: I’m not an idiot and I’m not going to reveal everything until we talk offline. I don’t even know if I want to. Of course he’s not afraid of the undead from his town and he didn’t convict Hood for his actions when I asked him for his opinion, but talking about a specific person and some vigilante from the shadows is different. I don’t want him to be afraid of me or be disappointed in me. But somehow part of me believes that he will take this side of me. I sent him a picture with knives on my thighs, and he didn’t care. And one time, I messed up the chats and I sent him a threat that was meant to check on my new guys. He yelled at me. Because I could be reported to the police.

Roy: Well, if you like him, just try not to screw it up.

Jason: I’m trying. And by the way if Dick finds out about our conversation, I’ll throw you in the river.

Roy: Dude, you’ve known me for years! I bet you don’t threaten your lover like that! Have some trust.

Jason: Okay. So, I don’t know what to do, Roy. Fenton is perfect. But he’s a civilian. Phantom looks dead handsome but I know almost nothing about him. And what I know I learned from Danny. And now the fic that I’m writing is full of adult-rated scenes. Of course, I don’t add them to my work on ao3, but it’s still so weird.

Roy: Have you tried sending this to Fenton? With any luck, he’ll take it as flirting.

Jason: What? Hell no! He thinks I’m a mercenary for Red Hood. He’s gonna think I have wet fantasies about my boss and I’m gonna lose all self-respect, and he’s gonna block me and...

Roy: Okay, okay, slow down a little. We both know you’re weird, but you’re not that weird. And he’s not even your boyfriend. So his opinion doesn’t really matter.

Jason *whispers*: He's my husband. And it does.

Roy: Dude, I mean, I support your vibe but isn’t this guy supposed to know that he’s gonna have the title of the husband of a crime lord first.

