#reply;; ( the devil has spoken )

[cambion-companion]

Curled atop Raphael to thaw.

@sky-kiss put it in my head how nice it would be to use Raphael's hellish body heat to unfreeze after a cold day. Actually, she's mentioned it several times. So of course I had to make a drabble. This is the softest Raphael has been or ever will be haha

(Also remoras are the fish which attaches to larger fish to "clean" them.)

“I feel like I just trudged through the snows of Cania.”  Your teeth chattered, making it difficult to speak.  Huddled as you were by the inn’s paltry fireplace, the flames were doing very little to thaw the bone chill.

Raphael looked up from where he reclined, perusing a long scroll of parchment. His hellfire gaze swept over your shivering form, arching a brow in amusement. “I did warn you not to venture forth.  Yet you remain intrepid and stubborn as ever.”  He cleared his throat and resumed reading the contract he’d been editing since your return.

You glared over at the devil on his bed, not that he saw.  You shuffled off your heavy coat, the fabric stiff and just as frozen as the rest of you.

On numb bare feet you crossed the small room at a slight run,and hopped up next to where Raphael reclined. He gave you a look that you recognized as a sign his patience was slipping. “I don’t share my bed with little frozen mice.”

“Good thing I’m not a mouse, then.”  You snuggled close to his body, his skin the shade of ripe cherries and giving off infernal heat. “Indulge me.” You repeated the words he’d spoken to you days previous, accentuating your accent to mimic his own.

Raphael tutted and, with a tug, moved his wing away from where you rested on it. “Your body has the appeal of a corpse.  Get yourself hence ere I remove you.”

“Hurtful.”  You didn’t budge, instead pressing yourself closer and sighing as the heat radiating off him began to seep beneath your clammy skin. “Please, Raphael.”

The cambion stilled, his hand holding the parchment still outstretched to keep the fresh ink from smudging as you moved yourself as much on top of him as possible. You felt him sigh beneath you and smiled, sensing victory.

You did not expect the pressure of Raphael’s hand upon your hair, stroking once before resting against your upper back. He waited for you to stop moving, finding a comfortable position half-curled atop his torso.

“What are you willing to do in exchange for my constant lenience?”  Raphael’s breath stirred your hair.  He rested the parchment back against the top of your head and seemed to be only half interested in your reply.

In response you made sure to tuck your ice block feet against his thighs.  Raphael’s muscles twitched in response, and he gripped your waist hard in retribution. “You’re telling me you don’t enjoy this at all?”  You asked, your sense of self-preservation long since fled.

“I’m reminding you everything has a price, my dear.”  Raphael murmured. “I shall let you ruminate.  For now, be silent, I have work to do.”

You found no issue with that, feeling the rise and fall of the devil’s breath beneath your body as he warmed you.  Your eyelashes fluttered with a sudden wave of drowsiness.

Raphael’s wings curled around you both in a sort of cocoon, increasing the feeling of being thawed.  Soon you were enveloped in a haze of red and heat, every so often hearing the sound of paper rustling and the scratch of a quill.

You stretched, hooking one of your legs over the cambion’s waist and wrapped your arm around his chest.

Raphael looked down at your relaxed body, curled atop his. He smiled slightly to himself moved his long fingers through your hair. “What a soft, pliant creature you are. The errant remora seeking refuge, fully knowing it’s within the jaws of a shark.”

[maomao-words]

Can we have another Sung Jinwoo fic cause I need more of him!!

How about headcanons of Jinwoo with a s/o that is only sweet to him and him only, everyone else can fuck off. Bonus if s/o is already close to him when he's still in E-class and is also a powerful hunter.

Hello, dear. This is such a lovely scenario!

As I am (temporarily) out of hiatus thanks to the Debut or Die fandom, I thought why not answer some of the piled up requests in my inbox.

I am sorry for the (very) late reply *laughs nervously.* I hope you enjoy these HCs.

Solo Leveling: Jin Woo with a S/O that is only sweet to him and him alone.

To Jin Woo, you were an angel. His Angel.

When he first met you, years back when his strength shackled him to the dreadful E-rank, you were the most powerful, confident, and sweetest woman he ever laid his eyes on. You perfectly led the party through the dungeon as an S-class Assassin, all while succeeding in protecting the rear where the lowest ranks where at. Jin Woo's respect towards you was well-established that very same day, and he gathered all of his courage to ask for your contact information. The tender smile you offered to him in response visited his dreams for months with no end afterwards.

Jin Woo's feelings towards you gradually shifted from platonic respect to romantic adoration, yet never faded away. Not with time, nor with all of the changes he has undergone with the arrival of the system. But when his newly-discovered S-rank became public, and a lengthy message of tender congratulations arrived on his phone from you, Jin Woo resolved himself to let his deeply-rooted affection known.

Oh, how sweet you were when he confessed. All gentle smiles and soft touches as he pulled close to him for the very first time. That image of you, hair fluttering in the evening breeze as the sun sets behind your figure, was forever etched in his mind.

Perhaps that is the reason why Jin Woo was unable to react in time as your clan mate raged and seethed, and voices started to raise from the different seats around the table. Jin Woo definitely heard the words you have spoken, with the lightest of smirks adorning your red lips, as you barely spared anyone but him a glance.

A few moments ago, your teammate was gloating about his latest dungeon run, boasting about the lavish loot he succeeded in getting, and not-so-subtly hinting that you would be unable to compete with him. You, on the other hand, were as calm as always. You simply busied yourself with sneaking bites of Jin Woo's favorite foods from your own plate into his own, before softly smiling at your beloved as he enjoyed what you have given him.

But as the man's insufferable speech turned into direct digs at Jin Woo himself, that was the moment where the knife in your hand found its way into the wall right behind your teammate's head.

"Trust me. Next time, I won't miss again, fucker."

All around you, voices rose to reprimand the infuriating bragger, and to calm you down enough to prevent you from throwing your own dagger next (you would later deny it, the sweetest of looks grazing your face, but Jin Woo saw your fingers around the dagger's handle with his own eyes).

But, to Jin Woo's second shock, none of the people present around the dinner table demonstrated any degree of surprise at your actions. Your clan leader sighed in exasperation, as if he were simply used to this. Only Jin Woo's face carried his own feelings of bewilderment as you blinked your eyes at him, and offered him another unbothered smile.

Perhaps Jin Woo's earlier claim of you being his angel needs to be slightly changed. He is more than happy to call you his devil, too.

[astralnymphh]

ROBINS EGG BLUE

⤹ . moments with domestic!ellie x pregnant!reader

WC; 1.07k

⤹ . content; fluff, lovey–dovey, may cause baby fever or heartwarmed tears to swell, reader discretion is advised ౨ৎ

pregnancy is infuriating as not being able to comb your hair thoroughly. there is always a fat fucking knot to stem the fluid moment thereof– just as there lies a fat, fleshy boulder fastened to your stomach for a gruelingly long nine months. the bulge of your belly button has witnessed most of three seasons, and you weren't buoyantly idling around for the fourth to appear. this baby– this little devil, needs to get the hell out of dodge.

from the chagrin of a pair of jeans failing to button at the hips, straining the seams as you pull that fly parallel to your mother yanking the poor hairs from your scalp with a paddle brush– to the fleeting aggro nearby popping a blood vessel you feel when arguing with your wife, ellie, about some nonsensical, fruitless or futile dispute about what wallpaper pattern best suits the small dimensions of the nursey– pink and pearl striped with roses or robins egg blue and beige striped with roses, ellie continuously states "they're basically the same baby, i don't see what all the fuss is about." or whether ellie should throw in a batch of dino nuggets or regular nuggets cause the taste totally isn't the same, the shape definitely impacts how salty it is to your tongue, illogical banters.

but ellie will still be your loving, selfless, fond, and doting wife. your number one. apple of your eye. stupid auburn–haired heartthrob. you name it. through thick and thin of your expanding belly, she will always be the first palm to greet your baby in the morning, plastering her blanket–hot hand just beneath your navel and pressing her sweat damp fingerprints dimpling into your stomach, bending her index lightly into the petunia purple stretchmarks that vertically dip into your hips, waiting for minutes in the virgin sun morning for your baby to kick. literally, she has abandoned her old forenoon routine just to feel that first thump on her hand. and when it finally does happen, a little pounce vibrating beneath her palm lines– her fingers twitch lightly and a smile immediately crafts upon her rose lips, purring excitedly upon the fringe of your ear, words that only your snoozing brain with hark, "huh, see? he knows who his mama is– told ya."

but, ahh, stretchmarks.

she adores those little lightning marks lacing your belly– you on the other hand, thought the contrary, to which that husky fry would remind you, "ts' cause y'gotta baby growing in there, yeah? ours." flowing past the pouty berry lips so adamant on plowing kisses to the span of your scruff, ghosting them dry over the fine threadlike hairs with a pitched promise to never let you– or your belly go.

or, goddess, that one time ellie insisted you sit on the couch while she played her acoustic guitar, denting her fingertips with the strings as she plucks, subtly leaning the bay oak instrument closer to your belly so the baby would pick up those hollowed notes vibrating through the air. the fattest smirk would mushroom those cheeks to hug her nose– grooving those nasal lines to encase the thin curve of a smile, deepening at the corners. you even recall the dorkiest shit ever, how it carried to your ears out of the blue and left you pinching brow lines of amusement, "gonna' play this lil' guy guitar everyday– hey, d'ya think if i do that, he'll come out already knowing how to play?" spoken on a smokey chord, glancing up at you through lashes slightly downturned due to her facing the belly, directly. you told her with a sigh, "ellie, that is not how it works." dumbly smirking back, and she replied, "what? c'mon, maybe if i play electric, he'll be born a rockstar!" squeezing her voice with silly enthusiasm. a roll of your head cracks your neck, dangling back to barb, "you are ten times the idiot than you were yesterday." cause, well, she's constantly spewing the dopiest ideas. next thing you knew, she was rasping, "m'your fuckin' idiot." that cheesy motherfucker, slinking her guitar off the round of her thigh and stowing it at the sofa's footing, lurking forward on all fours to tackle your belly with bespattering kisses, moist and fiendish as ever.

infuriating was the task of putting socks on. fucking socks. the effortless effort that would usually clock you under ten seconds, moreso felt like ten eons. "ughh!" you would grunt from the depths of your compact lungs, extending two zombie arms over the blockage of your portly belly, perking the ears of ellie who was just in the abutting room, walls thin enough to bombard with sound. she whips around the door trim, leaning her lank weight away from it and cocking her head, distinguishing the predicament you had landed two feet in. a dry chuckle sounds from yonder the room, trailed by her honeyed resound, "need sum' help babe?" which, to her, falls to strike as a question– au contraire, soft, padded footsteps of feet who already had socks on, lucky them, carries ellie over and at your side, crouching with her knees splayed apart like bird's wings, raising hands to politely creep fingers under yours, prying the cottony ball from your grasp and craning it to her chest, sidling in her squat so that she would be an eyeshot vis–à–vis to you, at your beckon practically.

you remained silent, doused in the soft moment before you, yet a little embarrassed you couldn't do it yourself. a raspy, "here's one.." croaks from her throat prior to a hand cupping the ribbed underside of your ankle, tamping it gently into her chest so she could unfurl the sock and roll it up your foot, hedging your toes first with the linty fabric and laying it up the heel, letting the band snap in place– and her fingertips lingered at the ankle, caressing the nub for only a twinkle in time. "and the second one.." she scoops up the other foot, repeating the same tedious tenderness she gave to your other, gliding her hand from your ankle to your knee as she stood up, plating a pressure to the top of your thigh as she leans in, lips first, uttering, "there you go," smacking a puckered kiss to your stagnant lips, whispering upon them, "m'comin' to the bathroom with you. wanna hold him for a bit."

not even wild wolves could tear ellie from your baby, her baby.

[aphroditelovesu]

The Lost Queen - XIII

— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.

— genre: yandere, dark!au.

— warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, possibly smut.

— pairing: yandere!alexander the great x female!reader, yandere!generals x female!reader.

— word count: 3,325.

— tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @silmawensgarden.

— the lost queen series masterlist.

Chapter 13

Time turned into an indistinct blur, while your breath seemed to freeze in the air. Before you, the man emanated an intimidating aura, his presence filling the small space of the tent with palpable tension. Every detail of his face, sculpted by shadow and dancing light, seemed like a macabre work of art, a mixture of mystery and imminent danger. His dark eyes, deep and penetrating, held yours as if they had the power to probe your soul. And you, paralyzed in front of this spectrum of strength and mystery, could barely utter a single word.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." He chuckled, watching you with interest shining in his dark eyes. Those words, tinged with a touch of humor, echoed in your ears like a distant echo of a distorted reality. Was he mocking you?

"It's because I'm seeing one." You scoffed, your tone laced with disdain as you stared at him firmly, barely able to contain the fear from spreading through your body. He clicked his tongue in disgust at your tone.

The man looked inside the tent, his interest piqued by the surrounding environment. "You look good." He commented, his voice carrying a casual tone, but his expression still enigmatic and impenetrable.

"Why did you bring me here?" You finally asked, your fists clenching as you stared at the man with disgust and a slight fear shining in your gaze.

"All in good time, my dear." He hummed in response, his relaxed tone contrasting with the tension that hovered between you. He approached you, his imposing presence filling the space between you as you struggled to maintain your composure in the face of the uncertainty of what would come next.

"Do not play with me." You spat, your voice filled with suspicion and a hint of suppressed anger.

He arched an eyebrow, a subtle smile dancing on his lips.

"I'm not." He replied seriously, his dark eyes boring into yours with piercing intensity, "I'm not messing with you, sweet girl. Everything I've done has a purpose." His voice echoed in the tent, filled with a conviction you struggled to understand, as the mystery around you seemed to deepen even further.

You felt even more suspicious and uncomfortable with the man's words.

Who was he? Or rather, what was he?

"Who are you?" You finally asked, your jaw clenched in a mix of nervousness and defiance.

"I have several names." He purred in response, a chilling sensation running down your spine as he circled around you like a wary predator, "But you can call me Aslan for now."

Aslan? For now? The name echoed in your mind, loaded with a meaning that you could barely begin to understand.

"What do you want with me?" You frowned, your voice thick with tension and distrust.

“What I want doesn't matter, but what you want does.” He replied calmly, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made you uncomfortable.

What do you want?

"Are you mocking me?" You rolled your eyes, frustrated with his evasive answers, "I'm not in the mood for jokes, Aslan." Your words were spoken firmly, a mixture of irritation and determination evident in your voice. You were going to get answers one way or another.

He laughed darkly, and involuntarily, a chill ran down your spine at the laugh that escaped the man's lips.

"Be patient, my dear. I'll explain everything to you, but for now..." He stopped talking when he heard a commotion outside your tent.

''Finish speaking.'' You ordered, your voice firm and determined, demanding answers in the face of the growing intrigue and urgency of the situation.

He smiled, a mysterious gleam dancing in his eyes, "You're learning to act like a Queen."

You looked him straight into his dark eyes, ''I am one.'' Your statement was delivered with unwavering confidence, your identity and position clearly defined, even amidst the confusion and uncertainty that surrounded you.

You were a Queen. You were the Queen of Macedonia, and as strange as that title still sounded in your ears, it felt right when it left your lips.

Aslan smiled widely, his features softening with the confidence of your words, ''You are.'' He confirmed, his voice filled with respect and recognition, as he slowly headed towards the flap of the tent.

''Where are you going? We're not done talking!'' Your words came out in a rush, your gaze narrowing with each step he took towards the exit.

''Duty calls me.'' He sang, his voice filled with mystery and promise, ''But I'll be back soon. We have plenty of time to talk, (Y/N).'' Aslan bowed slightly and left before you could utter another word.

''Aslan...'' You uttered his name, or one of his names in this case, and was strangely pleased with the sweet way it fell from your lips. Why did he look so familiar? Your fingers gripped the hem of your traditional Persian dress, your nails digging into the soft fabric.

You would have the answers soon, you were sure of that. But for now, there was something more pressing to deal with. You needed to meet Darius in person, a meeting that promised to be crucial to your future.

Darius's tent was exactly as you expected it to be: extravagant. Even in the middle of a war camp, the Persian King did not give up his luxuries and comforts.

As you observed the opulence around him, you couldn't help but reflect on how that very extravagance may have been one of the reasons for Darius' downfall. His excessive indulgence and disconnection from the reality of the challenges he faced as a leader may have weakened his rule and undermined his authority among his people and his armies. Vanity and ostentation can be double-edged weapons, especially in times of conflict and political instability.

As you carefully observed Darius and a man who resembled him, your eyes wandered to the king, whose luxurious attire made it clear that he was Darius. You took in every feature of his features: his dark skin glowing in the golden light of the fire, his long black beard that complemented his face firmly. A faint smile curved his lips as you bowed respectfully before him, and his dark eyes softened slightly.

The similarity between Darius' imposing presence and Alexander's was remarkable, and you couldn't help but find it intriguing. Both possessed an enviable charisma, capable of attracting loyal followers and soldiers, even in the face of defeat and adversity. It was as if an aura of authority and leadership surrounded them, inspiring admiration and respect wherever they went. They were similar in that way.

Perhaps it was this magnetic charisma that allowed Darius to maintain a large number of loyal followers and soldiers, even after suffering defeats in battle. His commanding presence and ability to inspire confidence may have been crucial factors in maintaining his power and influence despite the challenges he faced. That was something admirable, and even though he was technically your enemy, you couldn't help but admire those traits.

''It's a pleasure to meet you in person.'' Darius's deep, calming voice sounded in your ears and you nodded slowly, hiding any possible nervousness. He seemed to know how to speak greek and that made you calmer.

"I say the same," You replied calmly, following Darius' lead and settling into a chair reserved for you, "Though it was unpleasant circumstances we found ourselves in." You couldn't help but poke him lightly, after all, he had kidnapped you. The tension between you was palpable, but you were determined to maintain diplomatic composure. You needed to ensure your safety above all else, especially now that you were pregnant.

Instinctively, your hand found its way to your belly, as if trying to protect the baby growing inside you. Darius's gaze followed the movement and rested on your belly, understanding the source of your apprehension.

"Nothing will happen to you or your child." He assured you calmly, his words filled with sincerity and empathy. A feeling of relief spread through you at his assurance, even though tension still permeated the air around you.

The presence of the man who resembled Darius, with malice shining in his eyes, further heightened your sense of unease. As Darius cleared his throat and called a name in Persian that you vaguely recognized as Bagoas, you knew you were looking at an intriguing historical character.

You knew Bagoas's name from contemporary records, which described him as a eunuch who had been the lover of both Darius and Alexander after the conquest of Persia. Your frown at this information was inevitable, and you stared at him as he entered the tent, carrying a jug of wine. Your eyes followed his every movement as he poured the liquid into three cups, and you couldn't help but notice the subtle glance he threw your way before disappearing with silent steps.

Darius took a sip of his wine and the other man did the same. Meanwhile, the wine in front of you remained untouched, as you knew that drinking alcohol during pregnancy was not recommended at all.

The other man finally decided to speak, his rough voice echoing in the tent. The greek that came from his lips was a little difficult to understand, but his words were clear, "We brought you here to negotiate."

Darius stared at the man disapprovingly and sighed, ''That's Bessus.''

Bessus. Uh-huh. This was bad. You knew this man and didn't trust him at all and it seemed like even Darius didn't trust him.

''To negotiate what?'' You raised your eyebrows.

''In exchange for your safety and life, Alexander must abandon the war and return home.'' Bessus replied, drinking his wine with great enthusiasm. You looked at him with disdain evident in your eyes. Did they really think Alexander would give up so easily? They will be fools then.

The idea that Alexander would give up so easily was absurd, and those who believed it were mistaken. Alexander was a formidable leader, determined to pursue his goals with fierce determination, and you knew he would never abandon the war without fighting until his last breath. He would rather die fighting than return as a coward.

"Alexander won't give up." You replied firmly, your voice thick with conviction, "He never will."

Bessus's expression was disdainful as he arched his eyebrow, "Not even for his beloved pregnant wife?"

You fought the urge to punch Bessus at his taunts and replied dryly, "Alexander will destroy the world for me, and you made a huge mistake by bringing me here."

There was a certain arrogance in your voice, but it was the truth. You knew the destructive power Alexander was capable of inflicting when provoked, and those who dared to defy him were playing with fire.

You remembered the stories about what he did to his enemies, to those who dared to cross his path or take what was his. His revenge was swift and merciless, sending a clear message to all those who dared defy him: there was no mercy for traitors and invaders. Darius and Bessus were in hot water when they decided to kidnap you.

