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[meowdei]

FAREWELL, ARCHAIC LORD ──── FT. ZHONGLI

synopsis ✿ you never think you will know anything outside of your small life in qingce village until a funeral consultant steps on your precious chili plants. somewhere, in between funerals and shared meals, you fall in love with the god of contracts, and he decides he would like to spend eternity keeping you company

✿ BEFORE YOU READ ── female reader ; canon compliant ; strangers to lovers ; falling in love ; immortal x immortal - reader is half adepti so she has a long life span ; reader is abandoned by her parents as a child and is unofficially adopted by an npc in qingce village ; themes of grief and death (the npc dies) ; semi public sex - you do not get caught ; vaginal sex ; unprotected sex ; creampie ; fingering, cunnilingus ; nipple play ; hand jobs ; zhongli has two dicks ; zhongli carries reader ; reader is NOT traveler/lumine and is slightly jealous of her at one point ; references to chi of yore lore ; takes place during osial's attack on liyue ; confessions ; getting together ; NOT proof read and tbh there might be an inconsistency or two (pls lmk if there is)

꒰ word count ꒱ 20.2k words — PLEASE PLEASE GIVE IT A CHANCE IM BEGGING YOU ON MY HANDS & KNEES

꒰ commentary ꒱ replaying genshin impact on an alt and now i have the zhongli bug in the year 2026

Morax has walked many mountains in his lifetime.

He has shaped them, too—raised stone from the earth, carved cliffs from bedrock, and split the land itself in wars long since forgotten. He has walked along battlefields where gods fell and along cities that crumbled into dust beneath divine wrath. And yet, somehow, it is a small patch of farmland in Qingce Village that finally brings him trouble. 

Specifically, a neat row of freshly sprouting jueyun chili plants.

He does not notice them at first. The path is narrow, the terraces crowded with green growth, and his attention is momentarily occupied with locating the correct house of the elderly widow he has come to visit on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He steps forward—there is a soft, devastating crunch beneath his shoe—and he stops. Slowly, he looks down. A small green sprout lies bent sideways in the dirt. He moves his foot, and there is another crushed stem.

He blinks once. Then twice. “…Oh dear.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

There is a voice that comes from behind him, and Morax turns. You stand just a few steps away, staring at him in horror as though you have just witnessed a murder in its cold-blooded glory. (Perhaps murder is not far from the truth, of course—the plants are surely dead now.)

Your gaze drops to the ground. Then back up to him. Then back to the ground again. “You stepped on my jueyun chilis,” you say flatly.

Morax follows your gaze again, taking in the small row of plants he has apparently trampled with great efficiency.

“Ah, yes,” he says after a moment, looking only slightly apologetic. “It would appear that I have—my apologies for my carelessness.”

“These were only just sprouting,” you cry, crouching down to inspect the damage. “Now I’ll have to restart these sprouts,” you look up at him, utterly unimpressed.

“My apologies,” Morax says sincerely. “That was not my intention.”

You stand, brushing dirt off your hands, and look him up and down. Morax watches your eyes as they assess him properly—he can practically see the way you pick apart his appearance right before his eyes as you make your deductions. (He is dressed far too nicely to be a farmer or a villager. Too clean. Too proper. He can see it written plainly all over your face that you have already figured he is from the more urban parts of Liyue.)

“You’re not from here,” you say. “Liyue Harbor?”

“That is correct.”

“I can tell.”

He inclines his head slightly. “I am here on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”

Your expression shifts immediately.  “Oh.” The irritation does not disappear entirely, but it softens. Dare he say, your expression even saddens some. “You’re here for Madam Lu, then. For her late husband,” you say.

“Yes.”

“She’s been expecting someone.”

Morax nods as he explains, “I’ve come to discuss the funeral services she seeks. However,” he adds, glancing down at the damaged plants again, “I appear to have caused some trouble before arriving.”

You cross your arms at that. “Yes. You did.”

“I will compensate you for the loss,” Morax offers.

Your brows lift slightly, unimpressed—you are deeply, wholly, entirely unimpressed by him. It is a fascinating change of pace. Morax (or, perhaps sooner or later, he will have to grow more used to Zhongli) is not someone people look at so disdainfully. So dismissively. So irritably. The only individuals who have ever cast a look at him in such a manner are foes long fallen, long since taught the power of the Geo Archon and slain for daring to stand against him in battle.