Jason: Fair.

~~~~~~~

~Next morning~

Dick: So, I heard my Little Wing has a boyfriend. What’s his name? When are you bringing him to the family dinner?

Jason:…I’m gonna kill Harper. ~~~~~~~

Bizarro *on his way to tell all to Artemis and impress his good friend’s boyfriend*. First, he can leave a Red Hood doll by the window of a couple of his friend. It’ll help him understand that Bizarro isn’t dangerous and then the boy will want to be his friend too. Good plan, Pup Pup!

[currentfandomkick]

So. Reincarnated!Danny and Tim has taken over my brain. And the trans headcannons for both Tim and Danny, and Kitty and Johnny resulted in what’s below. Debating calling this the RookAU as i like that for Tim’s future solo identity, and color palette wise it reminds of phantom.

Toddler-adjacent Tim with ghosts, Constantine and decent parents below in fic form

Tim was used to seeing people others ignored. The nice lady in the pearl necklace and the pretty green pendant that matches her ring. She’s always with this nice biker who checked Tim over whenever he fell and said he was “a doctor before i kicked the bucket again,” while doing a reflex and booboo check.

The pair had a habit of staying around his neighbors and hovering around a Tim a lot.

No one else said high to them. The biker said its because his shadow was bad luck, but Tim saw it wrap around Batman and Robin before and go through bad guys who stopped fighting as good in a bank robbery before. The biker’s shadow is really a big helper and chooses what type of luck you get.

He’s not sure if the biker worked that out—the one with the 13 on his bike and wore the green skull necklace—there are a lot of bikers that drive through people but no one gets hurt-hurt.

Tim drew a lot of the ignored people in crayon. Some were bleeding but Mr. 13 told him they’re stuck like that as ‘Thats how shades are’ and ruffled Tim’s hair.

Sometimes the pair visited instead of only seeing him when his parents let him go to boundary by their properties. It’s nice, but they’re very weird about names, and Tim.

The woman told him she has a few names, and so does her husband. She said Tim could give them names too! Having a lot made you safer and stronger.

The biker calls her “kitty” a lot so she has to be a Catherine, but sometimes she’s “Martha” too. Tim didn’t like the idea of using the biker’s names for her.

She calls the guy Johnny a lot, Thomas and Tom. Tim doesnt know which is their middle names or what crimes they did to use those all the time, but they’re really nice to him! He’s pretty sure he likes being Mr. 13 too!

Sometimes they mention they knew him “before you went round two, little man!” but they don’t call him the name he went by, as “you and your uh, cousin I think you two decided on? Shared a name and your old one was real close to it. So not the best thing to call you that little man.”

Tim chose his name for himself, and Mommy and Daddy got it changed everywhere. No one needs to know, just like no one will know since Mommy and Daddy are very sneaky and are teaching him to be sneaky!

He was still debating if Kitty Martha and Johnny Tom would like to be Miss Pearl and Mr. 13…

The two murmured he needed to be careful about which people he noticed, especially if they were blue or green, or if other people didn’t see them. ‘Shades’ can be tricky and Tim is little enough they can do a lot of damage, according to Pearl.

But the parade of people at home made it hard. There were other people in and out of the various houses he grew up in that his parents and others ignored. Mom called them his ‘imaginary friends’ when he saw them on the street. But they pretend not to see servants and the help too.

Pearl. he liked that for her; Martha Kitty Pearl. She followed him when he left the house and shooed the others away. Sometimes Pearl blew a kiss and a bunch of shades were gone!

Johnny Tom 13’s shadow buddy cursed people sometimes. Mostly it made their phone work worse. Shadow likes cheezits.

Dad thought it was a little funny, feeding the ‘Shadow’ and giving it to the wrong spots. Shadow didn’t care, but Pearl and Johnny didn’t like it.

Dad stopped laughing about it when Tim asked why there was a bird with a person’s face flapping at some of the jars his parents brought home from the latest dig.

Mom knelt down slowly, looking at her work friends and Dad. “Sweetie, can you draw what you saw?”

Bird person noticed he was pointing at them and made a lot of loud angry sounds.

Tim covered his ears and screamed back.

The bird person froze. Tim huffed before grabbing the crayon.

“Sorry, they were too loud. They stopped trying to grab the jar though. Do you still want a picture?”

Dad knelt down beside Mom and nodded slowly.

Mom looked at the jar. “Timmy, should Mommy move it back?”

Tim told her no, the bird person wanted it there and kept moving otherwise.

After showing off his drawing, Mom and Dad changed languages they way they always did when it was a grownup conversation.

The bird person flew over and looked at his drawing, and him.

“Pearl and 13 said I’m not supposed to say hi. But you’re not a shade—are you a meta?”

Tim. Had no clue what the bird person was saying, flapping scuffling about. They pecked his drawing. A lot. They were not, very much not, happy about being there.

Tim frowned. Mom and Dad were talking to their friends in hushed tones, and moving out of the room.

Tim huffed and grabbed a map of the world and put it out for them. The birdperson squaked at him, gesturing to the place they are on it.

Tim pointed to the continent they’re on. “Mom’s friend calls it the ‘new world,’ but it’s been here for longer than I’ve been alive. But shades can be a lot older than me… and you’re not a shade.”

Tim hummed, wishing Pearl or 13 was there. They said you have to speak and feel what you mean sometimes to talk to other ignored people.

“I’m not sure what you are if you’re not a meta. But I think you want to go, go home?” Tim tried to focus on what made home, home. Mom and Dad reading to him together, holidays and singing silly songs. It was warm and an invite to play and rest.

The birdperson flew to him and perched itself on his shoulder.

“You’re very light,” Tim commented. “Do you want any water?” He focused on cups and drinking this time.

The bird person huffed, gently hitting him with their wing.

“Got it. Not thirsty.”

He went back to his book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and let the angry bird person hop down his shoulder, but stay touching Tim, as they grabbed the crayon and made marks on some paper he left by the map.

His parents came to check in on him and saw the bird person’s drawing on the paper, grabbed his drawing of the bird person, and whisper-yelled enough he knew they were not happy, but not to the point he knew what it was exactly.

“Do you think I did something bad?” Tim asked quietly, with this swirling abyss twisting in his gut.

The bird person ruffled their feathers and said a word that felt like a ‘no.’

A few hours later a man who said he could call him “Connie” came in. His parents kept calling him Constantine. There was a nice floating man with him that everyone but Connie ignored.

Tim waited for them to be distracted and asked the floating man one of the safe questions 13 and Pearl gave him for safe ghosts.

“What do you like to be called?”

The floating man paused, floated lower and stared at him.

“It’s okay, you’re a guest and it’s okay to talk to guests. I chose Tim!” He smiled, hoping his parents didn’t have to bring up his old name.

“Deadman,” the floating man offered his hand.

Tim shook it like Dad does.

“and try not to spread around your name to others ghosts. We can uh, overwhelm the ones who can see us.”

Tim frowned, ignoring his parents’ eyes and Connie’s look as their conversation quieted. They’d just say he was talking to an imaginary friend again.

“Is that what I should call the green and blue people? I know the one with the goop coming out are usually shades.”

“Some of us are obvious with the colors, some are more like me and very pale. Do I look solid to you?”

“If you aren’t a shade you’re solid. It’s why birdie is hard to workout. They’re more see through but feel very solid.”

“Right.” Deadman’s face tightened by the eyes and his mouth. “Most people see through ghosts like air. Sometimes we can be see-through like hair. Its. Not common to see us as solid, even at your age.”

“Oh. Is that why a lot of you glow if you get close? Not a lot, but like, like… sunset hair! but not golden just, other colors, but all of you—everywhere! Shades don’t glow unless they’re changing color.”

“I can’t say for sure, most mediums see me half here, half not.”

That felt familiar. Bird person flew over, absently grooming Tim’s hair with their feathers.

“That sounds annoying. Do you want to watch Blue’s Clues with me while Mom and Dad do the serious stuff? Blue takes a while to get what you’re saying but Mom said she’s hard of hearing and won’t get hearing aides—that’s why Dad said it’s important to learn sign language.”

“Did he?” Deadman asked.

“M’hm!”

Connie explained some adults only thing to his parents while Deadman and Tim tried to make Steve to understand they already knew where Blue was, and know just how bad he is at instructions.

When the episode was over, Tim, Deadman and Birdperson went to knock on the door where his parents were. Or Tim did.

Deadman floated through and told Connie they were ready.

Connie sat him down, and started asking questions Pearl and 13 made him promise not to answer as that’s what exorcists ask before making people go away.

He loves 13 and Pearl, and knows they watch over Mr. Wayne who acts happy when he isn’t. His happy face and his “happy” faces are very different. The “happy” face is more like Steve’s face movements, while his happy face is always soft and barely there if you don’t pay attention.

Tim always pays attention.

“Look kid, I know you can see souls who are stuck between the living realm and the dead realms. Deadman is dead.”

Tim scowled as he knows what dead is—it’s when bodies stop working. Souls and spirits are vastly different. “He’s not Gone or Ended, so he’s not dead-dead-dead. And that’s not uncommon to know or see at my age so bleh!”

“Tim!” His parents tried to chide him.

Connie waved them off and motioned for Tim to continue.

“It’s true! And if I did, then you’d make my friends Ended or Gone and they choose to stay.”

Connie paused at that, making the same face mom does when working out something weird going on in Drake Industries. “Does this guy choose to stay?” He pointed to the bird person.

“No,” Tim answered with a small frown. He did spend a lot of time trying to communicate with them afterall, and the weird ‘feels like’ thing going on. “He wants to go home, but he can’t. I think the jars are like,” Tim trailed off, looking around to find his hotwheels tucked away in a corner. “Like cars to get him home or something.”

Connie hummed. “Not wrong in his case. But, seeing souls can be dangerous kid.”

“Only if they realize you can see ‘em.” Tim argued like Mom does with the investors. “And you invited Deadman in after being made a guest, so that’s allowed.”

“And a friend of yours teach you this?” Connie guessed with the ‘fake knowing’ look his dad used on a bad shareholder before they started listening to Mom.

…Tim can admit he loves being with Pearl and 13 and Shadow. But he’s not sure if friends is the right word. But if he uses the right feeling word around his parents, they’ll get sad and mad and he… he wants them to be happy.

“Nope. Not a friend, but not-not a friend either.”

“Cryptic, little—takes after Janet, huh?”

Tim smiled back at him, even as Mom and Dad share a look where Mom pretends she has no involvement and Dad is trying to get her to admit she is involved.

“I chose me to take after thank you very much.”

Connie snorted. “When you’re older, we can talk about how to use it. Until then, I’m going to give your parents some wards to keep the nasties from you.”

Tim didn’t like it. Or the sudden craving for burgers and shakes.

“Aren’t you going to help Bird Person get home?”

Constantine sighed. “Yeah, I’ll drop ‘im off. Just don’t borrow problems from the dead, okay?”

Tim stayed quiet, trying to work out what that meant.

Connie knelt down. “Its not your responsibility. If you want to try anything, contact me first and we can get you set up as an apprentice for another paranormal detective first and foremost and work it out from there, but that will be a long, long ways out.”

Tim nodded slowly, looking at his parents. Dad had a pinched face. Mom had her Gala Jerk Repellant smile one.

Tim’s heart sank.

“If they look ghostly, ignore them unless everyone can see them. Then you call me.”

Dad didn’t like letting go of their find. Mom hated something about it all.

Maybe that Tim can see secrets and get ghost gossip that she can’t.

When Pearl and 13 moved to the Drake Estate Tim took their hands and introduced them to his parents carefully.

His parents jumped back when Pearl and 13 each put a hand on his shoulders.

“Mom, Dad, this is Pearl and Thirteen.”

Pearl smiled at his parents, her hair more inky and short than her more-usual green shag. “Pleasure to see you two again. Hope

You don’t mind us watching over Timmy here given what tends to try and stick to him.”

“As long as our son is safe and free,” Mom supplied while shaking Pearl’s hand herself.

Tim wondered if this would be another board meeting fight or not.

“Jack,”13 acknowledged.

“Nice to see you again Tommy,” Dad offered his own hand. “Didn’t know Timmy here could uh, bring you back?”

“Likewise, and its 13 nowadays. Tim’s a special case,” 13 explained while ruffling Tim’s hair. “We’re gonna need you two to keep a secret from Old Connie for us about this.”

“Why don’t we work out what we need to do while Tim wears the ‘silence headphones’ we got him and practices his penmanship and drawing?”

“I’ll help him pick out a book!” Jack called, scooping Tim into his arms.

“Pig Pancake!” Tim perked up, squirming out of his grasp and running to find his favorite picture book.

His parents put his headphones on and everything was quiet. Just him and the book. And him trying to draw the pages and wrote like the letters on the page.

Kitty waved a hand infront of him to get his attention.

13 pointed at his ears.

Tim took off his headphones.

“Tim,” Mom began. “We came to an agreement. When your father and I are not here or are busy, Martha—yes I know it’s Pearl too I was getting there dear—will stay with you. Shadow will stay with their son if they’re both with you, and Tom—Thirteen—will go between the two of you.”

Tim kicked his feet. “So no Nanny?”

“Yes you still have a nanny when we’re not around sweetheart,” Dad answered. “But you also have Pearl to play with and keep you out of bad trouble.”

“Like the rogues when they break into schools?” Tim asked.

“Exactly sweetie,” Mom smiled. “Pearl is very good at making problems go bye-bye, and can get you somewhere safe. But we have to keep it a secret from Connie when he visits to make sure the wards on the house and the repulsions we’ll be putting on you to keep nasties away are working, alright?”

A smile bloomed on Tim’s face as he nodded along.

“Can Pearl and me play mario kart now?”

“What am I, chopped liver?” 13 bemoaned.

“Yep! C’mon Pearl, you can be Bowser this time—he’s the coolest!”

[phoenix-downer]

Next to My Husband

Summary: Penelope can't believe Odysseus is really home, and he claims he isn't the man he once was. But one final test reveals the truth, and husband and wife reunite at long last.

~ 2770 words. Set during "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again" in the Ithaca Saga of Epic: the Musical and expands on their reunion. Angst, Romance, Fluff. Check the tags for additional info. POV Penelope.

Penelope waited in her chambers, staring out the open window facing the sea. For a long time, she had despised it for taking her husband away from her. How many nights had she spent staring at it, hoping, wishing, praying he would come home? And now Telemachus claimed he had returned.

It was too good to be true. Odysseus was dead. He had drowned or perished on some faraway island. She was in denial like so many other widows of the Trojan War. This was just a dream, nothing more.

She faintly heard her name called out, and then the door to her chambers creaked open. A man stood there, looking utterly haggard and ragged in the torchlight. He quite literally wore rags, his clothes were stained with blood, scars littered his body, and his dark hair and beard were matted. His eyes were red instead of the brown she remembered. But the way he looked at her…

She swallowed and stood. It had been so long since she had seen Odysseus that she wasn't sure if she could trust her eyes to tell her the truth.

“Is it really you? Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming once more?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “It's hard to believe, I know.”

She hesitated, then took a few steps closer to him. “Forgive me, but you look different. Your eyes are tired and your frame is lighter. Even your smile is different. It's so torn. Is it really you, my love?”

If this man really was her husband, he had changed so much in the intervening years that her heart and mind were having trouble coming to terms with the differences. She was a practical woman out of necessity, but all those painful days and sleepless nights longing for him to return had created a phantom lurking in her mind, a spectre made up of memories and longing. Her phantom husband was not the same as the man before her now—he was young and kind and optimistic, not middle-aged and jaded and haunted.

But then again, she was hardly the same woman either. She was also middle-aged now, and exhausted, and cautious. Naivety was the luxury of fools. She’d had to be clever and cunning and deceitful to survive. To raise Telemachus and keep the kingdom running and hold the suitors at bay.

His face fell. “I’m not the man you fell in love with,” he admitted, and she was confused for a moment before he continued. “The man you once adored—he's long gone.” That haunted look returned to his eyes, and he hung his head in shame. “I'm not your kind and gentle husband, and I don't deserve to be called your love. Because I'm not that man, not anymore. I don't even know that I deserve to be called a man after what I've done.” He ran a shaking hand through his shaggy hair.

She wasn't sure what to say. If he truly was a monster, he wouldn't feel remorse. But those blood-soaked clothes certainly spoke for themselves. The servants were currently cleaning up the aftermath of his killing spree that had left 108 men dead. And yet he had done it for a reason. Telemachus had told her it was to protect them. He had spelled out their horrible plans, the ghastly fate Odysseus had spared them from. Any good husband and father would do everything in his power to stop such an awful plot directed at his family. It was just difficult to wrap her mind around how far Odysseus had gone.

The world was a cruel place, to turn her kind, gentle husband into a ruthless killer.

He mistook her silence for judgment. “I know you've been waiting for the man who was once your love,” he said, and there were tears glistening in his red eyes and shadows on his face from the flickering torchlight. “But you don't know what all I've done, and I can't change the past. How could you ever love me if I told you?”

“Try me," she said softly, like this was another one of the riddles or puzzles or challenges they always used to make for one another. “What kinds of things did you do?”

She wanted to know. Wanted to find out what he had done, what spectres haunted him.

“Left a trail of red on every island,” he told her. “Traded my friends like they were just objects I could use. Hurt more lives than I can count.”

He continued telling her what he had done, and though it made her stomach turn, she appreciated his honesty. He wasn't sugarcoating his behavior or pretending his dark deeds hadn't happened or weren't his fault. When she had seen him off to war, she had hardly expected him to keep his hands clean. But the war had ended a decade ago, and his journey back to her side had taken another decade and even more bloodshed.

Yes, the world was cruel to drive a man like her husband to commit such atrocities. She could only hope the world would be less cruel for their son. A kind, peaceful world where good men never had to be ruthless to make it home alive…where good men didn't have to leave for war in the first place…if only.

But she was Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, and the scarred, bloodstained, haggard man before her was claiming to be her husband and king. She would leave speculation pertaining to ideal worlds to the philosophers and any actual execution of said ideals to the gods. Penelope of Ithaca for her part would continue to deal with reality.

“And why did you do these things?” she asked, her voice careful and stoic as she paced the room, her expression keeping up the façade of a judge.

“All of it was to bring me back to you,” he said, his voice breaking at the torment he'd been through, at what he still tortured himself with, and her heart broke along with it.

If this was a false Odysseus, he certainly sounded like the real thing.

“If you want nothing to do with me,” he continued, “I understand. Just say the word and I'll be gone forever.” He dared to take a step closer to her. “But if you could find it in yourself to fall in love with me again, not the man I was but the monster I am now, please, tell me.”

He pleaded with her with his entire being. His arms and legs trembled, his eyes begged her, and she could sense how badly he wanted to embrace her.

A part of her wanted to cave completely, to take him in her arms and smother his face with kisses. But she had one more test. One final question to confirm he wasn't an illusion and to make sure he was still her husband deep down. Was he still the same man she had fallen in love with all those years ago, or had the years changed him too much like he seemed to think?

She suspected he needed this test as much as she did.

“If that's true,” she said at last, “if you really have done those things and you really are a monster like you say, could you do me a favor? Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace.”

She gestured to their bed, to where they had spent so many lovely evenings together and where she had spent countless more agonizing nights alone. “See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here.”

It was a trick question, one only Odysseus would know the answer to.

His face twisted in pain. “How could you say this? I built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat. I carved it into the olive tree where we first met. It's a symbol of our everlasting love.” His voice got louder and angrier, and it was clear he was wounded deeply by her request. “Do you realize what you’ve just asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots.”

His unspoken meaning lingered in the air. He didn't want to destroy the symbol of their love or the reality behind it any more than she did. And that meant he was still her husband, despite what he might think.

She couldn't test him any longer. She smiled as tears filled her eyes. “Only my husband knew that, so I guess that makes him you.”

His eyes widened. “Penelope…” So much meaning and emotion behind a single word. Twenty years worth of longing and waiting. Oh how she had wanted for him to say her name again. To hear his voice once more.

She cupped his cheek, and he melted into her touch, the tears streaming down his face. “I will fall in love with you over and over again,” she promised him through her own tears. “I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been, you're mine.” She stroked the faded scar on his cheek that he'd gotten from that boar hunt all those years ago. “Don't tell me you're not the same person. You're always my husband, and I've been waiting for you.”

He threw his arms around her, holding her close like his life depended on it, saying her name over and over again. He had been through so much to come home, to return to her. There would be consequences for his actions—trials he must endure and people he must face. But they would deal with all that together. And they would do it tomorrow. Tonight, he didn't need lectures or judgments or reckonings.

He needed his wife.

She pulled away a little and searched his face, then leaned closer, closer till her lips brushed against his. His breath caught, and then he was kissing her back with all the desire and passion of the last twenty years spent apart. One hand wove its way into her hair and his other arm wrapped around her waist, and she wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against him.

He deepened the kiss, and her mind flew back, back to all the times they had done this before. To their first kiss under the olive tree that was now their bed. While they were older and more experienced, their eagerness and passion now reminded her of then.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. She very much wanted to continue, but he insisted on cleaning up first. So she sent the servants to fetch water and heat rocks for the bath. When everything was ready, she glanced at Odysseus.

He still hadn't removed his bloody rags, and he stared at the water with fear in his eyes.

He’d never been afraid of water before. All those years at sea…had he almost drowned?

“Ody?” she gently asked, using his old nickname as she placed a hand on his arm.

“Poseidon has had his revenge after all,” was his cryptic response. “I don't think I'll ever be able to enter a body of water without panicking.” He smiled ruefully. “I can torture a god with his own weapon and slaughter over a hundred men in a single day, but taking a bath is beyond me.”

She glanced at the tub. It really wasn't that big, just large enough for the two of them. Maybe they could start small and he would get used to being in the water again.