''Let's talk, shall we?'' Darius interrupted the conversation between you and Bessus, sensing the animosity between you.

You nodded, even though you knew this conversation wouldn't get you anywhere. Their situation was complicated, and it seemed like they were about to face the consequences of their actions.

Every action has a reaction, right?

"My wife is not here?" Alexander's voice was low, but his fury resonated clearly in every word, his clenched fists denoting his intense emotion.

The generals present, Hephaestion and Ptolemy, seemed worried and fearful of the king's wrath. Finally, Hephaestion decided to take the lead, his expression carefully controlled to avoid further provoking Alexander's explosive reaction.

"She is not here." He said with the greatest caution he could have at that moment, his words chosen precisely to convey the truth without triggering an even more violent reaction from the King. The tension in the air was palpable, as everyone awaited Alexander's next response and the consequences that could follow.

"She's not here.'' Alexander repeated, his voice sounding louder, reverberating through the room. Ptolemy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of responsibility in deciding to speak,

"(Y/N)'s guards said they didn't find her in her tent when they woke up.'' He stated, holding Alexander's menacing gaze as long as he could, his expression showing both concern and determination.

Finally, the King snapped. His fists hit the poor makeshift table hard, causing it to fall with a deafening crash. Hephaestion fought the urge to shudder at Alexander's display of fury.

"So where is she?" Alexander asked, his voice filled with anger and despair, staring intensely at his two friends, "WHERE IS SHE?" The last question was shouted, echoing off the walls of the room and reverberating in the minds of everyone present. The tension reached its peak, as everyone awaited the answer with a mixture of apprehension and fear for what could happen next.

"W-We don't know!" Ptolemy was quick to say, fearing for his life, his words flowing in a torrent of fear. "We've done a thorough search of the entire camp and surrounding area, but there's no trace of her. It's as if she's disappeared."

"People don't disappear out of thin air." Alexander sneered, his penetrating and suspicious gaze scanning every detail of his generals' faces. His blue eye narrowed, emanating an intensity that made it clear he would not accept evasive answers or excuses.

Hephaestion decided to speak to try to help calm his friend, aware of the urgency of providing any information that could help or worsen the situation.

"According to the guards stationed at her tent, they were knocked out and the Queen was gone." He reported, his voice firm but filled with concern.

Alexander looked his friend in the eyes, his expression a mixture of anger and grim determination, "Who took her?" His question was uttered with increasing urgency, indicating that he would not rest until he found answers and brought his wife back safely.

Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged a heavy look of mutual significance. They knew Alexander wouldn't take this information very well. Betrayal was never something he dealt with easily, especially when it came from such a dear friend.

Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing himself for the coming storm, Hephaestion took the lead once again.

"Perdiccas." He said, his voice heavy with the weight of revelation as he faced Alexander's furious gaze. The words hung in the air, loaded with inevitable consequences, while everyone awaited the King's explosive reaction to the betrayal of one of his closest confidants.

"Perdiccas.'' Alexander repeated the name carefully, feeling a bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth.

Perdiccas.

His childhood friend, his trusted general, now revealed himself as the traitor who had kidnapped his wife. The reality of the situation hit Alexander with devastating force, a mixture of disbelief and fury boiling inside him. How could someone he trusted so deeply betray like this?

The feeling of betrayal pierced his heart like a sharp blade, leaving him furious and determined to carry out the worst punishment, torture known to man.

The fury building inside Alexander was like an uncontrolled hurricane, a primal force that threatened to devour everything in its path. His vision turned red, his mind flooded with images of violence and revenge. All he could see was a pool of blood and a cruelly mutilated body in the middle of it. Perdiccas' body.

He wanted revenge, revenge as brutal and painful as the betrayal he had experienced. The pain of being betrayed like that tore him apart, consuming him with an overwhelming rage that threatened to swallow him whole.

The idea of killing Perdiccas slowly and painfully took root in his mind like an obsession. He imagined every macabre detail, every torment he would inflict on the traitor, fueled by the relentless thirst to recover what belonged to him and the unbearable pain of betrayal.

With a herculean effort to contain his burning fury, Alexander finally managed to muster the strength to ask, "Where did he take her?"

"We don't know yet." Ptolemy replied, his eyes fixed on Alexander as he carefully assessed the King's reaction.

The answer seemed to echo in the room, filled with tension and uncertainty. Alexander was strangely restrained, his expression too controlled for the tastes of those present. This was worrying. Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged a quick glance, sharing their silent apprehension at what might come next. The approaching storm was invisible, but the tension in the air was palpable, foreshadowing a series of events that could change the course of history.

With palpable determination, Alexander finally made a decision. He stared at the broken table, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and resolve.

"Send all available men to search for any possible information." He ordered firmly, "Spread the news and whoever brings me information about my wife's whereabouts will receive a generous reward."

Ptolemy nodded in understanding and hurriedly left the tent, leaving Hephaestion and Alexander alone in the silent wreckage. The tension in the air was almost palpable, but beneath this layer of anger and worry, there was an unwavering determination that guided Alexander's every action. He was determined to find his wife, no matter the cost.

Hephaestion carefully approached Alexander, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Alexander did not react immediately, his mind still absorbed in turbulent and bloody thoughts.

"Alexander?" Hephaestion's voice sounded gentle and calming, seeking to draw his friend's attention to the present.

"Hephaestion," Alexander replied carefully, his voice filled with determination and a focused intensity, "I want Perdiccas to be brought to me alive."

Hephaestion nodded silently, even though he knew Alexander wasn't looking directly at him. He perfectly understood the implicit meaning behind the order to bring Perdiccas alive.

Even without being asked, Alexander continued, his voice filled with determination and a calculated coldness, "I want to interrogate him personally, ask him why he betrayed me and stole my wife. And then, personally, I will torture him and kill him." The words were delivered with icy calm, but there was no doubt that each one carried a deadly weight.

Alexander's determination was unwavering, his mind focused on just one goal: getting his wife back, no matter the cost. He was willing to throw all of his power and destructive force against any obstacle that he dared to stand in his way.

Cities would fall, armies would be torn to pieces, and populations would be subjugated. Men would be killed, while women and children would be taken into slavery, all in the name of desperately searching for his beloved Queen. Alexander did not care about the human or moral cost of his actions; his fiery fury eclipsed any consideration of compassion or mercy.

The entire world would tremble at Alexander's wrath, for he was determined to leave a trail of destruction in his wake towards those who dared to defy him and take away what was most precious to him. His journey would be marked by blood, pain and suffering, but he would not rest until his wife was safe in his arms again, no matter what the cost.

He would recover his Lost Queen.

— lady l: And things get more and more complicated for the Persians, don't they? Poor things, they thought it was a good idea to steal a yandere's wife. There wasn't one to warn you, right?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I changed my writing style a little and I hope this pleases you. Feel free to send your feedback and I'll see you in the next chapter! Love you all!! ❤️

[parkerslatte]

Deals With Our Devils || Chapter Two

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: none.

Part Summary: Y/N arrives in the Night Court and her former family have a lot to say.

previous chapter / next chapter

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Y/N looked down at the coffee sitting on the table before her, she hadn’t touched it since it had been placed there. It was cold now. No one had said a single word since Rhys insisted on sitting at the dining room table for more comfort than his cramped office. Y/N didn’t attempt to explain herself, she knew that her efforts would be futile as everyone was silently processing everything. 

The gaze fixated on her cup lifted the smallest amount to scan the faces of the people she used to call family– with three new faces thrown in. Two-hundred years had seemed to be all it had taken for Y/N to forget specific details about her family. There was a small scar slicing through Cassian’s eyebrow that Y/N wasn’t sure whether he had it when she was still around or not. That glimmer in Rhys’s eyes that seemed to suggest a certain love that Y/N did not recognise. The specific features of Mor’s face that she loved to put makeup on when they were younger. Y/N even forgot how much she towered over Amren– somehow she remembered her to be a similar height. Seeing her now made Y/N realise how much she had really forgotten over the past two centuries. 

Then there was the matter of Azriel. Despite the rest of her former family and the small details she had forgotten about them– Y/N hadn’t forgotten anything about Azriel. From the colour of his dark hair that seemed brown in direct sunlight to the unique blend of colours in his eyes that made up his hazel. He hadn’t spoken yet but Y/N could still hear his voice clearly in her mind, soft spoken yet still had a small edge to it. Y/N hadn’t forgotten anything about him. 

“So,” Rhys spoke up after a long and painful silence. “This is certainly a surprise.”

Y/N nodded. “I am here on official business.”

“I gathered that,” Rhys replied. “Your Queen had been corresponding with me for several months.”

“She is aiming to build alliances,” Y/N replied. “Vassuryn is a very small kingdom and not very well known. It is vulnerable to attack so Queen Selvina has been gathering allies from all over the continent. This is the first time she has reached out beyond.”

Cassian finally raised his gaze to meet Y/N’s, his eyebrows drawn down in a frown. “I don’t give a shit about alliances. What I want to know is why you left two-hundred years ago.”

“Cass–” Rhys tried to intervene.

“No,” Cassian shook his head. “It’s been two hundred years, Rhys! Surely now it is time for an explanation as to why she has been gone.” Cassian’s burning gaze fixated on Y/N. “You left in the middle of the night with no word, no note, nothing. We searched for you for years. Azriel searched even longer.”

Y/N glanced Azriel’s way but he was staring at the table in front of him, as if he were fascinated by the woodwork. 

The female next to Cassian reached out and touched his arm and he instantly began to calm. The furious expression that had gradually melted onto his features disappeared within an instant– only to be replaced by sadness.

“Y/N, we didn’t know if you were alive or dead,” Cassian admitted. “You were our family. Losing you was hard for all of us.”

The broken look on Cassian’s face made Y/N’s heart drop. She never knew her disappearance had affected her family that much. Mor hastily wiped away a tear and Amren’s silver eyes bore into hers, though deep down through all of the guards she had up, she could tell that Amren cared. 

“I am sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I hadn’t realised my disappearance had affected you all so greatly–”

“Please stop being so formal,” Cassian pleaded. “We are your family.”

“We haven’t been her family for a long time,” Azriel’s soft voice cut through the air. 

Y/N’s head snapped in his direction. His gaze had finally lifted and the only emotion Y/N noticed within them was betrayal. Her eyes stung with tears. 

The female next to Rhys, her arms tattooed with swirls up to her elbows, cleared her throat. “Any arguments that might happen will end here.” She turned to Y/N with a small gentle smile. “Y/N is a guest here and I won’t tolerate arguments from someone trying to do their job, no matter your history.”

Y/N gave the female a grateful nod as she took a deep breath. All pairs of eyes felt like daggers in her heart. “I understand that all of you must despise me for what I did, but you must understand that I haven’t come here for myself, I am here under my Queen’s orders. All I am trying to do is a job for her, don’t let any hostile attitude towards me affect what she is aiming to do.”

The room was silent, the only exception was Mor placing her wine glass down on the table. Y/N’s heartbeat increased and her body felt hot. If Floris had been with her, everything would have been okay, she would have had someone to lean on. But now she was alone in a house where everyone hated her. 

“Will you answer one personal question for us, Y/N?” Rhys asked.

Y/N met his gaze. “Only one.”

“Why did you leave?” 

That was the one question Y/N had prepared for on her journey to the Night Court. As she answered, her voice was almost robotic from how she had rehearsed it over and over again. 

“I was a danger to all of you and the whole of Velaris,” said Y/N. “I needed to get away before I hurt any of you.”

“A danger?” Rhys asked. “How were you a danger?”

“She has powers,” A quiet voice spoke from the end of the table. 

Y/N tore her gaze away from Rhys’s and landed on the third female she hadn’t recognised. She looked startled like she hadn’t meant to let anything slip. 

“What do you mean, Elain?” Rhys questioned. 

The female– Elain, gazed at Y/N, an apologetic expression on her face. Elain opened her mouth to respond but Y/N beat her to it. 

“She is correct,” Y/N replied, once again looking down at the table. “I have powers.”

Cassian chuckled humorously. “We would have known if you had powers.”

Y/N shook her head. “You wouldn’t have. Because I didn’t even know until days before I left.” 

Y/N stood up from her seat and stood at the head of the table. As she brought her left hand up in front of her, the surges of power wrapped around her arm and around her body in thin blue thread. The former family watched in astonishment– all except Azriel, whole face remained neutral. 

“When I left, I couldn’t control it,” Y/N began. “I could feel it bubbling inside of me and it was only a matter of time before it burst. I didn’t want any of you to get hurt in the process so the safest thing I could do was leave.”

“We could have helped you, Y/N,” Rhys said, with an attempt to keep his voice calm but the sadness in his eyes betrayed him. “Why didn’t you come to us?”

“It was all too much,” Y/N said. “I could feel a surge of power threatening to release and I knew that it would be fatal to anyone within my vicinity. When I left, I never expected to survive it until it happened– that burst of power. It didn’t kill me but I felt weak, I could barely move, but I knew that power surge would happen again. It happened three more times until I reached Vassuryn and Queen Selvina took me in. She helped me control my power and master it. I owe my life to her.”

The room was silent once more as Y/N let her power fade away. “I never came back because I expected to die.”

“Why didn’t you come back after?” Mor asked, speaking up for the first time. “We would have all understood.”

“I owed Queen Selvina my life for helping me control my powers,” Y/N replied. “I began working as Prince Floris’s guard at the palace. I made a home for myself there.”

“And abandon the one you had here,” Azriel said, his words cutting Y/N like a knife. 

Y/N tried not to let his words affect her, but as she toyed with the hem of her sleeve, it was evident to everyone that his words had cut her deep. Rhys was the first to speak up. “Y/N, for the next few weeks, we will be happy to host you while you tell us about Vassuryn.”

Azriel’s gaze shot to Rhys, his eyes narrowed at his brother. Rhys simply ignored him. “We can meet tomorrow to go through anything Queen Selvina needs to discuss.” Y/N nodded as everyone began to stand from the table. “Elain will show you to your room.”

Y/N’s gaze met Elain’s and she offered her a small smile, Y/N tried to return it but failed once she noticed that Azriel hadn’t even risen from his chair.

“I will meet you in the hall, Y/N,” Elain said before swiftly exiting the room. 

For the first time in two centuries, Y/N was left alone with Azriel. And for the first time ever, she had no idea what to say to him. As Y/N opened her mouth, Azriel looked up at her. 

“If you are going to apologise, don’t,” Azriel snapped. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I am not going to apologise for leaving,” Y/N said. “I did the right thing.”

Azriel scoffed. “You did the right thing by leaving your family? By leaving me?” By the time the second question left his mouth, Azriel’s voice was barely a whisper. “I searched for you for fifty years, long after everyone else gave up. I still held onto hope that you were out there.”

Y/N closed her eyes as Azriel rose from his seat, stepping closer to her. His familiar scent, the scent that used to relax her, now made her tense. 

“But you were out there, weren’t you?” Azriel’s voice was low and void of any emotion. “You were happy in a palace while all of us were driven mad thinking you died. Tell me, did you ever think about us in those two hundred years? Did you ever want to come back?”

“Of course I thought of you all,” Y/N said, her eyes meeting Azriel’s. “I missed you all so much.”

“But not enough for you to come back or even send word that you were okay,” Azriel hissed. 

Y/N swallowed, her words dying on her tongue. Of course she had wanted to come back. Her found family were the only people in her life she truly cared about– the ones she truly loved. But she couldn’t. Not when she was such a danger to all of them and to the city of Velaris. 

“I did think of you, Y/N,” Azriel continued. “I thought about you every single night after Rhys told me you left. You left me while I was in the middle of recovering from a mission, you promised you would help me train the next day to build my strength back and you were gone. Do you have any idea how I felt when Rhys told me you were gone?”

“I am sorry, Az,” Y/N said, a tear finally falling down her cheek. 

“Don’t apologise to me,” he snapped. He took one step forward, before bending slightly so his mouth was next to her ear. “Don’t even try to talk to me when you are here. I don’t care what you have to say to me. I don’t care about you– not anymore.”

Azriel stepped back and turned his back on her without another word, leaving Y/N watching him leave. Y/N felt her heart shatter as the door slammed. She anticipated this reaction but as she lived it, she never could have imagined that Azriel’s voice could be so cold to her. Ever since she had met Azriel, the two had always been close. He had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. His voice was always full of warmth when he spoke with her now she was afraid it would never return– and it probably wouldn’t.

Y/N’s feet moved on their own accord until she exited the room to find Elain waiting in the hall. “Are you okay?” she asked. 

Azriel’s scent lingered in the hall and she sighed. “I am. I am ready for this task to be over so I can return to Vassuryn.”

“Everything won’t stay this hostile forever,” Elain said as she led Y/N to her room. 

“I doubt that,” Y/N replied. “Azriel hates me. I’m sure Cassian does too. Mor and Amren are harder to read but they will most likely not want anything to do with me. Rhys is only playing nice because I am here on official business. If I were here for any other reason, he would banish me as soon as he got the chance.”

They paused outside the room Y/N would be staying in. Elain turned to her. “They don’t hate you, everyone is simply emotional.”

“How would you know?” Y/N questioned. “You don’t know anything about the situation between us.”

Elain offered her a small smile. “I know more than you think. And from what I know, not everything will remain like this. Things will get better.”

Y/N studied her for a moment. “I’m not sure I completely believe you, but I hope so. The less hostility, the easier my job and the sooner I can return home.”

“If you chose to remain,” Elain said, her voice distant. “You will find that you will soon have a very difficult choice to make.”

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

Elain seemed to snap out of a daze before smiling at Y/N. “Don’t worry, just something I read earlier.”

Y/N wasn’t too convinced but placed her hand on the door handle. “Thank you for walking me to my room, Elain.”

Elain nodded and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “It was no problem. I hope you get some rest, Y/N.”

“Thank you,” said Y/N, thankful that at least one person was not hostile towards her in the house. 

Elain bid Y/N goodbye before leaving down the corridor. Y/N pushed open the door and stepped inside. The bags she had packed were sitting by the bed but that was not the first thing Y/N noticed. The first thing she noticed was the familiarity of the bedroom. The sage green walls and the ornate furniture. The bedside cabinet held a mirror gifted to her for her three-hundredth birthday. The wardrobe in the corner was still missing one leg and was held up with a pile of books. 

It was her room.

Nothing had been moved since the day she left, the only thing that had changed was the bed covers. Everything else remained the same. After two-hundred years, Y/N thought that her former family would have forgotten about her, but from the looks of her former bedroom, it was clear they hadn’t.

DWOD TAGLIST:

@lostinpages13 @thelov3lybookworm @mell-bell @daisydark @captainsbaby @mischiefmanagers @scooobies @a-frog-with-a-laptop @venussdovess @radishsworld @fussel9913 @luvmoo @marscardigan @lizziesfirstwife @starlumiere @melygarcias @esposadomd @azrielswhore @sleepylunarwolf @going-through-shit @kalulakunundrum @drAgOngirl

•strike through unable to be tagged •

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

OmfffffGGGG the fun I had writing this chapter GUYS—

I mean start to finish, I've been giggling like an idiot the entire mfing TIME

Well, alternating between giggling like an idiot and snickering deviously like a witch huddled over a cauldron but that's neither here nor there

Of course we have banter between Garp's dippy ass and Bogard's far more poised and reasonable demeanor, but also

BUT ALSO—

No

i cannot

I can't spoil it I cannot I will not I must not I shan't it would be positively rude in all honesty i will not—

Just———muffled screaming

Look I'm sorry in advance I had way too much fun with this

even mihawk is done with my shit at this point

Flight Risk

Young!Mihawk x Marine!AFAB!Reader

Ch. 4 of who even fcking knows at this point honestly, five? Six? Fifty? Whatever just let me vibe

Brief summary of The Story So Far: Your mission, as a Marine and Zoan type devil fruit user (gray parrot), is to gather intel on Dracule Mihawk, a pirate on the Grand Line who has become a thorn in the Marines' side over a relatively short period of time. Your first recon mission, while more or less a success, left you wounded and your commanding officers more divided than ever over the operation at hand. You have since arrived at Marineford to complete your training for the mission, and gods only know where things might go from here....

