#reptilian moon

[missterious-figure]

I've been in a lizard/dinosaur mood for some reason... I turned the peacock boys into iguanas... Tehe!

I imagine they have similar personalities to the original trio, but they are a little more chill... kinda. They have a slower metabolism, but can be a "little" more active around y/n.

Sun is a sassy bastard. he's prized for his golden dorsal spines, as they can be cut off without harm (note: I don't think that is actually true for real iguanas, but whatever) His favorite fruit is banana.

Moon is still a gremlin, and is most likely to become aggressive for no reason. Like his brother, he is prized for his silver spines. His favorite fruit is starfruit.

Eclipse is more mature and mellow. But that doesn't stop him from being a menace. Like the other two, he is prized for his bronze spines. However, sometimes, one or two will grow metallic red with pink edges. His favorite fruit is coconut.

The three can not only climb well and run fast, they are really good at swimming. Meaning y/n has nowhere to hide. The boys have been reported to be a little spicy when they have y/n cornered. Relentlessly flirting and showing off their dewlaps (the fleshy flag some lizards have on their throats to show off to mates, effectively being a "peacock tail" for lizards. *Wink wink*)

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Errors, “Errors,” and Sci Fi

@strawberry-crocodile

tvtropes calls stuff like the wolf example "science matches on" which I think is a pretty fair shake

This.  This is what’s got me thinking so much about errors.  There’s a certain danger, here.  A certain way that this particular effect — delicious dramatic irony — tempts the mind when reading old stories, even true ones.

What do you know about R.M.S. Titanic? I ask my class every year, and the first hand rises.  “It was unsinkable,” the student inevitably says, and everyone is nodding, “or so they thought.”  I write the word UNSINKABLE on the board, underneath my crude drawing of a ship with four smokestacks.  It will be crossed out before the end of the hour, but not for the reason they expect.

“I find no evidence,” Walter Lord, preeminent biographer of the ship’s survivors, wrote, “that Titanic was ever advertised as unsinkable. This detail seems to have entered the collective mind so as to create a more perfect irony.”  Indeed, historians’ examinations of White Star Line documents show the shipbuilders themselves worried it would be so large as to risk collision; they stocked several more lifeboats than 1910s regulations required.

The War to End All Wars (deep breath, satisfied exhale), also known as World War ONE. Chuckle.  Shake of the head.  What if I told you that this phrase, used primarily in American newspapers after the fact, wasn’t meant to be literal? Nowadays we’d say The Mother of All Wars, or One Hell of a Fucking War, but we wouldn’t mean literal motherhood, literal intercourse.  What if I said the armistice and the Lost Generation and the Roaring 20s were all braced for another outbreak of European conflict, and yet we still failed to prevent it?

Did you know they were so confident in the safety of the S.S. Challenger that they put a civilian schoolteacher onboard? I do, because I’ve heard that one repeated many times.  Only, see, it’s got the cause and effect reversed.  Challenger launched on a day the shuttle’s engineers knew to be dangerously cold, because the first civilian in space was on board. And NASA knew its shuttle project would be cancelled entirely, if they couldn’t get that civilian’s much-delayed entry into space in the next two weeks.  So they launched on a cold day, and killed her instead.

These are all what cognitive science calls Hindsight Bias on the personal level, what sociology calls Presentism on the cultural level.  Social psychology’s a little of both, is primarily interested in why you’re sitting on your couch in a Colonize Mars shirt watching PBS and chuckling at the fools who believed in El Dorado.  It wants to know why the mind flees straight from “marijuana will kill you” to “marijuana will cure cancer” without so much as a pause on the middle ground of its real benefits and drawbacks, its real (mild) risks and rewards.

And they can paralyze the sci-fi writer, if you think too much about them. Jetsons is futurist one decade, retro the next.  “There are no bathrooms on the Enterprise,” the creators of Serenity say smugly, as if Gene Roddenberry should’ve simply known that decades later it’d be acceptable to show a man peeing in full view of the camera, nothing but the curve of the actor’s hand to protect his modesty.  “No sound in space,” the Fandom Menace says, “No explosions in space,” and “A space station can’t collapse in zero-G.”  Only then NASA burns a paper napkin outside of atmosphere, transmits music using only the ghost of nearby planets’ gravities, and logs onto Reddit long enough to point out the Death Star would implode in its own gravity field.  And now we’re the ones pointing, the ones laughing, at those earlier point-and-laughers.  Self-satisfied, smug in superiority.  As if we did the work to find out ourselves, instead of just happening to be born a little later than George Lucas.

[rhetthammersmithhorror]

Track of the Moon Beast | 1976

[carnivalparty]

Hello! Can I request a moodboard with the Luchino skin horrendous? (using the essence poster portrait like the image you used for the toni x luchi one?) With themes of forests, beware of the wolf/big bad wolf in purple? or alternatively in black and white?

⟼ Moodboard themed after Luchino's Horrendous with forests and wolves, as requested 🐺🌑

[queststhroughduality]

[venussaidso]

Folks thinking that Uttara Bhadrapada is too much of a 'conservative' nakshatra to be career-orientated/self-focused in women is one of the reasons why I started disliking astrology. Like, everything about that is so incorrect it makes me wanna barf lmao. I'd seriously be nothing if I wasn't this self-obsessed, I don't exist to serve anybody else but me and the narrative that Uttara Bhadrapada gives energy to others and is in service of others is laughable,,,, like actually make a real observation of real natives of this nakshatra. Uttara Bhadrapadas are preserving of their energy, so they won't be as selfless as it's said to be – they're quite literally calculating/careful so please 💀

[hemipteran]

I call this one : “the great lizard dance”

[missterious-figure]

Do the iguanas/lizard boys pancake when comfortable/relaxing in a the sun or under some sort of heat lamp thing?

I’m just wondering as I’ve seen iguanas lay down and flatten slightly when under heat lamps or in the sun

The short answer is yes.

[sergioguymanproust]

Throughout the history of civilization millions have starved to death while a few hold the power and complete disregard for human calamities.For whom do they display and some of them still do sucking the blood and revenues from their citizens their golden crowns but only for themselves . Stealing and pillaging ,killing and hoarding their enemies gold ,silver,precious stones,to adorn themselves Kings and Queens!While forcing their farmers to pay taxes and tributes to them. Well, folks ,the feudalistic ways are still hard at work, disguised as democracies but behind closed doors a different game is in place.A dark and macabre game that pulls the strings by our underground landlords the reptilian race that has infiltrated every government and their Machiavellian agencies ,well it is no science fiction my friends, those that serve as cover for them are no longer humans but shapeshifters. I know ,you have heard it all before but millions of you refuse to believe it.Well, the systems of control are collapsing as I write this an it is nothing but a well constructed scheme to bring about the complete submission of the hybrid human race.Because we have become to unruly and a present menace to their installed powers globally.In the past history there’s been many revolts from us ,but they have managed to kill millions and won many battles.This time we are already on the way to World War 3 and this is how they from behind the scenes are repeating the same pattern,but this time it will be different because they will go down as well,then peace will indeed follow. Words bySergio GuymanProust.