“I'll join you,” she said, then carefully unfastened the fibulae holding her peplos in place as he watched. As the garment slipped off her, she had a brief moment of uncertainty and grabbed the fabric. He hadn't seen her in twenty years. Would he still find her aging body beautiful? He’d probably met plenty of stunning mortal women and breathtaking goddesses on his journeys. How could she possibly hope to compare—

He gently grasped her hand and led it away from her body, letting the peplos slip off completely. The way his eyes traveled up and down her body, the hunger and yearning in his gaze, she knew her fears were unfounded.

“You're even more beautiful than I remembered,” he told her, putting her fears to rest for good. He embraced her and kissed her softly, tenderly, and she gently tugged at his rags. Normally, it was the servants’ job to undress and bathe the king, but she wanted to be the one to help him.

When she’d gotten all the rags off at last, she wanted to cry. His scars were even more visible and numerous now. She knew each one carried a story of pain and suffering and survival, and she wanted to know them all.

He misunderstood her expression, shame crawling up his face and driving him to look away from her. She quickly put a stop to that when she kissed the scar on his right shoulder.

“You're more handsome to me than ever, my love. These scars are signs of your survival. Wear them proudly.”

He searched her face and then kissed her again, and they spent quite a while kissing and touching before finally making it to the bath. He braved the water with her by his side, and she carefully cleaned every inch of him. Washed away the blood and the sweat and the grime. Ran her hands through his tangled, matted hair until there were no more snarls or knots. And he carefully washed her too, washed away the fear and sweat and deceit until she felt completely clean.

When they were through, he looked much more like himself again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and was about to kiss him when a bright light flashed. When she could see again, it took her a moment to realize Odysseus was still with her, because her husband quite literally looked like a god. He was taller and stronger than ever before, and his hair graced his broad shoulders in thick dark curls. Going by his expression, she had undergone a similarly miraculous transformation.

Then he smiled, a smile so big and bright it lit up the whole room and made her smile too. “Thank you, oh goddess of wisdom, for your support in my romantic endeavors,” he called out to someone she couldn't see, “but I would've taken my wife to bed all the same.”

He grinned and swept her into his arms, and Penelope could've sworn she heard an owl hooting in return. But soon all thoughts of their divine supporter fled their minds as Odysseus carried her to their wedding bed.

Twenty years of absence could not easily be undone in a single night, but they were willing to try. Especially because the night went on and on and on, almost as if Someone was asking Dawn to wait until husband and wife were fully sated.

When at last they were, Penelope smiled and played with Odysseus’s hair as they cuddled together. His eyes weren't red anymore. They were back to their beautiful, natural brown. A sign that he wasn’t a god or monster but just a man.

“How long has it been?” she asked, knowing her answer but wanting to know his.

He grasped her hand and tenderly kissed it. “Twenty years,” he said softly.

Her lips parted. So he had been faithful after all. She had been faithful too, hoping and waiting and longing for his return.

“Twenty years,” she echoed to confirm his unspoken question.

They told each other everything after that, all that had transpired in each other's absences. Athena must be still helping them at this point because Dawn still hadn't arrived, and yet Penelope somehow had the energy to tell Odysseus everything and listen to his tales in return.

When he was through, he caressed her cheek as the first rays of Dawn spread across the sky.

“I love you,” he said, the words simple but profound. Like he was grateful she knew everything and yet still accepted him.

She smiled and kissed his hand. "I love you too.”

They'd both been through so much. She had worn herself ragged raising their son single-handedly and running the kingdom, and she had lied to the suitors. Odysseus had done such terrible things to make it home, had killed so many people. And yet she knew the man lying next to her wasn't a monster. He had much to atone for, but he was her husband, and he always would be.

————————————————————————

A/N: This story was such a joy to write. A big thank you to @aquariusshadow for introducing me to Epic and reading over the story for me and giving her suggestions, and a big thank you to @scoobysnack1107 as well for also reading and providing feedback ❤️ I love Greek mythology and musicals, so Epic is like the perfect combination of two of my interests that I never knew I needed.

Just a few notes about the writing process: I wanted to incorporate how Odysseus’s eyes turn red in the animatics for the song “Odysseus,” and how they seem a little less red when he reunites with Telemachus and Penelope. Also, all the stuff with Athena being his wingwoman is actually legitimately from the Odyssey (giving him a glow up, delaying dawn for him and Penelope, etc.), which cracked me up. I read the 23rd book before I wrote this story in preparation, and you truly cannot make these things up. Also, the scar from the boar hunt is on Odysseus's foot in the Odyssey, but I moved it to his face for this story. I also went down a research rabbit hole about ancient Greek baths and clothing to make sure those details were more accurate, and that was a fun diversion. And of course I loved including the callbacks to “Just a Man,” incorporating the lyrics of "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again,” and exploring Penelope's mindset more.

I feel really lucky to have gotten into Epic right before the Ithaca Saga released. It's been such a fun journey, or shall we say, Odyssey 😎 Congrats to all the cast and crew for all their hard work! And thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed! ❤️

[whereonceiwasfire]

Look. Look. I am as invested as the next person in a nuanced, well-developed exploration of the fractured relationship between the college trio, but I contain multitudes, and also just really need more AUs in my life where Maddie actually knows Vlad is now a ghost loser simp intent on getting Jack out of the picture and plans on ctrl-v-ing himself in his ex-best-friend's place like a badly photoshopped family picture, because I think this has the potential to be absolutely HILARIOUS.

Neither of them tells Jack because Maddie can't bear to break her husband's heart by revealing the truth about their long-lost friend, and Vlad won't tell him because, on top of the obvious reasons, Jack also keeps inviting Vlad to stuff. Family dinner? Danny's school events? Camping trips? It's remarkably convenient as it puts him in a great position to play Uncle Vlad until he can successfully enact his bonkers plan.

Except now, in addition to Danny knowing Vlad is up to no good and being very much not on board with the Fruitloop's whole shtick, Maddie's in the same boat too. But Maddie and Danny are keeping this info from each other because she still doesn't/can't know her son is Phantom and if Danny outs Vlad, Vlad will turn around and spill his little secret too. And for Maddie's part, she probably just doesn't want her son knowing that Vlad is a ghost. It's a bad look to admit you've welcomed a specter from the afterlife into your house (on multiple occasions) when you've spouted off how dangerous these creatures are since your kiddos could walk.

This sets up a scenario where you've got Jack: oblivious, Danny: trying not to reveal his secret while also keeping Vlad from murdering his dad, Maddie: being a badass ghost hunter protecting her family and blasting Vlad into next Tuesday every chance she gets, and Vlad: just, being very...Vlad about everything. Chaos and hilarity ensues.

Can you see my vision?

Jack's humming to himself while making dinner, back turned, unaware anything is amiss as Maddie saves his life, firing a blaster at Plasmius and sending him through a wall before he can attack her husband. She immediatley hides the ecto-weapon behind her back, giving a too-enthusastic "how was your day sweetie!" when Danny walks in the door, brows raised. Jack turns around at the interruption, giving a bright, oblivious, "Where'd Vladdy go?!" which prompts a groan and a "that guy's here again?" from Danny.

Maddie and Danny can bond over their shared aversion to Vlad's general existance, though neither of them admit there's a little more to it than just "he's an arrogant asshole." Or, better yet, they're both putting on the facade, keeping up pretenses, pretending they don't despise the dude, because how are they supposed to explain why they despise the dude? Vlad is impossibly amused by the whole song and dance they're doing, because of course, he's the only one who realizes that Maddie and Danny both know he's a half ghost and are keeping that from each other. And like, as if he's going to let them in on that little tidbit unless it directly benefits him.

Sometimes Maddie and Danny run into awkward situations where they're both trying to protect Jack, but they don't realize it, and they can't be overt about it without the other person realizing what's going on. "Don't you have homework? You go do that, I'll check on your father and...uncle Vlad." "Oh, no, no, don't you worry about it, you're so busy, Mom. I can go check on them!" "That's really not necessary. I don't mind at all." Meanwhile, Vlad is in the kitchen like "why don't you check that cooking oil with your face, Jack? Oh, I know it sounds unorthodox, but I swear that's how they do it in France."

[thehollowwriter]

Listen ya'll I know I'm literally the one who decides to make Finn and Silas cookie cutter sharks, but I'm ngl, at the time it was just cause I Iike cookie cutter sharks. I didn't realise it was accidentally thematically significant until later *wheeze*

Just a warning for discussions of cannabilism, fantasy racism, bullying, and some shark skull pictures under the cut. Also pretty pretty please read this for cookie cutter shark stuff, it's not very long XD

A big part of both Finn and Silas' lives (plus Morrigan's) was being percieved as more monstrous, animalistic, and dangerous, and even parasitic, partially due to Silas being from the Abyss, and partially because they don't look as human as other mers.

I have a hc (mostly because of Azul's backstory tbh) that throughout the many centuries of coexistence, human cultures and standards began influencing those of the merfolk.

Over time, more human looking mers (ones that look like your typical human idea of a mermaid e.g Ariel) came to be viewed as more civilised and desirable, while your more "animalistic mers" (such as Jade, Floyd, and Azul, tho even they still look quite human) that are a harder pill to swallow for humans came to be viewed as animalistic, stupid, and dangerous.

Essentially, the former were pretty fantasy creatures, and the latter were horror movie monsters.

Silas especially suffers from this due to being from the Abyss, and though his reputation is somewhat better than when he first came to Atlantica or during the time Morrigan died, he's still viewed as:

1. A creepy, violent cannibal just waiting for a chance to grab the next good hardworking citizen to devour, despite the fact that he hasn't eaten another merfolk in almost thirty years

2. A parisite (leeching off Morrigan, taking other people's money) despite the fact that he's self supporting (Can't be entitled to your dead husband's money or belongings when you aren't legally married bc you don't legally exist 🤷‍♂️ so it all goes to your shitty in-laws who hate you)

However I would be lying if I said that parisite imagery didn't work for Silas. Hell, his UM is parasitic in nature to reflect the life he jad to live in the Abyss, and even my idea for his OB phantom is the plush shark gorging on the ink bottle (and maybe the "cap" of the bottle puncturing the phantom's head and sticking out the other side like it ate too much)

His quiet nature, job as a butcher, and few ventures into public lets rumours run wild, which doesn't work out well for either him or Finn. And that's not even touching on the fact that when he does talk to others, if they're not acting like he's gonna suddenly lunge at them, they talk to him like he's stupid ("This is a phone, see!" Type behaviour yk) and only seem to take him serious when he copies Morrigan's more upper-class way of talking.

Finn, although certainly not treated anywhere near as badly as Silas, isn't free from coming under fire either. He may be treated with a very odd form of pity due to being raised by "someone like him (Silas)", but that's drowned out by being seen as a creepy problem child that upsets and scares his classmates. He's always been indirectly told he doesn't act "normal" and that something is "wrong", which is often blamed on either Silas or Finn's "nature."

Finn is largely avoided by other merfolk, whether it be fear of him attacking (mixed with a fear of the feeling the ghosts get others) or being lured by him to Silas, as some rumours went. Some children are banned from interacting with Finn or Silas entirely. For those who are more daring, they're quickly put off by Finn's unusual silence and "weird" or gross interests.

There are few who try and tease or bully Finn, and fewer who do it continuously, but those who do mostly target Finn's appearance (fat, "ugly" teeth, "ugly" shade of green, claws, too small, etc) and behaviour ("creep", dumb, too sensitive, weirdo, "doesn't talk/doesn't talk right", etc) or take advantage of his size to try knock him around (this ends poorly)

Cookie cutter sharks themselves are technically parasites, but not in the way people think. They are not true parasites, instead they are facultative ectoparasites. Although they do engage in parasitism, they don't depend on it to survive and do in fact hunt other sea creatures such as squid, like other sharks do. However, most people only know them as parasites that only feed off bigger creatures, similarly to how Silas (and by extention, Finn) is viewed.

Not only that, but cookie cutter sharks used to be called "demon whale biters" before they got their current name. It fits pretty well with Finn and Silas being seen as monstrous/demonic despite being extremely unlikely to attack anyone unprovoked and just want to be left alone.

Cookie cutter sharks are largely acknowledged to not be very pretty either. One of their nicknames is the "cigar shark" due to apparently looking like a rolled up cigar, and an article even described them as "ugly pencils" at one point. Their teeth aren't considered pretty either. I've actually got good pictures of cookie cutter shark skulls here:

Funnily enough, people do like more well-known sharks and even find them more pretty or even cute. Even their sharp and dangerous teeth are more palatable in a way since they appear more "neat" and appealingly organised.

This again fits with Finn, as Ariel-like shark mers are regarded pretty highly and found to be cool, strong and attractive (though this would probably be due to more acceptance of those kinds of mers in the recent past) while Finn's seen almost like a little freakshow of sorts.

So yeah that's my lil symbolism(?) ramble of the day lol

Tagging: @distant-velleity @br3adtoasty @rainesol @theleechyskrunkly @jovieinramshackle

@galaxies-and-gore @cyanide-latte @cynthinesia @officialdaydreamer00 @krenenbaker

@offorestsongs @kitwasnothere @elenauaurs @boopshoops @inotonline

@1dont-really-know @kazumify @minteasketches @elysia-nsimp @skrimpyskimpy

@casp1an-sea @offorestsongs @tixdixl @poisoned-pearls @the-trinket-witch

@ramshacklerumble @ghostiidasponk @thegoldencontracts @sillyslipperybananapeel @cloudcountry

@skriblee-ksk @twstinginthewind @lumdays @theolivetree123 @natsukishinomiyaswife

@authoruio @jewelulu @raguiras @moonyasnow @skibidibabygirl

@quartztwst @yuizenihaswriten @devosin @oya-oya-okay @b0njourbeach

@kirans-wonderland @jovieinramshackle @lumdays

@coffinkissez

@tixdixl @distant-velleity @ramshacklerumble

[babycandle]

kindergarten teacher!reader x john price imagine 🖍️🧨❤️‍🩹

You first meet John when he comes to pick up his niece and nephew with his sister-in-law.

According to Lucy, his brother’s wife, he’s a government worker who is constantly traveling for work, and the kids missed their super cool uncle dearly. You’d heard many stories from the kids themselves, but this Uncle John remained sort of an enigma to you, like an imaginary friend.

Nothing could have prepared you for the real Uncle John.

He stands at a good head (and maybe half) taller than you, dressed in a casual navy shirt and utilitarian cargo trousers, a baseball cap embroidered with the British flag atop his head. Thick facial hair covers most of his lower face, but it doesn't do much to hide the bright smile he gets as soon as he lays eyes on the kids. The ease with which he picks up his niece and nephew, Olivia and Oliver, nearly leaves you breathless – not to mention, the sight of his thick, fuzzy arms flexing and unflexing as he tosses a kid over each shoulder, eliciting delighted squeals from them both.

(In some decrepit corner in your mind, you wonder if he could do the same to you. Probably.)

As you're chatting with her and updating her about her kids’ day, Lucy motions him over so she can introduce you to each other. “This is my husband's brother, John!”

“Hello there, lass.”

The smooth, brassy tones of his voice wash over you like a tidal wave that you’d happily drown in. You introduce yourself as the kids’ kindergarten teacher, and he gives you a good-natured smile as his niece and nephew start climbing all over him like a tree. “I hope they haven't been causing you much trouble,” he chuckles, a twinkle in his eye.

You try your best to swallow the dryness in your mouth. “Of course not! It’s a joy to watch them learn and grow everyday,” you reply sheepishly, clearing your throat as you avert your gaze.

You're too busy internally cursing yourself for not looking a bit more put together; there's dirt and sand all over the bottom half of your overalls, paint splatters going all the way up your arms and maybe even on your face, and your hair is matted and frizzy. Self-consciously scuffing the soles of your sneakers against the floor as you try and fail to get the sand off of it, you miss the way his gaze rakes over you from head to toe, the corner of his mouth curling in interest.

It's at that exact moment that Lucy plucks her kids off of John and hands them each their backpack to carry themselves. You deflate a little, knowing that that's their cue to leave.

However, you instantly perk back up again when John turns to you, his arms now empty, and extends a hand for you to shake. “‘Twas a pleasure meeting you, lass. Hope to see you around more often, yeah?”

Your heart catches in your throat as you reach out to shake his hand. When he grabs you in a firm, warm grip, you feel his calloused fingerpads brush over the back of your hand, and you have to suppress a shiver from running down your back.

“It was nice meeting you too, John.” You offer him a shy smile, praying that your cheeks don't look as warm as they feel.

You distantly wonder if you were imagining his touch lingering just a tad too long before he finally lets go.

As he turns around to leave with his family, you're quickly whisked away by the other kids demanding your attention. Consequently, you don't notice the way his eyes stay on you even as he walks out the gates, nor do you notice the way his sister-in-law waggles her eyebrows at him suggestively as soon as they're out of earshot.

You don't have high hopes of seeing him after that, of course. Maybe it's just the fact that you've been single for several years since your first serious relationship ended – yes, you convince yourself, that's why you can't stop thinking about him all night. That's why you still feel the weight of his hand in yours, the brush of his fingers on your skin tickling like a phantom touch. That's why the sound of his voice echoes in your mind like a broken record, and that's why you keep thinking back to the way his eyes crinkled when he looked fondly at his niece and nephew.

But you can't deny the way your chest squeezes when, the next day at kindy, he comes by to pick up the kids again – this time, alone.

bonus (an alternative pov):

There's a very short, concise list of the things Price lives for. Since the birth of his brother’s daughter, she’s been undoubtedly added to the top of that list. Then followed the birth of his nephew as well, who obviously followed suit and quickly became a serious contender for the number one spot.

He makes it a point to visit his brother’s family every single time he gets time off without fail. The kids grow up absolutely adoring their super cool, super strong uncle who always comes back from his business trips with funny stories to share. (Their favourite activity to do with him is hanging off his arm, almost using it like a monkey bar.)

So, when he’s finally granted leave after nearly a year of bouncing all over the world and eliminating several apocalypse-level threats, the first thing he does is call his brother and fly back straight to them.

He lands while the kids are at kindergarten, so when Lucy offers to bring him along to pick them up, he jumps at the chance. (He made sure to take a very thorough shower before hopping on the flight here, not wanting a single speck of dirt from foreign lands or speck of blood on him. Even so, before he leaves with Lucy, he takes extra care to wash his hands and scrub underneath his fingernails again. Just in case.)

It goes without question that he's absolutely over the moon to see Olivia and Oliver – the sight of them running to him, screaming his name in joy is nearly enough to make him melt. He sweeps them up in his arms, holding onto them like a lifeline.

Occupied with the kids for a few minutes, he glances up to see where Lucy has gone. Then, he sees you.

You're chatting with Lucy, your smile bright and your eyes brighter. There's wildflowers tucked into every pocket on your overalls and rainbows of paint on your arms, as well as a smudge of yellow on the side of your cheek. The soft afternoon sunlight hits your hair at just the right angle that it highlights the stray strands of hair on your head, making you look like you're wearing a halo.

For a moment, all the bustle and noise around him winds down into a fuzzy, white silence. You're the prettiest thing he's ever laid eyes on.

[the--highlanders]

i'd love to hear your thoughts on jamie's relationship with gender

anon you just activated my unskippable cutscene

in terms of jamie's gender. the first thing we have to look at is where he's coming from, contextually. and where he's coming from is a culture with a language that makes no distinction between the words for man and husband, or woman and wife. you're a boy or a girl, and then you get married and you're a man or a woman. if you look at the dictionary entry for 'balach', the word for boy, you also get 'bachelor of any age'. jamie in the highlanders is 22 years old, but he's still excluded from his cultural definition of manhood by virtue of not having a wife.

I also want to point to gèidh / gàidhealach by mark spencer-turner here. while it's more looking at modern gaelic constructions of gender than historic ones, I think its idea if the gaelic man as a gaelic speaker + who has a wife + who participates in specific social/cultural behaviours and situations is something that can be back-projected. and the modern-day rigidity of excluding men somewhat from full access to manhood if they, say, work an office job rather than a more traditional job also feels relevant. traditional constructions of gender - in any culture, but specifically here in gaelic culture - are built on so many small building blocks of participating in the 'right' social behaviours.

and then we've got jamie. he's a good enough piper to be compared to his father. clearly an apt enough fighter, and not willing to back down from a fight, either. presumably did all the right things and was seen in all the right places for a teenage boy to be, growing up. in that sense, he's not particularly non-conforming. and yet, crucially, he's queer, which throws a big wrench into the whole 'heterosexual marriage is key to access to manhood' thing. I don't think jamie necessarily had a good grasp on his queerness growing up, but I /do/ think the idea of growing up and getting married felt Wrong to him - and from there you end up with a general alienation from the idea of being A Man, too. he doesn't want to be A Husband, so he doesn't want to be A Man, because they're sort of the same thing. he's more comfortable with the idea of being balach, a boy, a bachelor of any age.

now as always the phantom piper does a lotttt of heavy lifting here for me, just by being so Interesting about jamie's family dynamics. on-screen, his father is his only named relative, the man who others compare him to and contextualise him against, the piper who taught and raised him - but it's his mother's pride he remembers, when he's finally fully qualified as a piper himself. his father doesn't get a look in, here. as a child, he idolises his grandfather - his father's father - and wants to be just like him. as the oldest son, he probably bears his grandfather's name. in the highlanders, he's called /wee jamie/, which I tend to think of as a translation of his descriptive name - seumadh beag, little jamie, as opposed to his grandfather. but somewhere along the lines, that idolisation breaks, and as an adult he doesn't describe his grandfather in particularly glowing terms. it's his grandmother he wants to be like, and whose words he turns into a core part of himself. everyone he knows sees him in light of his father and grandfather, sees him as the inheritor of their legacies - but in himself, he's much more comfortable with the women in his family, and wants to be more closely connected to them. his closest icons for masculinity are distant from him, somehow, or actively distasteful.