Previous chapter, First chapter, Next chapter

SFW for now, but not in later chapters

No Trigger Warnings in this chapter. Possible future Trigger Warnings for imprisonment, mild torture (definitely psychological, maybe physical)

Tags: Enemies to lovers, eventually NSFW, idk maybe more later Word Count: 4,832

Taglist: @i-am-vita thank you so much you have no idea how much this means to me

♫♬Halloween Blues - The Fratellis♬♫

Well, I'm gonna make ya love me, gonna make ya wish that you'd never been born

Now ya wish you'd never met me, I could be the joker that you couldn't shake off

It was agreed upon by all parties involved that not a word would be spoken of your ill-advised “test” at Kuraigana Island to anyone but Fleet Admiral Sengoku. The brunt of the chastisement fell upon Garp and Bogard, as the commanding officers overseeing the mission; and while you were scolded yourself for getting far closer than your orders had suggested you should, you were still commended for providing valuable new information.

The Marines were now aware that Kuraigana Island was home to a population of large primates, of undetermined size or intelligence but with enough intellect to use basic weaponry.

The Marines were also now aware that the presence of Dracule “Hawk-Eye” Mihawk on the otherwise abandoned island was confirmed, and that the volatile pirate had most likely set up at least a temporary base amid the desolate castle ruins.

You were permitted to keep in contact with your mother over the following months of your training as promised, with the stipulation that your letters would be screened to ensure you didn’t relay any confidential information to outside parties. As such, you wrote your final letter aboard a small unmarked vessel bound to pass by Kuraigana Island perhaps four months after the first, and had handed it over to Bogard to scan over.

Hi, Mom!

I’m still doing great, I promise. Training has been exhausting but I’ve learned a lot, and it’s been a breath of fresh air to be among people that actually seem to like me. My commanding officers are a little annoying, but I guess they’re okay. I trust them.

This will be the last letter for a while since I’m being deployed. You don’t have to worry, it’s nothing serious and I’ll be fine, I just won’t be somewhere that I can receive any mail. You can still write me though, and I’ll be able to reply the second I get back to my base. I don’t know exactly how long that will be, but the tentative estimate is two months. It could be sooner, but it could be a little longer.

Love you, and give my love to all our feathery friends.

“Ten minutes out,” said Garp, sitting against the railing with a doughnut hanging out of his mouth as he finished filling out the remainder of the paperwork he had put off until the very last minute.

“‘Commanding officers are a little annoying, but I guess they’re okay,’” Bogard read aloud, lowering your letter to glance down at you with a wry look.

“She’s not wrong, you’re pretty damned irritating,” said Garp. Bogard lowered his eyes to the vice admiral sitting on the deck of the ship, lifting an eyebrow.

Garp only raised his doughnut with a nod and took another bite before returning to his report. Bogard huffed out a sigh and folded the letter, turning his gaze to you as you paced back and forth across the small deck. The vessel was little more than a sloop, designed for no more than one or two people to sail on their own, sturdy enough to withstand the unpredictable weather patterns of the Grand Line but far less advanced than the standard Marine vessel. You barely noticed his gaze upon you, staring down at your feet as you paced, counting the nails in the deck boards in a futile attempt to keep your mind clear from the quickly approaching start of your mission.

You stopped in your tracks the moment Bogard cleared his throat to get your attention, lifting your head sharply and standing at attention.

“A…at ease,” he said slowly, watching you shuffle your feet and fold your hands behind your back. “Your letter will be sent once Garp and myself return to Marineford,” he assured you. “Once you have left this ship, your own contact with the Marines will cease for a period of no less than two months, unless you are forced to make emergency contact. Emergecy contact will only be employed—”

“Under the circumstance that my own life is in immediate and unquestionable danger,” you responded immediately, to which Bogard gave a curt nod.

“Correct,” he agreed. “There will be a covert Marine presence at every island neighboring Kuraigana. Should you require rescue, the closest vessel will be able to arrive within twenty-four hours.”

“She won’t need it,” Garp chimed in through the last bite of his doughnut, and in a rare break of his iron composure, Bogard reached into one of his overcoat pockets and threw a pen at him in response. You watched as Garp caught it and used the implement to sign his name at the bottom of his paperwork before flicking it across the deck of the ship. “Have a little faith, Bogard. We have at our disposal a trained weapon of subterfuge.”

Garp wrapped his hand around the railing behind him and pulled himself to his feet, strolling over to your side and clapping you on the shoulder.

“Trained under our own supervision,” he went on proudly, while Bogard closed his eyes and heaved a slow, impatient sigh, waiting for him to go on. “Who has already provided us with more up-to-date information on the target than anyone else in our ranks—”

“—I’m still not saying your impulsive little test was anything but idiotic—”

“—and humbly declined to take credit for any of it,” Garp went on , ignoring his partner. You jolted as he gave you a sharp pat on the back. “She’ll be just fine. Won’t ya, kid?”

“I’ll—perform my duties as expected of…” You trailed off into a sigh yourself when Garp rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” you said stiffly. “I’ll be fine.”

“See? She’ll be fine.”

Garp gave a firm nod, as if your word was more than enough to affirm your fate as solid fact.

And then his brow furrowed as he stared across the deck.

His eyes narrowed into a squint, and he turned his head the slightest bit, his hand lowering from your shoulder and back to his side,

“No…that’s not…”

By the time Bogard turned his head, Garp was already striding across the deck, extending a spyglass as he leaned over the railing and stared through the scope. He gave a growl of annoyance as he held the scope out behind him for Bogard to take. Your heart raced as you slowly crossed the deck to join them, your already thin resolve faltering when Bogard slowly lowered the scope to glance at Garp.

“This changes—”

“It changes nothing,” said Garp, jerking his head to look at Bogard.

You didn’t need the spyglass to see the foggy haze around Kuraigana Island past the railing, no more than you needed it to see the small ship docked near its southern banks. You couldn’t make out much about it, but you could see the one thing that mattered—it flew a black flag.

“Red-Hair,” said Garp. “I knew he’d be trouble. I told Sengoku, I told him—”

“Why the hell would he be here?” Bogard said slowly, looking back out toward the island. He glanced behind him, and held out the spyglass for you to take. You moved to the railing between them, holding it to one eye and shutting the other to look through it at the distant ship. “There’s no chance any information has—”

“No, there isn’t,” agreed Garp, as your vision adjusted against the magnification of the lenses. You scanned over the small ship, which appeared to be empty, before lifting your head to focus on its flag—a jolly roger, decorated with a pair of crossed cutlasses and a skull with three slashes across one eye.

“Red-Haired Shanks…?” you said slowly, lowering the scope, glancing between Garp and Bogard as they stared out at the ship. “Ah—three hundred million, two hundred sixty-two thousand berry bounty.”

“Sixty-three,” corrected Bogard absently, glancing at Garp. Garp remained focused, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the ship, his grip tight around the deck railing. “Vice-Admiral.” He glanced over sharply when Bogard spoke up. “This does change—”

“It changes nothing,” Garp growled firmly.

You didn’t particularly like the way Bogard leaned over the railing, holding his hat in place as he shook his head, staring at Garp with no small degree of trepidation. Your eyes shifted to Garp when he turned around to face you, frowning down at you thoughtfully,

“Or it could change things for the better,” he said slowly, letting out a small chuckle. “Well, lass. This is your call. Seems more than just Mihawk might be docked at the island ahead of us.” You nodded shortly to show you were following, waiting for him to continued. “Not much is known about Shanks as yet…to the masses.”

“Garp—”

Garp held up a hand when Bogard tossed a warning look at him.

“—but I have on good authority that he trained under Gold Roger himself.” Your eyes widened, flickering back toward the ship in question, as Bogard let out a growl of annoyance and stormed back toward the opposite side of the deck. “This is an unexpected turn.” Your gaze shot back toward Garp as he straightened out, folding his hands behind his back and staring down at you. “We can head back toward Marineford and go through all the meticulous to-do’s of officially changing our plans, spend a few more months buried in paperwork, or—”

“I’m going.” He raised his eyebrows, his lips already twitching toward a smile at the firmness of your words. “The Red-Hair pirates would be no more aware of who I am than Mihawk. There’s no point wasting any more time.”

“No, I guess there isn’t,” he agreed, grinning. He cleared his throat, cupping a hand around his mouth and making a show of calling across the small expanse of the deck to Bogard. “You might just be able to gather us a little more intel than we expeced. Hear that, Bogard? No need to delay!”

“No need to pull a muscle patting yourself on the back, either,” Bogard grumbled, just loud enough to ensure Garp heard him.

“Alright, kid,” said Garp, happily ignoring him as he leaned against the side of the railing. “We’ve got under ten minutes, so here’s the rundown.” He turned his head, looking out toward the ship moored just off the edge of the island. “Shanks, as I said. Captain, pupil of Gold Roger himself. Primary weapon is a sabre. Straw hat, bright red hair, difficult to miss. There’s Yasopp, the first man to join his crew, at the time he was regarded as the sharpest shooter in the East Blue. Dark skin, dreadlocks, carries a pair of flintlock pistols.”

“So...that’s his first mate?”

“No.” Your brow furrowed. “That would be Beckman. Dark hair, ponytail, built like a brick shithouse. Carries a flintlock rifle. He’s a damn good shot himself but he’ll use the thing as a club in close quarters. Lucky Roux, the cook, bastard’s probably as wide as he is tall…”

You listened closely to Garp’s continued colorful descriptions of the crew officers of the Red Hair Pirates—and the potential dangers they could pose to your health should anyone discover what you really were.

“Red Hair isn’t the brightest match in the box,” he went on, “but there’s a great deal of evidence that he closely rivals Dracule Mihawk in swordsmanship. Should the two end up fighting, you keep your distance. Otherwise, be exceedingly careful around Benn Beckman. He’s the idiot’s first mate for a reason and probably accounts for ninety percent of the collective brain cells of the entire crew. You’ll have to keep a close eye on him while you keep up your act. There’s no telling why they’re docked here, and it would be in your best interest to figure it out. If they’re going to be around for a while, keep your distance.”

“I...sort of doubt any of them are ornithology experts,” you said, frowning.

“As much as one might doubt that a species of unknown primates could learn to use relatively modern weaponry.” You turned your head sharply at the sound of Bogard’s voice close behind you—you hadn’t heard him cross the deck. Your frown deepened as he gave a pointed glance at the scar spanning nearly the entire length of your right upper arm. Garp, gestured to the other Marine pointedly at his statement, and you couldn’t deny that he had a point either. “You’ll keep your distance. Fooling one pirate alone is going to be a great deal easier and safer than attempting to fool an entire crew of them.” He turned his head to Garp. “This is still the most ridiculous mission I’ve ever had the displeasure of being involved in.”

“Ah, girl’s got her act down fine,” he said dismissively—and Garp wasn’t wrong about that. Your favorite part of your training by far had been simply flying around the massive base at Marineford, taking tally of how many of the staff and officers you could fool. The only individuals privy to the exact nature of your mission were Garp and Bogard, a small selection of admirals and vice admirals, and Fleet Admiral Sengoku himself. Your performance had been enough to levy a unanimous vote to go forth with the mission. “Your persona, cadet?”

“Gray parrot, previously the pet of a pirate crew that perished in battle, therefore comfortable around pirates in general,” you said. “Able to repeat a number of sounds and phrases that might be heard aboard a ship, capable of learning new phrases and words faster than most other similar species of bird. Particular disdain for Marines and may fly into a frenzy at the sight of their vessels.”

“See?” said Garp, clapping you on the back hard enough that you flinched. “I’d say we’ve got this in the bag.”

Bogard stared between the two of you for a moment, frowning, before shaking his head. “God help us all,” he muttered under his breath, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.

The final few minutes of the voyage were spent with Garp and Bogard grilling you about the small amount of information known by the Marines about Dracule Mihawk, about the quick briefing you had just received on the Red Hair pirates, about your memorization of the den den mushi numbers you were to contact in the event that your life was in immediate danger or that you found any information useful enough to wrap the operation up early. Garp gave a resolute nod as you neared your destination, around a mile and a half off the shore of Kuraigana Island, and Bogard gave a heavy sigh and a short nod in silent agreement—no matter how little he approved, you were as ready as you were going to be.

“Alright, then, cadet,” said Garp, his wide grin a direct contrast to his partner’s pessimism. “Bird mode, activate.”

“Must you call it that?” said Bogard, tossing a weary look at Garp as you gave a quick salute and immediately shrank down into your devil fruit form on the deck. You fluttered your wings enough to hop up onto the deck railing in front of them, and Bogard frowned down at you. “Best of luck,” he offered. “Should all go according to plan, we’ll see you again in no more than two months.”

He cringed the slightest bit when you raised your wing in another salute, squawking out over Garp’s snort of laughter, “Wind in your sails!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Garp, waving you off. “Now shoo, bird. And no getting yourself killed.”

And once more, you found yourself flying out toward Kuraigana Island.

You made a high pass over the Red Hair’s ship, squinting down toward it as you soared overhead, and the cause of their mooring near the island became quickly clear—it appeared that there was work being performed on a few sizable cannonball holes on the port side of the vessel. You were surprised to see a handful of the crew on the beach near the edge of the forest, seeming to be laughing among themselves and having a grand time, the primates that had attacked you nowhere in sight. Lucky Roux was easy enough to pick out, exactly as Garp had described him—striped shirt and tinted goggles, easily as wide as he was tall, sitting against a tree and taking a bite out of what looked like an entire leg of lamb while another crewmate assisted in bandaging his arm.

Perhaps they had had a run-in with the local apes.

You took that as enough reason to remain vigilant as you flew high over the forest, scanning the treetops below for any signs of movement. It was a relief that there seemed to be none—if the Red Hair pirates had come in contact with the violent creatures, it seemed they had managed to beat them into submission. You considered how Garp had told you that no one had ever entered the island on foot and lived to tell the tale, and it sent a shiver over your spine to think that the crew might be that formidable.

The first signs of movement you witnessed came only once you neared the castle itself, and you nearly faltered in your flight.

Your target was directly below you.

Sitting on a broken piece of stone wall in the courtyard, clad in a white shirt with a ruffled collar and a pair of black pants, his hat sitting to the side next to him, his massive sword lying across his lap as he polished the handle. You slowly, cautiously circled lower, keeping a fair distance, your eyes remaining on the pirate. His mouth seemed to be fixed in a scowl, his posture tense.

You cautiously landed in one of the castle windows several feet away, side-stepping until you were perched in the very corner of the indentation, your gray plumage a perfect camouflage against the rugged stone, and the reason for Mihawk’s clear irritation became immediately evident as the sound of a nonchalant voice tore your gaze away from him.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Hawk-Eye.”

Shanks.

Garp’s description had once again been right on the money—his stringy scarlet hair was capped by a straw-hat, his hands tucked behind his neck as he paced across a pile of rubble that might have once been a wall, a long sabre tucked into his red cloth belt at his right hip. He hopped down to the ground as you watched, resting his elbow on the hilt of the sword as he stared up at the castle. “Be a shame if something happened to it.”

He reached over with his left hand, wrapping it around the handle of the sword, and you tensed immediately, prepared to take flight as he grinned and glanced over at Mihawk.

“Divi—”

Mihawk was on his feet in a flash, his sword extended out at arm’s length, the blade less than an inch away from Shanks’s neck, his sharp yellow eyes narrowing to threatening slits as Shanks lifted his hands up in mock-surrender, still grinning.

“Only kidding,” he said, taking a cautious step back from the edge of the black blade.

Mihawk eyed him with a venomous glare for a few seconds longer before pulling his blade back swiftly to his side and rolling his eyes, a growl of annoyance leaving him as he turned on his heel and stormed back over to the broken wall, sitting down once more. “Remind me of what the hell you’re doing here and precisely why you haven’t left yet?”

“Am I not allowed to visit my friends?” said Shanks, clutching at his chest dramatically in feigned offense. Mihawk ignored the redhead as he sat down heavily on the ground, grabbing a bottle of dark liquor propped up against the pile of rubble and working the cork loose. “Hey, it’s not my fault. This is where the Log pose pointed us. We needed to do a few repairs on the ship. Noticed your old rowboat moored nearby—”

“Rowboat,” Mihawk repeated under his breath, one of his eyes twitching the slightest bit.

“So what’s with the pissed off monkeys, anyway?” said Shanks, nodding toward the forest before taking a swig from the bottle and flicking the cork over his shoulder. “Few of them were damn near as good with a sword as you are.” Mihawk’s eyes shot toward him in a warning glare, and rolled away when Shanks gave a broad grin in response. “Train them yourself?”

“No,” he said shortly. “The humandrills were already quite capable with a variety of weapons when I arrived—”

“Aww, you named them?”

“I discovered the name among the historical documents in castle,” he said through his teeth. “It seems they learned to use weapons by watching their human neighbors before they managed to wipe themselves out. Perhaps,” he went on, before Shanks could speak up again, “your time would better be served overseeing the repairs on your ship so you can leave the moment they’re done.”

“Oh, the repairs are almost finished,” said Shanks, waving a dismissive hand. “Just waiting for the log pose to finish linking up.” He took a sip from his bottle, lifting his eyebrows. “Why? Aren’t you enjoying the company?”

“Oh, yes, immensely,” Mihawk responded dryly.

Your eyes darted between the pair of pirates amid their exchange, keeping yourself perfectly still in the stone windowsill. It was clear that Shanks, at least, was enjoying himself, and that they seemed to have some sort of history between them. It was equally clear that Mihawk would have very much preferred that his company take a long walk off the nearest short pier. He still kept his irritation in check, though whether it was out of any actual sense of camaraderie or he simply didn’t feel like wasting his energy fighting remained unclear.

Their exchange gave you an almost overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and you made a mental note to inform Garp and Bogard of it the next time you saw them.

“Oh, so grumpy,” Shanks commented, leaning back against the rubble behind him, stretching an arm out across one of his knees. “Why don’t you go take a nap, old man? I’m sure there are plenty of beds more than suited for someone of your positively regal manner.” Mihawk went on polishing the golden handle of his sword, not bothering to glance up. “Probably more than enough beds for any number of guests—”

“No,” said Mihawk coolly, still keeping his eyes turned down toward his sword.

“Oh, come on,” Shanks groaned in complaint, laying his head back. His mouth turned down into a despondent sort of pout, tilting his head to look over at the castle—and you tensed immediately, holding your breath, remaining still as a statue. “I’ve never even been in a castle before—”

“No,” Mihawk said again, louder this time, his yellow eyes fixing on Shanks with a firm gaze this time.

“You’re absolutely no fun at all,” Shanks huffed, lifting a small piece of stone from the ground and tossing it in his direction in a half-hearted manner. “You know, you’re going to die sad and alone one day in your desolate castle.”

“And what a peaceful end it will be,” said Mihawk disinterestedly, rolling his eyes back down to the sword across his lap as he buffed a rag across the gleaming blue gem at the end of the hilt.

“But not friendless,” Shanks added, completely ignoring him. He offered another broad grin. “I’ll always be your frien—”

“Would you just go away already?” Mihawksighed wearily, lifting his head and tossing the rag aside. “It’s abundantly clear what you’re attempting to do, and it isn’t going to work.”

“Oh, and just what am I trying to do?” said Shanks...and he seemed to bite his tongue for a moment, before adding in a cheeky tone, “...friend?”

“You’re fishing for a fight,” said Mihawk, gritting his teeth, briefly gripping the handle of his sword before releasing it from his grasp. “And I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh come. On,” Shanks groaned once more, leaning back heavily and pouting. “I’m bored. There’s literally nothing on this damned island except a pile of rocks and a bunch of trees and a particularly nice castle—”

“No.” Shanks gave a huff of irritation, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Mihawk. “Go off and play with the other monkeys if you’re so damned bored.”

“They’re already afraid of me,” he huffed, pouting like a child. He brushed a few unruly strands of hair away from his eyes, turning his gaze out toward the forest. “Stupid apes.” Mihawk only rolled his eyes, shook his head, and returned to the idle task of sword maintenance. “I’m frankly surprised you didn’t just slaughter all of them the moment you set foot here.”

“They make for a decent security system,” he said levelly.

“Or you’re secretly just a big softie—”

Shanks straightened out and gave another broad grin when Mihawk tossed a sharp glare at him...and then slumped back down in defeat when his supposed “friend” gave a heavy sigh and turned his attention back to his sword.

It went on this way for some time—Shanks continually poking and prodding, attempting to annoy Mihawk enough to coax him into a fight; and Mihawk persisting in the task of sword maintenance, running a whetstone across the already razor-sharp edge of the blade as he fought to keep his composure. The entire spectacle was rather like watching an excitable puppy yip at a surly cat.