~ Red and Gold ~

[ikaroux]

How are they with their pregnant partner? Neuvillette

Synopsis: Pregnant, your husband/companion is ecstatic. But how will he take care of you during pregnancy?

Style: Cute, fluffy, female reader, NSFW.

Bonus NSFW (18+) I remind minors to avoid reading this kind of content.

Warning: May contain story spoilers for some characters.

Characters: Neuvillette.

Note: This chapter contains Fontaine story spoilers. I advise you to finish Archon's quest before starting to read.

Ps: Sorry for my long absence, I've had a lot of health problems since the start of the 2023 school year...

Part 1 Diluc, Zhongli, Kaeya, Xiao, Venti, Albedo, Kazuha, Childe.

Part 2 Scaramouche, Dainsleif, Thomas.

Part 3 Dottore, Pantalone, Alhaitham.

Part 4 Cyno, Ayato.

Part 5 Tighnari.

Part 6 Capitano, Kaveh + Bonus

Part 7 Itto, Heizou, Lyney.

1. The moon was lighting up the night sky when you reached the door of Neuvillette's office. Silently, you gazed at him from the doorway, waiting patiently for him to take his eyes off his work and meet yours. Knowing that he had already noted your presence, his dragon senses being far more acute than those of mortals, you found a particular charm in watching him devote himself in earnest to the last files of the day.

"It's getting late, my love. "

At these words, Neuvillette raised his reptilian-glinted eyes to you, a tender, affectionate smile lighting up his face.

"You should have waited for me at home. I get worried when you walk alone at this hour."

Dropping his pen, he stood up and walked over to join you. Arriving at your height, he leaned over to place a soft kiss on your lips.

"I know, but... there was something very important I had to tell you. And as lately you've tended to neglect your wife for your work..."

Your words floated through the air, laden with gentle rebuke and nervous anticipation. As you spoke, Neuvillette, with obvious tenderness, gently pushed a lock of your hair back behind your ear, his gesture emphasizing the closeness and deep affection he felt for you. His attention was entirely focused on you, as if he were trying to read in your eyes the importance of what you had to reveal to him.

With a gentle gesture, you took Neuvillette's hand, guiding his palm until it lay flat on your stomach. A silence fell, heavy with anticipation, as Neuvillette watched your gesture, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. Then, slowly, a flash of understanding lit up his gaze. He sensed, through the touch of his hand, the subtle but undeniable aura of a new life beginning to form within you, the existence of a little being yet to be born. A dragon.

Your husband's heart raced as he finally realized what was growing inside you. Neuvillette, usually in control, was overcome by a wave of emotions: surprise, happiness, a touch of anxiety in the face of the unknown, but above all, a deep and unconditional love for you and for this new life you were carrying.

Without a word, his other hand joined the first, as if gently but firmly enveloping the precious treasure you now shared. His gaze, filled with infinite tenderness, lifted to yours.

In this moment of shared intimacy, words seemed superfluous, replaced by tender caresses and kisses, heralding the start of a new chapter in your lives together.

2. Neuvillette's draconic nature permeated every fiber of his being, making him extremely protective and territorial, especially where you were concerned. His perception of mortals had certainly evolved after the fall of the hydro archon, but his role as supreme judge of the Fontaine court left him little room for easy trust, especially when it came to unpredictable and often cruel human nature.

Your pregnancy only exacerbated this aspect of his personality. The prospect of becoming a father, of protecting and looking after an even more vulnerable being, amplified his protective instincts. Even when you remarked to him, perhaps hoping to mitigate this tendency or channel it in a way that seemed more appropriate...

But you soon realized that it was difficult to change the profound nature of a dragon over a thousand years old...

3. The evolution of your pregnancy revealed hitherto unknown and deeply endearing aspects of Neuvillette. This new facet manifests itself in a surprising way: a soft, soothing, purring-like sound emanates from him when he looks at you or caresses you gently. This sound, unexpected from a dragon, proved to you that he was happy and at peace in your presence…

4. Neuvillette's trust in the protection of you and your child during his extended absences was a privilege he bestowed on very few people. Clorinde and Wriothesley stood out as the pillars of this trust, each with their own role and ability to look after you. Wriothesley, despite his responsibilities anchoring him to the Meropide fortress, was a devoted protector whose friendship with Neuvillette and you never wavered.

The Melusines also held a special place in Neuvillette's esteem. Their joy and zeal in protecting you and your unborn child was not only a testament to their loyalty to Neuvillette, but also a recognition of the importance of your role by his side.

5. The relationship you forged with Furina was marked by an affection and trust that transcended the past of the former archon of Fontaine. Her daily visits became special moments, when the joy of sharing sweets and laughter brightened your day. Discussions about the baby's name, possible traits, or who he or she might most resemble, were moments of pure complicity.

The arrival of Neuvillette, which often marked the end of these afternoons of sweetness and laughter, added another dimension to the family picture. His reaction to the mess left by Furina, oscillating between severity and underlying affection, reflected his deep concern for your well-being. His ability to scold Furina without raising his voice, while reminding her of the importance of your rest, demonstrated a delicate balance between authority and tenderness. To you, this was undeniable proof that Neuvillette would be an exceptional father to your child.

6. During your pregnancy, you showed worrying symptoms of depression. With Neuvillette often absent during the day and sometimes even all night, he only became aware of your condition belatedly, when he found you in tears in the kitchen. Crouched against the cupboards, overwhelmed by deep sadness, you didn't immediately notice his return.

The sight of your distress deeply affected Neuvillette, who at first thought you'd been the victim of an assault by a local seeking revenge after being tried for his crimes by the Supreme Judge. However, he soon realized that your emotional state was largely influenced by pregnancy hormones, exacerbated by the fact that you were carrying a half-human, half-dragon child.

With a heavy heart in the face of your grief, Neuvillette has vowed to stay by your side as much as possible, adjusting his schedule to be more present by your side. He has taken steps to ensure that he can spend weekends with you, actively engaging in preparations to welcome the baby into your life. "Don't cry anymore mon amour. From now on, I'll stay by your side."

7. As night fell, it became customary for you and Neuvillette to embrace tenderly on the living-room sofa. Positioned comfortably across his legs, with one of his arms warmly embracing you, Neuvillette would take pleasure in reading aloud to you one of those sentimental novels you so cherished. Neuvillette's soft, melodious voice enveloped you in a feeling of well-being, as you gently brushed your rounded belly, lulled by the sound of his reading.

Each time you dozed off against him, he cherished these moments deeply, placing kisses on your face as he whispered sweet nothings to you. Releasing his hand from the weight of the book she was holding, he gently slid it over you until it rested gently on your rounded belly. His tender, loving gestures, as he touched your skin, seemed to awaken a response in his child, who pressed himself against your belly, as if to draw closer to the warmth of his father...

8. The last few weeks of your pregnancy proved to be particularly trying, forcing you to spend most of your time in bed, suffering from intense back pain that made any movement painful. Aware of your condition, Neuvillette chose to take a few days off work to stay by your side, ensuring your well-being and safety.