(he also has a male best friend who dies in his arms, so. negative points for the heterosexuality once again)

I don't think jamie ever really labels his gender, or that it would occur to him that he might want to do so. it probably sits oddly with him if someone calls him a man, but he shrugs it off. travelling in the tardis is incredibly freeing in that sense, because he's free from the weight of social expectations - nobody sees him as the successor to his father and his grandfather, just as himself. and he's ultimately able to explore his queerness, embrace that part of himself, and not live with the expectation that he'll have to follow the same pattern of life as everyone else, no matter how much he dislikes the idea. after a certain point, he probably just stops thinking about his gender entirely, so he winds up a bit apathetic to the whole thing. there's other things about him which are far more important. but I think there's always something of a wound inside him from 22 years of struggling with everyone's expectations that he'll grow into something he's not, thriving in some areas and absolutely failing in others - and I think if he was ever in a situation where he got to introduce himself with a descriptive name, it wouldn't be seumaidh beag. he's not a younger version of his grandfather. he's not seumaidh dòmhnall, either, jamie son of donald, son of his father. if he had the choice, I think he'd probably be seumaidh mairead, jamie son of mairead, son of his mother.

[dabratzchronicles]

Who Are You?

A lonely Latina will surely know Not to play with a man’s time.

this fic contains: Element of thriller, violence, foul language, Slight mentions of SA, , if you are not okay with any of those warnings please read one of my other babies, you will see a softer variant of this soon♥️

Ever since she witnessed what she witnessed, she wasn’t the same. 

The constant look over her shoulders, the quick movements of someone, even the fucking stranger she screamed at when she went to the mailbox, every little bit of it, drove her mad, insanity even, it’s fucked up when ya mind playing tricks on ya. 

The deadly grip he had on her, the gun pressed into her under jaw, the gun still hot from being fired 3 times, The eyes of a mad man stare… the soulless orbs she so desperately wanted to have a bit of sympathy, she never found it. 

She remembered it all, the weapon exploding her bubble, his hands, his bloody cold hands searching her body, digging into her pockets to grab her wallet, he ripped it open to see her address flat front of him. 

“I know where you live, Speak a word,” he threatened, pulling the trigger thanking god it was a blank. “And you will experience the real thing. Got Me?” his voice violently filled her ears with mental fucks. 

She frantically nodded her head as he smiled crookedly, moving his gun away and tucked it behind him in his waistband. “Good. Now, See you soon Alana.”

See you soon… fuck do he mean by that? All of the possibilities rammed her mind, he started to get her and he hated it, hated that a man was in her head, everytime she blinked she saw his face. It was becoming too much.

She walked into her apartment and sighed, tossing her bag over to the side as she kicked off her shoes, the fila’s no longer trapping her feet anymore. “My god, People is slaving me.” She complained about her job, telling whoever was listening about how her boss had her fucked up, whipping out her phone to order a large philly steak pizza from domino’s with a 2 liter Fanta. 

She tosses her phone on the couch as she soon follows. Her body freezes, That smell, that mature smell, an all too familiar scent, his. 

She started doing breathing exercises that her mother had recommended to her, to keep her calm in certain situations, and not a single one was working, only thing it was working on was her nerves. 

“Bitch calm down,” she reminded herself, it's probably just phantom smells, she would always smell faint smells of her boyfriend, why would this be any different. 

She sat down on her couch, sinking into the couch as the comforting sectional devoured her unsettled nerves, nothing can go wrong. 

everything is fine.

she turned on her TV to her favorite show, Forensic Files. It was dark and ominous, but true crime settled her. 

Her focus remained on the television, another white lady fell victim to her husband, or so she thought? From what all she gathered from where she turned in: Frankie Smith, a 38 year old lady from Fresno, California. The cali native was brutally murder with her body thrown into a ocean 8 miles out, her body only being found by a fisherman, whose fishing rod was able to pull out a shoe with a foot still inside. In a panic, he called 911, and then- the scent. 

She recognized the scent again by this time she didn’t have time to react, her body froze, the fear and stiffness taking control over her muscles as his hand covered her mouth, with his gun inching closer to her face. 

“Remember me?” he smiled, his breath reeking of Black and Mild’s and Modelos. It’s him. and this time, it wasnt bullshit

“What do you want.” She started her sentence, not as scared as she otherwise would have been, as if something prepared her for it.

“D’aw,” He cooed, sensing that she was toughing up. “I dont want shit, just wanted to see how my friend is.” 

“We ain’t friends, barely close to acquaintances, what the fuck you wan—”

“Watch your fuckin tone.” The gun pressed against her temple, the cold steel cutting off her sentence, her body temperature becoming irregular, her mind racing a thousand miles a minute and her only thought was if her mother was going to be okay, because Lord knows she might not make this. 

“You forget I have no ties to you nor are you important to me, I can blow yo shit back and not give a fuck about it. Speak wisely.”

his words etched into her brain, but he also doesn't get… is that she doesn’t care anymore, she is settled with how life is, nothing she can or want to do. 

She reached back and scratched him on his face, the cry he let out was music to her ears, his scream was loud enough that it possibly alerted the neighbors 

She stumbled off the couch fast enough before the gun went off, fuck 

Time beating against the clock, adrenaline rushing, fear nowhere to be seen, “This bitch,” she heard him say before scuffling could be heard from behind her. 

She tripped over her shoes she left in the way, giving him a chance to catch her. 

She trampled over her shoes, falling face flat on the carpet, knocking almost all the wind out her lungs, her nose throbbing from the impact leaving her with limited oxygen. 

His hands, the roughly clothed hands, tightened their grips on her throat… darkness crept around her eyes. “P-P-Please, Don’t.”

her heart slowed, her lids finally being heavy enough to close.

When she came back, she yelped as she felt something of four sharply pierced her skin, her reflexes kicked in, horsekicking him square in the mouth. 

She scurried her back to a wall, scared that he brought someone with him to finish her off. Who is this white man in my house?! Where is my boyfriend!?! Where are my pants!?! 

Her pants being gone set the bomb that was in her head to blow. 

Her name being called whipped her head to that direction, but it was a woman. Her feathered hair, her soft demeanor with a voice just as light as paper still wasn't enough to calm her. 

“Alana Mendez?” She spoke, keeping her distance as her hands stayed in Alana’s line of sight. “My name is Detective Olivia Benson, I’m here with the NYPD. There were a few calls to 911 about a fight? A man was sent fleeing from this apartment, did he do this?” 

Alana’s mouth opened to speak but words were stuck, NYPD? Detectives? Herself? Her Pants? Too much to take in with little time. 

“Where are my pants?” She asked, looking at her bruised up thighs and shin. Her mind came to the conclusion by itself, that sick fuck.

Olivia placed a white blanket over her legs, asking for the male paramedics to leave the apartment. Her focus went back to Alana who at this point was dead inside. This man who she didn’t know… did her like this. and left her to die… The world is so cold. 

“Do you have any idea who could have done this to you? Any body description? Facial features that stuck out? Article of clothing that you remember?” 

Alana’s eyes wandered to the left, she couldn’t risk her life to say his name, who knows what he would do if he knew she ratted him out. That’s when a thought zoomed past. 

“I don’t know the man's name, nor can I describe him. but he does go by the name of Smoke.”

“Smoke?” Olivia questioned, “And why do they call him smoke?”

“Because just like now, He’s gone with the fuckin wind.”

Youve Got Mail! @megamindsecretlair @miyuhpapayuh @thecapodomme @theereina @persethegawd @episodes-ff

Want More? Subscribe For More!

[flowerandblood]

Sweetly desire, bitterly deprive

Halloween Request Oneshots Series

[ Victorian Horror • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, partial rape, choking, violence, murder and suicide, obsession ]

[ description: Lost in his own emptiness and cold, Aemond lives with his family in their large estates, wandering their halls like a ghost, lost in his own madness. One day, his mother's friend arrived at their manor with her husband and daughter. He becomes obsessed with her, which leads to a series of unfortunate events. Obsessive, delving into madness, poetic, very dark! Aemond. ]

This oneshot is my idea and a reference to the wonderful work of Edgar Allan Poe, his Eleanor and Morella and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these fisc will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

_____

It seemed to him that something in him had disappeared, collapsed when he lost his left eye − he had partly ceased to be human and had become some kind of caricatured creature, menacing, tall as a tower, pale and cold as marble.

He had never lacked anything − his family was wealthy, owning many mansions all over the country, all identically decorated, sumptuously adorned with portraits of their ancestors looking at him melancholy and proudly out of the canvas, continually judging him.

He had the impression that at night their faces changed − his great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers seemed suddenly to be some kind of phantoms, their faces contorted, displeased at the sight of him, his existence.

He still felt watched, he felt overwhelmed, he felt that something hovered over him, but he could not name this premonition, this certainty.

He had tried to explain it to his mother once, but she had looked at him with such concerned, frightened eyes that he decided he would never mention it again.

He knew that his family considered him insane − a man out of his mind, irrational, aggressive in his words, with a gaze that cut like a sharp blade, making interlocutors turn their faces away from him, unable to bear it.

He saw her for the first time when she arrived at their residence with her parents, Mr and Mrs Orwell, at the invitation of his mother, who had been friends with Mrs Orwell as a child. He watched closely her small, graceful figure standing in the corridor behind her parents, her gaze lowered downwards, thoughtful.

She shuddered as if she subconsciously sensed that she was being watched and glanced in his direction − her pupils dilated suddenly, as if from a dream world she had returned to earth with the cruel pull of some unknown force, as if his figure, his silhouette had crushed her.

They stared at each other for too long to be considered in accordance with good manners − only when her parents walked into the living room where he sat did he rise from his chair, reminding himself of such a basic thing as breathing, and straightened up, folding his arms behind him, allowing himself to introduce the people who would be guests in their home from now on.

He knew that Miss Orwell could feel his burning gaze on her, fleeing from him to the far end of the room, looking at the books stacked on the shelves of the old oak bookcase.

He watched from behind her beautiful neck, her hair pinned up in a bun and braids framing her head on either side − her gown was sewn from a delicate, light-coloured fabric, its cut was simple, perfectly emphasising her figure, her almost bare shoulders.

Her neck and her shoulders drove him mad.

The perfect curve of the transition of one part of her body into the other, her shiny, soft skin, the softness of the shape that was forming.

Then he lifted his gaze higher and discovered her slightly rounded, short, proportionate nose, forming a perfect angle with her straight, smooth forehead, the totality of this view framed by her eyes like precious stones, bright, shining, surrounded by long lashes like veils, emphasising its depths, giving her an aura of mystery.

Finally, he struggled to dare to shift his attention to the most intimate exposed part of her body, her fleshy, full, pink lips, both pressed against each other, still remaining virtually imperceptibly parted, the point of their contact seeming incredibly soft and moist.

He saw her throw him an uncertain, frightened look and clench her hands in front of her, not knowing how to act, how to dissuade him − she only relaxed when his sister, Helaena, walked into their living room.

They greeted each other as if they were old friends − even though they were seeing each other for the first time, they grasped each other's hands and from then on they were inseparable.

He often watched them through the window, seeing their silhouettes move unhurriedly ahead of them through their vast park, discussing with each other something in a cheerful voice and laughing, their pearly sounds reaching his ears muffled by the glass.

In his presence, her smile disappeared from her face, her laughter died in her throat and a faint dread coated her, her pupils dilated suddenly, her lips pressed together in fear.

His tall figure standing over her frightened her, his hands folded stiffly behind his back seemed frozen like a stone − unable to make a sound near him, she lowered her gaze quickly, terrified.

One day, however, she dared to take a step towards him − a step towards the unknown, as, realising that he spent every evening by candlelight sitting in their library reading books, she joined him.

He watched her every move vigilantly, not taking his eye off her − her delicate figure strolled around the room in a light, slow motions, her hands folded in front of her in a humble gesture.

He could not express how melancholic and heavenly she looked walking like that in the faint light of the candles, her person seemed as if enveloped in a mist, a glow.

He felt himself to be merely an observer of events, a point to which all her presence referred, being a counterbalance to her subtlety, spread out around her like the blackness of the night that surrounded them.

She looked at him at last, for the first time as if she really wanted to see him, what was inside him, what was inside his heart, inside his mind − he looked at her with empty eye, knowing that there was only nothingness there, an abyss, a coldness without end or measure.

He was surprised at her courage, at how confidently she walked towards him, standing by his side, looking over his shoulder, wanting to see what he was reading.

He did not turn his head behind her − he only watched the shadow of her silhouette out of the corner of his eye − he could feel beside himself the warmth emanating from her body, her scent, the rustling of her gown made him feel a tickle in his fingers.

"Machiavelli. What a brutal choice." She whispered, but there was no disapproval or judgement in her word, more a soft surprise − there was something in the way she said the last sentence, in the way the tip of her tongue clicked as she uttered the syllables, that made him lick his lower lip involuntarily, turning the page.

"Brutal?" He asked lowly, hearing the timbre of his own voice, glassy, cutting like a blade, clear, assured, cool.

He heard her swallow quietly and draw in the air, her body standing beside him somehow enveloping him in her existence, pleasantly teasing all his senses.

"Cesare Borgia was his ideal of a ruler. That says enough about him." She said lowly − he heard her avert her gaze thoughtfully, looking at some point in the distance.

Involuntarily, the tip of his tongue ran over his lower lip, moistening it − he grinned at her words, shifting in his seat.

"They are both no longer among us and have no way to defend themselves from your cruel judgement." He murmured softly, lifting his eyes to her at last.

Their gazes crossed, her eyes at once full of uncertainty and curiosity − he had the feeling that her figure was quivering and trembling, too filled with life, the desire to breathe, to move, to feel.

They looked at each other and he knew that they had both experienced this when he first saw her, when they were unable to stop, when they both realised that something was happening between them that they could not tell anyone about.

He didn't know how it happened, what moved his loins to stand up, towering over her to grab her with ease and seat her on the table. He decided that it was just purest curiosity, as his fingertips ran over her shoulder, over that gorgeous arm, and traveled up the hill of the length of her neck, his hand tightened around it, again, merely in curiosity, and he found to his surprise that it fit there perfectly.

He looked at her face, into her eyes glittering like the most expensive precious stones darkened by the veil of her lashes, looking at him hazy, hesitant, at once fearful and devoted, wanting and demanding. When he took a step towards her her thighs spread in front of him like a book, as if it were the most natural of reflexes that didn't even surprise him.

Without letting go of her gorgeous neck he began to travel and explore the mysterious nooks and crannies of her body occupying his mind, the finger of his free hand lifting tentatively the material of her gown and her petticoat, running over her ankle covered from him by the soft material.

He ran his hand upwards, higher and higher, as if running his finger over to the surface of the water, until he reached the soft, surprisingly hot skin of her naked thigh and they both parted their lips, looking at each other wordlessly, breathing deeply.

His fingers ran over her flesh as if it were the keys of a piano, pressing her skin, and made their way to what was between her thighs, to what he could feel the pulsing heat from, the source of her trembling, of her sleepless nights.

She let out a shuddering, sweet sigh as he touched her there and found her sticky moisture, with circular motions collecting it on his fingers, both of them looking at each other as if surprised by this discovery, this disturbing, intimate act.

With each movement of his fingers, with each circle across her warmth, her thighs spread wider and wider in front of him, her body finding support on her palms placed on the table top, her breasts hidden under her gown rising and falling, her hips beginning to meet his movements.

He had the feeling that they were both in a trance, that they didn't understand what they were doing and didn't want to understand it − they weren't thinking about it or judging it, they were simply discovering a new experience, testing the taste of the sweet, unspoken secret that hid deep between her thighs, the loud, shameless click of her wetness accompanying every flick of his hand.

He licked his lips when at last the tip of his finger met the tight slit between her folds which throbbed with heat, wet and pulsing. Encouraged by this intriguing discovery, he slid his finger there, wanting to see what she felt like inside − he found with interest that her core was rough and fleshy, throbbing and slick, clenching steadily on his skin, her head arched back with a cry of exertion.

He slid his finger deeper, feeling it stretch her entire structure, pushing deep into her flesh, and a quiet, ungodly mewl erupted from her lips, her eyes clenched, her mouth parted in something akin to elation, delight.

He felt his body react, a pleasant heat and pulsation in his erection, the same as he felt inside her − he thought they were like two parts of the same thing, like two sides of the same story, beginning and end, day and night, sun and moon.

Just as everything had its companion, just as the world had for centuries misunderstood the nature of loneliness, telling people to discover the joys of living with someone, man and woman were destined to explore themselves with amazement.

He slipped his finger out of her and, with a light, unhurried movement, untied the fabric of his breeches, lowering them slightly so that she could not see what was beneath them, hiding that sickeningly physical, animalistic sight beneath her gown.

She knew what was about to happen, and though she didn't understand it, she felt subconsciously that from the moment they looked at each other they were destined to connect, to take something and give something to each other.

She trembled all over as he directed the tip of his length with his palm against her burning, hot entrance, her body instantly refusing this sudden, unholy act of divine violation.

"− don't −" He hissed coolly, and she froze, looking at him tearfully, letting him force the pink head of his erection, dripping with his moisture, inside her.

With surprising patience and devotion she endured the discomfort of fitting him inside her, a weary, helpless sob came from her lips − he opened her slowly on his manhood, bit by bit, stretching her tight muscles, sinking into the warmth of her flesh.

He realised suddenly that he was inside her, that he was her and she was him.

That they were a whole, that he would never be complete again without her.

His hand tightened around her neck and did not let her escape, slamming into her with a quiet grunt of sickening pleasure, sliding into her so deeply that she throbbed, seeking fulfillment in it, any kind of relief.

He gave in to his animal instinct, the feeling that he craved to rub against her, craved for her to squeeze him, craved to move inside her − the thrusts of his hips were violent, intense, deep, sure, as if taking her, filling her with himself again and again, physical stretching of her body with his flesh was written into his nature.

Their bodies pounded against each other with wet, loud clicks of her moisture as if they were fighting, as if he was about to pierce her with himself − her head was tilted back, her expression showing simultaneous delight and horror at this unexpectedly pleasurable act.

She was panting along with him, giving herself over completely to his brutal thrusts, needed to be filled, to be satisfied.

"− you won't escape from me − you know that, don't you? − I'm going to fill you −" He growled between one quick, hard slap of his hips and the next, and she only mewled a desperate plea, refusing and at the same time asking him to do it, writhing beneath him, her face all flushed with pleasure.

"− no − please − God, forgive me −" She cried out with difficulty, tears of effort, pain and delight running down her cheeks, her body leaning back, surrendering at last.

He felt her insides suddenly clench violently against him and begin to convulse, a moan of sweet suffering came from her lips, her body shook with a wave of something he was yet to understand.

This sight made him speed up instead of slowing down, feeling that something was about to happen, that he was already so close.

"− yes − don't resist me − fuck! −" He cursed for the first time in his life, feeling that his whole body was in a hot frenzy, his hips moving deep inside her throughout her fulfilment, her hands trying fruitlessly to push him away with her loud, broken moans, unable to take any more, overstimulated and sensitive.

He made a low, throaty, animalistic sound as a wave of pleasure shook him − he felt his own fluid spilling over her insides, filling her like wine fills a chalice, and he thought it made him feel the most natural reflex in his life, the filling and that she felt exactly the same way about the sensation of being filled, as if it was her primal, most important need.

Not to be empty.

They stared at each other, breathing loudly, feeling the fog around them begin to blur and disappear, their vision began to sharpen, their cool judgement returned to their minds, and with horror they realised at last what they had done.

They pulled away from each other in pain, both feeling that the fact that they were no longer one was unnatural, ungodly, against some fundamental law.

They were incomplete again.

They were imperfect again.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she corrected her gown in despair − she stepped down from the table and ran out of the room with a loud, broken sob, terrified of their act, of what consequences it might bring.

He tied his breeches back, sitting down in his chair with difficulty and listened to the intense pounding of his heart, staring blankly ahead, trying to calm his breathing, feeling more empty than ever.

Over the next few days she avoided him again, her face even paler than when he first saw her − he had the feeling that she was in a progressive agony, that she was dying before his eyes.

Wanting to put an end to their torment, one morning he moved after her, seeing that she had gone for a walk through their park, and asked for her hand.

Only then did she confess to him, crying with unspeakable pain, that her fiancé had been waiting for her for weeks.

He felt like he had fallen into a state of complete emptiness and wasn't sure he understood her words.

He even thought they were amusing as he sat in the living room, taking a sip of wine from his glass, chuckling under his breath, much to the consternation of those gathered.

It wasn't until several hours later that people began to be concerned about her disappearance.

He took no part in the search.

As he walked down the corridor of his mansion in the evening heading towards his room, he looked at the appraising faces of his grandparents, their eyes seemingly bulging, terrified, their lips clenched as if in rage.