You shifted your gaze to the edge of the nearby forest when Shanks looked over, the young captain waving once the rustling of the dense leaves gave way to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black shirt, picking leaves out of his ponytail—no doubt Benn Beckman, from the description Garp had offered you. There was indeed a large rifle slung back across one of his shoulders, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He glanced toward Mihawk, before stopping just short of his captain, looking down at him.

“Repairs are finished and the Log Pose’s set,” he said, his brow furrowing when Shanks frowned in clear disappointment. “We getting off of this rock or are you still antagonizing the current inhabitants?”

“I am visiting with a dear old friend,” said Shanks, giving an indignant huff and crossing his arms. He rolled his eyes back over to Mihawk. “Isn’t that right, Hawkie—?”

“Call me that again and you’ll be leaving this island wearing your entrails as necklace,” said Mihawk coolly.

“See?” said Shanks, gesturing toward Mihawk. “We’re just catching up on old times.”

Beckman stared down at his captain for a long moment, frowning, his cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth. He finally shook his head and stepped back a couple paces, leaning back against a pile of stones and crossing his arms. “Alright,” he said. “Have fun.”

“Oh, I am,” Shanks assured him with a positively gleeful grin. He rolled his shoulders and took a drink from the bottle of liquor clenched in his hand, his eyes drifting back over to Mihawk. “Well, it seems our all too pleasant reunion may be drawing to a close, Hawkie—”

Shanks’s grin only widened when Mihawk lifted his gaze to glare at him, his hand gripping tighter around the whetstone.

Shanks seemed to bite his tongue for a moment, pursing his lips to suppress his growing amusement at Mihawk’s growing annoyance, before his expression spread back into a grin as he lifted his eyebrows.

“How about a little kiss goodbye—y’know, between friends and all—”

“That’s it—”

Mihawk was on his feet in a flash, tossing the whetstone away.

Shanks was on his feet just as quickly, a look of absolute glee brightening his features as he drew his sabre.

Beckman took a few casual steps off to the side, pulling his cigarette down from his lips to flick the ashes away, shaking his head, his hand tightening around the butt of his rifle almost imperceptibly.

And you, in spite of yourself, let out a tiny squawk of alarm at the entire spectacle...and quickly realized your mistake.

While Mihawk surged forward with his blade drawn, while Beckman kept his sharp eyes flickering between him and his captain, Shanks’s gaze flickered over toward the sound you had just let out.

And his eyes widened the slightest bit as his eyes met yours.

And he lifted his sword to block what would have been a deadly blow from Mihawk as he continued staring at you as you froze in the windowsill, your feathers ruffling out the slightest bit in response to the terror dawning over you.

Beckman also followed his captain’s gaze, lifting an eyebrow as he noticed your presence.

Shanks drew in a sharp breath, his eyes growing even wider, wide as the eyes of a child with a bottomless wallet in a candy shop. One single, almost breathless word left his lips as they spread into a delighted smile:

“Parrot.”

Next chapter link again, for your convenience

First chapter link again, for your convenience

[cappulcino]

hi!! saw your requests were open!! I dont have anything super specific in mind but an enemies to lovers plot with a lucifer x angel reader would be very cool!

Sure! I was originally going to write the whole thing and post it as a one-shot here, but I got overexcited with this idea and couldn't resist turning this into multiple short chapters and already giving you the first one (idk, let me know if you'd rather have the whole thing when it's done).

Seven Days Til Fall (Part 1)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6

Read on AO3 (you do need to be logged in, though)

Words: 2,185

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader

Summary: You're an angel sent on a divine mission to retrieve a powerful relic that has been stolen from Heaven. The orders are clear: gain an audience with the Devil, make deals with them if necessary, anything to return that object to the Silver City. But Hell is not quite what you expected, and neither is Lucifer.

Trigger warnings: None in this chapter (let me know if you think I should add some)

In the beginning, this assembly had seemed no different from the other monotonous celestial meetings the Divine Council liked to conduct. The session was strictly organised and full of unnecessary details, as per usual, golden light shone through the large windows, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the Silver City –routine, in short.

But now the Archangel Michael was calling your name, and you weren't so sure this would be your typical angelic meeting any more. Nobody ever called your name, it wasn't among those that mattered. Why was he calling your name?

Straightening your slouched back and wings, you answered with uncertainty. "Y-Yes?"

Michael offered a fake smile before returning to his bureaucratic demeanour, his hands joined only by the fingertips on the table.

"As you know, the Cup of Eternal Grace has been missing for quite some time now."

"The… Cup of Eternal Grace. Missing. Yes."

You had forgotten about that –your mind had surely deemed that to be another 'unnecessary detail' from one of the previous assemblies. But it was coming back to you now. The chalice, made of celestial metals and inlaid with precious stones had the power to bestow divine grace upon those who drank from it, offering visions, blessings, and, for humans, even limited immortality. And indeed, the artefact had been lost for a while.

Michael's eyes narrowed at your hesitation, but he continued. "One of our emissaries on Earth had found a lead on the Cup tracing back to some… obscure cult. Unfortunately, by the time he got there, the humans had traded with a demon –they do like to do this for a reason that escapes me. We now have cause to believe the Cup is in Hell."

"I see," you said slowly after a short silence. You weren't sure why this had anything to do with you.

"Its presence in Hell could easily disrupt order or worse, be used to bargain with divine entities. It cannot stay there. We need someone to retrieve it," Michael replied as if annoyed to have to spell out the evidence for you.

Ah, now you understood. "Me?"

"Yes. You."

That Heaven could have so foolishly lost an object that had the potential to tip the balance of the entire universe when in the wrong hands was already astonishing to you. But to entrust you with the task of going to Hell, assuredly face its ruler, and retrieve the Cup? That was hardly believable, and for an angel like you, who had to Believe, that said something. Why didn't Michael go himself?

"I… don't understand. I'm merely a Dominion, and the Morningstar is your sibling, Your Grace."

"Yes, so that's your job." That was Gabriel talking down to you as if you had just uttered the most unintelligent thing in front of the whole congregation. "Besides, we're not going to waste our time when others have been designated for that kind of risky stuff. That would be…" He let out an inelegant snort-laugh.

"What Gabriel means," Uriel intervened in their usual soft-spoken voice, "is that angels among the higher ranks have other matters to attend to, but we cannot ask this of anyone with lesser powers. And well, it is your function to execute divine orders." Uriel paused, scrutinizing your expression. "Would we be making a mistake by putting our faith in you?"

You gulped. "N-No."

"Good."

Plans had been made, and you were now approaching the gates of Hell. Protocol required that you banged a sort of gong by the entrance, and a dead mortal fused into the wall handed you a mallet. You had read somewhere once that the Damned made Hell what it was. At the time, you hadn't understood that meant this realm was literally made of the Damned. You winced and then, forcing the politeness out of your angelic mouth with a small "Thank you", you grabbed the tool.

The gong's echo made the other souls trapped around the gates scream and then, accompanying heavy steps, a deep voice growled.

"There's one at the door. At the gate of damnation. Is it thief, thug or–" Squatterbloat, the gatekeeper suddenly froze in his speech when his gaze landed upon you. An angel, in Hell. Quite the unusual sight. "Whore?"

"Peace be upon you, demon." As you uttered them, you realised how ironic your words sounded.

Squatterbloat chuckled. "We don't accept holy brochures."

His sense of humour compensated for his dreadful looks, and you managed to stop your wings from shuddering. "That is not why I'm here."

"Then state that business of yours."

"I seek an audience with your sovereign."

"Do you now, little cloud-hopper? I fear the Devil doesn't have time for your affairs."

You approached the gate, your wings spreading in a foolish attempt to appear menacing, your tone still polite but steely. "I am an envoy of Heaven, and the matter is urgent. Even you cannot go against God's will, demon. Take me to your master."

Squatterbloat's eyes remained fixated on yours for an instant, and then, his keys jangled.

"Mmh. Right this way… If you dare."

"Oh, what a joyous day," Lucifer purred with a faint smile before relaxing on their throne with a sigh. "Can you feel it, Mazikeen? The innocence? So pure."

"Shall I ask for more guards to stand by Your side?"

"That will not be necessary. That little angel is no threat to Us."

You were certain the ruler of Hell had sensed your arrival –how could they not?– and your suspicions were immediately confirmed when you entered the room. Sitting regally on their throne, the Lightbringer did not even bat an eye as they eyed you and the heavenly glow that surrounded your body. If anything, they seemed… amused.

You had heard many stories about them –though most of those tales still spoke of a Samael– but you had never seen them. Imagery was forbidden in Heaven, of the Devil more than anyone else, and you had never been down to Earth to look at the various depictions humans had made of them either. Therefore, you took a moment to marvel at their appearance, so foreign and yet so familiar, and as your gaze roamed over their leathery wings, you wondered if that was what became of angels' wings after the Fall.

In fact, you wondered about so many things at once that you almost forgot your manners. But Mazikeen's insistent look quickly pulled you out of your reverie.

"Uh, yes. Apologies. Peace be upon You, Lucifer Morningstar," you greeted with a slight bow of your head. "And upon you, Mazikeen of the Lillim." It sounded even sillier than when you had said it to Squatterbloat.

Lucifer let out a small chuckle then and exchanged looks with Mazikeen. Then, as they turned to face you again, they smiled. "It is unusual for Our Father to send His subjects down here. Almost an event, We might say. To what do We owe the pleasure?"

Lucifer's words dripped from their mouth like honey, and you weren't sure whether you found it more captivating or terrifying.

"Well?"

You shook your head and straightened your back some more to give yourself a semblance of presence, and undertook to explain why Michael had sent you here.

"Our dear brother has never liked getting his pristine hands dirty," Lucifer remarked once you were done.

They stood up, took a few slow steps in your direction with a thoughtful expression, and then stopped a mere yard away from you. The way they towered over you and the power they radiated felt overwhelming, and a shiver ran through the feathers of your wings.

"It is not a task fit for his rank," you said. And for a brief moment, you almost convinced yourself of what Gabriel had told you earlier today. Almost.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow as if seeing right through you and perfectly understanding the lack of conviction in your own words. A doubtful angel. Oh, this day could not get any better.

"Tell Us," they said, now pacing through their throne room. "What do We gain from helping you?"

The question startled you. What did the Devil gain from obeying God for once? Not another divine punishment, that's what.

"Excuse me?"

"We said, what do We gain from helping you with your task? We sure hope you did not come all the way to Our domain expecting a pretty smile to be sufficient to convince Us."

That… serpent. You clenched your jaw, resisting a sudden urge to speak from your heart while Lucifer kept on smirking devilishly.

Taking a deep breath, you chose to show yourself open to discussion instead. "What is it You wish for, Lightbringer?"

Lucifer pretended to think about it, gazing into the vastness of their realm, and then spoke firmly. "A single visit to the Silver City."

Your heart stopped. "And open the gates for You to terrorise us or attack the Creator? Absolutely not."

"Then forget about the chalice."

"The Morningstar may believe angels are foolish, naive creatures, but I assure You I'm not that stupid."

Your defiance intrigued Lucifer, who gauged you for a second. "No…" they eventually said. "Indeed. Which is why We are fairly certain you will know how to convince the Divine Council. Tell them We have no intentions of wreaking havoc in their home if that is what they are so worried about."

"Then why?" you asked somewhat harshly.

"You would not understand."

"Your Majesty, I–"

"There will be no need for further discussion, little angel. Either you manage to get Us what We want and We will do everything in Our power to help you, or the Cup of Eternal Grace remains in Hell. In which case, do not even bother coming back."

"They said what?"

"The Morningstar wishes to be able to visit the Silver City, Your Grace. Just once."

You were now standing in the bright room where the heavenly meeting that had got you sent to Hell had been held a few hours ago, alone in front of the five members of the Divine Council. You felt small, but not as small as you had felt in front of the ruler of Hell.

"Yes, we heard that part," Azrael replied rather angrily.

Somehow, their tone managed to make you feel as if you had already failed your mission, and it took a lot of self-persuasion to stand your ground. You were only repeating what you had been told, after all.

"They, uh…" You cleared your throat and tried again. "They said they had no intentions of attacking Heaven, and I think their words were genuine."

"Hello, this is Satan we're talking about," Gabriel said, exaggerating their diction as if you were mentally impaired.

"My sibling does not lie, Gabriel," Michael reminded him. The other Archangel sighed. "If you will excuse us, the Council needs to consider Lucifer's offer."

Taking the hint, you bowed and promptly left the room to find refuge in the closest chapel. Once there, you dropped to your knees for the Almighty and clasped your trembling hands so tight your knuckles turned white.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned…"

You started repenting because you couldn't help but feel as if it would be your fault if Heaven ended up needing to make a deal with the Devil. You should have resisted and told Lucifer that they deserved their banishment from the Silver City and that never would they be welcome here again. You should have fought them if needed, though you would have been doomed –you would have died a martyr, and maybe for once your name would have mattered in Heaven. But you hadn't.

Deep down, you also prayed for the Council to give up on the Cup of Eternal Grace. Hell was a terrible place, and Lucifer a dangerous monster, your sworn enemy. You didn't want to go back to Hell. Not for a stupid goblet.

But as soon as you came out of the chapel, Gabriel was standing in front of you, his hands behind his back. As God's messenger, you knew he was here to pass on the Divine Council's decision.

"So. We have deliberated and we want you to carry on with the mission. You will go down to Hell every day, do whatever you need to do, and come back up every evening to report before compline until you find the Cup. Okay?"

You opened your mouth to answer but only managed a weak, strangled sound. Gabriel didn't give you enough time to speak anyway.

"Great!" he exclaimed as he slapped your shoulder. Then he pointed at the chapel. "Is this free?" Again, you tried to answer, but he was already gone.

Feeling an irrational anger rising inside, you decided you needed a break, some time alone spent in silence, not even in prayer. Angels, like other immortal beings, didn't need to sleep, but you wanted to forget about the world for a while. So you flew back to the Dominions' quarters to lay on your soft bed.

And there was evening, and there was morning –the first day.

[vidavalor]

Wrong Boy

What Bildad the Shuite, Mr. Dalrymple and Warlock's birthday party can tell us about what's going on in the 2.06 Final 15. Another post in a series about how "The Metatron" with Aziraphale at the end of S2 is actually Satan.

Warlock Dowling. The kid Crowley and Aziraphale took care of for a few years, believing him to be The Antichrist. Not actually The Antichrist. The wrong boy.

Warlock's 11th Birthday Party. The reason why Crowley and Aziraphale were there was to try again to stop Armageddon. Hell was supposed to show up at the party. The Devil was sending a gift to his son-- a dog. The Hell Hound. The gift, once accepted by The Antichrist, was supposed to signal the start of Armageddon.

Crowley and Aziraphale were undercover at the party in an effort to stop Warlock from encountering and naming The Hell Hound and starting the end times as a result... but The Hell Hound was late. The moment that results in them realizing they got it all wrong starts out with dialogue that is referenced again in S2-- in relation to The Meeting Ball.

Aziraphale followed Crowley out to The Bentley, mortified by having put on a terrible magic show in front of Crowley. Crowley, though, was gentle and caring in his reply. He tried to reassure Aziraphale and gas him up a bit.

Aziraphale: "That was all a bit of a disaster, I'm afraid."

Crowley: "Nonsense. You gave them a party to remember. Last one they'll ever have, mind..."

As they're sitting in The Bentley and after communicating with Hell during this scene via the radio, they realize that they fucked it up. The kid they thought was the spawn of The Devil is not actually that. Warlock is not The Antichrist. They had the wrong boy this whole time.

Nonsense. The meaning of "balderdash" and "piffle"-- the words spoken by "The Metatron" when he first arrives in 2.06. The first word of what Crowley said to Aziraphale in the "wrong boy" scene.

The gift for the "son". The Hell Hound. The Coffee.

A disaster termed "a night to remember": The Titanic.

The Titanic. Big ship, first of its kind. Hit iceberg. Was thought to be unsinkable. Turns out, it could very much sink. Angels can be tempted. They can sink-- can fall-- to the bottom of the ocean floor. Aziraphale falling is "The Titanic" of his story and the story overall.

If Warlock's birthday party = The Meeting Ball, then Crowley and Aziraphale have the "wrong boy" once again at the end of S2.

Instead of Warlock being mistaken for The Devil's son, "The Metatron" is really The Devil... who appears in the form of the closest thing Aziraphale has to a father-- The Metatron.

"My Heart Will Go On." Theme song from the film 'Titanic' and on Aziraphale's playlist for S2. Uh oh...

Then, there's this:

"It will be a night to remember!" Aziraphale, describing his then-upcoming Meeting Ball in an episode-ending bit of important dialogue while pointing Upwards, foreshadowing both Crowley going Up and Aziraphale's "going Up to get Down" that happens at the end of this Titanic hitting the iceberg. Crowley will actually wind up trying to keep most of the partygoers from not remembering as much of the events of this party as possible... ironically, since Aziraphale says "a night to remember" to Crowley in reference to the kind thing Crowley said to him about the kids being happy to remember Warlock's birthday party.

The next morning, Crowley will use dialogue that references Warlock's birthday party again... either consciously or unconsciously. Either way, it's a dialogue reference to it for us to notice... and it makes sense that Warlock's party would fit into 2.06's Final 15 here because the dialogue we're talking about is from a scene that's actually after the party... and this is all taking place after, well, a party.

The dialogue shows up here:

Crowley: "Oh, I know you. Last time I saw you, you were a giant, floating head, mind."

Welcome to the only other scene in the series in which Crowley has used "mind" at the end of a sentence but for the casual time he did post-Warlock's birthday party. It's calling our attention to the late Hell Hound not arriving at that party... in the moment that "The Metatron" has just arrived here, in the aftermath of the mirrored party.

The Devil himself is here this time.

It might also be worth noting that when Crowley and Aziraphale figure out that Warlock is the wrong boy, it's because of Crowley having just spoken to Hell via the radio in The Bentley... which is also how Satan attacked Crowley in 1.01. Those two scenes are then tied together and both of them are in play in 2.06.

The show also takes pains to call the meeting a "party" several times. Besides Aziraphale saying "we're having a ball", the character who is of The Devil and whose actions let The Devil Himself into the bookshop-- Shax-- twice refers to what's going on as "a party." When she arrives: "how sweet-- they're having a party" and, later, she corrects Mr. Brown of Brown's World of Carpets when he says that what is going on is a meeting. She tells him that it's not a meeting because they were "dancing." That it's a party is referenced several times, further drawing correlation between the climax of S2 and Warlock's 11th Birthday Party.

Crowley-- a demon-- is called upon by "The Metatron" to identify him to everyone else after every single other being in the room fails to recognize him. Every single other being in the room besides Crowley is an angel and *all* of them fail to recognize this being as The Metatron. Every one of them. How can five angels fail to recognize the leader of Heaven? Maybe because that's not actually the leader of Heaven? Maybe because The Devil had to get someone he can control-- and we've seen that he can control Crowley in 1.01-- to tell everyone else that he's The Metatron... which is exactly what happens in this scene?

Crowley identifies the being in such a way that the other angels see him as The Metatron. No one questions him. Rather hilariously, since angels who don't like Crowley are in the room, everyone just believes him and takes what he says at face value. This includes Michael, who has now done this twice-- they also did this during the Job minisode, which we'll look at in a moment.

Michael (gloriously bitchy, asking THE question): "And who are you?"

The context clues suggesting this being's fake identity that led everyone to believe it after its reveal were planted by "The Metatron" upon his arrival... and that's familiar, too. We've seen that one before... Crowley did it earlier in the season.

Remember where we saw that and another significant who are you? one before?

Here, with Sitis:

Crowley gives Sitis suggestion as to who he will appear to be to her, even if they've never met before. Who is he? He's "an old friend, here to offer some comfort." Sitis is having A Day over here and is somewhat resistant at first to influence and she's never met this being before so she naturally has this question:

She's paralleling Michael in 2.06 here. All who are you and why are you interrupting me? I'm a bit busy over here... and what did Crowley say?

"You tell me." Crowley gave her the answer he wanted and when Sitis was resistant and Crowley needed to get to the kids to save them, he influenced her so she'd help him get to who he wanted instead of standing in his way. Crowley seeks to protect the kids, obviously. He has the opposite motivation of Satan in 2.06 but the methods are the same.