The approach of childbirth was causing him growing anxiety. The idea of a human giving birth to the child of a sovereign dragon was unprecedented, and the absence of any references or testimonials to such a situation fueled his fears about the potential risks to you and the baby. This fear, which became almost palpable as the days passed, plunged him into a state of nervousness he had never experienced before.

Neuvillette had considered going to Natlan, hoping to find information or help to assist you during the birth. However, the idea of leaving you alone for several weeks was unbearable.

9. Neuvillette, faced with the unknown of this extraordinary situation, was overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions. Deep inside him, a tenacious hope persisted, that fate would preserve you and the child from any misfortune. The very idea of losing you, of seeing you torn from him too soon, was unbearable. With each passing day, he watched over you with redoubled attention, doing everything in his power to ensure your comfort and safety, while trying to conceal his own fears so as not to add to your stress.

As you waited, every shared moment took on priceless value, every smile, every tender gesture turned into a treasure trove of memories to cherish.

10. Your delivery turned out to be an ordeal of an intensity and complexity you'd never imagined, your cries and tears breaking your husband's heart. The pain and loss of blood plunged you into a state of vulnerability you'd never experienced before, causing you to lose consciousness on several occasions.

"It's going to be okay , mon amour, you're strong and brave. You'll make it. Just a little more effort and our child will soon be here with us."

Despite the fear and anxiety, Neuvillette's presence by your side was an unwavering pillar of support. His hand clasping yours, he enveloped you in his love and encouragement, his voice soft and reassuring.

The intervention of Baizhu, Liyue's doctor recommended by the traveler, was crucial. Thanks to his expertise and professionalism, he managed the complications with remarkable efficiency. Neuvillette, using his hydro authority, played an equally vital role, treating life-threatening wounds and using his powers to stabilize your condition. The synergy of their efforts was the determining factor in your survival in this bitter struggle.

The birth of your child, despite the circumstances, marked a moment of pure happiness and relief. When you heard his first cries, a sense of peace and fulfillment came over you, allowing you to finally surrender to rest, your exhausted mind and body taking refuge in sleep.

11. Neuvillette had delicately placed your child beside you, gently brushing your sweat-dampened hair, while his free hand gently enveloped his baby in a peaceful sleep. His gaze was lost in the infinite tenderness he felt for you, a wave of happiness and pride emanating from his whole being. How could he ever make the whole universe understand the beauty he saw in you? The fullness he felt watching you and his child, so serenely asleep under his protection? How could he articulate the immense joy of this deeply human experience of being part of a family? He, the sovereign hydro dragon, was discovering a new and profound humanity, all thanks to... Thanks to your presence in his life.

Somewhere in your dreams, you could hear the gentle sound of a purr...

12. Neuvillette will embody the figure of a father with an exceptionally gentle approach to education. Firm only when necessary, his child will be just like him. With a calm, collected and sometimes distant temperament, the child will learn the essential lessons of dragon heritage from his father. This transmission will be carried out with subtlety and wisdom, enabling the child to understand not only the value, but also the responsibility of his ancestry.

NSFW bonus:

The moment Neuvillette crossed the threshold of the house, returning from a grueling day at court, he found you fast asleep on the sofa, a soft light illuminating the room and a book resting carelessly on your belly, which was getting rounder by the day. He immediately realized that you'd been up most of the night waiting for him to return. Heaving a weary sigh, he shed his coat, gloves and scarf, then carefully placed your book on the table before lifting you gently into his arms. However, the mere touch of your husband, his warmth, his breath, his presence, was enough to awaken your senses. Blinking against his chest, a sigh of contentment escaped your lips as your gaze met his, imbued with a gentleness and warmth that contrasted so sharply with the man he was when you first met him.

"Ah, there you are at last, my dragon..." A tender smile lit up his face, as he adjusted your position so you could throw your arms around his neck, your lips seeking his in a burst of love.

"I asked you not to wait up for me. You need to rest... Why are humans so stubborn?" Your laughter, light and joyful, invited him to silence as you placed another kiss on his lips, which he received happily.

This one was deeper, more languorous. You needed him. Now... The absence of your dragon weighed so heavily on you that it aroused extravagant thoughts. Neuvillette could feel it... Your growing excitement knotting your belly and moistening that secret place between your thighs...

A rumble vibrated Neuvillette's chest as he deposited you on your bed, lips still linked, tongues struggling against each other for dominance. Your husband's instincts were stronger than anything, and since his companion wanted him so much, then he'd give her anything she wanted...

Who'd have thought it? Beneath this cool, aloof facade lay a passionate lover, expert in the art of thrilling the senses. Neuvillette loved to prepare you for him, burying his face tenderly between your thighs, his tongue fervently caressing your most intimate parts, while your fingers lost themselves with delight in his hair, leading you to heights of voluptuousness.

Dragons, creatures whose mating rituals were rare and dictated solely by the heat cycles of their females, contrasted sharply with humans when it came to sexuality. This discrepancy had initially confused Neuvillette, who couldn't understand why his physical reaction was so spontaneous at the sight of you. Besides, the fact that you were already pregnant should, in theory, have tempered his ardor during this period, shouldn't it? Why, then, did his desire for you intensify at the sight of your round belly? Your condition triggered a deep instinctive response in him...

To demand you. To make you his, even if you were already carrying his offspring...

His ardent thoughts set him ablaze, making him more passionate. He wanted nothing more than to melt into you, claiming your body as his own. His tongue worked you ardently as his fingers explored your innermost recesses, seeking to make you shiver with pleasure. Your moans were a song to his ears, the sound of his name, his true name, slipping between your exquisite lips.

Her eager mouth seized your quivering clitoris, savoring it with exquisite sensuality, while her deft fingers guided you to ecstasy. Your pregnancy amplified your sensitivity, allowing your beloved to lead you with infinite tenderness to the gates of rapture. His phalanges guided you to the end of your orgasm, his mouth tenderly kissing the bulge of your belly. When he brushed his lips against your skin, it was with a gentleness and affection that contrasted with the real urges driving him.

"Darling, I need you... Please..."

Neuvillette, his heart pounding, took a deep breath to calm the ardors that consumed him, eager not to harm you or your child, even if this one was an unborn dragon.

With infinite gentleness, his hand lovingly caressed your body, his lips tracing a tender path from your belly to your breasts, which he covered with kisses and delicate sucks before moving up to your neck and finally your lips. His kiss, at first filled with tenderness, gradually became hot with passion. His teeth nibbled delicately at your bottom lip, begging for more, and when your mouth opened to offer him what he desired, his tongue tasted you with fervor, as if you were the most delicious food in this world.

When he finally unites with you, he takes great pleasure in contemplating you in your entirety. Although your state of pregnancy forces him to deviate from the postures he loves, he knows how to find ways of satisfying his devouring thirst for you. Often, with his back arched in a throbbing motion, he will watch with rapt attention the undulations of your body as his hips fall delicately against yours, eagerly taking in the soft moans that enchant his sensitive hearing. His silver hair cascaded gracefully over you, sublimating the beauty of your beloved dragon. They allowed you to tenderly draw him to you, once again uniting your lips in a passionate kiss.