He began to rip portrait after portrait off the wall, destroying frames and canvases, causing a commotion all around him − his mother tried to calm him down, but he broke free from her embrace.

It was only when he walked into his bedroom that he noticed her silhouette, pale and corpse-like, her eyes wide open, looking towards the door as if she was waiting for him, his bedclothes all covered in her blood.

He saw out of the corner of his eye an open window facing straight into their park and realised that she had broken in here, taken his letter knife and slit her wrists.

He approached her slowly, feeling the pounding of his heart, the sweat on the back of his neck as he noticed the bruises on her neck, a clear marks matching his hands that he was sure he hadn't seen when he had spoken to her that morning.

How could that be?

He glanced at the floor out of the corner of his eye and saw his shirt, all dirty from the sand and grass.

He began to breathe deeply, feeling the whole room swirl around him.

He pushed from his mind the sight of her terrified face, the sight of her tears when she fell with him to the ground, when he told her that he was empty without her, that he had filled her with himself and she could not be anyone else's, just as he could never be anyone else's again.

It seemed to him that she had come to terms with his words, for she stopped struggling, looking at him with affection, and he praised and comforted her, telling her that the end would come soon, that she would fall asleep, that she would not be in pain.

When she stopped moving and fainted he took her body in his arms, numb and spilling in his fingers, and walked as if in a trance through his open window into his bedroom.

He laid her on his bed, where she belonged, right beside him, and left, longing to return to her in the night, believing that she had fallen into an eternal sleep.

She woke up.

She finished his work.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[gold-snek-hoe]

Hello and welcome to Opinions from an Internet Nobody. Today's essay:

"Ger therapy" is the new "You need Jesus": One Weirdo's Navigation through Cultural Shame

This is a supposedly well-meaning sentiment that is often weaponized against people who are behaving outside of perceived cultural norms. It's a favorite of homophobes who see queerness/transness as a mental illness, but I've been seeing it used to demonize kink (which historically is often linked to queerness), and more generally any "weird" behavior that makes people uncomfortable.

For example, otherkin, systems (especially those with fictives), and people who take fictional characters as partners. Y'know, "weirdos" who "can't separate reality from fiction." And, sure, sometimes there can be a problem with that distinction, but I know as well as you that most internet strangers saying "get therapy" don't actually give a shit about the mental health of those they target. It's code for "your behavior makes me uncomfortable, stop it."

Same sentiment as "you need Jesus."

This has actually taken me a long time to figure out. I've been in therapy for my entire adult life, working through various traumas, severe depression, anxiety, all that. Those were the biggest problems as they negatively impacted, and often endangered, my life. It was only after my hospitalization in 2020, where I was finally put on much needed medication, that I could start to grow into myself.

I changed my name. I top surgery. I came out as polyamorous. I finally got my official autism diagnosis. Now I'm fuckin' married! But... there are still things I'm working through in therapy. Mainly, shame over my "weirder" behaviors. My current therapist has been a huge blessing in helping me accept the things I was too ashamed to admit.

Now, I feel comfortable enough to share.

I'm otherkin. Always have been. My connection to my humanity is tenuous, and I'm sure that's connected to my autism. When mad, I feel phantom horns sprouting from my forehead. I have a tail that swishes back and forth at the base of my spine. In my soul, I am monstrous, and years of therapy has not erased that.

I feel like I'm only half in the physical world most of the time. This doesn't hinder my real-world success (I graduated college Summa Cum Laude, have an IMDB page, and am on my third book), but informs the way I look at the world. There's a whole other universe in my head that hums along with me in my day-to-day. That's part of why I'm so skilled as a writer. To ask me to divorce from that is to tell me to stop existing. Sorry, it's how I've always operated.

Lastly, and this is the one I'm really anxious about, I have a fictional husband. Now, looking at my blog, you might say "yeah, no shit," but I don't just ship myself with him. I mean I practice pop-culture Witchcraft, and the Goblin King is my patron. I mean I have a Labyrinth-themed tarot deck that I talk to him with. I mean I held a ritual to spiritually marry him. Basically, I Snape-wived myself.

And guess what? My therapist isn't concerned. It's not hurting my ability to live my life. I have other interests, hobbies, and goals outside of him, which he actively encourages in all our tarot sessions! I wouldn't be doing this if he didn't support me. My IRL spouse is usually there for whatever magical shit I'm doing, and supports me! Some of my closest friends know, and the only complaint I've gotten is "this guy seems important to you, I wish you told me sooner." Hell, my MOTHER knows and supports me, which is huge, because our relationship was pretty damaged after I came out as trans.

If you have a problem with the way I live my life, when literally nobody else does, take a good long look at why. You don't give a fuck about my mental health. You just don't like that I'm weird.

Tl;dr: My mental health is better than it's ever been since embracing the weird, so leave me and my imaginary husband Marak Sixfinger alone.

[differentpostrebel]

Lost and Found: A Pirates Promise

Chapter 53 part 1: Point of No Return

A/N: We are finally here you guys! Will y/n marry Ichiji? Will there be an objection?. We also have a little ode to Phantom of the Opera, felt like this song really adds flair to everything. We have also a surprise guest in this chapter and believe me when I say, the angst with this character… Thank you guys so much for following alone, liking, reblogging and commenting. We are about to really dive in deep, as we have a few more chapters left in the whole cake and heading to Wano. Without further ado… let the adventure begin!

Sanji X Reader, OP x Reader

Y/N POV.. 

“Hold on! Can we vote first?” Nami exclaimed, her eyes wide with concern.

“Maybe we should re-evaluate things before jumping into this,” Brook added

“Nah, it’s okay! Besides, I have an idea that will blow everyone’s mind!” Luffy laughed, his enthusiasm infectious. I couldn’t help but chuckle along with him, feeling the tension ease for a moment.

I glanced at the clock, and my stomach dropped. “I gotta head out soon…” I said, feeling the weight of my arranged marriage pressing down on me. The thought of what awaited me made my heart race with anxiety. 

“It’s a deal then. You better pull this off, right? Do you know when to do it?” Bege asked, his eyes sharp with focus.

“Yeah, it’s when Sanji kisses Pudding,” Luffy replied with a grin.

“I’m not kissing her!” Sanji exclaimed, looking at me with a mix of frustration and longing. “Besides, these lips belong to someone else…” he muttered silently, his gaze lingering on me.

“What about you, princess? Are you ready to tie the knot with your future husband Ichiji?” Bege said, and I tensed at the mention of his name.

“Hell no!” I retorted, a surge of defiance rising in me. “But it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. Unless someone objects, the plan needs to be in motion.”  removing one blade and placing it inside the satchel,I then removed my thigh halter and the other blade securing it inside the coat pocket, along with removing Zoro’s bandana from my head.

I stood up and made my way toward Nami. “Nami, mind holding these for me once more?” I smirked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I won’t get shocked or on fire, will I…” she asked, a hint of apprehension in her voice.

I laughed, shaking my head. “No, Nami, they’re also set to protect. If they glow, you’ll know what emotion I’m feeling.” I silently made my way behind the sofa, preparing myself for what was to come.

“This is ridiculous, Y/N! You’ll die too!” Sanji said, gripping his hair in distress.

“That’s a price… I’m willing to make…” I said softly, a smile creeping onto my face, trying to reassure him.

“I’m not letting you do this!” Sanji insisted, desperation lacing his voice.

“There’s not much choice we have here! Besides, my wedding is first, then it’s yours, and yours is the most important one!” I yelled, the tension of the moment thickening.

Luffy turned to me, nodding his head in understanding. “You have a plan, don’t you, Y/N?” he asked, smirking.

I smirked back, feeling a rush of confidence. “Always, Captain, reckless but still…” I replied with a laugh.

“Good, Nami, make sure you see her through the mirrors if possible. That way, we can communicate if needed,” Luffy said, already reading my mind about the plan.

“Thanks for understanding, Captain,” I said, feeling grateful for his support.

Luffy laughed. “Now back to Sanji’s situation,” I said, crossing my arms. “Everyone and the whole world will turn their eyes for the kiss,” Brook explained.

“Once Pudding’s veil is lifted, she’ll attempt to shoot Sanji,” Brook continued.

“I’ll dodge the bullet, but no kiss. Let the gunshot be your cue,” Sanji said, now standing next to me, determination shining in his eyes.

“Easy, that works for me,” Luffy replied, nodding.

Bege began to go over the plan once more. “So it’s a race against time,” he said, his tone serious.

“It all rides on Strawhat,” Bege added. “As soon as you finish your dirty work, we’ll make our way to the mirror world. Think of a mirror big enough.”

“The dresser should work,” Nami suggested.

“What about the one in my room?” I chimed in. “It’s covered, but it is big. Either way, if one doesn’t work, we still have a backup.”

“We’ll be taking off in no time,” Nami assured us.

“There’s no room for error,” Pedro warned. 

“Once each of us is back in our ships, the alliance is over. Good luck out there.” said Bege

“You too!” Luffy replied, his voice filled with determination. 

Just as we were about to stand to commence the plan, Bege raised his hand to stop us. "Before I end this meeting..." he said, snapping his fingers. One of his men brought over a sheet of paper, and Bege passed it to me with a grin. "This, princess, is for you."

I took the paper, my eyes scanning the lyrics and musical notes. "What's this?" I asked, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.

"Your husband expects you to know this song. It will be your wedding entrance theme," Bege replied, puffing on his cigar.

"Yet here I am finding out now?!" I shot back, anger bubbling beneath the surface.

"He said your entrance, as well as his, needs to be memorable," Bege added with a smirk. "He knows how to make a scene."

Brook stepped forward, his skeletal fingers gently taking the sheet from my hands. His eyes scanned the notes, and his face grew somber. "I know this song... this is no ordinary piece."

"Why don’t you play it?" Bege suggested, his voice dripping with amusement.

I glanced at Brook, and he nodded, lifting his violin with a sense of reverence. I muttered, "The Point of No Return... fitting."

"This is absurd," Sanji muttered, tugging at his hair, his frustration barely contained.

Brook’s bow touched the strings, and the haunting melody filled the room, cutting through the tension like a blade. The music curled around me, its melancholy tones weighing heavily on my chest. I picked up a glass of wine, holding it tight, trying to steady myself as I sang.

“Past the point of no return… no going back now.”

My voice came out shaky at first, but as the music built, so did the emotions inside me. Brook's face mirrored the pain in my voice, tears spilling from his hollow eyes as he played each note with aching precision.

“Our passion-play has now, at last, begun.”

Chopper sniffled, trying his best to hold back tears, while Carrot pressed her hands to her mouth, her large eyes misting over. Nami’s sobs were barely muffled, her hand clenched against her chest, the weight of everything crashing down on her.

“Past all thought of right or wrong,One final question,How long should we two wait, before we’re one?”

Jinbei stood solemnly, his shoulders heavy with sadness, while Pedro tugged his hat down further to hide the emotion etched into his features. Their expressions reflected the deep sorrow and helplessness we all felt.

“When will the blood begin to race?The sleeping bud burst into bloom?”

My grip on the wine glass tightened as the lyrics pulled me deeper into the moment, the reality of the mission, the wedding, and everything in between becoming painfully real. I felt my heart race, torn between duty and the storm of emotions crashing through me.

“When will the flames, at last, consume us?”

The glass shattered in my hand, blood and wine mingling as they dripped to the floor. But I barely noticed. The physical pain was nothing compared to the ache inside me, a weight that grew heavier with every word I sang.

“Past the point of no return,The final threshold,The bridge is crossed,So stand and watch it burn…”

My voice cracked as I whispered the last line, the truth of it choking me. I glanced up, first at Luffy, whose eyes were wide with concern, and then at Sanji. His face burned with fury, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. I could see the rage boiling just beneath his calm exterior, his anger directed at the situation, at the twisted game we were all playing.

“We've past the point of no return.”

The final note hung in the air, the silence that followed filled with a palpable tension. Brook's bow stilled, tears streaming down his skeletal face, his eyes filled with sorrow. The music had ended, but the raw emotion it left behind remained, echoing in the stillness.

Chopper wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, while Carrot turned away, unable to look at me without tearing up. Nami’s sobs broke through the silence, her face buried in her hands. Even Jinbei, usually so composed, stood with a deep sadness in his eyes, and Pedro, unable to bear the weight of the moment, hid further beneath his hat.

Bege let out a low whistle, a slow grin spreading across his face as he exhaled a puff of smoke. "Thatta girl," he said, clearly impressed by the display.

I turned toward him, my hands trembling, my chest heaving with the weight of the emotions that had poured out. "Fuck you," I spat, my voice hoarse but defiant.

Bege chuckled, clearly unfazed by my outburst. "That’s the spirit," he said, flicking ash from his cigar. "Now that’s an entrance."

The room was still thick with the remnants of my song, the sadness, the rage, the heartache all coiled tightly around us. And though the plan was about to unfold, I couldn’t help but feel like we had already crossed a line we could never return from.

I could still feel the weight of my earlier song hanging in the air, every note, every emotion lingering like a shadow over us. The rage and heartache twisted in my chest, making it harder to focus on the plan. As if things couldn’t get any worse, Bege casually pulled out another piece of paper, waving it in the air like it was nothing.

"Oh, before I forget..." he began, his tone casual but irritatingly smug.

"What now?" I asked sharply, already on edge.

Bege’s smirk widened as he tossed the paper toward me. "Pudding thought you could sing this piece dedicated to her fiancé over here," he said, nodding toward Sanji with a mockingly pleasant tone.

The words hit like a slap. My eyes narrowed as I caught the paper mid-air. "Hard pass," I snapped, crumpling it slightly in my grip. "She’s getting a punch in the face, if anything."

Bege shrugged, clearly enjoying my reaction. "Not my call to say. But since I’m head of security, Pudding thought, ‘Oh, since Y/N is marrying the Vinsmoke first, she’d have plenty of time to perform it.’ Her words, not mine," he said with a grin, the smugness practically oozing off of him.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" I asked, tilting my head, my voice dripping with venom.

"Maybe a little," he admitted, blowing out a lazy puff of smoke.

Nami, who had been standing nearby with her arms crossed, stepped forward, her curiosity and irritation evident. "What song is it anyway?" she asked, clearly annoyed but intrigued.

I sighed, reluctantly opening the paper. The moment my eyes scanned the lyrics, fury erupted inside me like a wildfire. I clenched the paper tightly, practically crumpling it in my hands. "Ohhh, dear ocean," I muttered under my breath, closing my eyes briefly to calm myself. "I know I was taught rage clouds judgment, but please let me punch this bitch."

Curiosity piqued, Nami stepped closer and grabbed the paper from me. Her expression shifted rapidly as she read the lyrics. First, her jaw dropped in shock. Then, her brows furrowed, and her face twisted into pure rage. She whipped her head around to look at Sanji, fire blazing in her eyes.

Sanji, who had been silent until now, froze as Nami handed me the paper. His cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers as he brought it to his lips, clearly sensing the rising tension. "What... what does it say?" he asked, his voice tight with apprehension.

I glanced at him briefly before looking at the lyrics again. "Let’s see," I muttered, a sharp edge in my voice. "I’m only going to read these lyrics."

Before I could continue, Bege chimed in with a smug grin. "Oh, and she wants you to add choreography, too."

I ignored him and began to read, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Now lay your head down on the pillow Turn the lights down real low I want you to say my name Close your eyes and let your feels go Now you're gettin' real close Baby, I am on the way..."

I stopped mid-sentence, my grip tightening on the paper as rage boiled over. I turned to Sanji, my glare sharp enough to cut steel. "I won’t say the rest—it gets too detailed for my liking." Without a second thought, I lit the paper on fire with my left hand, watching it curl into ash before dropping it on the floor.

Sanji’s eyes widened in alarm as he took a step forward. "Y/N, I didn’t—"

"How many times did you two...?" I asked sharply, my voice low but filled with venom. I didn’t even look at him, my fists clenched at my sides.

Sanji blinked, his confusion clear. "What do you—"

I snapped, cutting him off before he could finish. "I’m asking you a question, dammit. How many times?"

He hesitated, his shoulders tensing as his eyes darted between me and the ground. "Three," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with guilt.

Nami’s jaw dropped in shock. "Three?!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with disbelief. "Sanji, are you serious right now?!"

I could feel my body trembling as the room spun slightly, the rage and betrayal swirling in my chest like a storm. Before I could react further, Chopper rushed to my side, his tiny hooves gripping my arm. "Y/N, calm down! You’re shaking too much—you’re going to faint!" he cried, his voice filled with worry.

I staggered slightly, my vision blurring as Chopper’s words faded into the background. The betrayal, the humiliation, and the sheer audacity of it all were too much to bear. "Get away from me," I managed to say through clenched teeth, though I didn’t resist as Chopper guided me to sit down before I collapsed entirely.

Sanji looked utterly crushed, his hands trembling as he reached out but hesitated. "Y/N... I never wanted this. I didn’t—"

"Don’t," I said coldly, my voice laced with venom as I glared at him through the tears threatening to fall. "Just... don’t."

Bege chuckled, exhaling a puff of smoke with a smirk plastered across his face. "Well, this is shaping up to be one hell of a rehearsal," he said, his amusement cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "If the tea party’s half this dramatic, it’ll go down in the history books."

"Y/N, your blood pressure—come sit down," Chopper urged, his tiny hands tugging at mine. His concern softened the sharp edge of my anger just enough for me to let him guide me toward the sofa.

"I’m just so angry right now," I muttered, sitting down heavily as Nami wrapped an arm around my shoulders. Her silent support kept me from spiraling further as I buried my face in my hands, fighting against the heat building behind my eyes.

Brook stepped forward cautiously, his usual humor subdued. "Y/N… if only Zoro were here…"

Sanji tensed immediately, the air in the room shifting as his cigarette snapped between his fingers. "Zoro?!" he spat, his voice sharp and tinged with bitterness. "What the hell does moss head have to do with any of this?"

I glanced up from my hands, glaring at him through tear-streaked eyes. "Don’t start, Sanji," I warned, my voice low.

"Oh, I’m starting," he snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Every damn time, it’s Zoro this, Zoro that. What’s he gonna do? Gawk at the moon and grunt his way through this mess? I’m here! I’ve been here!"

"Really, Sanji? You’ve been here?" I shot back, my voice rising. "Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve been dancing to Pudding’s tune this whole time!"

"That’s not fair—" Sanji began, but I cut him off, my anger boiling over.

"Fair?!" I stood, forcing Nami to pull back. "You let her manipulate you, Sanji. She wrote this song, based on her experience with you! expecting me to perform like I’m part of her twisted fantasy. And now you’re mad at the mention of Zoro? Get over yourself!"

The room fell silent, the tension hanging heavy in the air. Sanji’s face was a mix of anger and guilt, his fists clenched at his sides. He opened his mouth to retort but stopped, his shoulders slumping.

Chopper stepped forward hesitantly, his voice small. "Y/N, please… your blood pressure…"

I took a shaky breath, letting Chopper guide me back to the sofa. Nami rubbed my back soothingly as I pressed my hands to my face again, this time to hide the tears that wouldn’t stop.

"You’re right," I muttered, my voice breaking. "This is all so ridiculous."

Luffy tilted his head, watching me carefully. "Y/N…" he started, his voice surprisingly soft.

An idea sparked in my mind—a way to take control, to turn this mess into something I could own. I lowered my hands, my expression hardening as I looked at Bege. "Pudding wants me to sing this song?" I said, my voice steady. "Fine. I’ll do it."

"What?!" everyone exclaimed, their voices a mixture of shock and confusion.

"Y/N, are you sure?" Nami asked, her brows furrowing in concern.

Luffy’s eyes widened, but a knowing smirk quickly spread across his face. "Oh, I get it," he said, crossing his arms with an approving nod. "You’re not gonna give her what she wants, huh?"

"Not even close," I said, a smirk of my own forming. "If she wants a performance, I’ll give her one. But it won’t be the kind she’s expecting."

I turned to Bege, my confidence building as I met his amused gaze. "Tell her," I said, my voice dripping with defiance. "It’ll be a performance to remember."

With that, the plan was in motion, the tension still thick in the air. The anger in my chest began to settle, but the unease remained. Sanji and I started to prepare to head back to our respective places, the weight of everything between us hanging in the silence.

As we moved to separate, Sanji stopped, his voice cutting through the quiet. "What do you want?" I said, not turning to face him, still fighting the remnants of my rage.

"I just…" Sanji began, his voice shaky. He let out a long, shaky breath before continuing, "I just want to say I’m sorry. Sorry that I’m a screw-up, sorry for everything." His words were choked, and I could hear the sniffle that followed.

The sound hit me like a punch to the gut. Despite everything, despite the hurt that I had felt, I couldn’t bear to see him so broken. I turned to face him, my expression softening despite the pain still lingering in my chest.

"Sanji," I said quietly, my voice unsteady. "Remember, I don’t hate you. I could never be a cold-hearted person toward you, no matter how much I’m in pain. You’re not a screw-up, Sanji."

Sanji blinked, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took a step closer, his hand reaching up to his face as if he was trying to wipe away the tears threatening to fall. "But I messed everything up, Y/N. I’m not the person I want to be for you… for anyone," he said, his voice cracking.

I stepped closer to him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Sanji, I won't lie to you, I’m still mad," I began, my voice softening, "but… I'd rather be mad at you than resent you for the rest of my life." I gave him a small grin, hoping to ease some of the tension. "Besides, I have a system. Right now, you're in the 'I'm mad' tier. Soon, you'll be in the 'I'm annoyed' tier, and finally, we’ll reach the 'I'm not mad or annoyed' tier." I said, trying to lighten the mood even if it meant shelving my own feelings for now.

Sanji blinked at me, the corners of his lips twitching like he was about to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. "You really have a tier system for this?" he asked, his voice still tinged with disbelief.

I smirked, finding a little bit of amusement in the absurdity of it all. "Well, the tier system is new," I said, tapping my chin as I spoke. "King taught me that if I lead with rage, it’ll cloud my judgment. And since I got to his island, I was fighting with rage most of the time. So when King told me I needed to not lead with rage, I learned to compartmentalize my emotions and channel them into something more positive… even if my plans are reckless." I shrugged a bit, the smile never quite fading from my lips. "It works… for the most part."

Sanji shook his head, a faint smile breaking through despite the heaviness in the air. "You're something else, Y/N," he muttered, a little awe in his voice.