“Do you think you can simply just pay for the damages you have caused to my agriculture?” you huff at him.

He hums, nodding as he says, “If that is what is required of me, I certainly can.”

You study him for a long moment, then snort softly. “You really are from the Harbor.”

“I take it that is obvious.”

“Painfully.” Then, you look down at the plants again and sigh. “Well, they’re not all dead,” you say. “You only destroyed…several. Not everything.”

“I am relieved to hear the damage is not total.”

You give him yet another look. “You’re very calm for someone who just committed agricultural sabotage to a small, humble villager’s plants.”

“I find panic rarely improves a situation,” he says honestly. 

You stare at him for a second longer. Then, much to his surprise, you laugh. He blinks, slightly taken aback. (Where goes all your agitation from just a few moments prior, he wonders.)

“You’re rather strange,” you tell him. 

“Am I?” he asks, slightly amused. 

You crouch again and gently press some soil back around one of the bent sprouts, trying to prop them upright. “Yes—quite strange indeed. You said you’re from the funeral parlor?” you ask.

“Yes. I am here to help Madam Lu arrange her husband’s funeral.”

Your hands slow slightly at that. “Right,” you say quietly. That sad look is back on your expression. You must have known him, Morax surmises—though, of course, that would not be all too surprising. Qingce Village is a small place, after all. “Master Lu was a good man. He passed last week. His wife is not taking the news well.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Morax replies evenly. “That is why I have come in person. Aside from the fact that she is grieving, it would be difficult for her to travel to Liyue Harbor at such an old age.”

Your gaze softens at his words—something…rather grateful seems to replace the earlier traces of resentment as you look up at him.  “That was kind of you.”

“It is only part of my duties at the parlor. Nothing worthy of praise.”

You stand again and wipe your hands on your skirt. For a moment, Morax locks his eyes with yours—they are rather easy to get lost in, he thinks to himself. Time is preserved so simply when he is looking into them, so effortlessly that he almost feels the eroded fragments of his soul settle down and rest. (This is all he has ever hoped to have for quite some time—just the chance to simply rest his old, eroding soul and enjoy something outside of the divine. How frightening that it is as simple as looking into the eyes of a village girl.)

“Well,” you say, gesturing up the path, “whether you can complete your duties to be worthy of praise or not, we will never know if you insist on going the wrong way, Mister…”

Morax, he itches to say. Instead, he smiles politely, says “Zhongli,” and introduces himself before continuing, “and I had suspected as much.”

You answer him by murmuring your name. It’s a beautiful name, he decides as he tests it on his tongue—as is everything else about you. Your smile, and the simple way you are dressed under the gold cast of light the sun coats you in, are easily the most breathtaking parts of Qingce village. Despite the lush patches of grass and the soft petals of glaze lilies in the distance, Morax finds he cares little for the sights of the village when you are in his line of vision.

“You’re heading toward the terraces,” you tell him. “Madam Lu’s house is in the other direction.”

“I see.”

You start walking off, and he stands there, partly stunned and partly not. Something about you makes it so that he is not entirely shocked by the abrupt way you saunter away, but he finds that being kept on his toes is not all that terrible. Especially not if he gets to watch you walk away, either—you are not a poor sight from behind, that is for certain. Then, just a moment later, you glance back at him.

“Come on, you fancy old harbor man. I’ll take you there before you destroy anything else.”

Morax huffs a small, amused laugh. Harbor man. When was the last time someone addressed him so casually? So carefree? His memory fades to long, distant times. Times he does not forget, of course, but times that are long enough into the past that he cannot help but lose his grasp on what it feels like to enjoy his days the way he once did. 

“I appreciate your assistance.”

“You can repay me by not stepping on any more plants,” you wave a hand off dismissively. 

“I will make every effort.”

He walks in silence alongside you for a few moments through the village. He eyes the terraces and takes in the breathtaking view of such simplistic beauty. The waters are clear, and the petals of the blooming flowers are wide as they face the sun like open arms. It has been a long time since Morax has come to this village—a long, long time, indeed. The last he remembers of this place is the great battle he’d fought before that wretched serpent god had fallen. They seem to be doing fine, he notes in satisfaction. Of course, that is not a surprise to him—he would surely hear about it, perhaps even make an appearance himself, had they not. 