Sitis falls under Crowley's suggestion at "you tell me"-- she responds normally-enough but there's enough of her reaction at the start that shows that her mind is being influenced. She gets a little quiet, her eyes widen, she's staring for a brief moment... kinda like Crowley in the chair before he speaks in after "The Metatron"'s arrival in 2.06. Crowley was in Sitis' mind and made her say back to him what he'd told her to say:

"Bildad" quite literally means "old friend" so Sitis basically regurgitates Crowley's "just an old friend" by translating it into a name in her mind. Crowley's "sure" is comedic but this is also an example of Crowley using magical influence over someone-- one of two that happens in S2. In both times, Crowley's use of it is benign in overall intent but it's still not really with the full awareness of the person he's using it on.

This kind of power when used by The Devil, though? Yikes...

The second time we see Crowley do this is with Mister Dalrymple. And what did Crowley suggest-- at Aziraphale's request-- that Mister Dalrymple do? So that Aziraphale could have time to try to lure Mister Dalrymple into his way of thinking-- though the opposite wound up being true?

Invite them to stay and have a chat... over a drink.

A chat over a wee tipple of whiskey. That moment has a paralleling friend in 2.06, too...

A chinwag over a large oat milk latte with a dash/hefty jigger of almond syrup...

Now, we're also referencing The Resurrectionist minisode in The Final 15. You know, the one where Crowley is dragged back to Hell in Edinburgh... the same place Aziraphale went to alone during S2. When asked where Aziraphale was during that time by Shax, Crowley replied that Aziraphale was:

Stocktaking. In the basement. On the surface, this is an excuse Crowley gives Shax to explain why she can't see Aziraphale through the window of the shop while Aziraphale is in Edinburgh. Shax clearly doesn't buy it and tracks down Aziraphale in The Bentley on his way back from Scotland. But this is also a metaphor on two different levels.

The first is that Crowley was dragged back to Hell in Edinburgh in 1827 and that Hell is the basement of the whole Heaven/Hell skyscraper office situation. Edinburgh is Hell is "the basement" to Crowley. While Aziraphale was there, he was working on some of his trauma related to 1827-- taking stock of what he had and where he was at in order to move forward. Aziraphale going to Edinburgh actually is Aziraphale metaphorically "stocktaking in the basement"... it's just that it also potentially foreshadows that once Shax actually gets through that door, it's the start of how Aziraphale is going to wind up doing some further stocktaking in the actual basement that is Hell.

Jump back to Sitis for a moment. Why does Sitis say "Shuite"? It's more important than it seems.

We already looked at why she says "Bildad"-- it's because of Crowley's "old friend"-- but why does she say "the Shuite"? It's not what Crowley said this time, so much as what he did-- jumping into her mind.

Remember later when Crowley uses a homophone-- "Shu-ite" and "shoes"-- and cracks this joke:

Crowley says "shoes" and Michael says "the land of Shua" but Bildad is Bildad "the Shuite" because Sitis was trying to say the other word that's a homophone for "shoes" and "Shu-a" here: "shoo."

Was there was a part of Sitis that was aware of Crowley in her mind was telling him to get out, to leave, to go... or was the fact that she had been trying to get Crowley to leave before he influenced her a factor in how she came up with his identity?

It shows that a person under suggestion by a supernatural being in Good Omens is forced to say and do whatever that being is forcing them to say or do but they might have some mild level of resistance where their words are concerned, if they can find a way to do so. Crowley was not exerting a terribly powerful influence over Sitis because he prefers to not do this at all. But The Devil himself is not going to have any such qualms... and we've been shown in 1.01 that when he takes over Crowley, Crowley really can't resist the influence. Still, he might have been trying, since The Devil needed him to speak and it was Aziraphale in the crosshairs.

And, of course, back in 2.06, The Big Damn Villain Music in the score goes insane at this moment here when "The Metatron" looks at Crowley without Aziraphale noticing-- a look that can be interpreted not just as a glare but as instructions. It's what keeps Crowley in the bookshop. It furthers the suggestion that "The Metatron" is magically influencing Crowley and since Crowley's main contribution is to identify him as The Metatron, well... casts some serious doubt over the idea that this is anybody but the one being who can exert that kind of control over Crowley-- Satan.

Now, go back to Crowley and to "...last time I saw you, you were a giant, floating head, mind."

Aziraphale doesn't totally seem to realize it but the events of the previous night letting everyone into the bookshop has, well, let everyone into the bookshop. Aziraphale thinks of the bookshop as a safe haven where Crowley's concerned and, until The Meeting Ball, it was. But Shax allowed in tipped the dominoes and now means that the bookshop is now overrun, all of Hell can get in, and Crowley's no longer safe from Satan while inside the bookshop.

"...giant, floating head, mind" isn't just about Warlock's birthday party.

It's a reference to The Devil taking over Crowley's mind in 1.01.

It's a reference to that for us and, if Crowley is able to resist at all or is trying to on some level, then it's an equivalent to Sitis saying "Shuite" in an attempt to say "shoo"-- it's a word Crowley is choosing sneaking out in the influence that Satan has over him in that moment. He's screaming wrong boy wrong boy wrong boy and he's in my mind beneath the calmer way that Satan is having him identify him to everyone as The Metatron and hoping Aziraphale will get it.

Everyone believes Crowley when he says the being before them all is The Metatron because the reveal of it makes sense with the clues laid out by what "The Metatron" has said upon his arrival. Old British white guy-sounding being? Using old language-- "balderdash", "complete piffle"? Being a smarmy, patronizing dick towards Michael? Yeah, that sounds like The Metatron... enough that everyone doesn't stop to notice what else this being says the moment he has them all convinced. Phrases like "spit spot"... the signature line of the Hell-aligned 'Mary Poppins'... but we'll look at all the 'Mary Poppins' in end of S2 in another meta.

Back to our next bit of dialogue referencing signifying the presence of The Devil in 2.06. That is "go on." Whether this is just a clue to us from the other scene or whether it's also Crowley, trying to resist the influence to try to warn Aziraphale is interpretable but, either way, when Crowley stays put and doesn't seem to notice Aziraphale silently trying to get Crowley to come with him and The Metatron, there's this dialogue:

Crowley: "Go on. Day can't get any weirder."

Weird means strange, unexpected, unnatural... Something's wrong, something's wrong, something's wrong is what Crowley's basically saying. But it's the "go on" that's the real 👀 because of what it references from earlier in the season...

Remember this?

Crowley: "Go on. Have an ox rib."

Yeah, that's a direct dialogue comparison that calls what "The Metatron" is doing with Aziraphale temptation... which means "The Metatron" is The Devil.

Gabriel showed up in S2 and what he could remember was a quote from The Book of Job-- something God said that night Crowley and Aziraphale found her speaking "to Job" (really: to them, but it's unclear if they've figured that out yet.) God warned at the beginning of S2 that Aziraphale needs to remember the Job minisode something fierce for what's to come. He's being tested. He's being tempted. The Devil shows up in 2.06 to tempt him... and it parallels the ox rib scenes by both echoing and inverting it, like the mirror that it is.

Angels actually can be tempted but that's not really what Crowley was doing in Job's cellar. The ox rib scene is actually about consent. Let's look at the start of it.

As the storm started in 2500 B.C., Crowley started pouring wine. He poured two glasses and offered Aziraphale one. Aziraphale did not take it.

Aziraphale did not take it because Aziraphale, at the time, was not interested in wine. He didn't wish to drink. "The Metatron" manipulates Aziraphale's emotions when it comes to the coffee. He preys on Aziraphale's need to be polite and on how afraid Aziraphale is of The Metatron. Aziraphale has never had any such fear of Crowley-- he hilariously was pretty direct about his distaste for wine back in Job's cellar. The Devil gets Aziraphale to take the coffee by manipulating his trauma but Satan's minister Crowley? Back in 2500 BC? He didn't push Aziraphale to drink.

The ox rib scene is actually about choice and consent. It's important to Crowley that Aziraphale feel safe with him. When Aziraphale expresses that he doesn't want to drink and doesn't want to get drunk, Crowley is fine with that and offers food instead, pointing out that you can't get drunk on food. He's a little mischievous and dry when replying that "angels can't be tempted" to Aziraphale's question of whether or not Crowley was trying to tempt him but it's because he's actually not. He's trying to have a little date with the angel, not get him to fall to Hell. He likes him. He's amused that Aziraphale is finding the offers of food and drink to be tempting-- that he's into it and wants to give something a try. There's no manipulation, just the offer of it.

It's Aziraphale's own choice to try the ox rib. He chooses to take it.

He chooses to try something new and see things a little differently and spend some time with Crowley. It's a healthy choice. It's the polar opposite of the choice Aziraphale makes when The Devil offers him the one thing he wants: a way within his control to be with Crowley forever.

The conversations at Marguerite's that Aziraphale has in S2 are interconnected. He sits at a table there separately twice-- once with Crowley and once with The Devil. Again, Crowley offers Aziraphale a glass of wine-- this time now thousands of years after Aziraphale rejected the first offer of one. Aziraphale drinks now. He and Crowley have shared a thousand bottles of wine since.

They never get to food. Aziraphale doesn't actually eat in the present at all in S2. (Which is the whole damn problem lol.) Doesn't have an eccles cake. Doesn't dine at The Ritz. No vol-au-vents at The Meeting Ball. And, at Marguerite's, he doesn't have a glass of wine and a little late lunch with Crowley. He has one sip of tea in the present for the entirety of S2 before That Damn Coffee-- to try to teach Muriel to do what Aziraphale has actually been rejecting while being in his Heavenly feelings during S2. The healthy choice is actually some food, a glass of wine, and Crowley... not a trauma-loaded coffee from The Devil.

Crowley and Aziraphale joke about temptation where each other is concerned and it's off of the scene in Job's cellar. We've seen it in Rome in 41 AD and we've seen it in the S1 finale in 2019. This is what temptation between them looks like:

They can poke fun at the idea of it because their relationship is built on the idea that they see each other as individual people who make individual choices and that Heaven and Hell don't own them. They own themselves and they choose to share themselves with one another. It's the opposite of the manipulation of temptation, which is why it both parallels how Aziraphale falls prey to The Devil-- by how he does being the opposite of what he has with Crowley-- and why it's over Crowley that Aziraphale falls in the first place... not because loving him is "bad"... for the exact opposite of that. Because loving him is good and it's not loving him to try to find a solution to their problems by saying that the people who have harmed the two of them should come first. That's the point-- no nightingales.

Aziraphale doesn't want power. He doesn't want to run Heaven-- he rejected that first attempt to tempt him by The Devil. He doesn't want to go back. He wants to stay on Earth and live his life with Crowley and he wants so much to never be apart from Crowley. The two things that Aziraphale wants most in the world are both related to Crowley-- he wants to be with him forever and he wants Heaven to admit that they fucked up and that Crowley is good.

Aziraphale already knows Crowley is good. He loves him as he is. He's just furious at Heaven and at The Metatron for what they've done to the being he loves and he's incensed at God for allowing it. Aziraphale has been an angel this whole time and, in his mind, he's been powerless to do anything to fix this. He can't stop Crowley's pain over falling-- over the fact that he still feels like he's unforgivable in the eyes of God. He can't stop him from being hurt by Hell. And Aziraphale has had that rage on simmer for 6,000 years.

His every "I forgive you" is an attempt at, since he's an angel of Heaven, trying to give Crowley what he needs and can't get from Heaven... and Crowley knows it is but he hates it because what he truly wants and needs is just Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale's love is enough.

All Aziraphale wants is for Heaven to admit they fucked up because he thinks forgiveness from God will help Crowley. He thinks it will make this better:

If Crowley were an angel again, would that stop the pain that Aziraphale can't stop? Aziraphale wonders if it might. Because he can't stop it. He's tried. He's not enough. It's a lot of pain to watch the being you love still suffer and try to do what you can to make it stop but to not be enough-- Crowley and Aziraphale both know what that feels like.

The solution is not to run away and it's not to go to Heaven. It's to just make like Gabriel and Beez and choose to live their lives together. If enough people say "nah" to Armageddon, there's no Armageddon. You can't have a war without war. Aziraphale doesn't understand that at the end of S2 yet, though, so when The Devil shows up in the form of the abusive dad who never loved him and basically says:

You know, you were right-- we need people like you. The way you live isn't a sin. I made a mistake. You could come back to Heaven and show us how to be better-- how to do things your way. You could bring your husband. We can all be a family. He can be an angel again and you'll never again have to worry that you'll lose him. You can be together forever...

This is all Aziraphale has ever wanted. The angel who was losing his mind hosting a party for the first time the night before-- one where his human friends and Gabriel mingled together and where everyone knew Crowley was his and they got to dance together like everyone else-- well, that angel is tempted as all fuck.

He falls for (falls in love with) Crowley and he falls (falls from Heaven) for Crowley.

It started, in part, with an arrival at the door. Not "The Metatron"'s arrival. Bildad's much happier, paralleling one:

This is also a note to us: remember him-- Bildad the Shuite. It's important that we do if we want to understand what comes later when a group of people, some of them angels, can't recognize who just came through the door... for the second scene in this season.

Right on cue to ask the Big Damn Question in 2500 B.C. was the first arrival at the bookshop door in S2 and the character most representing Aziraphale's inner struggles in S2... and the one who had been sent away for his own good by the point that The Devil arrives in 2.06...

Gabriel, asking THAT question: "Aziraphale, who is this?"

Aziraphale:

He. Says. He. Is. God told Aziraphale to remember this but he seems to have forgotten that he and Crowley cloaked Crowley's real identity for greater good purposes but the opposite of that could just as easily happen. He didn't really listen to the messenger God sent him-- Gabriel, whose name literally means "messenger"-- when he told Aziraphale to remember Job and so Aziraphale didn't recognize The Devil when he, like Bildad before him, came through the door.

In a sweet way, it's because he so loves Crowley that he doesn't really see him as demonic and so couldn't make a connection between Bildad and "The Metatron."

The Body Swap. Crowley and Aziraphale each pretending to be one another to survive the end of S1. They fooled everyone around them by looking like someone they, technically, are not. In both cases, they were forced into suicide by Heaven/Hell-- by getting into a bath of holy water and by stepping into flames of hellfire-- and survived it because neither of them actually were who they said they were.

Aziraphale's fall parallels the body swap plot as it's a fall of despair.

"We call it 'The Second Coming'." Aziraphale knows who was really at the door in this moment. He knows that there is no Supreme Archangel job, no promises of safety and an eternal life with Crowley. There never was. He made the wrong choice. He let his despair rule him and now the fall he thought was coming in 2500 B.C. is actually here.

Upon realizing that he's been fooled-- has played himself for a sucker, as is the case with negative thought cycles-- Aziraphale steps into the elevator.

S1-- they save each other from being killed by Heaven and Hell in methods that look like forcing them to kill themselves.

S2-- Aziraphale effectively tries to kill himself by getting into the elevator, now knowing who it is who is holding open the door.

He knows the likelihood of his memories being erased is high, which makes choosing to get into the elevator a form of suicide.

Banana, fish, gorilla, shoelace, with a dash of nutmeg. Aziraphale's mantra. His magic words. In the bookshop attack and through the end of S2, though... a banana peel thrown at Maggie. Shax referencing "the sushi." Only the banana and the fish are here.

The Bananafish. A short story by J.D. Salinger about PTSD, trauma and suicide. After some short interactions with a girl representing a daughter-like figure to the main character (Maggie, in Good Omens, who kicks off Aziraphale's S2 plot and provides his motivations throughout)-- the seemingly-fine man who is actually a traumatized war veteran suffering from PTSD suddenly and quickly succumbs to the pain he carries around and the cycle of negative thoughts he suffers and shoots himself dead.

[existentialgaybirdnerd]

2 and a half PhDs

It was a sweltering day when Soap found out about how smart his LT really is.

The only thing anyone had taken notice of all day was how miserable they were, how unfairly hot the weather was, how shit the food in the mess hall was for such a miserable day.

That's all that had been talked about in the Taskforce 141 rec room, how much Gaz and Soap would kill to have a better cooling unit or someone to blot out the sun for like 5 minutes so they can cool down even a little, how stupid it would be for Ghost to be wearing his mask on what is probably the hottest day of their LIVES.

And then, like the devil, speak of him and he shall appear. Ghost walks into the room holding a couple of heavy-looking books and a notebook.

Soap briefly entertains the thought that Ghost has been abducted and replaced. The glare sent at him when he says something snarky about wearing a balaclava in this heat puts that thought to rest quickly.

Without saying a word to either of them, Ghost situates himself at the nearby table set, sets down his heavy books, arranges his notebook in a way only he can make sense of (on top of one book while the other is turned open to the left of it???), and starts writing something from the book on the left into the notebook with his brows obviously furrowed underneath the material of his mask.

No one says anything for a few minutes, tense silence filling up the space as Soap and Gaz find their balance with this new dynamic of Ghost being near enough to touch but still untouchable in the softest manner they've seen him yet.

Ghost gets out his phone after a moment, typing something quickly and looking back and forth between the notebook and the phone, then scribbling over his most recent sentence and writing something short in the book he was writing from.

"What's that?" Soap decides to break the silent spell, curiosity getting the better of him as Ghost looks more and more miffed at the open book to his left.

"Astrophysics, although I guess it's too old. A sentence or two on this page are completely wrong, I didn't notice that when I bought it." Ghost replies in the longest non-mission sentence he's spoken to them, barring the string of puns and jokes he spouted at Soap in Las Almas, his tone betraying his anger at the information stored in the book.

"Why in the bloody hell do you have an astrophysics book? And why are you taking notes from it, especially if it's so old that some data is wrong?" Gaz decides to be the next to break the short silence after that revelation, shifting in discomfort when Ghost looks up at him from beneath his heavy brow.

Looking closer at the book Ghost has in front of him, they can visibly see how old it is based on the frayed cloth-like texture of the cover and the faded pale-green color of said cover.

Instead of an answer, Ghost just shuts the book, shifts his notebook on top of it, and switches the positions of the two big books.

The two on the couch get a better look at the second book than the first when he props it up against the astrophysics book to look something else up on his phone, a good portion of the open front cover peeking over and to the side of the other book and the notebook, boasting the words "Philosophy 101" in black and yellow print with multiple drawings of well-known figures and a "The Thinker" statue picture.

Gaz and Soap look at each other in confusion, turning back to the man at the table as he makes an approving noise and flips to the back of the book to look at something, then grab the notebook from behind his current book and flip to a different page than he was writing on earlier, noting something short down.

"Everything alright?" Soap manages to get out through his rising confusion, not understanding what Ghost is doing with these books, much less taking notes on them.

"Yeah, this one's within 10 years of relevancy, so it's fine, I shoulda checked before I bought them." Ghost turns back to the front page as he says this, then reads something and picks out a page to turn to, jotting something else down on the same note page.

At this moment, Price walks in, effectively stopping Gaz from continuing in the interrogation he was about to start in on.

Price looks between the men on the couch and the man at the table, seeming to make up his mind about something before zeroing in on the books on the table. "Oh, Simon, good. I was about to ask if you're busy today so we can go over some details Laswell sent me, but I guess you're working again huh?"

At the nod he's given, Price just sits down sideways at the table and says nothing else, further confusing the two occupants of the couch as he brings out his own phone and starts seemingly texting. No follow up to that statement. No other statements to follow.

"Ok, seriously, what's happening right now?" Gaz inquires, tone veering into almost panicked and almost angry, confusion morphing the longer he goes without answers to this very bizarre chain of events.

"Simon's studying-" as an afterthought, and cutting himself off, Price turns to Ghost more fully from his slumped position on his own chair "right? I'm not misinterpreting that?" a gesture at the books on the table clarifies his use of "that" despite not necessary.

"Yeah, been bored lately, thought I would finally go for my third." Ghost's response hangs in the air as Price turns back to his sideways position and gestures to Gaz in a "there you go" way, leading to more confusion on behalf of the two sergeants.

"Very clear, thank you sir" Soap grits out between clenched teeth, impatience showing. "I would like to clarify: a third what?"

"Degree" is clipped from the table as Ghost goes to shut the book, impatience brimming from him as well. "You didn't think I was stupid did you?"

"No sir" The surprise of the answer and the accusation bleeds the tension out of Gaz in a second.

"I wouldn't expect any less than a degree or two from you, but you two are being vague about the whole thing, would it kill you to give a detail or two so we don't have to keep asking questions about what you're talking about?" Soap's irritation ebbed at the surprise as well, but he hung onto the confusion of the interaction "Since you're working on a third degree, what subjects are the others in? What subject is this one in, actually?"

Ghost tenses at the question, never quite ready to reveal information about himself and get closer to those he doesn't want to die because of him. He untenses and locks eyes with Price when he feels a boot hit his shin, a comfort to let him know that Price is there to clean up any mess Ghost may make. Like he always has been.