Just then, Luffy’s voice rang out from behind us, his grin infectious as always. "Y/N, Sanji! You ready?" he called, his enthusiasm so unmistakable it made my smile widen.

I turned to him with a bright smile of my own, trying to put all of the tension behind me for now. "Always, Captain," I replied, my tone teasing yet filled with determination as I made my way back toward the mirror, adjusting my outfit and preparing for the next part of the mission

I finally made it to Ichiji's room, slipping through the mirror with a practiced ease. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows over the regal decor, and I could hear the soft sound of his breathing. His still figure lay motionless on the bed, his face calm and relaxed, completely unaware of my presence.

“Perfect,” I thought, the adrenaline from the mission still pumping through my veins. Silently, I removed my heels, making sure not to make a single sound as I placed them where they had been before, near the dresser. My coat followed, draped over the chair by the window, just as it had been.

I reached down and carefully slid off my thigh halter, the blade hidden within, and tucked it into the deep pocket of my coat. Everything had to look exactly as it did before—no trace of anything out of place. Dropping it in the same spot, I turned back towards the bed.

With deliberate movements, I tiptoed closer, my gaze never leaving Ichiji’s sleeping form. He looked completely oblivious, still drugged from the earlier sedative. I had to move fast but without rushing—any mistake would ruin everything.

Carefully, I lifted the covers, feeling the cool air of the room mix with the warmth of the bed. Slowly, I slid into the space beside Ichiji, my head resting on the pillow just inches from his. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep, steadying my breathing to match his. Every second felt heavy, the silence almost deafening.

Suddenly, I heard a low groan from next to me. “Ughh, my head,” Ichiji muttered, his voice still thick with sleep. “What happened last night?”

I stifled a grin, feeling the moment slip into my hands. Now it’s my moment to shine. I turned over, pressing my body against his bare chest, allowing the warmth of his skin to transfer to mine. I buried my face into his chest, my voice soft and drowsy. "Ichiji... you feel so good," I mumbled, faking the daze of a dream.

Ichiji chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my ear. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N,” he said, amusement dancing in his voice. “You’re up to something.”

I smiled inwardly, but played along, my tone sweet and innocent. "Well, we were about to consummate our marriage, a day early," I said in a teasing whisper, "but I guess your brothers gave you too much to drink. Once you were on top of me... you just fell asleep."

Ichiji’s laughter faltered for a moment as he processed my words, his confusion turning to irritation. “A shame too,” I added, tracing my finger lightly across his chest, letting my voice slip into something more sultry. “I was really looking forward to picking up where we left off at dinner... until Yonji interrupted us.”

His body stiffened beneath me, and I could feel the tension rise. “You’re telling me I passed out on top of you?” Ichiji grumbled, his hand tightening on my waist possessively. “Damn those brothers of mine. I’ll kick their asses for that bachelor party.”

I could feel the heat of his anger, but I played it cool, knowing my teasing was hitting the mark. "Well," I continued with a teasing smile, "if it makes you feel any better, I did get a bit carried away... your neck and chest were covered in my lipstick marks, and something else too." I couldn’t help but laugh lightly, feeling a surge of satisfaction at his growing frustration.

Ichiji froze for a moment, a dark glint flashing in his eyes. "You… You marked me, huh?" His voice turned possessive, the tension in his voice impossible to miss. “And now you’re playing with me... well, you're gonna pay for that, Y/N."

He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist as he kissed my neck softly. "I could get used to this," Ichiji murmured against my skin, his lips lingering on the sensitive area just below my ear. "Waking up with my soon-to-be wife in my arms..." He kissed me again, this time more firmly, making sure to give my neck the attention it deserved.

I couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through me at his words, feeling a flicker of something warmer in my chest despite the game I was playing. "Ichiji..." I whispered, my voice soft, but teasing. "I’m sure we can finish what we started, if you can manage to stay awake this time."

His response was a low, rumbling chuckle as he pressed me closer, his lips continuing their trail down my neck. "Don’t worry, Y/N," he whispered in a husky tone, "I’ll be awake for all of it."

Just as his lips met mine again, the soft knock on the door shattered the moment. “Ichiji! Princess! Wake up! Ichiji, we have your wedding to get ready for!” Yonji’s voice echoed through the wood, and Ichiji let out an annoyed growl. “I’m busy!” he yelled, his hand still exploring my body.

Yonji knocked again, more insistent this time. “C’mon, Ichiji! You can’t keep your soon-to-be wife all to yourself! You’re about to marry her!”

Ichiji grumbled but didn’t stop his ministrations, and I could feel the tension rising in the air. "Perfect," I thought, capitalizing on this distraction. I rid myself of the blanket, quickly slipping my bra back on while I caught a glimpse of Ichiji getting up to open the door. He stood shirtless, clad only in his underwear, a perfect display of his toned body.

“Nice view,” I thought, a sly smile creeping onto my face as I grabbed my coat, tying it around my waist and sliding my heels back on. My hands found the secure feeling of my blade and thigh halter inside the coat pocket, ready for action.

“I’m trying to have a relaxing morning with my soon-to-be wife!” Ichiji growled, exasperation seeping into his tone.

“Yeah, well, there are soldiers outside looking for the princess to get her ready,” Yonji replied. “Also, you might want to check in the mirror, dear brother. Seems to me you had a wild night.” Yonji laughed, and I could see Ichiji's irritation mount as he turned toward the mirror.

He paused, taking in the lipstick marks on his body and the faint bruise on his neck—a subtle reminder of our night together. I couldn’t help but smirk. Phase 1 complete, I thought triumphantly.

I laughed softly as I slipped past Ichiji, who was busy examining himself in the mirror. “Good morning to you too, brother-in-law,” I called out playfully.

“Princess, well, it seems to me you too had a wild night,” Yonji said, winking at me.

“Well, what can I say? I’m sort of a wild card,” I said, faking a bright smile, all while my heart raced with excitement for what was to come.

“Princess, I’m here to escort you to the bridal suite,” said one of the chess piece soldiers, stepping forward with a formal bow.

“That’s my cue to leave,” I said, forcing myself to act casual.

“Wait a—” Ichiji began, but I cut him off, ignoring him as I allowed the soldier to guide me away.

Phase 2 is about to commence, I thought, anticipation coursing through me. The plan was unfolding perfectly, and I could feel the weight of my resolve growing stronger with each step I took away from him.

.

.

.

We finally arrived at the bridal suite, and as I walked inside, I was greeted by Reiju. “Reiju!” I exclaimed, rushing to hug her tightly.

“Were you able to meet your crew?” she asked, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

I nodded eagerly. “Yup, we have a plan ready for Sanji.” The excitement bubbled within me as I recalled our frantic whispers and hurried glances, all centered on our daring escape.

“What about you?” Reiju asked, tilting her head with curiosity.

“I have somewhat of a plan. I just need someone to object, which means the wedding will be nullified,” I explained, my heart racing with the enormity of what lay ahead.

“And who’s going to do that?” she pressed, concern etching her features.

“Hopefully a miracle. If not, it’s plan B,” I replied, my resolve hardening.

“And what’s plan B?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Be a runaway wife,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “But I can’t; I have these stupid cuffs on me.” I gestured to the restraints Ichiji had placed on me when I first arrived in Germa, their cold metal reminding me of my captivity.

“They’re fake, princess. Don’t worry,” Reiju reassured me, her voice steady.

“What? Are you serious?!” I gasped, feeling a spark of hope ignite within me.

“Yes, I switched yours out when you were in the medical ward the first time,” she said, her tone earnest.

“Okay, so plan B might still be an option.” Relief washed over me, and for the first time, I felt a sense of possibility.

Just then, a knock echoed through the door, and attendants hurried in, bustling with preparations for the wedding. “Looks like we gotta get ready,” I said, trying to steady my breath as my heart raced in my chest. I couldn't deny the nervous excitement that was building within me—this moment was a mix of anticipation, dread, and something else I couldn’t quite name.

After a few minutes of rushing through a quick wash and brushing my teeth, I stood before a full-length mirror, about to slip into the dress that was supposed to mark the beginning of a new chapter. My hands shook slightly as I pulled the gown from its hanger.

When I started putting it on, however, I realized something was different. The fabric felt a bit more lavish than I remembered, and as I ran my fingers over it, I noticed the changes. “Hey, Reiju? Didn’t we get a different dress?” I asked, eyeing the gown suspiciously as I adjusted the fabric around me.

Reiju, standing nearby with a knowing smile, seemed pleased with the changes. “They added a few modifications to it,” she replied, her voice carrying a hint of pride. “You deserve something extra special for today.”

As I examined the dress more closely, the alterations became clear. The once simple gown had been transformed into something far more regal. Pearl accents were strategically placed, glimmering softly in the light, while the neckline had been altered into a daring deep plunge, adorned with silk and delicate lace. The off-the-shoulder sleeves were sheer lace, tracing the shape of my arms with a soft, ethereal quality. It was stunning—elegant, feminine, and undeniably beautiful.

But as I stared at my reflection, the irony of it all settled in my chest. I was trapped in this gilded cage, this dress a symbol of the future I didn’t want. The irony wasn't lost on me—this dress was a thing of beauty, yet it felt like another chain binding me to a life I had no choice but to live.

As an attendant worked on my hair, I heard another knock on the door. “Reiju, who is—” I began, but my words caught in my throat as the door swung open to reveal someone I never expected to see amidst all this chaos.

“King…” I whispered, my heart leaping at the sight of him. He walked in wearing a tailored suit, a small gift cradled in his hand.

“Princess,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes searching mine.

“I can’t believe it’s really you…” I whispered, overwhelmed with emotion. I leaped out of the chair and ran to him, throwing my arms around him and bursting into tears, the weight of the situation crashing down on me.

“Reiju, can you and the attendant give us a moment?” I requested, my voice muffled against King’s shoulder. She nodded, ushering the attendant out and closing the door behind them.

“What are you doing here?!” I whispered-yelled, pulling back to look into his eyes.

“I got an invitation from Big Mom herself…” he replied, his tone serious.

“But what about the others? I’m being forced to marry because you were held hostage, just like everyone else on that island!” Frustration seeped into my voice.

“I know,” he nodded, his expression somber. “When I saw your wanted poster saying ‘Vinsmoke,’ I knew this wasn’t your choice.”

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the stress rise. “They must have threatened you with something too valuable to ignore for you to get to this point,” he continued, his voice trembling with anger.

“My crew is here, and we have a plan!” I said, excitement and urgency bubbling up within me. I rushed to the mirror, glancing for Nami. “Nami!” I whispered urgently, but there was no answer. “Damn it!” I gripped my hair in frustration.

“Why would Big Mom invite you?” I asked, still curious about the circumstances that had brought him here.

“Don’t worry about that right now. As for the others, John and Dominck have things under control from what I heard,” he said, alleviating some of the pressure that had been crushing my chest.

“How is Dom, anyway?” I asked, smirking at the thought of him. Dom was King’s right-hand man, and he never went easy on me when we trained, but he was part of the reason I had become so skilled with my punches and kicks.

“He’s doing alright,” King replied, a fond smile creeping onto his face. “Misses you like crazy, even though he doesn’t want to admit it. He was worried sick when he heard you were facing Doflamingo and beat a top executive. I kid you not, whenever he gets the newspaper, he runs to me and shows me your wanted posters. We have a few up in the office. When we saw you in that tiara and that red corset dress, we were both cracking jokes!”

“I knew it!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands to my sides in mock indignation. “I called it to my partner Zoro too!”

King let out a hearty laugh. “Dominick nearly had a heart attack reading about your recklessness with Straw Hat,” he said, still chuckling.

“You should know by now that ‘reckless’ is my middle name, King,” I teased, leaning against the wall as the tension between us began to melt away with our laughter.

“I swear, one of these days your recklessness will land you in even more trouble,” he said, shaking his head with an amused grin.

“Probably,” I replied with a smirk. “But isn’t that what makes life exciting?

King then handed me a small box. “I also brought you a gift,” he said, handing it to me.

Curiosity piqued, I pulled the lace off the box and opened it to find a beautiful necklace with a ruby accent. “Why ruby?” I asked, lifting it out delicately.

King stepped closer, unclasping the chain and carefully fastening it around my neck. The ruby nestled perfectly on my collarbone. “Because it symbolizes strength and love. You’ve always been a fierce fighter, Y/N, and I want you to remember that, especially today.”

Tears threatened to spill again as I looked at the necklace and then back at him. “Thank you, King. It’s beautiful.” "It also belong to my mother... at least thats what my father said..." said king 

I paused, my hand lingering on the ruby pendant, my heart swelling at his words. The weight of the necklace in my hand felt heavier than I expected, not just because of its elegance but because of the history that came with it. "Your mother’s?" I asked, my voice soft.

King nodded, his gaze turning distant for a moment. "Yes, she wore it often. My father always said it was a symbol of her strength, the same strength I see in you." His eyes met mine again, and I could see the sincerity, the depth of his words, and the meaning behind them.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling the weight of his words settle over me. His mother's necklace, a piece of her strength now given to me—someone he cared about, someone he trusted. It was a gesture of more than just affection; it was a pledge. A pledge that despite everything happening around us, despite the wedding and the chaos and the dangers, I wasn’t alone in this.

"King, this means more to me than you know," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I won’t forget it."

He gave a small, almost sad smile. "I just want you to know that you're not just a pawn in this whole mess. You're stronger than that. And I... I’ll always be here to remind you of that."

I could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he cared for me, and it made the situation even more complicated.

“Y/N, is everything alright?” Reiju called from the other side.

“Yes, Reiju!” I replied, forcing a smile despite the turmoil inside. King turned to me, his expression reassuring.

“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll always be here watching you. We’ll figure something out,” he said, wrapping his arms around me in a warm embrace.

“King, please stay close to me. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Find me, okay?” I pleaded, my voice wavering.

He nodded, his eyes filled with determination as he stepped back. “I will,” he promised before walking out of the room.

Once the door closed behind him, Reiju and the attendant returned. I took a deep breath, trying to center myself.

Minutes passed as I stared at my reflection, taking in my simple yet elegant makeup and curls. The soft glow of the room highlighted my features, the delicate touches of makeup accentuating the sharpness of my eyes and the curve of my lips. The wedding veil rested gently on my head, completing the look. It felt like an out-of-body experience, as if I were watching someone else prepare for the life I didn’t choose. The reflection staring back at me was beautiful, but I felt a hollow emptiness in my chest. This was not my choice, not the life I had dreamed of.

“Perfect!” the attendant exclaimed as she began to leave, her eyes sparkling with approval as she exited the room, leaving Reiju and me alone.

With a sense of purpose, I made my way toward my coat hanging nearby. I grabbed my thigh halter and secured it to my right leg, ensuring it was snug against my skin. My blade was also strapped on, its hue now a deep violet, matching the intensity of my emotions.

I stood up straight, feeling the familiar weight of the weapons at my side, a reminder of my strength and resilience. With a deep breath, I began to walk back toward Reiju, my heart racing with anticipation and determination.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked, her eyes searching mine.

“I have to be,” I replied, my voice steady. “Let’s get this over with.”

Together, we moved toward the door, ready to face whatever challenges awaited us. With King’s promise echoing in my mind and my crew’s plan set in motion, I felt a surge of determination. Today wouldn’t just be about the wedding; it would be about taking a stand for myself and those I cared about.

Nami POV.. 

“Let me see!” Carrot exclaimed, bouncing on her toes as we all huddled inside Bege, our eyes glued to the wedding scene unfolding outside.

“Look at all these people!” I muttered, scanning the crowd. “Is that a bird taking pictures?” Carrot pointed out, her voice tinged with disbelief as she leaned closer to the window.

“In just a few moments, Lelo, the princess will be married to Ichiji… ohhhh!” Vito swooned, practically fanboying over the Germa family as they took their places at the altar.

I rolled my eyes, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “Can you focus, Vito? This is about Y/N, not some royal spectacle.” I felt a pang of anxiety shoot through me at the thought of Y/N being forced into this wedding.

“Look at the decorations, though! They’re gorgeous!” Carrot chirped, still caught up in the spectacle. But my heart was heavy, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all a trap.

“Focus! Y/N is in grave danger!” I snapped, my heart racing with anxiety. “We have to figure something out!” The urgency of our mission pressed heavily on my shoulders.

The guests settled into their seats, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach as the ring bearer and flower girl made their entrance, walking down the aisle with innocent smiles. The air was thick with tension, and I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. My eyes wandered to the front, where Judge Vinsmoke had taken his seat, flanked by his family. The sight of them only intensified the dread building inside me.

“Look, there’s Yonji!” Chopper shouted, his small paw pointing excitedly toward the smug-faced Vinsmoke who stood next to the priest in his green suit and white coat. He looked... almost too pleased with himself, like this was some kind of victory for him.

“Yeah, he looks way too happy about this,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at Yonji. His casual demeanor felt so out of place for a wedding, especially one that had been so forced on Y/N. His nonchalance was like a slap in the face, as if this whole thing was just another game to him.

"So Yonji is the best man?" I asked, more to myself than anyone else, but my voice was tinged with frustration. It didn't sit right with me.

“We’ve got great seats!” Brook said, peering through the small window, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can almost see the bride’s dress from here! Oh, how lovely!” His enthusiasm was infectious, but I couldn’t share in it.

“Brook, focus!” I said, waving my hand in front of his face. “This isn’t just a show. Y/N’s life is on the line! We need to find a way to disrupt this whole thing!”

Just then, violins began to play, filling the air with an unsettling elegance. "It's the point of no return!" Brook yelled, his excitement only amplifying my anxiety. The door swung open, and Ichiji stepped in, strutting confidently down the aisle. 

Strutting confidently down the aisle, Ichiji’s presence commanded the room. His striking red hair was slicked back, each strand gleaming with a hint of shine. He wore a sharp, tailored black suit that contrasted perfectly with his fiery hair. The fabric of the suit was sleek, and the jacket hugged his broad shoulders and trim waist in a way that showcased his athletic build. A deep crimson tie was knotted neatly under his collar, complementing the boldness of his hair while adding a pop of color. A white rose was pinned to his lapel, adding an elegant touch to his otherwise imposing appearance.

But it wasn’t just his suit that drew attention—his red-tinted sunglasses completed his look, adding an air of mystery and arrogance to his every move. The glasses shielded his eyes, making it impossible to read his emotions, but the smugness in his posture said it all. With every step he took down the aisle, he radiated self-assurance and a sense of superiority.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced with a smirk, “before we begin, my fiancée and I wanted to show you a little entrance.” The guests turned their attention to him, their faces lighting up with anticipation.

“Tch, more like he forced her to do it,” I muttered, feeling my fists clench in frustration. The very sight of Ichiji reveling in this moment made my blood boil.

As he began to sing, his voice rang out pitch-perfect, gliding through the notes with an ease that sent shivers down my spine. I could hardly bear to watch, yet I was captivated, trapped in the spell he wove with each lyric.

As Ichiji continued, his voice reverberated through the venue, each word dripping with charm.

“You have come hereIn pursuit of your deepest urge,In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent… silent…”

His voice floated through the air like silk, enchanting the audience with its smoothness.

“I have brought youThat our passions may fuse and merge,” he sang, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “In your mind you've already succumbed to me…”

The lyrics wrapped around us like a warm embrace, but beneath the surface, I could feel the tension rising. The moment felt surreal, as if we were caught in a twisted dream where Ichiji had the upper hand.

“Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me,” he continued, the arrogance in his tone sending a chill down my spine. “Now you are here with me, no second thoughts… You’ve decided, decided.”

“Past the point of no return!” he proclaimed, smirking as he glanced back at the closed door, knowing Y/N was just behind it, waiting for her cue.

“No backward glances,” Ichiji sang, confidence radiating from him. “Our games of make-believe are at an end!”

“Past all thought of if or when,” he added with emphasis, his eyes shining with victorious glee.

“No use resisting,” he taunted, a satisfied grin plastered across his face, as if he had already won the battle for Y/N’s heart. “Abandon thought and let the dream descend…”

As he finished the verse, I felt a surge of anger, realizing that this was all a trap—a cruel game played at Y/N’s expense. I clenched my fists tighter, my heart racing.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed the satchel Y/N had handed back to me earlier. Her blade glowed with a low white hue, pulsing softly as if urging me to act.

“What raging fire shall flood the soul?” Ichiji sang again, the emphasis on “fire” sending a small spark of fire flickering into the air, igniting my resolve.

“What the hell was that?!” I yelled, my voice echoing through Bege’s body.

“Pipe down in there!” Bege snapped, hitting his chest in frustration, but I couldn’t hold back.

“What rich desire unlocks its door?” Ichiji continued, locking eyes with another woman in the audience before turning back to the captivated crowd. 

“It's like I’m watching an opera in front of me!” Brook exclaimed, his eyes wide with admiration as he soaked in Ichiji’s theatrical performance. “What a voice! What flair! Ichiji’s got the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand!”

“Yeah, but this isn’t just a show!” I snapped, trying to keep my focus on Y/N behind that door. “It’s a damn nightmare! He’s trying to claim her, and we can’t just sit here!”

Chopper, visibly distressed, looked from me to Brook. “But he’s so good! I—I don’t want Y/N to get hurt!” His small hands trembled as he watched Ichiji, who was now basking in the admiration of the audience, his ego inflating with every note he sang.

“What sweet seduction lies before us?” Ichiji crooned again, his charm captivating every soul in the room, even those who knew the truth about him. He turned to another guest, giving her a flirtatious wink before leaning in to kiss her hand once more, which sent the crowd into a fit of giggles and applause.