But the villagers of this small, peaceful patch of land are doing well. And Morax is faced with the haunting proof that he has done his duties once again. Quite exceptionally, too—exceptionally enough that he wonders if he truly has any duties left for much longer. 

It’s not long before you glance sideways at him. “So…do you do this often?”

“Do what?” He hums. 

“Travel all the way out here to help people arrange funerals,” you say as you lead him over a small, wooden bridge. He is mindful not to trample a stem of jueyun chilis that grow along a patch of grass on his way. 

“Yes,” he nods, “if the director asks it of me, I tend to travel to clients.”

“That sounds…like a rather depressing job. It must suck the excitement out of the travels when you are working so closely with the dead.”

“On the contrary,” Morax says calmly, “I work with those still living. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.”

You glance at him with a slight scoff. “That is a very funeral-parlor thing to say.”

“I imagine it is,” he chuckles, “but it is true nonetheless.”

You walk a little farther before suddenly saying, “You know, you talk like an old man.”

Morax does not react immediately. He’s certainly heard that phrase before—how many times has he been called old? It’s…not exactly false, if he were to be technical about his age. “…Do I?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you snort, eyeing him in amusement. “Very philosophical. You sound like you’ve been alive far longer than you look.”

“I assure you that is not the case,” is all he says. If only you knew. 

“Mm,” you say skeptically. “I don’t believe you.”

He almost smiles.

Morax, as he follows you, reaches a small house near the edge of the village. Smoke curls faintly from the chimney, and the grass is perfectly trimmed with glaze lilies neatly sprouting along a line beneath the front window of the house. You eye them for a moment before sighing as you murmur, “The old woman hasn’t been watering them again—it can only be expected.”

Morax says nothing. He’s an observant person at his core—he has not reigned over Liyue for a short period of time, and that reign of power did not come to him overnight. Such is his nature as a god, as an adepti, as a warrior, to be observant. It’s easy to see that this old couple—this old widow, now—means something to you. That alone would not be a shock. Qingce village is a small place, and it would not be hard to piece together that a small village and its people are well-connected. 

But the grief on your face, coupled still with that familiar, fond expression as you sigh over the neglected flowers, suggests that there is more to your relationship with Madam Lu (and by extension, her late husband) than the average villager. Morax almost wants to pry, but if there is anything that being a funeral parlor associate—and, of course, a god who has seen many battles—has taught him, it’s to never pry when the grieving grieve.  

“That’s Madam Lu’s house,” you gesture at the door, “she’s home, so you should be able to take care of business rather swiftly.”

“Thank you,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “And again, I apologize for your plants.”

You roll your eyes as you wave a hand dismissively. “You should be. But, I suppose they’ll survive. Well—probably.”

“I am most hopeful that they do,” he nods. 

Morax watches as you start to turn away, walk to the flowers and inspect the slightly dry soil beneath them, and reach for the watering can abandoned at the side with a sigh. 

“You know,” you say, glancing back at him, “you’re not what I expected for someone from a funeral parlor.”

“In what way?” he raises a brow. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I thought you would be gloomy. Or cold. Maybe a little creepy.”

“I see,” he smiles in amusement, “I would hope I am none of those things, lest director Hu receives complaints.”

“Hurt no more of my chilis, and I will allow you to leave Qingce village with no complaints, harbor man.” You grab the watering can and start walking away towards a well in the distance.  Then, you pause and call over your shoulder: “Do try not to get lost on your way out—I cannot escort you every time.”

“I will try my hardest,” Morax hums. He watches you go for a moment before turning toward the house.

────────────────────────

You end up seeing plenty of the harbor man for the next few weeks to come as you help plan Master Lu’s parting. 

Master Lu was a well-respected man in the village, and his doting wife strives for nothing less than a proper tribute for his send-off. Qingce village is a simple place. The people here lead plain, straightforward lives—most are those who seek something quiet and easy after retiring. They are people who have aged and feel the tug and pops of their aching muscles and bones. They are people who know that life is something to cherish before it is easily taken from you, before you are ready. 

As such, funerals are done properly. There are traditions to honor, respect to pay, and well wishes to part the dead with before they are off to the afterlife. 