"My first PhD is in astrophysics, although I don't have my textbooks anymore and don't remember quite a bit of what I learned. Too many concussions. My second PhD is in aerospace engineering, I decided that knowing about space wasn't enough, building stuff to get us there was the next logical step." A pause to take a breath and determine if he lost his audience.

At the astonished nod from both men on the couch, he continues.

"Now I'm getting my PhD for philosophy, because apparently inconsistent and confusing things are an interest. Questions answered now?"

Soap stands up and points an almost accusing finger at Ghost, "You just told us you have two and a half PhDs, and you're in the military? For what?"

"Personal reasons Johnny, it doesn't matter much now anyway."

A scoff follows this statement, a hand gesturing to the books on the table. "You're obviously smarter than you give yourself credit for ever, so I think it kind of matters. I won't pry though. I'm just glad you've got something going for you that isn't 100% military."

At the shrug he gets for this, Soap just shakes his head and sits down. "Really, I shouldn't even be surprised at anything you do anymore."

Before the discussion can devolve any further into the topic of Ghost, Price makes a noise of interest at his phone, quickly turning it to Simon to see, whose eyes quickly grow round and wide as he grabs his own phone and dials a number. Ghost gathers his things and stands with them in his arms as the call seems to connect, excitement in his movements. He's halfway down the hall by the time the two sergeants gather themselves up from their stupor and shoot questioning glances at Price.

"Black hole was photographed, he really likes space" is the answer given as Price shows them a news article about said photo, then stands up to walk out himself.

[dairy-farmer]

Aaw D:> tumbr ate my first draft of this. But I persist!

Because? Consider! Ra's being a GENUINELY charismatic, manipulative Threat! Oh shit!

He can read you at a glance. Offer you your hearts desires. Money, power, vengeance, purpose. Don't you YEARN? Haven't they WRONGED you? The world is... so very UNFAIR, isn't it?

Don't you want to feel safe again?

Be strong?

Poisoned honey, spoken in a pleasing voice. Any mask for any job. Mentorly, seductive, fatherly, concern, whatever breaks your walls. Makes you TRUST him. He's been doing this for years. Centuries.

Bruce calls it a cult for a reason.

Never let him get into your head. Let him talk. Give no quarter or it's DONE. Bruce drilled it in to all of them. If you give even a sliver of the smallest scrap... he will take you for all you are worth and destroy you. Mould what remains however he pleases. Bruce himself, BARELY had the mental and emotional strength to escape.

And he's the most stubborn bastard alive.

But... but Bruce is GONE. Lost to the time stream. And no one believe Tim. Will listen. Yeah, he's not explaining himself that great. But he's upset, his brain has always moved faster then his mouth, it's... it's kinda a terrible combination. But that doesn't mean he's CRAZY!

Of all the shit they've seen! THIS is where you think things become impossible!? THIS is when you won't even check?! Fine. He'll go on his own.

Except he's not on his own.

Because Ra's either believes him... or has spotted his chance to strike.

Murmurs and drawling and croons in his ears. Like the devil whispering temptation as it leads him farther and farther from home. Tim's TRYING. Remembers what Bruce told him. Give him nothing. But... but every snapped reply, every short answer, is met with such... predatory amusement.

He's making a mistake.

He KNOWS he's making a mistake.

But Bruce is out there. He... he has to get him home. He can do this.

Then Tamara Fox is sent after him by her dad. He gets stabbed and loses an organ, nearly dies in the desert. Now there's a hostage and fucking spider assassins hunting Ra's cult of killers.

Ra's, who no longer seems amused.

He can't-... he HAS to do this. For Bruce. For Tam. For the people they've killed.

He manages. They invade. The stuff of nightmares. Honestly, fffffuck Ra's, he can handle himself. He's getting Tam and Pru out of here and blowing everything to kingdom come. Except... except... shit, the leader. Touch of death. He's so tired. Reflexes not what the should be, torso still too stiff from being TORN OPEN.

Weeks of jet lag, poor sleep, worse diet, and just generally spotty meal times, have taken their toll. His reaction time is off. Not by much. But enough to die by. And... and this is it. He IS going too...

THWUMP!

Staff. With the sort of deadly precision even weapon master's would consider unachievable. The sort that take lifetimes to achieve. So close, if he blinked, his eyelashes would sweep the weapon that just saved his life. The force behind that strike would shatter bone. The follow up, clearly meant to kill.

Ra's Al Ghul.

Tim is already jerking back and toward Tam. No time to observe. But... oh. Oh. He must look so... so CLUNKY with a staff in his hands, in Ra's eyes. The man moves like a rolling storm. All dark untouchable mist and deadly flashing light. Dances have been less elegant.

But that doesn't matter. It CAN'T.

He has to get out of here.

Tim leaves Ra's to either win or die. Flees with Tam and Pru. Pulls up his "fuck you, Ra's" program. And tries to get it going...

Shit.

Only half the bases blew.

A blow, yes. But not the "get fucked, now and forever" like he intended. At least the alarms behind him are sounding. So THIS one is gonna go. Rip in burning peices, ya spider fucks! (No one tell Bruce. It's been a long year okay?)

Except when has life EVER been kind or fair to Tim? Even once? ESPECIALLY this year? Ra's. Barely sweaty from his death match and ready for round two, just kicked open the hanger door behind them. Still in full armor. Still fully armed.

Tim doesn't even bother to calculate in his head.

They're fucked.

He slaps the evidence Bruce NEEDS to be rescued into Tam's arms. Tells her to get it to her father. Begs Pru to get her there. Tells them... to run.

Stands his ground.

He gets his ass beat like a drum. It's not even CLOSE. He's wounded, exhausted, and down to one weapon. Less trained then Ra's. And Ra's? Already warmed up, well rested, armed to the teeth and IN ARMOUR. Also probably pretty mad, what with Tim blowing up his bases.

He... he doesn't expect to wake up.

But he does.

Fancy guest room. The sort of guest not allowed to LEAVE, but still. Rich woods, fine fabrics, tasteful design. Ra's in an ornate, silken, open robe and loose low hanging lounge pants, sprawled out like a tiger as he casually sharpens a sword.

Subtle.

Captured then. He would have expected a dungeon after, you know, the whole "fuck you" base exploding. And Ra's? Doesn't even pause in his weapon maintenance as he calmly, in an almost musing voice, informs him that there's no NEED for THAT.

"Bases can be rebuilt. Rabble recollected."

"But you, Detective?"

What a glorious last stand~. Why, Tamara was it? He's quite sure Tamara is TEARFULLY recounting "your valiant final moments, even as we speak. You've done all the work to kill yourself, FOR me, Detective. I would be a fool not to take advantage of that."

He finally pauses, testing the edge of the blade. Pleased with it's sharpness.

Tim let's himself flop back down on the bed, refusing to wait for eye contact with those gemstone green eyes. So... what now? Torture? Brainwashing? Lectures on how awesome you are and how Tim should totally join you?

Of course not. Why would Ra's do THAT, when he has Tim right where he wants him? Tired, hurting, isolated. Mentally and emotionally exhausted. In other words... broken down. The world has done his job FOR him. Not, of course, that he'd ever SAY that. Why show your hand, after all?

So, no, no~

Now? You rest. Ra's brings you food. And if you want something? You'll have to trade for it.

Theeeere it is! Time called it. And WHAT, you creep, EXACTLY will he be expected to "trade"?

So suspicious! But, of course, he understands. Their's has hardly been a pleasant relationship, so far. Riddled with conflict. He simply wishes for conversation. For Tim to take care of himself. Allow RA'S to take care of him. After all, Ra's knows he would never allow him to help, otherwise.

.....right. "help".

Tim knows that's bullshit. He is trapped and this is a trap. Some form of conditioning. A fostering of dependence, maybe. He refuses to fall for it. Ignores Ra's, turns over, and pretends to go back to bed.

Ra's just hums, amused.

Because... sure enough? For all that Ra's oh so helpfully furnished "his" room with books and art supplies? Non-technological amusements? He can only ignore the only other person in the room for some many days. Can only stew in his "what ifs" and not knows for so long.

Damn it.

So he trades. Cagey and suspicious, looking for traps in every bit of wording and every action. Just as Ra's knew he would. Slowly exhausting himself. Just as Ra's knew he would. Hyper-vigilance taking it's brutal, chipping toll.

Just as Ra's knew it would~.

He asks only you eat this lovely snack you will enjoy. Take a nap, as look so tired. Allow him to massage those worn, long abused muscles. Wash the unmanageable curls of your hair. A conversation, perhaps, on that topic you love so much. You are quite knowledgeable.

And... and damn it. The body? Straight out refuses to stay vigilante forever. Especially when there appears to be no threat. When things are soft and soothing. It starts to slip through his fingers like sand. He keeps catching himself. Forgetting. Catching himself again.

Ra's has such... such a soothing voice, when he wishes too. Like rich cologne on a winter's coat, wrapping you in a masculine warmth against the cold. Strong, deadly hands. Unfairly good as they gently cradle his head, run fancy soaps and scented oils through his hair. Untwist the mess his muscles have become.

Like... like he's on some sort of high end vacation.

Or some pampered pet.

He's actually back to a healthy weight. He doesn't look like a disaster survivor.. and he just... just...

He has to get out of here. Soon. I-It's so comfortable. Soothing. Like sinking into warm honey, it clings. He just... there's this growing part of him that wants... because... because, yeah. Yeah, maybe he IS tired. Maybe it WOULD be nice. To stay. To be taken care off. Pampered.

But he CAN'T.

He has to get out.

So he confronts Ra's. What's it gonna take? Hopefully. This will blow up. A fight maybe. Something to give him some ANGER. Anything but this damn comfort and softness. It's sapping his will to fight. But of course not. Ra's has got him read like a learning letters pamphlet.

Of COURSE Ra's will let him go~!

...if Tim does... one little thing for him...

Those fucking TRADES. And this is it, he can feel it. Trap already sprung and now comes the moment to either gnaw off his own leg or be captured. Ra's looks so unbearably pleased. Victorious in his machinations and now reaping his reward. Tim wants to break his stupid smug face. But that will get him nowhere.

What.

What is the God damned trade.

Oh~ Just a moment of your time. Allow Ra's a taste of the feast you so vigilantly gaurd against him. He spreads his arms, elegant, white teeth flashing like a damn shark. The very picture of a wealthy, powerful, scoundrel. Promises in a low purr to behave.

The part of his brain that lights up when he's about to do something stupid, practically explodes from his head just to beat him to death. Sings the song of ten thousand klaxons. Oh... oh this is so PROFOUNDLY stupid there are are no words. Is possibly THE WORST idea.

He still... agrees.

Watchs Ra's not so much stand, as rise to his feet. Fluid and controlled. Letting his robe slide from his shoulders in an easy roll, to fall into a pool on the ground. The sword is set aside. Ra's focus on him. Undivided. It... it should not be MORE terrifying, unarmed and in just pants, then armed and in full armor. And yet...

Tim's mouth feels bone dry. Mistake. Mistaaaake....

He feels hunted. There aren't even that many steps, to cross the room. Yet he's shifted, distinctly, from a stride to a prowl. Tim feels absolutely no shame in backing up. Trying to gather his thoughts.

Ra's doesn't give him the chance.

Before Tim can even full register more then "too close!", a powerful hand is sliding through his hair to cradle is head, an arm like steel wrapping around his waist. He's pulled into an overwhelming kiss.

He brain stops.

The taste of Chai and a commanding mouth, overwhelm him. Steal his air. Tease and focus his attention. He's manhandled back onto the bed. A hand trails down Tim's body, another reaching up to wrench one of the pillows free of the pile. A possessive mouth slowly meanders down his body.

Kisses, sucked marks, teeth lined tastes of skin.

His hands grip like they want to imprint themselves. Leave permanent marks. Are trying, very, very hard not too. Not yet at least.

Not even divine intervention could save his shorts, Ra's rips them. Guides a pillow under his lower back. Tim has all of a second to be confused before everything Iights up. He chokes on a squeak.

The rumbling laugh Ra's makes does NOT help. Powerful hands holding him in place, keeping him from escaping the... the hot and wet! Tim writhes. It not the first time someone's eaten him out. But... but! It didn't feel like this! Was teammates and just fooling around. Not practiced seduction and centuries of skill.

His legs are already shaking. He's gasping for air. Trying to buck his hips closer to that magnificent feeling, trying to get away from how overwhelming it feels. Clenching his fists in the sheets. Whining like he's wounded.

It's PERFECT. Ra's KNEW he'd be weak to pleasure.

Knew his Detective was worth the wait.

Rolls and teases his tounge down, just a bit. Brings calloused fingers into play. To drive his Detective mad. Tease his sensitive little gem, while he plunders deep and cruelly with his tounge.

It's delightful. Watching him come apart. Again and again. First on his tounge alone, then joined by his fingers. Finding the places he KNOWS his Detective his most sensitive, and rubbing, stroking, teasing without mercy or relent.

Until even that magnificently stubborn boy, is a teary, drooling, red faced mess. Thighs painted with his pleasure. Limbs weak and trembling. So BEAUTIFULLY compliant and needy. Reliant on Ra's for everything. Craving his warmth. His care.

Head empty of those ever rushing thoughts.

He, of course, keeps his word. Let's Tim go. Back to the real world. Too the cruelties man does to man. Too being unappreciated. Tired and overworked. Too an empty, uncomfortable bed. A poor diet. The judgments of so called friends.

Hmmm~ Ra's wonders~ how long will it take?

Before the world does his job for him? Again. Before his Detective is tired. Sore. Lonely. Worn down and in need of care. Of a little... pleasure. A warm body to hold him in the night. Companionship IS vital to a healthy human mind and body, after all. Ra's can be a "friend". A lover. Whatever works, really.

He has time.

And Tim? Tim made the mistake of letting him in.

-🐼🐼🐼

ra's being MASSIVELY charismatic, having an effect that just lulls people into wanting to follow and obey him makes a lot of sense honestly! especially since for the most part the situtation given is that people follow ra's more out of admiration for his power/control of the lazarus pits and that's really it. ra's being incredibly charismatic and inspriring the fanatical loyalty that cults exhibit is soo good!

[pepperyduck]

everlasting memory - aki hayakawa

synopsis: you're not meant to love someone like him, he has to let you go.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: kinda spoilers, breakup, hurt with not a lot of comfort, mentions of aki dying + being in love with makima, one (1) mention of himeno, female reader

notes: this is my first fic on here sorry if it sucks </3, tried my best though. also thinking of making a part 2 where he comes back. mdni

as always much love and let me know what u think!!

masterlist

               you and aki sat upon his balcony, a cigarette loosely hanging from his fingers as the both of you watch the hustle of the streets below. the wind was cool outside, every so often running through your hair, and periodically blowing a puff of aki’s cigarette smoke into your face. everything was calm sitting on the balcony with him, legs dangling off the side as your head rested on his shoulder. this was a routine at this point, every morning you’d sit with him before he was called into work. today, though, no devils needed slaying, since you had spent hours outside with him at this point, in pure and comfortable silence with him.

                “hey,” aki speaks up, breaking the previous hours of silence, breath hitching in his throat once he spoke. you can feel an odd tone in his voice, nervousness, maybe? it was out of the ordinary, no matter what, although he had only spoken one word.

                “hmm?” you hum, head not leaving his shoulder, as he takes a quick drag from his cigarette. aki’s silent for a moment after your reply, and you can feel him tense up.

                “i don’t think i should be with you anymore.”

                the statement takes you by surprise – after months of being together, things seemed perfect with aki. you had truly never loved anyone more than him, ever, despite his job and all the cons that came along with it, controlling most parts of his everyday life with you. despite the fact you knew he was going to die in a year’s time. despite the fact he knew you loved him more than anyone, or anything else in this world.

                “huh- what?” you stutter, hoping you misheard him, lifting your head from him to look at him with concerned eyes, “what do you mean?”

                “i don’t deserve to be with you…and you don’t deserve to be held down by me,” he says matter-of-factly, not removing his gaze from the city in front of you. you didn’t mishear – he was leaving you. and at this point, it was like he couldn’t bear to look at you. like he was ashamed to be doing such a thing to you.

                “aki- why? where is this coming from? i don’t understand,” your voice turns shaky. you want to turn defensive immediately. but something stops you from doing so. something in his voice, the way he told you he was leaving, is causing you to hold back the simmering hurtful emotions you’re feeling. his voice is filled with remorse.

                “i think it’s better we just leave it at that. i told you a long time ago, things wouldn’t last,” aki retorts, defensiveness becoming apparent, taking another bored drag of his cigarette.

                “wait,” you say, trying to find any words, “aki…” your mind draws a blank, and aki’s eyes flash over to you for a second, noticing your increasingly saddened expression. you knew things wouldn’t last, but you told him you’d be there until the end. aki accepted your companionship with open arms.

                “there’s a reason…but you’ll hate me forever for telling you. i’m saving you from more heartbreak than necessary,” aki tells you, looking back down to the sidewalk below. you’re taken aback, needing many seconds to formulate something to say to him.

                “tell me, aki,” you say, words coming out as a choked whisper.

                “if that’s what you really want,” he replies, puffing on his cigarette for a brief second before speaking again, “i don’t deserve for you to love me. you’re truly the only person i’ve ever let get this close to me, since himeno. and i didn’t date her,” he continues.

                you’re still at a loss, nothing he’s saying to you is making an ounce of sense…you don’t just break up with someone that loves you so intensely because you don’t deserve it. his words are absurd to you.

                “and,” aki resumes, “i’m in love with makima…always have been, always will be. and there’s nothing i can do to stop it.”

                oh.

                “so…it’s true?” you whisper, voice cracking with sadness, but aki gives no reply. but you knew it was true. it was such an odd rumor to make up, about makima forcing people to fall for her – but it was true, all along. and aki was one of her victims. your boyfriend of several months, the first man you had ever loved so deeply, so passionately and profoundly, was in love with someone else the whole time.

                your heart begins to crack – no – it’s fully shattered now, into a million pieces that not even aki could put back together. nothing he can say now would fix this.

                aki looks over at you now, genuine sadness in his eyes. “i think…” he pauses, “i think i really did love you. but it’s unfair…you deserve better than to be some distraction for me. a distraction to hide my real feelings,” he says. aki’s chest tightened at his confession, not wanting to hurt you any more than he needed to – but a small part of him thought you deserved the truth, too. and boy, did the truth hurt.

                “okay…” you reply, failing to say anything else for the time being. you look away from aki. you think about everything that he’s done for you, all the dates, all the ‘i love you’s you exchanged. and it was all a lie? your stoic, noble devil hunter was a liar. the thought made you burn with anger, but every other emotion you felt was overpowered by pure sorrow. aki was letting you go, after all this time.

               but you loved still loved him. that was something you could never deny. you had an absolute admiration for the man, even since before you met him properly. aki was a hero, a noble man with strict ideals, anyone would be lucky to have such a person by their side. you believed that with all your heart, even now, as he was tearing it apart.

                “perhaps, in another life,” aki mumbles, eyes still focused on you.

                “aki…” you trail off, attempting to shut him up, you can’t take anything else from him right now, “…it’s okay, aki.”  you finally tell him, not daring to look at his intense stare. you can see his face drop from the corner of your eyes, and inside, his chest began to tighten even more. emotions swirled within him, like a shaken soda can about to explode, but he couldn’t do anything to open it up.

               it’s okay? it’s…okay?

                now that he’s come clean, told you he was lying to you this whole time, you still seem to forgive him. that’s what he doesn’t deserve from you, and he knows it. aki will never be deserving of the love you give him, and he will never be capable of showing such love, either. but, he still tried for you. and that’s all you can think of – him trying to make you happy. and he did an excellent job of doing so.

                but, until the day that makima is a dead woman – or until the day aki himself is dead – he will always be under her spell, unable to think about anyone but her. he’s forever destined to only love her.

                “you…are you serious?” aki asks you. he can’t seem to say anything else for the time being, the air grows heavier by the second after he speaks. and yet, he doesn’t want you to say anything.