“It’s infuriating!” I spat, unable to contain my anger. “Look at them! They’re just lapping it up like fools!”

“Can’t we do something?” Carrot whispered urgently, her eyes darting around, searching for a way to intervene.

Ichiji engaged the guests, his charm palpable as they ate up his performance. I could see the audience swaying, completely enchanted. “Ugh, this is torture,” I groaned, my frustration boiling over as he continued his performance.

“Past the point of no return!” Ichiji sang, his voice ringing out as he neared the altar, his presence commanding every eye in the venue. The priest stood waiting, a solemn figure next to Yonji, who wore a smug grin, clearly reveling in the spectacle.

Ichiji continued, his tone dripping with seductive allure, “The final threshold—what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?” He flashed a charming smile, his arrogance unwavering, as he shook the priest’s hand, signaling that this farce was nearing its climax.

I could feel my heart racing as he turned to face the door, where Y/N was still hidden away, trapped in the nightmare of this forced wedding. “Beyond the point of no return?” he crooned, his eyes glinting with mischief as he awaited her entrance.

“God, I can’t take this!” I hissed, my fists clenched tight. Brook nodded, his expression serious for once. “He’s like a villain in an opera, drawing everyone in with his charm while hiding the sinister truth.

“You have brought me to that moment when words run dry...” a familiar voice sang, echoing through the venue and drawing every eye toward the door.

I turned to see Y/N stepping into the light, the door now wide open. The collective gasp from the audience was palpable, a wave of awe washing over them. “Wow, she looks so beautiful!” Carrot exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with admiration.

Every detail of Y/N’s wedding dress took my breath away—the intricate lace, the shimmering satin, and the pearls that caught the light perfectly. Even the delicate veil trailing behind her exuded a royal elegance that made her look ethereal.

Brook, still peering out from behind his hiding spot, couldn’t contain himself. “Look, it’s our lovely bride! Just look at that dress! She really does make a beautiful blushing bride!” His voice cracked, tears pooling in his eye sockets as he took in the sight.

“Focus, Brook!” I yelled, thumping him lightly on the head. But I couldn’t deny it—Y/N looked stunning, and even Ichiji was momentarily entranced, his earlier arrogance slipping as he beheld her beauty.

The guests rose to their feet, marveling at Y/N as if she were a goddess gracing them with her presence. “Our princess always knew how to command attention,” Brook murmured, his tone still somber yet filled with pride.

“To that moment where speech disappears into silence... Silence...” Y/N sang, her words heavy with emotion, each note resonating in the still air. Gasps erupted from the audience, clearly oblivious to the true turmoil surrounding this scene.

Yonji slapped a supportive hand on Ichiji’s back, a smirk dancing on his lips, but Ichiji remained focused solely on Y/N, his expression a mix of admiration and possessiveness.

“I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why...” Y/N continued, taking another step forward, her bouquet clutched tightly in her hand, the veil trailing down the aisle floor like a cascade of dreams.

Each step seemed to break the tension, pulling her closer to the altar and away from our reach. The stakes felt higher than ever, and I could sense the urgency in the air.

“In your mind you’ve already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent...” Y/N sang, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she lifted her head, the veil framing her face like a halo. The moment felt surreal, almost enchanting, and I could hardly comprehend what was happening.

“The princess is really selling this, huh?” Bege muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It’s not like she has a choice in the matter!” I yelled, my frustration boiling over. I couldn’t stand to see her caught in this web of deception and forced love.

“Y/N changed the lyrics!” Brook exclaimed, his hollow eye sockets widening in shock.

“What?!” I gasped, a mix of confusion and concern washing over me.

“Now I am here with you, no second thoughts...” Y/N continued, her voice unwavering as she gazed directly at Ichiji through the veil. There was an intensity in her eyes that sent a shiver down my spine. I could see a faint glow emanating from her right leg, a small white hue that flickered like a hidden flame beneath the fabric of her dress.

But due to her elaborate gown, it was barely noticeable, almost as if it was meant to be concealed. I felt a spark of hope—was she signaling us?

“I’ve decided, decided...” she sang, her voice steady and filled with an emotion that resonated through the crowd. The guests hung onto every word, captivated by her performance, completely oblivious to the internal struggle behind her eyes. As the door closed behind her, it reminded us that there truly was no way out.

My heart raced as I exchanged glances with Chopper, whose worried expression mirrored my own. “What’s she doing?” he whispered, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

“Whatever it is, it’s risky,” I replied, my mind racing with possibilities. Was Y/N trying to turn the tide in her favor?

“It’s not fair,” Chopper muttered, his little fists clenched in frustration. “Luffy is still out getting his plan ready with Jinbei, and Sanji is nowhere to be found!” I shared his concern; I hadn’t seen Sanji anywhere either.

"Past the point of no return, No going back now," Y/N sang, her voice echoing through the venue as she took a bold step forward. With a swift motion, she grabbed her veil and tossed it aside, letting it cascade to the floor like a fallen cloud. Her hair fell in perfect curls, framing her face beautifully, shimmering in the dim light as if she had stepped straight out of a dream.

"Your passion play has now at last begun," she continued, her tone shifting, the lyrics transformed into a declaration of her own will. I could see the determination in her eyes, the fire of defiance igniting behind the veneer of the royal facade.

The moment was electrifying; even Ichiji seemed taken aback, momentarily losing his smirk as he processed the unexpected turn of events. The audience gasped collectively, the atmosphere thick with shock and intrigue.

And then I noticed it—the bouquet she clutched was now flickering with a soft white flame, dancing like ethereal fire in her hands. It was a stunning transformation, a symbol of her inner strength and rebellion against the fate she had been forced into.

“Look at that!” Chopper exclaimed, eyes wide with amazement. “Her bouquet… it’s on fire!”

“It’s a sign!” I shouted, a surge of hope rushing through me.

Ichiji’s expression shifted from surprise to irritation, and I could see the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “What the hell is she doing?” he snapped, clearly caught off guard by Y/N's unexpected change of heart. The guests were now fully captivated, and I could hear Vito’s voice rising above the others, tears glistening in his eyes as he exclaimed, “Ichiji is so lucky to have such a magnificent bride! Look at her!”

“Past all thought of right or wrong…” Y/N continued to sing, her voice growing stronger with each word. She turned gracefully to her left and right, connecting with the audience, drawing them into her resolve. There was a sense of empowerment in her movement, as if she was weaving a spell around them, and I could see the guests captivated, hanging on her every note.

“One final question…” she said, her voice softening for a moment before it crescendoed again, “How long should we two wait before we're one?”

As she held that last note perfectly, the air felt charged, and I could sense the tension building. Ichiji, who had briefly lost his composure, was now smirking again, but this time it was different. There was an underlying annoyance beneath that arrogance, a flicker of uncertainty creeping into his facade as he realized that this performance was more than just a song—it was a declaration of independence.

The audience erupted into applause, mesmerized by her stunning display. "Wow, she really knows how to take control of the moment!" Carrot exclaimed, her voice a mix of awe and excitement.

“Look at her! She’s stealing the show!” Brook shouted, his own eyes glistening with tears of pride. “What a brave bride!”

“Go, Y/N!” Chopper squeaked, waving his tiny arms in enthusiasm. “Show him who’s boss!”

Y/N’s gaze remained locked onto Ichiji, a storm of emotions swirling in her eyes. She wasn’t just singing; she was challenging him.

“When will the blood begin to race?” Y/N sang, stepping forward with a fierce determination, her eyes locked onto Ichiji, unwavering. Each word resonated in the air, demanding an answer. The intensity of her gaze pierced through the haze of the ceremony, challenging the very foundation of this forced union.

“The sleeping bud bursts into bloom?” she continued, adding emphasis on the word “burst” as if she were willing the energy of the moment to explode around her. The guests leaned forward, captivated by the power emanating from her.

The atmosphere shifted, thick with tension and anticipation. As she closed her eyes once more, it felt as if she were drawing strength from within, summoning the courage to break free from the chains of her predicament.

“When will your flames at last consume us?” she sang, her voice soaring to a final, powerful note. The moment hung in the air like a blade. A subtle lyric change but enough to catch attention.

Then it happened.

A sudden burst of fire erupted from the ground, an inferno so fierce that it momentarily blinded the room. Y/N stumbled back, eyes wide in shock. The crowd collectively gasped, their once-enchanted expressions replaced with terror and awe. Murmurs rippled through the assembly like wildfire, the heat of the flames only adding to the chaos.

"What the hell was that?!" I yelled inside Bege’s body, feeling utterly helpless as I watched the scene unfold.

"They really splurged on the budget, huh?" Brook quipped beside me, his tone laced with a mixture of humor and amazement. “Though I can’t say I blame them—this is one fiery performance, yohoho!”

I shot him a look. "Brook, this isn’t part of the wedding!"

"Could’ve fooled me," he replied, shrugging casually.

My attention snapped back to Y/N. The flames illuminated her figure, casting her as more than a bride—she looked like a warrior, an unstoppable force of nature. Her expression flickered with shock at first, but something shifted; her eyes grew steady, her posture firm.

“She’s either a victim or the boldest bride I’ve ever seen,” Brook said, his tone still light but with an edge of curiosity.

The room buzzed with tension, whispers rippling through the crowd. Whoever was behind this spectacle, it was clear they had everyone’s attention. And in the heart of it all stood Y/N, shrouded in fire and defiance.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from a Prince of Germa,” Vito chimed in, a smirk on his face, clearly entertained by the unfolding drama.

Ichiji began walking through the flames, a figure of confidence as the fire danced around him without harm. As he stepped closer, he and Y/N sang in unison, “Past the point of no return,” their voices intertwining in a haunting melody that filled the hall.

“The final threshold,” they continued, both stepping forward, the tension palpable. “The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn.”  

Ichiji reached for Y/N, grabbing her by the waist and guiding her arm around his neck. The guests erupted into cheers at the display of “affection.” My stomach churned with anger as I watched him dip Y/N, their faces close as he leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips. I felt a surge of panic as Y/N faltered for a moment, trying to push him off, but Ichiji pressed harder, pulling her into a trance. It seemed like she was caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, and for a split second, it looked as if she kissed him back.

The cheers from the audience grew louder, fueling Ichiji’s confidence, while I clenched my fists in frustration. “No! This isn’t right!”

But amidst the clamor, one guest held a somber look on his face, his eyes focused intently on the alter. “Who is he?” I thought, a knot tightening in my gut.

As the flames began to die down, Ichiji triumphantly held Y/N’s hand, leading her toward the altar. They transcended into the final lyrics of the song.

“We’ve passed the point of no return,” Ichiji sang, his tone triumphant.

But Y/N, determined to reclaim her voice, changed the lyric, “I’m past the point of no…” She turned back to the door, a flicker of defiance igniting within her.

“Re-turn…” she finished, facing Ichiji, her voice steady.

The guests clapped, oblivious to the undercurrent of rebellion in her words. Yet, the atmosphere was charged; it felt as though the crowd was on the verge of a revelation

“It’s like watching a tragic opera unfold,” Brook murmured, his teary-eyed gaze fixed on Y/N, clearly moved by her performance.

“No, it’s worse than that! It’s a nightmare masquerading as a wedding! This is a wedding from hell!” I snapped, determination surging through me. We had to intervene before it was too late.

“We are gathered here today to join this Princess and this Prince in holy matrimony,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing through the venue, solemn and resonant.

Ichiji stood tall, his confident smirk never wavering. His red-tinted sunglasses glinted under the lights as he glanced at Y/N, who stood rigidly by his side, her face a mixture of resolve and discomfort. The words hung in the air like a weight.

“Ichiji, do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, to honor her, to comfort her, and to keep?” the priest asked again, his voice steady and solemn, trying to break through the tension that enveloped the room.

The moment hung in the air, tension palpable as the guests held their breath, eagerly awaiting Ichiji’s response. The lavish decorations around the altar, once meant to symbolize love and unity, now felt like chains binding Y/N to this fate.

“Of course, I do,” Ichiji replied, his smirk widening, arrogance dripping from his words. “With all my heart, I accept this lovely princess as my bride.” His tone was mocking, as if he were performing for an audience rather than committing to a vow.

Y/N’s expression remained unreadable, yet I could see the flicker of defiance in her eyes as she stood there, trapped in the moment. Her hands trembled slightly, a subtle sign of her inner turmoil. The weight of the situation bore down on her, and I felt a surge of desperation.

The flames flickered behind them, casting an ominous glow on the proceedings, intensifying the sense of impending doom. Each flicker of fire danced like the emotions swirling in the room—passion, anger, fear, and a haunting sense of inevitability.

“And do you, Y/N, take Ichiji to be your husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, honor him, comfort him, and keep him?” the priest continued, his gaze unwavering as he turned toward her. The weight of his question seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud, ready to burst at any moment.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, a desperate urge to scream for her to say no, to break free from this hellish situation. The audience leaned in, anticipation thick in the air, their eager faces illuminated by the flickering candles surrounding the altar. They were transfixed, entranced by the spectacle, completely oblivious to the turmoil that gripped Y/N.

“Y/N, please!” I whispered urgently to myself, my fingers itching to break through the barriers and stop this madness. I could feel a fire igniting within me, a fierce desire to rescue her from this nightmare. She was so much more than a pawn in this twisted game; she deserved her freedom and happiness.

The moment of truth had come, and I held my breath, praying she would find a way to escape this nightmare. My eyes were glued to her, searching for any hint of rebellion, any flicker of hope in her expression.

“I…” Y/N hesitated, glancing around as if searching for an escape, her gaze darting to the crowd, then back to Ichiji. My heart raced as I watched her struggle, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket.

“Y/N, don’t do it!” Chopper cried out, his little voice filled with panic, breaking through the silence like a shot fired in a quiet room. “You have to fight back! We’re here for you!”

“I…” Y/N continued, her voice trembling as if the words were a physical burden. I could see the conflict warring within her, the longing for freedom clashing with the oppressive reality of her situation.

And then, the moment came—“I do…” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd, the simple words echoing in my mind like a death knell.

“No! Crap!” I exclaimed, gripping my hair in frustration, feeling the rush of despair wash over me. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion; I wanted to look away, but I was powerless to do so.

“Y/N, why?!” Brook yelled, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his face as he looked at her with a mixture of anguish and disbelief. “You look absolutely stunning, but this is not how it’s supposed to be! You can’t just give in to that creep!” He shook his head, his expression a painful blend of admiration for her beauty and despair for her situation. His words hung in the air, a haunting reminder of what she was sacrificing.

“Focus, Brook!” I hissed, trying to keep my voice steady. The last thing we needed was to blow our cover.

“We can’t let this happen!” I urged, but with each passing second, it felt like we were losing our chance.

“Sanji needs to hurry,” Carrot murmured, her eyes glued to Y/N as if willing her to find the strength to resist.

As the priest prepared to continue with the ceremony, I felt a surge of desperation. We had to act, and soon. This was not just about Y/N anymore; it was about all of us and everything we stood for.

“Repeat after me,” the priest instructed, his voice calm but firm.

“I, Ichiji, take you Y/N, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part,” Ichiji declared, a smirk plastered across his face as he looked at Y/N. The smugness radiating from him made my blood boil.

“Now Y/N,” the priest prompted, turning his gaze toward her.

“I…” she started, her voice wavering with hesitation.

“I…” she continued, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on her.

“Princess, don’t be nervous! Where’s that bravado?” Ichiji teased, his smirk widening as he played to the crowd. “My future wife is nervous, everyone!” He laughed, and the audience joined in, their laughter cutting through the tension.

“Y/N, follow your heart!” Brook cried out, desperation lacing his voice.

“She truly is the luckiest bride there is, lelo!” Vito added, dabbing at his eyes with a tissue, clearly emotional.

With gritted teeth, Y/N finally spoke up, “I, Y/N, take you Ichiji, to be my husband…”

My heart sank as she continued, “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

“Shit!” I cursed, clenching my fists as I peered through the small window of Bege’s body. We were running out of time.

“Pipe down over there!” Bege hissed, his frustration palpable.

“Now, it is time to exchange the rings,” the priest announced, and the ring bearer stepped forward, holding the rings with reverence.

“Ichiji, repeat after me,” the priest instructed. “I give you this ring as a token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love.” Ichiji slid the gold band onto Y/N’s finger with an air of triumph, his smirk never wavering.

“Now, princess,” the priest said gently. “Your turn.”

“I give you this ring as a token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love.” Y/N’s hand trembled slightly as she slid the ring onto Ichiji’s finger, and I could see the conflict in her eyes.

“Come on, Y/N!” I whispered urgently under my breath, my heart racing. She couldn’t go through with this; she had to know it wasn’t too late. We needed a distraction, something to break this cycle before it was truly too late.

“And now the groom has written some vows for his lovely bride,” the priest announced, prompting a collective awe from the audience, except for us. “God, this is torture!” Carrot exclaimed, her frustration palpable. “We can't do anything but watch from the sidelines!” I yelled, feeling helpless as I watched the scene unfold.

Ichiji stepped forward, his posture exuding confidence. “Y/N,” he began, his voice smooth and practiced, “from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were destined to be my bride. Your beauty, your strength, and your grace captivate me. I vow to protect you and provide for you, to make you the envy of all. Together, we will rise as Prince and Princess, ruling over Germa with power and prestige.”

The audience erupted in applause, but I could barely contain my anger. “Ugh, what a load of nonsense!” I muttered under my breath, glaring at Ichiji. “He’s just playing to the crowd!”

Ichiji continued, “I promise to love you in public and in private," he declared, a playful wink punctuating his proclamation., “to cherish you as the most valuable treasure in my life. With every fiber of my being, I will ensure that you never lack for anything, and that your every desire is met.” He looked directly at Y/N, his smirk returning. “And if anyone dares to challenge our union, I will crush them without hesitation.”

The crowd roared with approval, but I felt a cold chill run down my spine at his words. “Does he really think this is a game?” I growled, shaking my head in disbelief. “Y/N deserves so much better than this!”

“Y/N, you don’t have to accept this!” Chopper cried, his voice full of determination.

But as Ichiji finished his vows with a flourish, Y/N stood there, trapped between the weight of his promises and the reality of her situation.

“If there is anyone who believes these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace,” the priest declared, and my heart sank as I saw Y/N lower her head, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

Silence enveloped the hall, thick and suffocating. It felt like time had stopped, and I could hear the soft thumping of my heart echoing in my ears.

“Oh no…” Brook gasped, horror etched across his face. “Y/N!” he cried, his voice breaking.

“By the power vested in me, under the laws of Whole Cake Island... you may now—”

“I object!” a voice suddenly rang out, causing everyone to gasp in shock.

The bird taking pictures continued snapping away, its camera flashing as it captured the moment. “This is big news! One of the members from the Worst Generation gets an objection at her own wedding! I can see the headlines now: Ex-lover objects at royal wedding!” It was chaos as the room erupted into whispers and gasps.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ichiji barked, his smug demeanor evaporating into thin air as confusion washed over his face. “I would like to get back to my wife now!”

The person who objected remained hidden in the crowd, their identity concealed, and the tension in the air thickened. My heart raced; this was the distraction we needed! But who was it? I glanced around, searching for any sign of our allies, praying it was someone from our side, someone who could turn the tide.

Y/N took this diversion to step back, but before she could get too far, Yonji’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. “Looks like we have a runaway bride in our hands,” he taunted, a cruel smile creeping across his face.

“No! Let her go!” I shouted, feeling a surge of panic as Ichiji positioned himself protectively in front of Y/N, blocking her escape.

“Since no one has come forward, we will continue the ceremony,” the priest announced, his voice unwavering despite the chaos surrounding him.

“What?!” We all yelled in unison, disbelief flooding over us. This couldn’t be happening! “There’s an objection; the wedding should have stopped!” I insisted, my voice shaking with frustration and despair.

“There was an objection?!” Y/N exclaimed, trying to break free from Yonji’s grasp. “The ceremony ends…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, princess?” Ichiji replied, a smug grin spreading across his face. Realization dawned on both Y/N and me, crashing over us like a tidal wave.

“He was never going to let her go…” I whispered, the weight of the truth settling heavily in my chest.

“Unfortunately, we should have prepared better… it seems we were all duped,” Brook added, his usual cheerfulness evaporating into a defeated tone. The atmosphere grew thick with despair as we realized just how trapped Y/N truly was.

Ichiji turned to Y/N, his predatory grin widening. “Y/N, this is the point of no return,” he said, his voice dripping with smugness, the twisted satisfaction evident in his eyes.

“Y/N!” I cried, desperate to reach her, but the sight of her crumbling under the pressure sent waves of despair crashing over me. “Ichiji, you may now kiss your bride,” the priest declared, oblivious to the turmoil brewing around him.

“No!” I yelled again, but it felt like shouting into a void. We were outnumbered and outmaneuvered, powerless to stop the impending doom.

In a swift, cruel motion, Ichiji cupped Y/N’s cheeks in his hands, forcing her face toward his. She looked terrified, eyes wide and pleading, her every expression a silent scream for help as he pressed his lips against hers, sealing her fate in front of everyone gathered.

“I now present to you Mr. and Mrs. Vinsmoke!” the priest announced, his voice filled with a false cheer that only intensified my anguish.

Tears streamed down my face as the weight of our failure crashed over me like a tidal wave. “We failed her…” I whispered, my voice trembling with heartbreak, unable to comprehend the depths of despair this moment represented.

.

.

.

[analumina]

I wrote a little something.