You don’t know what is waiting for you in the afterlife—nor do you even really know if you believe in one at all, but you do know you cherished Master Lu. He took you in, after all, when you were nothing but a young child—too much of a responsibility for your adepti father, who had enough as is to do, evidently. And too much of a burden for your mortal mother, who could not bear the so-called injustice of having a non-human lover and child. 

So, following the abandonment of your parents—two different reasons for the same betrayal—you end up dumped in Qingce village because that is where it is safest to abandon young children, apparently. And that is where Master Lu, alongside many others in the village, finds you, at your tender age of ten, with your helpless, bitter distrust of adults around you. Slowly, but surely, he is but one of the many who rebuilds your image of the world you are surrounded by, much like he rebuilds practically anything with those adept, carpenter hands of his.

Your first bed, and the swingset in the grass that you played on, and that little bench where you’d sit and watch Madam Lu water her crops in the distance. He had built them all for you with his own callused hands, much like he’d built that easy trust that mended your wounded child-heart. 

And now Master Lu is gone. But he has helped build you a stable enough, sturdy enough foundation that even without his cunning smile and his crinkled eyes, you trust the world around you despite it all. And you trust that funeral consultant, too—clumsy as he may be around your precious plants. 

“Madam Lu tells me you have arranged for a florist to bring flowers from Liyue Harbor,” you hum, walking with him through the terraces. 

He nods, inspecting a glaze lily. “Yes, but there will be glaze lilies supplied by the village itself—we do not often see glaze lilies bloom like this in Liyue Harbor. Not so naturally, that is. They are artificially sprouted by modifications, but they lack the same fragrance.”

“Qingce village didn’t always have glaze lilies as full as these,” you say proudly, “it was only after I came to the village that they grew so fresh and full—it brought Madam Lu lots of business, you know. No one seems to be able to tend to them the same way as I, no matter the effort.”

“I see,” Zhongli says thoughtfully. Almost like he sees through you. 

You quickly change the subject—you wouldn’t want him to realize you aren’t human quite yet. (Not that it’s a dark secret that you keep, of course. But you find mortals tend to feel more at ease around you when they believe you, too, are yet another mortal.)

“Have you trampled any more chilis on your way here?” you huff, “don’t even consider lying because I will find out in due time. I will be deducting the damages from our final bill, you know.”

“I assure you all of your chilis are fine,” he chuckles, “and I have already informed director Hu of the discount you will be afforded for my mistake.”

“I hope your position is still intact,” you tease. “I’d hate for your livelihood to be at stake for such a simple mistake.”

“Well,” he smiles with what you can only describe as a bit of a devious grin, even despite how proper and polite he holds himself, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cost the funeral parlor a mora or two. Such is the risk of running a business—some losses are to be expected.”

At the start, Zhongli left immediately after his weekly visits with Madam Lu to plan the funeral services. Master Lu has already been buried, of course, but the funeral itself won’t be held until the following month to ensure that all the proper traditions are seen through. But, well…Madam Lu is a lonely woman, and Zhongli is good at conversing with the elderly. Almost too good. She has grown rather fond of his presence, and you think that Zhongli is equally as fond of her cooking as he is shirking off his duties for a bit, so he puts up little argument when she asks him to stay for lunch. 

And that is how you end up entertaining him for the time it takes for her to cook her meals. 

Couldn’t you cook your meals ahead of time, you’d asked the old, nagging woman, it’s not as though you don’t have the time to spare.

And how often do you see such a handsome, young face in this village, she’d tutted, giving you a disapproving look, I have to stall for time somehow, so you can charm him. He is a fine man, you stubborn child—make sure you waste no opportunities. I want grandchildren.

You’re already an old granny, you’d huffed, fighting back the flustered look that threatened to make itself apparent on your face. 

That damned old lady and her damned need to meddle where she didn’t have any place meddling. But you suppose that is why you grew up the way you had—so loved and well looked after, despite being practically an orphan in function. And you suppose that Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not…the worst candidate for a man, should you choose to settle down. 

Not that you would choose. 

Your life span is too long for that of a mortal lover, and adepti are difficult enough to come by as it is. Never mind the fact that they are likely all too old to settle for someone like you—you are still a young lady in mortal years. Surely, if a strong, capable adepti man were looking to settle down, he would spare little time with someone like you who does nothing more than tend to crops with your days. 