Neuvillette, moved by a passionate ardor, didn't stay attached to your lips for long, the rhythm of his hips intensifying as your orgasm approached. It was so easy to read you, he thought, as your expressive features and burning moans betrayed the intoxication that overwhelmed you. With a movement tinged with lust, Neuvillette grabbed your thighs and wrapped them greedily around his hips, before rising with a confident gesture, his palms ardently kneading your plump buttocks to give your bodies a more sustained rhythm. His member, coiled deep inside you, caressed that special place that made you lose all composure... He was right: your pregnant state made you undeniably more receptive to his ardors, and certainly more inclined to claim his.

As your orgasm gripped you, your walls fervently embracing his fiery member buried inside you, a guttural growl erupted from Neuvillette's chest. Mating with a dragon could be brutal, and Neuvillette had to do everything in his power not to be overwhelmed. Without your pregnancy, he would have given in to his deepest impulses, sinking his teeth into the delicacy of your neck, his pelvis jerking wildly against yours in search of his climax. But he knew how to curb these impulses, contracting his jaw to better contain his desire, until it poured into you in a guttural roar.

Neuvillette was rarely satisfied with a single turn, and your embraces often dragged on until sleep overtook you. When exhaustion drove you into unconsciousness, Neuvillette would tenderly cleanse you, kissing your bruised flesh while murmuring words of apology to you and the being growing inside your womb. He'd allow himself time to admire you, his fingers grazing the soft nakedness of your body nestled against his. And as his hand caressed the surface of your abdomen, a light tap struck against his palm, tugging a smile from the supreme judge's lips.

"As stubborn as his mother..."

[bonesy-doodles]

TELL US ALL OF YOUR GHOUL HEADCANONS ‼️🙏💕

I mean, you asked for this!!! This is probably not all of my headcanons, just the ones I could remember off the top of my head, as this is all still a work in progress for me!

I will also include the Ghouls pictures again so people can refer back their designs cause I do touch on design choices for them as they, to me, are included in headcanons as every makes their ghouls unique on some way.

Okay, first up!

DEWDROP!!

There’s a lot for this man. So, Dewdrop used to be a water ghoul, however he’s not a multighoul like Swiss, Sunshine and Aurora because his element was transmuted during the binding ritual when he was passed from Terzo to Copia. So, my brain thought “what is water-like fire” and it landed on magma! So that’s why he looks volcanic. His gills closed over and became lava cracks, his fish scales became reptilian, and now he runs hot like a furnace. His ears are pointed like fire ghouls, but have points kinda like fish fins still. Dew also has fire manipulation and can essentially ignite fires (commits minor arson constantly) but that’s how he lights his cigarettes. He still has retained a great lung capacity and can hold his breath long enough to almost rival Rain’s infinite breath. The biggest trouble maker of the Ghouls and the worst influence on newer ghouls (i.e Phantom). He’s the shortest of the dudes, but makes up for it by setting you on fire if you make short jokes.

Also!!! I am a defender of the dark-hair Dewdrop design!! I know it’s very common for him to have blonde or white hair, but it was just not giving for this design. I tried, I promise! (I’m glad I’ve been seeing people love it though! My agenda is spreading!)

For fire ghoul visuals, I definitely focused on emulating glowing flame visuals, using red, orange, yellow, and white to give that effect with browns and blacks to make them look crispy. Scales and long pointed ears that go upward are also common for fire ghouls.

PHANTOM

Quintessence Ghouls are basically space and/or ghostly types of ghouls, as quintessence to me is everything between the elements and makes up everything (like stardust!!) Phantom, as a Quintessence ghoul can “see beyond the elements” with what I call aura reading at the moment, like seeing vibes and emotions. They can also float! Or slow their falls essentially. Not really fly like air ghouls. Phantom is actually, to me, one of the three most chaotic ghouls, alongside Dew and Swiss, and causes a lot of chaos at the Ministry. My favorite joke with my two wives who I discuss all this lore with often is that Phantom once pissed in the Unholy Water Bowl in the West Chapel right before a midnight mass, which caused a lot of problems for the Ghoul Den Overseer. Just to illustrate the shit Phantom pulls at the Ministry.

But specifically for Phantoms visuals, he reminds me of the moon, the tone of gray, his swirling vitiligo-esc patches. He has really dark eyes which is not very common for Quintessence ghouls.

AETHER

The second tallest and most beefiest of all the Ghouls. I mean, have you seen the arms on that man!!!! Like Phantom, Aether has the aura reading ability and is the expert at floating and slowing his falls (it’s how he achieves all the wild jumps on stage, like dude gets air time). His freckles actually form constellations, and on his shoulder you can see the Big Dipper cause he’s a big guy (yes that’s the joke, that’s why I gave him the Big Dipper). Aether acts as one of the minders of the Ghoul Den, kind of like the exasperated dad of the group. Tries his best to fix the chaos the other Ghouls cause to lessen the work of the Ghoul Den Overseer, put out Dew’s fires, etc. Also a fuzzy guy, which is uncommon for Quintessence ghouls, like he’s so soft somehow.

For Quintessence Ghoul designs, I really wanted to focus on the space aspect. All of them have space freckles, and their horns all swirl in some way (Phantom and Auroras swirling physically, and Aethers have swirling grooves/markings on them). Also, their ears are bovine-like in someways, cause I’ve always categorized Aether as like a space cow in my head. Their color palettes usually veer towards magenta, purple, and indigo (cause those are my favorite colors and Quintessence ghouls are my favorite).

RAIN

As a water ghoul, Rain has gills, fins on various parts of his body, and webbed fingers and toes (it’s a bit freaky). Also, serrated teeth like a piranha. If you’ve ever touched a fish, that wet feeling of their scales is how it feels to touch him. He can breathe underwater with his gills and will often be found in the lakes on the Ministry’s grounds when he needs to chill. His tail is a bit thick than other ghouls, as well as finned to help with swimming. Also water manipulation abilities! (It’s giving Cleo from H2O). He’s also bioluminescent! His scales and the lighter markings on him all glow

He does participate in problem causing sometimes, but is also exasperated mom of the group (cue his disappointed mom pose of hands on hips). Aether and Rain are the duo that hold Dew up by his arms while he’s trying to sprint towards trouble. Rain often has his hair pulled back in pony tails, or braided as he has a lot of hair, and it’s gets in the way while he’s swimming.

Water ghouls in general have everything above that I’ve already mentioned for Rain, all the fish like aspects. They tend to be blue toned and have a variety of scale coloration, often green, blue and purple in tones (duochrome, iridescent, pearlescent, etc).