~~~~~~

The descend was longer than he had presumed. How long had it been since he last saw the stars? The nebulas? The constellations he was so proud of creating? How long since he last felt gleeful and holy?

He closed his eyes and grabbed onto his chest where he could still feel the phantom hand, the sacred hand, that had pushed him. He didn't deserve it, the push, he thought. If need be he was ready to go willingly. There was no need for the humiliation. That push was made for a good laugh, it must've been, otherwise why do such an act?

Did he regret it? He pondered.

Regret being able to create something wonderful. Regret feeling that constant content feeling since his own creation. Regret everything he was hoping for. Regret asking all those questions. He should have, he smirked as it was the cause of his condemned outcome.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to a changing scenery where gone was anything and everything he was used to. He felt as if he had fallen into an oubliette; no end in sight, only darkness. Meanwhile, he began to pick at his skin as it began to feel hot and intolerable. It was a new sensation, he did not even know the word for it. Moments would go by until he understood pain was the word for what he was going through.

The lower he fell, the less worthy he felt. The more pain he felt. The hotter it became. “Please.” He blinked his tears away, tears he was not aware had come to be. It was unbearable. The push, the regrets, the darkness, the pain…the heat.

He let out a small gasp as he noticed his pristine wings blending into the darkness. He thrashed, wanting nothing to do with the transpiring result; however, just before the heat consumed him, before he felt completely hopeless and unwanted, a small light invaded the darkness. Heat turned into warmth as the feeling of pain turned into something lively.

He blinked and blinked until a dimmed light made itself known. He felt soft hands on his cheek, wiping away his lament. His mouth felt dry as he looked up and met soft eyes. “You're having a nightmare, my dear.” His forehead was kissed. “It's alright. I'm here.”

“Angel?” He sounded hoarse.

The angel smiled down upon him with an adoring expression. “You'll be alright.” He pulled him in closer. “I'm here. I will always be here.”

He sniffed and buried himself into the angel’s comfort. “Don't…leave me.” He shuddered at the thought.

“Would not dare think of it.”

He didn't know when it happened but one minute all he could hear was the ticking of a clock, and words of affirmation, the next, he was in that one bookshop in Soho. That one place where he could feel solace, not solely because of the atmosphere, but because of a nonjudgmental angel who he had come to love and who had loved him in return, questions and all.

Did he regret it? He pondered once more as he smiled at his angel who was far too busy informing him of his day. If being pushed meant meeting his light, his comfort, his purpose, his love, he would gladly fall a million times again.

—

The angel looked down at a now sleeping demon on his chest. He ran gentle fingers through the demon's red locks while his other hand sought out his hand. He entwined his fingers with the demon's left hand, and brought his knuckles to his lips. “I love you, Crowley.” He kissed the small silver band on the demon's ring finger and continued to hush his husband's once upon a time aching memories.

[cinmngirlnfr]

Juan Borgia Arranged Marriage Headcanons

Note: I'm trying to make this as close to the show as possible (Juan being an asshole) I in fact can't fix him. Shout out to the Phantom of the Opera. Also, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, english is not my first lenguage.

Summary: It is 1493, Rome. After a long friendship with Lucrezia Borgia, where you spent most of your childhood at her house, so much, so that Venozza and the Holy Father himself started seeing you as their child. When The Pope was looking for a spouse for his second son, naturally, you were the first to cross his mind. Your parents of course showed no opposition. It seemed perfect, The only problem? You and Juan Borgia had hated each other since you first met all those years ago

Warning: Allusions to sex, Allusions to sexual violence, violence.

.

.

.

.

ENGAGED

When your parents told you about the arrangement, you wanted to puke. Juan Borgia was the last man on earth you would like to marry, and even if he was the last man on earth, you were not sure if you would take him.

Lucrezia was delighted, finally, she would have you as her sister. At least you would get something good out of this.

When Juan first heard of this, he was enraged, he wanted to marry a princess! Someone up to his level, not his sister's annoying best friend.

It was very weird at first, you had always seen each other as brother and sister, you grew up together, and grew irritated and annoyed by everything the other did.

Venozza would be basically the only one planning the wedding, although she asked for your and Juan's opinions, both of you would just say yes to anything with hopes of the whole ordeal being over.

I think the only thing Juan would be interested in picking, is the entertainment, like he did at Lucrezia's wedding.

Juan didn't think you were ugly, but the image of spending the rest of his life with you would make him want to drown himself.

I imagine the Pope hosting many events to present you guys as a couple, but also, he had an agenda of making the two of you like each other.

In these gatherings, you were very polite to the guests, and both your parents and Juan had instructed you to act in love. Juan already had a reputation in Rome, and the way the Pope to such the rumors, was by creating a love story where his son was in the center.

Your fake smiles to your betrothed were clear. The problem lay when Juan had too many glasses of wine and started to hug you by the neck and kiss your cheeks, screaming in a mocking tone "OH MY SWEET WIFE TO BE!" You were beyond annoyed.

WEDDING DAY

Juan gets very drunk.

He will flirt with the actresses he hired.

You would probably be sitting annoyed on a table, sipping wine and eating bread, contemplating your future with the man who is currently drunkenly singing on top of a table.

The first dance was awkward as fuck.

Although Juan is not able to deny how beautiful you look in that wedding dress, and how good you would look without it.

Is he actually getting impatient for the wedding night?

However, he keeps drinking. It's a celebration! There is not such a thing as "Too much wine."

WEDDING NIGHT

You were young, and this was the Renaissance, there wasn't much sex ED.

You actually were not sure what to expect, your mom had told you that intimacy was painful, and the nuns had told you that it was only meant for procreation and to serve your husband.

You had been told that you could never say NO to your husband in any context, but especially not on this.

So naturally, you were confused but relieved when Juan Borgia was too drunk to even stand on his two feet, let alone consummate a marriage.

You tried to guide him to the bed, but he was much bigger than you.

He fell on the bed dragging you with him, leaving you trapped between his semi-unconscious body and the mattress.

"Look at my pretty wife..." He mumbled, and you rolled your eyes.

Somehow you managed to get him on his back and release yourself.

"Good night, Borgia" you sighed once you finally were able to get comfortable.

You thought he was done bothering you for the night.

Boy, you were wrong.

Hours later, the sun was starting to rise, and you woke up, by a slightly less drunken Juan Borgia on top of you, kissing your neck.

The sensation was strange... Not bad, almost ticklish. It made you want to giggle, GIGGLE! FOR JUAN BORGIA!

"What are you doing?" you ask confused.

"Finishing the task we had last night..."

And so he did... Let's just say, intimacy was way better than your mom and the nuns had described it.

MARRIED LIFE

Every hour he had, every second he spared, was to either think about doing you or actually doing you.

God! You were so annoying, acting all bratty, and making his life impossible.

He still couldn't keep your naked body, or your soft whimpers out of his mind.

At first, it was pure lust, it really was.

You both kept the same dynamic of annoying each other, yet there was a new element, sex.

When intimate life is that good, when the bed chemistry is so powerful when all the lust is only fueled by hatred, and of course, being no condoms at the time, it wasn't a surprise that you got pregnant very fast.

Yes, Juan pretended he didn't care for you.

Seeing you pregnant with his child tho... That fucked with his brain chemistry a bit.

Why did he suddenly want to hold you? He felt disgusted with himself.

Before this, all the sinful thoughts he had about you were fulled by the need to ruin you, to corrupt you, almost to make you submit to him since he knew that in any other way, even if it was hard for him to admit, you could easily outsmart him.

But now... He wanted to protect you, to make sure you never suffered again.

He realized he was down bad when you asked him to join you in a walk around the town.

He didn't want, for you to expose yourself like that, but he would have never admitted to you that he cared for your well-being.

He followed you closely, while you gracefully walked around the plaza rubbing your belly.

And it all went downhill, when a man, a peasant, walked your way and tried to touch your belly without your consent.

You politely tried to get away, but the man kept harassing you.

The next thing you saw was your husband beating the man to death, while he yelled things about, how dared a peasant even look at a noblewoman.

I mean, he was the head of the papal army, no one blinked an eye.

He then realized he would kill for you, he had done it, and he would do it again without hesitating.

The next time he realized how much he cared for you was when your son was born.

Then he realized, when you held that baby in your arms, sitting in the bed next to him, humming a sweet song for the child to calm down. He realized that what he felt for you was love.