                “i’m really upset with you, really angry you’d put me through this after all we’ve been through,” you begin, looking back over at aki, “but…i’m never going to love someone like i love you, aki. that’s one thing i’m sure of. i love you too much, even now, to just scream at you and leave. i told you that i’d love you until the day you die,” you admit, giving aki a weak smile.

                he’s got a look of shock on his face, almost, mouth gaped open slightly as the cigarette that rested between his fingers had rolled off somewhere. and the truth speaks in his mind once again: he will never deserve your love. and even though he wishes – prays up and down every day – that he could just love you, he knows the task is impossible. aki always thought you deserved better; you were better than a fake relationship with him. you were capable of showing so much love, and you had poured all of it into him…and selfishly, he took it all.

               the both of you look out to the city again, still unable to move or say anything, and a sense of familiarity falls over both of your bodies. you let out a sigh and rest your head against aki’s shoulder once more. and he doesn’t stop you or push you away, he just wishes things could be this way forever. peaceful…and he soon realizes this will be the last time life is this good for him. in a few minutes, he’ll lose you – the girl that loves him so much, until the earth’s end, and the girl he actually tried to be with for a change. you’re the girl he wanted to love, marry someday, if it was possible.

      ��         “hey, aki,” you break the silence this time.

                “yes?”

                “did you really love me?” you question, doubts of the whole relationship rush through your head. you think it’s a stupid question, but you need to know.

                aki huffs, and stays silent for a second before replying to you, “i think i did…even if it was only for a small time. i think, if it wasn’t for makima, we would be perfect.” he says. but his statements just shatter his own heart more, knowing it’s impossible for your relationship to ever be perfect. ultimately, it’s his fault, too.

                “can you promise me something?” you ask.

                aki knows after the whole relationship, he should owe you a lot of things, so one promise won’t hurt.

                “of course, anything,” aki’s tone is genuine, still looking out into the city with you.

                “if makima dies, if she dies before you…if she ever lets you out of her spell, will you find me again? will you try with me again?” you request. it’s all you’ll ever want; for aki to be yours, if it’s ever possible. it’s an unachievable task, at this point, many others have tried before. but deep down, you just hoped you could finally be the one.

                “i promise,” aki’s voice turns shaky, “i promise, you’ll be the first person i find if she ever lets me go.” he swears to you. aki never takes promises lightly, so you know he means what he says. you will be the first person he finds. his promise upsets you, although it’s what you asked for. because, you really know the truth.

                “i think i might move cities, go someplace else,” you change the subject, lifting your head from aki’s shoulder. aki knows you deserve somewhere bigger, somewhere with more opportunities than the city he held you in, crawling with devils.

                aki notices you slowly inching away from him, preparing to leave him, and he reaches out to take your hand before you can stand up. you stare at him, his movements surprising you after the previous conversation, and he doesn’t want to let you go.

                “can i…” he mutters, “can i kiss you, one last time?” aki asks. he’s cupping your face with his other hand, pulling you in slowly as you nod. he takes a brief moment to soak in your looks for the last time, the way your shimmery eyes were broken now, and how your bottom lip slightly quivered as if you could break down into tears at any moment. aki can tell you’re heartbroken, even more than him, but still allowing him to show you affection one more time. he pulls you in more, planting a kiss on your soft lips, and it’s desperate. it’s a needy, love-filled, genuine kiss, one the both of you will never forget. he removes his mouth from yours for only a second, before coming back in with the same desperation, tangling his fingers in your hair as he allows a singular tear to fall from his left eye. it wets your face, too, as you keep your lips locked with his, the both of you wishing things didn’t have to end this way. but they did.

                 once you initiate to pull away, he knows it’s all over. aki knows he won’t ever be able to return to you again, unless by some chance his entire world changes. he thinks about asking you to stay, just a little bit longer, to not leave him just yet. but he also understands it’s for the best, he needs to let you go just as you need to leave him. aki watches you with teary eyes as you slowly get up, relishing in the lingering feeling of your touch, hoping it would never go away the further you walk away from him, not bothering to collect any of your things.

                “hey, aki?” you say, reaching the door to rest your hand on the handle, turning back to look at him for the final time. a heavy sigh of air leaves your lungs.

                “yes?” he replies, eyes locking with you, hoping maybe you’ll walk away from the door, and choose to still love him after everything he’s put you through. but those dreams come crashing down as soon as his apartment door clicks open.

                your last words to aki are sincere, a heavy weight in your chest lifted once you utter them before stepping out of his door into a different life. you smile at him.

               “i’ll never forget you.”

[hylkun]

30 DAYS | L. HEESEUNG

DAY 1: THE CONFESSION

SYNOPSIS: in which y/n l/n gives lee heeseung 30 days before graduation to prove his feelings for her are genuine.

PAIRING: popular!heeseung x quiet!fem!reader

GENRE: high-school!au, angst and lots of it, fluff

masterlist >> next chapter

"Please, I'm begging you! Come to the party with me. You already know how Wooyoung gets when he's drunk, and I don't wanna deal with that alone. So please, come?"

Yunho begs you, interrupting your very-much-needed quiet time in the library. He pouted and was practically on his knees, begging you just to go to the party. You weren't a fan of parties, especially those hosted by Jang Wonyoung. Let's just say she's not one to be fond of.

"Why are you asking me, of all people? Go ask Hongjoong, doesn't he go to parties? I'm not a party kind of person." You reply, and Yunho's shoulders slump in defeat knowing that there was no changing your mind. Until, an idea clicks in his brain.

"Heeseung will be there!"

"Heeseung?" Your eyebrows furrowed at the mention of Lee Heeseung. What did he have to do with you going to a party? You'd never even spoken to the guy. "So?"

"So? What do you mean, 'So'? Literally everyone goes to the party just to get an eyeful of Lee Heeseung." Yunho says, slapping your shoulder playfully. "Plus, in Physics he's always staring at you like you're some angel."

"Um, Yunho, I don't really care. I've never even spoken to the guy. So I'd rather stay at home and binge watch Business Proposal. Again."

Yunho groans in disapproval. "Ugh- fine. But if I call you piss drunk, you better not complain." You hum in agreement and continue your studying that was interrupted. Suddenly, after minutes of silence, Yunho becomes quiet, surprisingly, and whispers in your ear;

"Speak of the devil, there's Heeseung right now!" He ducks down, as if it would make any difference due to his height, and watches Heeseung roam the library, as if he was in search for someone.

And it seems the someones were you and Yunho.

"Oh, hey, Yunho!" Heeseung greets the man who was once attempting to hide. Giving him a fist bump, he takes a good look at you before acknowledging your presence. "Hi, (Name)." He says, smiling sweetly and taking a seat in front of you.

Knowing Heeseung's reputation around campus, it was pretty odd to see him around a place such as the library. Yunho seemed to take that into account, too, because now he's grinning mischievously. "So, Heeseung, what brings you here of all places? Looking for someone?" He asks, the question making Heeseung's cheeks turn a red that you would only notice if you'd stared hard enough.

"Uhm, actually, I just wanted to know if you are going to Wonyoung's party tonight? Of course, not (Name), I know she's not the type to go to parties," He says, chuckling softly. How the hell did he know you didn't like parties? Maybe he just assumed, from your quiet personality.

"Yes, I am going, actually! At least I'll have someone to accompany me, since someone didn't wanna go," Yunho grumbles and gives you a nasty look. "I know Heeseung will be sad you're not going, since he likes you and stuff."

The silence in the room was thick as stone. The atmosphere felt heavy, almost palpable, and the only sound that could be heard was the sharp clicks of a keyboard as someone typed away in the library.

"Like me? What-"

"Yeah, I've said too much. Sorry Heeseung, you're on your own here."

Is all Yunho says before he speed walks out of the library, leaving you and Heeseung in front of each other.

"Well, this isn't how I wanted to confess, but I'll guess it'll do. I like you, (Name). I always have. Uh, I hope this doesn't make things, you know, awkward between us."

Lee Heeseung, the school's biggest playboy, has a crush on you? You were doubting that for sure. He's probably dated half of the females in the senior year, even your best friend, Leeseo.

"I'm sorry Heeseung, but if this is some kind of joke I'm not buying it. And I would really hate to believe that Yunho was in on this, too," you mumble, making Heeseung frown in disappointment.

"Look, I know hearing such a thing from me can be unbelievable, but I promise I really do like you. What can I do to prove it to you?" Heeseung pleads, clasping his hands together and pouting.

You were almost contemplating changing your mind.

But, knowing his background, it would take a while for him to gain your trust.

Plus, graduation is at the end of the month, so...

"I'll give you until graduation to convince me to say yes."

Heeseung cheers, although it wasn't a yes, but quickly quiets down once the librarian gives him a nasty look. He chants a mantra of 'thank you's and kisses your cheek before walking happily out the library.

Who knows, maybe the month won't be as bad as you had thought.

masterlist >> next chapter

taglist: @zerobaseone-zhanghao @jooniesbears-blog @heeswif3y @nshitae @llvrhee

[captain-hawks]

desiderium

lucifer x reader

summary — It's been five years since you left the Devildom behind, returning to life in the human world. But even the shiny new ring on your finger can't quell the emotions that surge in your chest when you see Lucifer again.

wc — 1.3k

content — angst with a happy ending

Five long years.

There’s a familiar comfort in the perpetual darkness of the Devildom when you finally return, though your stomach is in knots as you glance up at the House of Lamentation.

Will they even care that you’ve come back to see them? 

For a moment, you begin to wonder if perhaps you should have simply let sleeping devils lie—or something to that effect—but all of your apprehension is immediately extinguished when you find yourself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug the moment the front door swings open.

You can’t help but grin as Beelzebub nuzzles his face against your hair, not at all subtle about the way he inhales your familiar scent. Meanwhile, someone else trills your name, and you peer over Beel’s shoulder to find Asmodeus bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet in excitement. The Avatar of Lust elbows his way in for his own hug, and Beel shouts to inform the others of your surprise arrival.

Belphie looks like he’s just rolled out of bed, one hand carding through his tousled hair, but his eyes brighten considerably at the sight of you—though his warm hug is cut short when Levi grumbles that his brother is already hogging your attention again (clearly he’s still bitter about all the times when your afternoon naps with Belphie cut into your gaming time with him). Mammon doesn’t even bother trying to feign disinterest for once, instead smacking a wet kiss on your cheek, and Satan hurriedly shoves a bookmark into the novel clasped in his hands as he smiles softly, grabbing your hand and brushing his lips across your knuckles.

Hell, you missed them. 

Lucifer is the only one that stays back as the others crowd around you, an unreadable expression on his face as he leans against the wall with his arms crossed. Despite his silence, his presence weighs heavy in the room—for you, at least. 

And really, you can’t blame him. Especially not when you catch the way his gaze falls on your left hand as Asmo begins to coo over the shiny new diamond on your finger. 

Once you tell the boys you’re visiting for a few days, an argument ensues over whose room you’ll be staying in, since your old one has since been turned into a recreation area of sorts. You’re on the verge of telling them Barbatos already promised you a bed at the Demon Lord’s Castle when the one voice that hasn’t spoken yet rises above the din—

“You’re staying with me.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you meet Lucifer’s steady gaze.

—

“Does he make you happy?”

Lucifer’s voice interrupts your thoughts as you trail your fingers along the spines of the books nestled on the shelf near the crackling fireplace in his room. A smile had tugged at the corners of your lips when you recognized several volumes from Satan’s personal collection, but now it crumples as you let your hand fall limply to your side.

The question slams into your ribcage, threatening to burn a hole straight through your chest. 

“Does it matter?” you quietly reply.

Despite the silence of his movements, you don’t have to turn around to know Lucifer has crossed the room to stand behind you. Even after all these years, it’s difficult to ignore the insistent pull your body feels toward his mere presence.

“Why did you come back?” he whispers, tone low and rough. While most wouldn’t notice it, you can hear the way his voice wavers slightly—the nearly imperceptible hitch in his breath.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you keep your back to him, turning slightly to gaze into the small flames licking their way across the logs in the fireplace.

“I don’t know.”

The familiar caress of Lucifer’s breath on the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine, and your nails dig into your skin as he whispers, “Yes you do.” 

He’s not wrong.

“Going back to a normal human life didn’t satisfy me the way I thought it would.”

“I’m lonely.”

“I’m miserable.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss us.”

A multitude of responses flutter in the forefront of your mind, dancing on the tip of your tongue. Years worth of repressed emotions threaten to burst from your chest, the weight of which has made it far too difficult to breathe as of late.

You inhale sharply.

“He’s not you.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts, your words reverberating against the tightrope you’ve been swaying from. 

Lucifer exhales through his nose, audibly, and he gently grasps your forearms, his chest pressed against your back. When you subtly but deliberately angle your neck, he carefully brushes his lips against the soft expanse of skin just below your earlobe. You shudder, no longer able to resist your body’s desire to lean heavily into his touch.

“Does he make you feel like this?” he murmurs, dragging his finger down the side of your arm. 

Never.

Not once. 

Not even close.

You shake your head, and Lucifer slowly spins you around, one hand cupping the side of your neck as he runs the thumb of his other along the curve of your jaw. His eyes search yours imploringly before he leans his forehead against your own, your breath mingling in the scarce space that remains between your slightly parted lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, caressing your collarbone.

But you don’t.

You catch his hand in your own instead, pressing his fingertips to your lips.

He breathes out your name, and your eyes fall closed at the familiar intimacy of it, heart pounding in your chest. You bring his right hand down to your left, deliberately placing his fingers around the cool metal of the band that rests there, and his composure slips. 

Lucifer rolls the band between his fingers, head tilted to the side in question. You nod, and a possessive look flits across his face, eyes blazing as he tugs the ring over your knuckle and lets it fall to the floor. The tension coiled in your limbs dissipates as he runs his finger along the now-naked digit. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs again, threading your fingers together. Offering you a chance to push him away. To bend down and slide the ring back on your finger. 

To come to your senses.

But you can’t.

Not when the ache that’s been festering inside of you has finally vanished.

Not when Lucifer’s looking at you like this—like losing you again will break him.

Like he’ll destroy himself to find the strength to let you go, if that’s what you want. 

It took far too long for you to realize that your heart no longer considers the human world home. 

Home is standing right in front of you.

Lucifer slides a hand to the back of your head, lips hovering over yours. His tone is almost desperate as he repeats, “Tell me.”

“I’ve missed you, Lucifer,” you whisper, reaching up to card your fingers through his soft locks of hair. 

You’ve never been able to shake the ghost of Lucifer’s touch, his lingering caress a specter embedded in the marrow of your bones—those echoes both a blessing and a curse.

But even so, you’re not prepared for it—the way you flare to life at your very core when his lips finally claim yours in a searing kiss, the tidal wave of emotion nearly bringing you to your knees. 

Joy.

Relief.

Love.

Longing.

Desire.

Lucifer’s there to steady you as you both part for air, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist as the other cups the side of your face. 

And his voice is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, gazing at you imploringly as he breathes out, “Please stay.”

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[onyourhyuck]

We Met In April. | Na Yuta. (M)

↳ Prologue: “How can you be okay with all of this? Letting people hurt you everyday. ” + “If they aren’t hurting other people because of me, I’m okay with it.”

↳ The Summary: Yuta finds you crying in the boys locker rooms and finds out why.

↳ The Warnings: Mentions of severe bullying. Bruises and cuts etc. Wholesome fluffy moment. Established friends to lovers hint. Yuta is so warm hearted and kind to Reader.

↳ The Notes: Very ANGSTY. Read at own risk.

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If people asked you how are you still here after four years. You would reply with one word.

Yuta.

The sole reason why you are walking about on two legs, breathing and fully functioning college student trying to pass the exams and only worrying about exams now.

But it wasn’t always like this. So let’s rewind back to where it all started…

How you met Yuta who has changed your life from upside down ever since.

It was a very mundane day. The usual what happens in high school, the mean bullies get away with terrorising yet another helplessly weak student and the teachers simply pass it as a joke. You were one of those ‘weak’ students. But only because you got yourself into that trouble by helping out a victim and now you turned the hungry predators thirsting to get the outmost fun by beating you up. They enjoyed doing those things to you. No matter what you never gave them the satisfaction of them seeing you cry. But once they left because thankfully the bell saved you, you were on the verge of passing out from the multiple attacks. Both boys and girls partake. However today it was only one specific boy taking the pleasure of abusing you on this Monday morning.

The boy was somewhat known for having a handsome and ‘angelic’ face but you’d disagree quickly. If people were in your position as of right now laid on the dirty school floor inside the boy’s changing rooms that were locked (however one of his friends nit-pocket the key). You would say you saw the devil smiling down at you with two large horns and it’s red glowing eyes ominously glaring down at you as if he were sucking the soul out of your body. You felt heavyweight. You felt your bones go cripple. The swirling fear choking your vocal chords, squeezing it every two seconds because you were infatuated with the evil laughter shunning your down. Degrading words.

The way their fingers graze your open thighs and pinching your sweetly scented soft skin, marking it down as defeat to remind you. It’s the way the boy lifts your school skirt taking a peek. Harassing you. It wasn’t only physical assault. You could easily take an advantage of your body if he wants to and his friends…they would watch and record if anything. You were only a freshmen last year, now heading into your second year. They were third years. Seniors. Your upper class men you were vowed by the social hierarchy to obey and respect. As the elders can do whatever the fuck they wish to do.

You want to scream. You want to pull him by his hair and slam that pretty face of his into a wall. You want to make him cry and apologise to you. But deep inside you there was not enough built anger nor revenge to fully commit such things. You were always so soft spoken. Soft hearted and easily swayed by your kinder emotions that you doing revenge would make you feel guilty rather than pleased and finally getting your clarity. It wouldn’t be redemption. It would only be a social suicide for you pushing you further off the edge than you already are.

“Hey the bell rang.”

One of his mates in the back sling forward opening the door they would be guarding. As their so called friend was caressing his lips on the your neckline, tutting as his fingers let go off your school shirt. He pulls back with a smirk, that tells you ‘you’re lucky you got saved by the bell again’ —

God knows what he would’ve done with you if that bell did not ring.

“Let’s go boys.” He stands up leaving your trembling self alone. With the keys. They locked the door afterwards. Not that it bothers you, you can’t bring yourself to show your face to your other peers after whatever happens to you nearly every day.

Its the same routine. Harassment. Assault. Verbal abuse.

You wish for it to stop. But how to stop something no one wants to stop?

You have to disappear. You thought to yourself about the idea of leaving earth. The idea of just running away. Or maybe ending it all. The idea numbs your senses. You can hear voices but your mind can’t seem to process them. Your eyes can see but why can’t you stop the blurry vision and wetness rolling down your cheeks like rain? You can speak but you weren’t heard. You’re touching your knees pressing them to your chest, but why does it hurt the most when you are comforting yourself in a hug with your own arms— when no one has ever comforted you? Not a single person engulfs you in a hug.

Not a single person has ever asked you if you are okay. You are not sure that if you ever got asked you wouldn’t believe them about their sincerity level.

Shakily coughing out saliva stuffing your throat airways as more choke up sobs leave your parting lips, the room silence fills your mournfully cries from the deep depths making them echo. The changing room had a bunch of lockers that you were hidden behind. Many benches line up that you were hidden in between two. In front of you were the multiple rays of showers with curtains. They drip water drops on the floor that match in synch with your tears falling down your red cheeks. Your swollen reddish eyes were stinging with warm burning sensation as if onions were plucking in your eyeball.

It makes you conflicted though. Even though you don’t want to get hurt anymore, you realised later that the bullies haven’t been attacking other students but they stuck to bullying you only. Somehow you feel like this might be okay if it’s you. If it’s only you and no one else is getting hurt than you are okay with becoming their punching bag and their fucked up toy.

But is that really okay? Is this what you deserve?

Your breathe hitches loudly as you quickly shove your body to stay hidden once the door unlocks and swings open with the keys rattling by the fingers swinging them in circular motions would be a platinum blonde boy with long-ish bangs and hair, a very thinly shaped jawline and a perfected side profile as his lips pucker out with a humming melody. Carrying a side gym bag he thrown it on the bed that rocks the bench behind your back roughly hitting you accidentally where it hurt the most. Your bruised back. Everything was so sensitive the tiniest pain felt enhanced as if you were being burned alive on stake by the fire. With the tiny yelp and heavy groan, you found the boy staring down at you.

First he looks at you with confusion, wondering why the hell was a girl on the middle of the boys locker changing rooms. But there was another flooding thought ‘Why was there a girl with a bloody nose, bruised legs and a rough up uniform IN the boys lockers when it was locked and why the hell was she crying? ’

Your palm covers your nose once you felt the blood dribbling down on the floor. With panic entering your weak and sullen body you were quick to stand up even though it pained you to move you push and rushing past the boy.

Yuta was quick to quickly grab your wrist and look around at your appearance again. “Whoa hold up. Are you okay?”