MOUNTAIN

Biggest of the Ghouls and third beefiest! He’s also fuzzy! Mountain has a connection with the earth (duh, all earth ghouls do), which allows them to feel the “heartbeat of the earth”, gives them that killer rhythm on the drums. He’s big into growing plants and taking care of the Ministry’s gardens, which he excels in as Earth ghouls also can affect plant growth as well as other earth things like soil. The flowers behind his ear in the art are actually Belladonna, also known as Deadly Nightshade!

Mountain also has two ways to shift himself, one being normal legs and his most natural ghoul state is hoofed/goat legs, which is why he doesn’t like wearing shoes (it’s a weird feeling). His horns are gigantic as Earth ghoul horns tend to be, and have a cracked earth/clay patterning (his very first design iteration had cracked clay skin, but I did not like how it looked). His coloration and markings are very deer like, along with his ears. Mountain is very quiet compared to the rest of the Ghouls, he gives cryptid energy while at the Ministry.

Earth ghouls in general tend to lean towards more green and brown tones, with the previously mentioned giant horns. They can also have a variety of mammal like variations to them, but the most common is forest animals like deer, beer, wolves, coyotes, etc. They tend to be the fluffiest of the ghouls, and also the biggest. It’s just natural for them to be tall.

SWISS

Being a multighoul of all elements, he basically is a shadow ghoul (mix all paint colors and you get dark brown/black was my idea). He’s the third tallest and the second beefiest ghoul. Swiss has shadow manipulation abilities and can kinda merge into the shadows, which he uses to sneak around, cause problems and prank people. Also as a multighoul of all elements, he can kind of emulate abilities of other elements, like him being able to hold his breathe underwater longer than natural, his singing voice is siren-like similar to air ghouls, etc. He’s also fuzzy!!

Also, Swiss is the biggest accessorizer and has the most piercings of all the ghouls. He likes how it gives him some pizzazz. Also has gifted every ghoul at least one set of jewelry they are ornamented with (thought it was funny to get Dew the upside cross earrings).

And Satanas, the shit this man gets up to. There is a reason he’s on his stage of shame most of the time. Swiss enables all of Dew’s chaos with a giant smile on his face. It’s like winding up a toy and letting it spin.

Little side note about Multighouls, there are only two all element Multighouls in the Ministry, one being Swiss, the other actually being Phil! The Special Ghoul! He was once seen playing several instruments, signifying his elemental range, but tends to keep to himself compared to Swiss.

AURORA

The newest multighoul, and second multighoulette! Aurora is dual elemental, Air and Quintessence which together makes her embody an Aurora Borealis (her name sake). With her two elements, she gets her skin coloration and patterning, eyes, and swirling horn from her Quintessence aspect. Her space freckles are a bit more on the bluer side due to the air aspect however, as well as her second set of horns as air ghouls often have two sets of horns or two pronged horns. Her ears are bovine and bat-like. She has smaller wings compared to a full air ghoul, but her floating ability also helps. It’s a very interesting combo to watch. Also, her hair is just naturally like that, no hair dye involved. Don’t ask her how it changes color as it grows, she doesn’t know.

Aurora is probably the most energetic of the Ghoulettes, and is besties with Swiss. Is constantly helping him get into shit. In general is an accomplice to Swiss and the Ghoulettes. She loves being involved in the shit they all pull. And despite her stature, as the shortest of all the Ghouls, she will body a bitch (the shorter you are the closer to hell you get)!

CUMULUS

The biggest, fluffiest hair. It’s so long and so much and it’s her pride and joy! It’s how she got the name Cumulus because of how much it reminded Copia of cumulus clouds. As an Air ghoul, Cumulus has large bat-like wings that allow her to fly. They can be folded and retracted if need be as they can get in the way. In the Ghoul Den, the Air Ghouls have a loft only accessible to those with wings, or if you tempt fate and get someone to throw you. Cumulus’s air ghoul horns formed in the shape of crescents, so she doesn’t have two sets, instead is categorized as two pronged.

As previously mentioned, Air ghouls have siren-like voices (referencing Greek myth sirens being bird women) and Cumulus is the epitome of this ability. Can get people to do her bidding just by whispering sweet words into their ears.

Cumulus and Cirrus are a duo, as they were summoned together and bonded over being Air Ghoulettes, if you see one of them, the other is not far away or far behind.

CIRRUS

The tallest of the Ghoulettes and somehow the chillest comparative to the others. She’s still a ghoul though, so the chaos scale is broken anyway. As previously mentioned, she is Cumulus’s other half and visually is opposite of her on many ways. Darker, straight hair which is uncommon for Air ghouls, along with darker eyes. She also has the biggest wing span of all the Air Ghouls, and is the fastest with Sunshine a close second. Her vocals are second to Cumulus’s however. Not nearly at the level of controlling, but she can still bring anyone to their knees if need be.

Truly, Cumulus and Cirrus are a power couple amongst the Ghouls because their siren abilities affect Ghouls as well, just to a lesser degree, so if need be (with a good enough bribe) they can put a pause on the chaos if it gets too out of hand. The bribe has to be really good like, they like watching shit get crazy.

SUNSHINE

Finally, Sunshine. The first multighoulette summoned, and her dual elements are Air and Fire. Her fire like appearance veered away from volcanic like Dew to being like Sun Spots (areas on the sun that are darker than the rest of it) and that’s why her scales are rounded compared to Dew’s. Her wings are also smaller like Aurora’s, still bat-like but also gives dragon because of the reptilian aspect of Fire ghouls. She does have two sets of horns which she likes to ornament like Swiss.

Sunshine and Aurora bond over being air based multighoulettes and also have joined the multighoul secret club with Swiss and Phil. What do they do there? Well, it’s a secret of course. It wouldn’t be a secret club otherwise!

Also, there have been several cases of arson that have been committed that were blamed on Dewdrop, but were actually done by Sunshine, but she’s a great liar and loves getting Dew in trouble. She like orchestrates that shit.

Now that I’ve touched upon all of the air ghouls, basically, air ghouls tend to be either teal or yellow in tone, usually with cloud like markings (however Aurora and Sunshine’s dual elements change that). Their ears tend to be bat shaped, along with them sporting the large bat wings that give them the ability to fly. There have been cases, however, that air ghouls have feathered wings, the only known case being the first summoned keyboardist, aptly named Air. No one knows why he’s the only one, he just claims it’s cause he’s cool like that. Also mentioned the siren like voices, it’s not a universal Air ghoul ability, some more attuned with it than others, but it’s quite common seeing as all four Ghoulettes along with Swiss possess the ability to some degree (Air does not because he’s not cool like that).

GHOULS IN GENERAL

Kind of wanted to go into some general stuff for the ghouls within the Ministry and the Summoning process.

When a Ghoul is summoned by a Papa (the only person really sanctioned to summon ghouls with some exceptions of course), they are bound to that Papa, with some sort of mark to signify this binding. For the Papas, they each use their individual grucifixes as this marking (Copia’s ghouls were for a while marked with the basic Grucifix because he was initially a Cardinal. Technically, during that Era, the Ghouls should have been bound to Nihil, however Sister Imperator pulled the exception card for her little Cardi. Once Copia became Papa, the binding ritual was redone to remark them with his new grucifix). All of the ghouls do have grucifixes essentially tattooed onto their body in different locations, but there’s a lot of development for that and some still undecided so that can’t wait until I’ve drawn full bodies for all the ghouls.

Also, mentioned a few times in this was the Ghoul Den Overseer, who is actually a Sibling of Sin character of mine (because I over indulge myself and this is my lore interpretation anyway, I do what I want). Their “confirmation” name (christened? Sataned?) is Rigoria/Rigorian, last name Mortuous. Yes, it’s a play on Rigor Mortis but my name is literally Bones. I will be drawing them as well at some point so I can show you guys my interpretation of the Siblings of Sins in different Papal Eras.

[iliketangerines]

Hello! This is my very first time ever requesting so,

I would like GN!Reader with Syzoth who watches the Zatteran sparring with Earthrealm’s gang and noticed how Syzoth’s tail is used for battlefield too. They get curious about it and always watch even discovering how his tail would wag when super happy. One day,they get the courage to look at it closely and thus touch it once Syzoth’s gives permission,feeling the scaly texture,spikes and etc. Syzoth would impress them by picking them up solely by his tail around their waist with grin and puts them down soon as they both enjoy their little interaction together.

All fluff please! :)

And don’t forget to drink water! Gotta stay hydrated! <3

the small things

a/n: syzoth is such a cutie patootie fr

pairing: syzoth x gn!reader

warnings: none :)

you stare at Syzoth from across the training field, sitting underneath the shade of a tree and using a small fan to cool yourself off.

the Zaterran seems more than happy to bask in the sun’s heat, clothes stripped down to just him in his loose pants to soak up every ray

here in the academy, he had grown much more comfortable with his identity as a Zaterran that could transform between human and lizard, and most times when he visited earth, he was in a half-transformed state that he was most comfortable in

his tail slaps happily against the large flat tanning rocks, and he stretches his arms above him, tongue flicking out and reptilian eyes closing shut

his tattoos seem to move and squirm on his skin, almost as if they also moved to find the most sun possible and the scales on his arms flex and stretch as he moves and wriggles around on the rocks to get more comfortable

you take another drink of water, listening to Kung Lao and Raiden next to you groan about the heat as Ashrah, ever the diligent student, trains out in the blazing sun

although with her background as a demon from the Netherrealm, you figure that perhaps the heat here would never be as intense as the once in her previous realm

your eyes flicker back to Syzoth who seems to be dozing off, tail curling slightly around him, scales flexing and moving

something itches inside of you to touch the scales, to feel the texture on your fingers and run them along the length of the tail, you bet it would be satisfying to touch

but this is Syzoth, not just some domesticated animal, and you shake the thoughts from your head and sigh, flopping onto your back and staring up at the sunlight-dappled trees

it was too hot today, and it seems the sun was relishing in your suffering because the heat drags and drags, even as the moon rises and darkness overtakes the academy

you trudge back to your room, opting to lay on the cool wooden floors rather than the soft and warm bed, and you sigh at the coolness against your face

as you stretch out against the wooden floorboards, you laugh to yourself about how you feel like Syzoth stretching out to feel the sun except that you’re doing the opposite

perhaps if you also had a tail, it would be lazily wagging at the feeling of the coolness against your heated skin

as the moon raises up into the sky and the wooden floorboards acclimate to your warmth, you eventually move to the bathroom and clean yourself up before laying atop of your blankets and staring up at the ceiling

you wonder if it would be offensive to ask Syzoth to touch his scales, would it be like asking him to reveal an intimate part of himself, or would it be casual?

the culture surrounding tails was most definitely different in Zaterran culture, but it’s not like you knew much about it in the first place

eventually, sleep covers your eyes and brings your body down into a slow dreamland, and you drift off thinking about Syzoth

when you wake up, you’re on the floor again, cheek pressed against the coolness of the wood, and you groan and stand up, feeling your back pop

how in the world did Syzoth sleep so comfortably on the tanning rocks when everything hurt after you had migrated to the floor in the middle of the night

picking yourself up and gritting your teeth at the creaking in your joints, you trudge to the bathroom and clean yourself up, splashing cool water onto your face

finally, you manage to make it to the breakfast table and grab a tray to serve yourself to the breakfast the monks were serving

baozi and congee as always, and you grab a few baozi and a bowl of the congee, and you scan the half-full dining room before spotting Kung Lao and Raiden conversing with Syzoth

you walk on over and sit down next to Syzoth, and in the corner of your eye, you can see his tail twitch and his eyes focus on you, the slits dilating just the slightest bit at your presence

smiling at him, you pick up your food and try to fix your posture, only to wince at the pinch in your back

he frowns and asks if everything’s alright with you, and you nod, saying that you just had managed to somehow fall asleep on the floor for the night and now your back hurt

you have no idea how he sleeps on the tanning rocks and doesn’t get any pain in his body, and he laughs, tail slapping against the ground with a dull thump

his hands go to scratch at the scales covering his arm, and he says that his biology seemed to be a little differently suited for hard surfaces, a Zaterran evolutionary thing

it makes sense to you, and you grumble that you’re a bit jealous, able to sleep basically wherever and also looking way cooler than any human or Edenian

Syzoth cocks his head at you, asking what you mean, and you purse your lips together, pausing in eating your food as you realize what you just said

you laugh nervously, saying that it was just pretty cool he had a tail and scales and stuff, and you can’t help but glance at his tail as you tell him your thoughts

he lets out a sound, and a second of silence passes by in the air before he asks if you want to touch his tail, because you thought it was cool

a slight green flush appears  on his face, and you blink at him, shooting a glare to Kung Lao as you hear him snicker at the both of you

your hands twitch in excitement when you ask if he’s really okay with you touching his tail, and he nods, moving his tail so that it sits in your lap

it’s a lot heavier than you had expected it to, but as you run your fingers along the surface, you find that you were right: this is highly satisfying

you trace the grooves of the scales carefully, how each has a slightly different shape, and Syzoth watches as you admire the muscle

the tail twitches in your lap before slightly wrapping around your waist, curling around your curves instinctively into your warmth, and you laugh slightly as you gain a little confidence in putting more pressure onto the scales

then you hear a sigh from Kung Lao and then his voice, much too loud in the small dining hall, that you two should date already

both you and Syzoth throw chopsticks at his face

[kingofthe-egirls]

SILLY IS THE NEW SEXY: GEAR 5 LUFFY x Y/N

(cw: sex, flirting, squirting, creampie, silliness)

(an: i can't stop writing about gear 5 luffy)

Songs: "Monkey and Bear" by Joanna Newsom

words: 2.1k

You have curves like the sea, and as soon as Luffy lays eyes on you, he knows you’re different.

You ooze sex.

It clings to you like a second skin, as if sex appeal is a boa constrictor draped around your neck. Glittering and emerald, luxurious and reptilian, with striking ferocity in every touch.

He can’t keep his eyes off you.

“Captain,” you say smoothly one night, enjoying drinks in the firelight, “You’re staring again.”