The voice were veiled with nothing but compassion. Something you needed and now you have it you were starstruck by the words you completely forgot how to speak.

You were so broken that you began crying harder once again now that hearing those words touch your ears it begins to touch your weak and heartbroken heart. Yuta never knew he would encounter a pretty crier until he met you.

As you sobbed he felt himself pulling you closer into a warmly tight hug. Pushing your head into his chest as he caressed your rough up hair, touching you with outmost respect and gentleness…he was scared he would hurt you if he did anything harsh and quick. He was slow and steady maintaining you in his body.

“What happened here?” Yuta questions as you pull away with a sniffle. He offers you a tissue from his pocket and you took it cleaning the blood from your nose .

You bite your tongue, wondering what to reply to that. “I got locked in. That’s all. I was scared.”

Now. Yuta wasn’t one to be fooled with. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “What’s with your uniform and your bruises then?” He points out as he took a step back opening the sports gym back. It seems like the jersey he has inside would be the football club one. You can’t help but wonder who this was? He definitely wasn’t in your grade. He must be older. You play with your thumb as you sit down. You don’t want to go and leave. You don’t think you can handle a class right now. Instead you take a seat on the bench next to the gym back and Yuta eyes you with a short smile.

“You’re going to watch me get shirtless or what?” Yuta jokingly throws as he grabs the red jersey and you look away, staring at the floor and especially at your shoes now. “You can change inside the showers.” You point out smartly.

Yuta scowls. “Now I don’t want you giving me pointers where to change when this is in matter of fact— a boys changing rooms.” He tells you and you felt yourself cough awkwardly. You heard the way he slips of the white school shirt off his body even though you couldn’t see it, you heard the way the football red jersey crinkles and perfectly fits his body. Yuta smirks watching the way your eyes avoid him and he gives you a soft whistle as he rolls the white school shirt hanging it on the cloak hanger. As well as the school trousers.

“You can look at me now.”

You turn around to look at the boy who wore the red and white jersey shirt and shorts. He took off the white school shoes and grabs out the football appropriately used shoes on his feet slowly. You felt comfortable in the silence for a while until you would be the one to break it. Somehow you felt like you could speak about anything— but that would be because you’re so deprived from communication and as well as physical touch, when he hugged you; you felt safest in his arms than anywhere else.

“You play football?” You ask out.

Yuta softly nods looking your way. “Yeah. Do you play sports?”

You shake your head chuckling slightly embarrassed. “I- I well used to play a little bit of football in elementary.”

Yuta coos aloud with impressive noises as he comes closer to you with a wide smirk. That smirk, it was so different from the boy that beat you up. He was the devil. But Yuta’s smirk was a true form of something you’d call the Divine. Such a healing smile it healed all your worrisome thoughts from before a long ago.

“You should try-out for the girls football team this year then! Maybe you’ll find yourself a hobby that won’t involve getting trapped inside the boys locker rooms.” He leans closer whispering to you. “Peeping Tom.”

Your mouth drops at the accusation. “I wasn’t peeping.”

He raised his eyebrows at you once again. “I’m joking. Hey.”

You were so baffled through the way his voice changes such tones when speaking to you when he saw the way your slight lit up face that looks happier than before dims down by the sudden accusation in which he tried to play a teasing joke with you went bad. You didn’t take the joke well and he didn’t want any bad blood with you. God it’s the farthest thing he wants done. He hates seeing how your lifeless eyes ran numb and cold. Like they were sucked dry, left to die as if they were never meant to be full of life in the first place. The way your nostrils flare up and down trying to block out your stuffy nose due to the way you cried for hours so hard without a stop.

He knew something must’ve happened in here and you weren’t telling him. It was like a gut feeling. He wants to know what. He wants to help you. He wishes to give you advice and protect you if you need it. You seem like such a gentle soul and a down to earth girl who did nothing wrong and he can bet his own life on that you are incapable of harm.

“Sorry. That was a bad joke.” He apologises quickly to you.

You look on the side slightly sullen and now again feeling down as if you were drained. Drained by everything, by speaking, by thinking, by sitting and doing absolutely nothing makes you feel so…dissociated with everything happening round you. Your mind goes back to the replaying trauma of what happened few minutes ago. Approximately forty-five minutes ago, where you were beaten down as if you were nothing but dirt. Garbage.

It sent you shivers but what sent you through the roof completely was the warmth emitting from the boy that leans down grabbing your ankle and lifting it lightly. Your face gasps in surprise as your palm reach on surprise holding down the skirt fabric. In realisation you soon notice how he was checking the bruises and the small hidden cuts. He clicks his tongue. There was so many. He saw so much. He saw so much but he heard nothing from you but silence.

“W-what are you doing?” You stammer.

“This doesn’t look like nothing. Look I don’t even know your name but if you need help tell me what happened here.” Yuta was quick to cut you off. No time for answering you if you won’t answer him truthfully. You felt yourself heat up on your cheeks. He was demanding. Looking at you as if he was warning you to finally open up and tell him what the hell went on in here.

It’s not like he can check CCTVs. There aren’t any here.

You murmur quickly. “Okay fine. Bunch of third years taught me a lesson. You happy?” You snapped at him unintentionally. But it truly felt like you were cornered to tell him your whole sappy life story.

Yuta’s eyes strike you as he pushes your foot back down, standing up tucking the hands in the front pockets inside the gym shorts.

“Third years? You mean Kang Hanuel?”

You shiver, hearing the bully by the name. Yuta didn’t need a verbal response because you avoided replying and that was loud enough answer for him. He sighs out as he sits next to you. With a gentle ooze coming out,it felt like being next to a long term friend you haven’t spoken to in a while. That is how you felt like being with Yuta even though you don’t even know his name for god sake.

“How many times has he done this to you?”

“Few times.”

“How many is few times?”

You go silent before replying again.

“It’s been five weeks. There is seven days in a week. You do the math.” You retort back calmly but it seems like Yuta was far from calm. He was in disbelief at your nonchalant behaviour now. You seem to avoid showing emotion or care of your OWN well-being. It pissed him off seeing you treat yourself like this, and he barely knows you. He scowls.

“And you let them get away with this? Seriously?”

“Teachers won’t do anything… I tried. I don’t want my mother to worry and stress because of this. And…” You sigh out. “And even if i get the police involved Hanuel will bail out. He’s loaded with money.”

“That’s excuses.” He spat. He grabs your hands suddenly standing up as he pulls you with him to the door. You snatch your hand back with widen eyes. “You’re coming with me to report this. You don’t know how far he will go next.”

Biting on your bottom lip you look down.

“How can you be okay with all of this? Letting people hurt you everyday. ” Yuta trails softly as he saw the way you were unable to contain your words at once. As you flinch the further he came closer standing in front of you with barely a gap between you.

You want to tell him that you love other people more than you’ll ever love yourself. But you can’t bring yourself to. “If they aren’t hurting other people because of me, I’m okay with it.” You respond.

Yuta softly nods understanding your reasoning and thought process but it was unhealthy. He holds your hands with his as he whispers to you. “The other footballers are going to arrive soon but, What’s your name?”

“Y/n. It’s y/n.” You reply back.

“I’m Yuta. From now on if they ever hurt you I will protect you. I’m your new friend Y/n.”

The day you met him you knew from the moment your eyes laid on Yuta, He was going to be your savio it. The knight in shining armour and your will to survive and carry on living. Seriously who would’ve known? An international Japanese student studying football in Korea… becoming friends with you, a girl bullied and crying. Comforting you. He shown and gave nothing but love and even if you didn’t give anything back and he received none recognition— he was happy with just seeing you smile and make friends.

Now it’s been four years forward and you’re having lunch with Yuta. You both gotten sport scholarships and both managed to enter the same college. Now you’re on the same football program and training teams and you can see each other with same schedules. You would be having lunch outside in the open green field and park, out in a sunny day. Yuta hums nomming on the sushi as he lifts the chopsticks giving you one sushi on your plastic plate.

“Eat up Y/n. Gotta build that muscle.” He slaps his arms flexing the muscular arms at you. You snort in response and stay still admiring the way his healing smile and happy expressions never changed.

He’s still the same. Looks the same as the boy in high school you met in the changing rooms. You’re becoming too reminiscent of the past that you blurt out suddenly to Yuta.

With a loving gaze full of appreciation for the boy. All he’s done with you. You finally thank him for everything he has been through with you.

“I’m glad We Met In April, Yuta.”

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@onyourhyuck please refer from translating copyrighting and plagiarising my work thank youu! REBLOG THIS FIC AND FOLLOW ME FOR MORE UPDATES!

[breezii2176]

Finan x Fem!Reader

18+ Only

A/N this is my first time writing for TLK so I hope it’s ok, and if anyone likes I’m happy to take a few requests for Finan, Osferth and Sihtric.

“So how was your night?” Uhtred asked once Finan had joined the three other men at the alehouse.

“She is either the devil in disguise or a godsend.” Finan replied, grabbing a pint and immediately beginning to drink.

“How so?” Osferth question, slightly leaning more onto the table in intrigue.

“I’ve never met a woman that can keep up with me, and by god that woman could go all night.” Finan recalled, memories of last night flooding his mind.

Her breasts bouncing in his face as she rode him, the way she clenched around him as she came, her angelic voice calling his name endlessly throughout the night. Even every curve of hers along with her stretch marks plagued him.

“Will you see her again?” Sihtric voiced, noticing the way his friend got lost in his own thoughts.

“Of course he will, he’d be stupid not to.” Uhtred smirked and Finan just nodded.

“Well Y/n is the only woman he has spoken of since we settled down here.” Osferth had found his voice once again.

“Do you plan to marry her?” Uhtred asked, holding eye contact with the Irishman.

“Not too sure on that yet Lord.” Finan replied although the three surrounding him could tell he would like to. Instead of continuing the conversation at hand they decided to drink the night away.

~~~~~

“Finan? What are you doing here?” Y/n softly spoke, a yawn escaping you due to having been woken up by the man knocking (more like pounding) against the door.

Instead of speaking he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you in for a kiss, his breath tasting of ale. His hands were pulling your dress up as he guided you back into the house, closing the door behind him.

Your hands pushed on his chest, making him break the kiss. The dim light from the moon was kind enough to let you see some of his features. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and lust.

“It’s late.” You whispered, moving to escape his grasp but he held you steady in place. Y/n raised a brow in question, bringing a hand to cup his bearded cheek, “What is on your mind Finan?”

“I want to marry you.” His breath fanned your face, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips.

“You are drunk, let us rest. You can stay here tonight.” You whispered back to him, placing a chaste kiss to his lips before leading him to your bed.

Finan did not give up however, laying on his back and pulling your body over his to make you straddle his waist. His hands finding your hips once again and pulling you as close as possible as he ground up into you.

A moan escaped your body at the feeling of his hardness rubbing into your core, your body falling forwards only to stabilise yourself with your hands on Finan’s chest.

“At least let us hump tonight?” Finan asked, his beautiful and cheeky smile on his face. You rolled your eyes but nodded nonetheless, lifting your dress up and over your head.

Finan grinned as you lifted your hips so that he could undo his breeches. Y/n didn’t waste any time. Slowly sinking yourself down onto his long and thick girth, both moaning as you sat flush against him.

You started off with slow rolls of your hips, leaning down to kiss him. Finan groaned and slapped your ass, deciding to take over and thrust up into you, chuckling at the new squeals and moans leaving your body.

“Oh god woman you are divine. I want’ ya all to myself.” Finan kept praising you, flipping you both so that he could thrust even deeper into your sweet cunt.

You kept squeezing him more as his accented voice filled your ears, his praises going straight to your core. You reached up and dug your nails into his tunic, legs wrapping around his waist and your heels digging into his ass to push him further into you.

Finan brought you into another kiss as he reached between your bodies, circling you clit with his skilled fingers to help bring you to your climax.

He knew after last night that you were the only woman for him, having you sprawled like this beneath him and your h/c hair splayed in every directing as he pounded into you.

He groaned as you called his name, the tight coil in your lower stomach snapping as you came around him. Finan had to stop himself from moving, waiting for your spasming to stop otherwise he’d quickly spill his seed into you.

No he couldn’t let that happen, he needed to draw this out, show you just how well he can touch you but he knew with how tight and wet you are he couldn’t go on like last night.

Finan started pounding once again, deciding to still play with your pretty little clit as he continued. The way you moaned his name repeatedly like it was a prayer drive him mad with lust.

“I need you Y/n, to be mine, my wife, to have my pups.” Finan rambled a little longer, stilling for a moment as he moaned your name, his cock twitching as it shot his cum into your pulsating pussy.

Finan didn’t moved until both of your breaths had evened out, you stared at him, bringing a hand up to wipe away the hair sticking to his forehead, seemingly breaking him out of his trance.

“I’m sorry.” Finan sighed, pulling out and sitting next to you.

“For?” You asked, sitting up behind him and pressing your front to his tunic clad back and wrapping your arms around him, your face resting against his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have finished inside ya, or said those things.” Finans tone was soft and so different from the usual cockiness and playfulness it normally held.

“I don’t mind Finan because it’s you. And as for everything you said we can talk about it in the morning once your head is a little more clear. Now please take your armour off and get into the bed so that we can rest” You spoke, shifting to get under the furs.

“And what if my cock is hard once again, will you help me take care of it?” Finan’s playfulness had come back as he gave you that cheeky smile, standing up as he rid himself of his clothes.

Instead of answering with words you simply spread your legs, reaching between them and starting to play with yourself, giggling a little as he groaned and bit his lip.

“You are definitely a devil, woman.” Finan spoke, crawling between your legs and throwing them over his shoulders before lapping at your folds.

Your fingers tangled in his dark locks, pulling him closer and grinding into his face, his beard slightly tickling your thighs. One of his hands coming to join the mix as it toyed with your entrance, slowly thrusting in and curling before retreating.

His sinful mouth alternating between lapping at your clit and sucking it between his lips. He enjoyed this more than anything, smiling and pinning your hips down with his free hand. His other hand adding another two fingers into your cum filled hole.

Your second orgasm washing over your body quickly, legs shaking and fingers gripping tightly onto his locks, hips stuttering against his face but Finan didn’t slow at all, riding you through this high and into the next.

Finan didn’t plan to stop until you couldn’t handle anymore, he chuckled at your pathetic whines and attempts to get him to stop. He switched his hand and mouth, drinking all of your and his mixed essence out of your hole and his fingers rubbing your clit mercilessly.

“I-I can’t Finan!” You squealed, torn between trying to escape his grasp of just pushing him further into you.

“I don’ plan to stop until sunrise love.” Finan hurriedly spoke so he could get back to work. Y/n was in for a long rest of the night.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

New story announcement!

Because you beautiful besties did nothing but encourage me, I wrote the thing. I am four chapters into the thing, but I need to edit before I post it!

So yes, meet the new couple of the moment, Adrien Brody and his beautiful wife, Jade Burton-Brody. I wrote Jade as an OFC for a previous fandom, but she stayed with me, so I want to use her again as it dawned on me just how cute she and Adrien would be together, so yeah. Here they are! She's a musician in the metal world, who moves into acting, too. Especially with all the support she finds from her adoring husband.

A particularly long excerpt from the story, too, from a magazine interview they did together which serves as the opening of the story...

“Tell us something about your wife that people would find surprising.” 

He mulls it over for a few seconds, looking to his side at her, laughing as he takes in her raised eyebrows. “She’s actually quite introverted, unless she knows the people she’s with well. Then her volume and mischief amp up considerably,” he begins, which I must say is perhaps the last thing I expected him to reply with. “No, no. It’s completely true, she is. She’s often quiet, an extreme juxtapose for how she appears up on stage with a microphone in her hand, but yeah. The Jade you see performing live is a completely different entity to the woman she is away from it, and I found that out pretty quickly after we first met.”  

It is a stark contrast to the public persona of Jade Burton-Brody, a woman known for rarely shying away from being outspoken and controversial, whether it be her fiercely penned lyrics, or her opinions on the subject matters she holds dear. She was, after all, the woman who advised legions of young female rock fans to, and I quote, “Burn the patriarchy to the goddamned ground.” 

Before me today, though, I do see a much softer side to the screaming hurricane of a woman I familiarised myself with through the scouring of YouTube videos, a woman more than happy to let her husband lead in the questions, always looking to him to reply first. She has spoken in the past of him being her unequivocal strength and support, and I take her back to that, the moment she first met the man she would marry just six months after their first meeting.

“Jade, you’ve spoken about your first meeting a couple of times in the past, but for the record, would you care to share it again?”  

She laughs loudly at my question, leaning into her husband a little, combing her fingers through her hair as she remembers fifteen years into the past. “I screamed in his face, he liked it, and the rest is history.” 

Indeed, such a meeting did seal itself into history, the moment the iconic pair met captured by a photographer pointing his camera in the right direction at exactly the right time, immortalising the moment where the formidable first lady of metal took to the barriers at the Rock and Iron festival, grabbed the hand of the Hollywood heavyweight, and proceeded to scream like a harpy about an inch from his face. “She blew my eardrums out,” Adrien speaks of the moment, “I had never heard anything that loud in the whole of my life!”

Indeed, like it he did, the first stages of their fledgling relationship captured on film while a documentary team were following her and the band, shooting the footage for the 2010 documentary, “The Devil You Don’t Know.” As the footage shows, the actor found himself with a rare two-week break between projects, one of those weeks spent living on a tour bus with the band, unwilling to be parted from the woman he’d struck up such an immediate connection with. 

“I called my manager and told her to shift all my interviews to telephone, rearranged everything for the following week before I flew out to Hawaii to begin shooting Predators, and yeah, lived on a bus with five insane, but adorable women for seven days.” He smiles a little shyly, his eyes warm as he views her. “Didn’t want to let her go.”

When asked if it was love at first sight, he elaborates a little further. “I’ve never believed in that. Too many components have to fall into place for love to bloom, so I don’t think it can be so spontaneous as to simply view somebody and feel such a powerful emotion right off the bat. After that week I spent with her, though. Yeah. I departed from the tour knowing I’d left behind the girl I was going to marry someday.”

And for Jade? “I knew. He was my person. Still is fifteen years on, too.”  

Just viewing the natural ease the couple have around one another cements that, after battling with so much over their years together. They both freely admit they rarely saw one another for the first two years of their marriage, their relationship plagued by media scrutiny, storms of paparazzi, accusations of their romance serving purely as a manufactured PR pairing for publicity, others stating that it was to give Jade greater leverage as she further embarked upon her acting career away from the world of music. One only has to watch the woman on screen to see that she carries enough weight from her own talents to not need the bolstering of her husband’s surname to snare her hard-earned successes.  

Indeed, the pair have weathered many storms and come through them stronger, standing as one of Hollywood’s most illimitable power couples, yet the term is somewhat lost on them both. “We’re complete dorks,” Jade laughs, “we really are. We set one another off all the time being absolutely ridiculous.” 

“It’s true,” her husband confirms, beginning to chuckle right on cue. “Nobody makes me laugh like her. It’s so corny, but truly, she’s my best friend. Deciding to get on that bus fifteen years ago was one of the greatest decisions I ever made.”  

It can be witnessed quite easily, too. It takes only a few glimpses into their respective social media accounts to see the humorous ease they tease one another with, but always with incredible affection. ‘Baby love! <3 Love you too, Morticia!’ Adrien commented on a heartfelt post his wife recently shared to Instagram, a throwback picture of the pair kissing at the 2016 Oscar’s ceremony, where his beloved won best supporting actress for her role across from Robert De Niro in the 2016 blockbuster, Five Marked Men. 

“It took him about a month to get over me with black hair instead of blonde, so I was Morticia for four straight weeks instead of Jade!” she laughs, obviously taking his teasing with good humour.  

“I was so damned proud of her, even though I couldn’t get used to the black hair,” he laughs taking her hand in his. “Always have been. She’s incredible.” 

The story will chronicle their fifteen years together, from their first meet right up until present day. I said I wouldn't do this, write RPF again, but I did. Arrgh! I just have to hope my beautiful people enjoy it now, lmao!!

Also, as well as the obvious faceclaim of Angelina Jolie serving for Jade, I have a voice claim for her, too! Want to hear the scream she hit Adrien with? Here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a98LI-arNS4 And for something a little more melodic to acquaint you with her voice - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQNtGoM3FVU So yes, that's how I imagine her to sound in her chosen profession. Half angel, half demon. xD

I hope you love her as much as I do, guys! Huge thanks for my darling @jemmalynette for the beautiful picture manipulation. Her work is flawless, as always!