Luffy freezes, and then giggles sheepishly with his hand behind his head. “Shishishi, sorry,” he says, “M’not tryna be rude.”

“What are you trying to do?” You ask curiously, tipping your champagne back from its crystal flute. It tastes like sour cherries.

“I dunno,” he says plainly, and leans back on his hands. His legs are splayed out in front of him, sitting on the wood of the deck. He knocks his feet together. “I like looking at you, I guess.”

You stiffen, flattered at his words, before you take another sip. Stars flutter overhead. Blue velvet stretches across the sky, and the silver moon is only half-full.

“Hmm,” you tilt your head, pleased, “I like looking at you, too.”

He beams at that, and you both gaze at each other steadily. The waves crash and echo around the softly creaking ship, lullabies all around you. You let your gaze rake over him, boyish in form with muscular limbs and a shining face. Black hair under his straw hat, sticking out in spikes. You hum, appreciative.

“I like it a lot, in fact.”

You flush at your boldness, but only slightly. You’re no stranger to flirtation, and this is getting fun.

Luffy cocks his head. “Whatcha like about it?”

You detail the planes of his body with your eyes, gray and hazy in the moonlight. You take another sip of fizzy, liquid gold.

“Your face,” you say first, honestly, “It always makes me happy. Especially when you smile,” you cup your own cheek in one hand. He crinkles his nose, pleased, and looks off to the side. The silent question hangs on his lips: What else?

“Your shoulders are next,” you let your eyes fall over his muscles like a featherlight touch. “Your arms, your strength. It’s really impressive. I like when you wear red,” you move to sit on your knees, lowering onto the ground from where you’d been perched in a deck chair. Luffy scoots closer to you, too. He holds his forearm in front of you, and flexes. His wide hand is clenched in a loose fist. You let your fingers drift over swollen knuckles.

“Your hands,” you say softly, heat blooming in your gut. “You have really gorgeous hands,” you confess, and turn away before you can embarrass yourself further. You never knew the flirtation would get this far, with him sitting so close to you he’s radiating heat like the sun. You flick a lock of hair over your shoulder, and bump slightly into him. You clear your throat, “What about me?”

“Your curves! I like the way they look like waves,” he drags a broad hand across your waist, and pinches at the fat of your belly. “I like the way this rolls over,” he says, voice low, “I like the way your thighs shake as you walk. I like your ass,” he says the crass compliment like it’s nothing, like his touch isn’t burning hot lava into you. “I like the way you smell.”

“What do I smell like?” You breathe, already too far gone to pretend any further. You’re putty in his rubber hands.

He screws up his nose in thought. “Like butter? Or maybe…sea salt?” He licks his lips, “It smells tasty.”

“You smell good, too,” you blush, turning away. He knocks his shoulder into yours. You scoot closer, so your legs are touching. He hooks an ankle over yours. “Like tea.”

“Good tea?” He asks, and you nod. Tentatively, you lean your head onto his shoulder. He hesitates, breath held, but then relaxes into your touch quite naturally. He rests his head on top of yours, fluffy hair tickling your cheek.

“Very good tea,” you affirm. Your body is electrified, never having been this close to your captain before. “Do you like girls?” You ask abruptly, not wanting to tread water for any longer. You need to breathe.

“Mhmm,” he says, nodding against the top of your head. “Lotta people think I don’t, but I do.” He twines his fingers around yours, bringing them to rest on his lap. “D’you like boys?”

“Too much,” you chuckle, and sit up from him again. “Do you like me?” You gaze at him truthfully, letting your want and desire seep through into your skin. Your captain is clueless, but not that clueless. He regards you with a princely stare.

“Too much,” he echoes, and leans forward to kiss you.

****

Now, you’re suspended in midair, back pressed against the cabin wall, while Luffy fucks you senseless.

He’d brought you to his cabin, pressing your back against his door. He'd reached behind your supple hips to turn the deadbolt into its lock.

“Love ya, kitty,” he breathes into your shoulder, before scraping his teeth along your sensitive skin. “Love how ya move around like no one’s watching. As if anyone could ignore those fuckin’ curves.”

He grips hard at your ass, his other arm supporting your lower back. Your shoulder blades scrape against the cabin wall. He tastes like sea salt, and milk. You stick your tongue down his throat.

“Mmph,” Luffy moans into your throat, languid thrusts rocking you gently. He reaches down to thumb at your clit between you.

“So good, baby,” you croon, raking your fingers through the soft hair at the base of his neck. He flickers gold for a second, white hair foaming at the ends of his raven strands. “Luffy?” You ask, watching his eyes swirl rosy. He giggles, grin wide, as he speeds up inside you. Your stomach bulges with his cock, and he gasps in mad abandon.

“Look at that…,” he whispers, feeling the head of his cock through your abdomen. Your stomach is not flat by any means (quite the opposite), but that doesn’t matter for Monkey D. Luffy. If he wants to see his cock, he’s gonna see his fucking cock.

“Luffy!!” Gasping for breath, watching his dick thrust in and out of you like you’re both made of rubber. Little hearts sprint in circles around his face, little ducklings following suit. He giggles, and you do, too.

Your eyes haze over into gold, with pink flecks of light bouncing around your tits. “Fuck—,” you gasp, watching the now curly-haired Luffy grit his teeth and fuck you hard. He lifts you off the wall, bucking his hips up into your cunt from below. The sounds of his balls slamming against your ass reverberates through the room, before his eyes bug out of his head like cartoon hearts. He’s slacked-jawed, tongue hanging out of his mouth as a wolf whistle sounds from somewhere off to the side.

“Aaaahhhh, kitty, ya feel so—oh!—goood!!!” He wails with his eyes squeezed shut. His muscular abs clench as he pistons his hips up into you. His cock is huge now, cartoonishly big as he pummels up into your cunt. It slaps and gushes, your clit aching, as Luffy tightens his hold around you. He leans down to bury his face in your tits, sucking hard on your sensitive nipples. He rolls his tongue around them, before elongating the muscle to wrap around your tit like a slimy tentacle. The tip flicks at your nipple.

Electricity bolts through you, zinging up your spine and down to your toes. Steam is curling around your face, presumably pouring out of your own ears. Luffy is giggling, manic, before leaning backward to careen you both into the bed. He jackhammers up into you, sitting now with you on his lap. His long tongue moves around your tit, sucking and licking like an animated restraint. His limbs are rubber wrapped around you now, sparks flying from where your bodies connect. His cock is thrusting sloppily against your cervix, which usually hurts but with him slams stars into your eyes. Your body is as elastic as he is, apparently.

Your fingers curl into his hair. “Luuuffyyyy,” you groan.

“Haahahaha!!!” He cackles, slurping his tongue back into his mouth. He slaps your other tit with a smack that makes a sound like a spring.

He leans down to suck your other nipple, not wanting his baby to feel uneven. His lips wrap around your bud, soft and chapped as he plays you with his tongue. Slow, sensual licks all over your hardened bud send shivers coursing through you. Luffy giggles, before ramming you down hard onto his aching cock. His lips stay tightly glued to your nip, so it makes your tit bounce up and down like a fucking porno. Luffy crosses his eyes up in pleasure.

Sex with new Luffy is freaky as fuck.

But (surprisingly?) his silliness has in no way deterred you from your own sparkling orgasm.

“S’fun, isn’t it?” He asks as he pops off your overstimmed nipple. You nod, vigorously. You push him forward onto his back, so that you can ride him at your own haphazard pace. You sink down further onto his cock, letting him hit it from below. Your elbows are on either side of his manic head. Your hips rocket repeatedly down into his, both of you grunting with every thrust.

Steamy hearts explode in front of your eyes.

"So fucking fun," you say, searing his grin into your senses for later. You're gonna be thinking about this hookup for ages.

Your pussy clenches at the thought, of maybe not having this be a one time experience, as Luffy moans. He stutters, grabbing your hips in searing hands.

Captain Luffy whines, head thrown back in sheer joy. His cock is bullying your walls, smaller now but no less thick. He brushes up against your g-spot, over and over again. It feels like something is going to spring out of you at any minute. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the impending release of your shaky orgasm. A wolf whistle sounds off again, steam clouding the room. You gasp, as you cum.

“Luffy!!” You squeal, heat overtaking you as you shiver in ecstasy. “Luuffy, fuuuuck….,” you drawl out, dragging your hands over his sculpted chest. He’s heaving in ragged breaths, scarlet blushed formed on his squishy cheeks.

“Squirt for me,” he commands, thumbing at your clit in rough circles. “Cmon, baby, I know ya can do it.”

He presses down hard against your lower abdomen, twitching his cock up inside you as you ride him. You bounce your way to orgasm, screaming and crying for the whole ship to hear. Somewhere deep in your core, you squirt onto his lower abdomen. Luffy laughs, giddy.

“S’coming, baby,” he warns you, eyes dark, as his thrusts grow sloppy. He slams his hips up into you, cock thrusting against your sweetest spots.

So deep--!

“Yeeesss,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You bury your face in moonlight hair.

“Ganna—,” he stutters, hips shuddering as he cums inside you with a violent thrust.

His eyes cross in pleasure as he spills his seed inside you.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Luffy gasps, eyes squeezing shut as a wave of orgasmic, cosmic energy flows through him. He’s never had sex like this, before. He’s never had you, before. No way he’s letting you slip away, now.

“Say you’re mine, baby,” he says, sweating and panting as you both come down. His fingers trail along your hipbones. “I wanna be yours."

He's panting, his voice raspy and hoarse.

His hair is dark, now.

You watch as the last shreds of cartoon hearts fade out of existence around you. The steam has cleared up, too. And no more whistles sound. You snicker, "Sex is so fun, with you."

"Shishishi," he grins. And then, "Say you're mine, baby? Pleeaseee?" He whines up at you, and you snort.

"Sure thing, captain," you slide off of him, and he groans, "I'm all yours."

"Seriously," he pouts, poking your inner thigh. Your leg twitches, still spasming from the aftershocks. "Sex isn't usually this fun."

"Even after Gear 5?"

He smirks, "Steam was new. But," he looks up at you, wide-eyed and serious, "I really do wantcha, y/n."

You still, regarding him down the length of your nose. Your chest is fluttering, crazy butterflies going off in your stomach. "Sex is one thing," you allow, scared, "But relationships are a whole other thing. Seriously means you're serious with me. S'okay?"

Luffy nods. His grip tightens around your hips, as he sits up. "Seriously," he says, hand running over your thighs, "Silly, maybe. But serious." His face darkens, "And I don't wanna play games with you."

You swallow, and nod.

"Me neither."

****

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

[exodusin]

♱ — 𝕬𝖓 𝖚𝖓𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖍𝖞 𝖔𝖇𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓 𖤐 yandere!bill cipher x goth!reader ; MOSTLY triangle bill and some FEW human bill in some parts, human bill is based off this design, no twinkification of the nation, stalking, manipulation, gore, abuse, just overall out of pocket, there will be smut but it is consensual, NO NONCON we don’t do that here, reader’s personality is kind of based of Henrietta Biggle from South Park

TW; childhood trauma, bullying, abuse, torture, stalking, creepy ass behavior, manipulation

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

August 25, 2016 — Gravity Falls, Oregon

You and your best friend, Wendy Corduroy, were at the mini-store plazas in downtown Gravity Falls, looking for stuff for college. You were entering the art field, despite your mother's objections that you should study something more lucrative. But you didn't mind; just one year of arts wouldn't hurt. You wanted to pursue something you truly enjoyed.

You picked up a few goth band pins for your backpack: Siouxsie and The Banshees, The Cure, Bauhaus, Sisters of Mercy, etc.

"Dude! Tambry is back. It's been a while since we've seen her," Wendy said, showing you a recent text from Tambry about returning to Gravity Falls. You exhaled smoke from your lips and smiled.

"How's she doing? Did she mention anything about me?" you asked. Wendy shook her head. "Not yet, but hopefully she'll be excited to see us. I think she's still a bit... traumatized by the apocalypse."

"I think everyone is, but we cope with the 'Nevermind that!' thing... It kind of works for me," you said casually. It had been frightening to think about but knowing your abusive mom had been turned to stone made you feel slightly better.

Shaking off the thought, you continued walking and talking with Wendy. You both were headed to the Mystery Shack for work. Upon arrival, you clocked in and placed your backpack near your workspace.

"There you are!" You smiled at the familiar voice of Soos, the coolest manager ever, especially since Grunkle Stan retired in a way.

"Good news, dudettes! You two are getting a raise!" Soos announced.

You and Wendy looked at each other and grinned. "Wait, really?" Wendy asked excitedly.

"Of course! I understand college is a money grab, dudes," Soos chuckled. "Does $19 an hour work?"

"Better than okay, it's perfect!" you exclaimed. Tambry walked into the shack, her hair a bit longer this time, grinning when she saw both of you and Wendy.

"Guys!"

"Tambry!" You and Wendy exclaimed, giving each other a group hug, reminiscing about 2012.

"Purple-haired girl! Is it Tambry? Please correct me, dudes," Soos said as he joined the hug.

"You guys are crushing my bones..." Tambry groaned but chuckled.

"Now that we have a strong trinity of young ladies, I want you three to find something, anything that can attract tourists, as long as it isn't hazardous. Make something up, just like the old Stan ways!" Soos smiled. Tambry looked at him. "But I don't work for you?"

"Oh, come on! It's a good excuse for you three girls to have a night out and go on some sort of scavenger hunt."

"That feels like something Dipper and Mabel would do," you said, memories flooding back.

"Better get going now. Melody is making bomb enchiladas, and I don't want you dudes missing out."

"Bet, c’mon, let’s go see what this creepy-ass town has to offer," you said, grabbing your black trench coat with goth band patches, unaware of the reptilian slit on the moon watching you—only you—invisible to others, but you remained oblivious.

Oh, dearest

Oh, my dearest