You have never dreamed of settling down and loving a man—not when mortals such as your mother can see the true curse that it is to fall in love with a long-lived being such as yourself. Mortal men, especially gentlemanly, smooth-talking, and granny-pleasing funeral consultant mortal men from Liyue Harbor of all places, would waste little time with you. 

But you shake the thought off as you turn to look at the old lady’s house in the distance, and see her waving by her front door to indicate that lunch is ready. You nod before turning to Zhongli to bring him along with you—

—and the world is suddenly shifting. Why is it shifting? Why does it feel like gravity is no longer keeping you firmly cemented in an upright position on the ground, and why does it feel like air is rushing past you all too fast? Surely…surely you couldn’t be falling?

Except you are. If your poor luck as a half-mortal, half-immortal being wasn’t enough to deter you from charming a man, your clumsiness sure is. And you had the gall to call him clumsy, you think. Not…not that you care to charm him of all people anyway because…well, because why would you? You do not. 

But if you were to care, well then. This would be your sign to swiftly put those dreams behind you. It’s a good thing you never cared for such silly fantasies anyway. 

But, just as quickly as you are falling over the edge of a terrace and onto the ground a hefty distance away, the earth beneath you is shifting. It shakes and rumbles, and then it lifts so that soft soil reaches your back faster than heavy impact can. It isn't long before you are carefully raised to the terrace once more, where Zhongli is waiting for you with a polite, respectful hand outstretched just close enough that you don’t have to stretch to reach it, but just far enough that it doesn’t impose on your personal space, giving you the option to decline it. 

You take it. Because you are shaken, and not because you would like to hold his hand, of course. And he gently pulls you, where he steadies you easily as you shake on your wobbly legs when they take your weight. 

“What…” You furrow your brows, confused. Dazed. Still a little shaken. 

“You slipped on some of the wet soil,” he says calmly, “and lost your balance over the edge. I caught you using Geo.”

“Geo?” You furrow your brows deeper.

“My vision,” he explains simply, “I made a construct to catch you.”

“Well, thank you,” you nod slowly. 

Geo…you think to yourself. Undoubtedly, his power certainly was Geo. But…but you have felt the sensation of Geo around you before from a vision wielder, and…this power is different. More powerful? No—more concentrated. Like it is the source of Geo itself. Like it is where it all stems from, with how fierce and deep the energy runs through it. You know little of your lineage or of how the elements work, but you know that for a vision wielder, he seems abnormally strong. Almost…almost like his power is not that of a vision at all. Almost like he is the power—he and he alone. 

And then you blink, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“When did you get your vision?” you ask, hoping to sound casual. 

He hums, looking at you. And there it is again—that look. Like he sees right through you. “Perhaps I will tell you in due time,” he chuckles, still holding your hand as he pulls you alongside his steps forward. “Come, Madam Lu is waiting.”

He is not human, you think—no, you know. And for a short, brittle, fleeting moment, you dare to hope that perhaps Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not a mortal, and that he might have enough time to spare in this life to waste it with you. 

────────────────────────

Morax values those who follow traditions closely. It is sacred and ancient, the culture of Liyue. And Liyue is a richly cultured nation, indeed. Qingce Village, he is pleasantly surprised to find, pays its respect to the dead properly and does the culture of this nation justice.

You are standing in front of Master Lu’s grave, holding your offering with trembling fingers as he watches in the distance.

“You don’t have to worry about the old lady,” you mumble, voice oddly shaky. Morax never hears your voice shake—you are always so sure of yourself and what you say, so at peace with your existence and the way that your life is. But you are so different now, faced with grief.

For a while, you almost didn’t seem to be grieving at all. You spoke so easily to him—so casual and at times, playful with banter. All that really hinted that this passing was a tragedy to you was just a small, sad smile when you’d think about or mention the late Master Lu and his lonely, widowed wife. Just a tiny, long look like you’d been parted from an old friend rather than lost a dear loved one. 

Morax has seen loss and the many different shades it comes in. It’s a devastating color—it washes out all of the other colors that paint life. But you seemed almost like this passing was just any other passing in the everyday world. Just a natural occurrence that you couldn’t help. You’d been strong when Madam Lu couldn’t—spoke with a strong, steady voice as you continued the discussion on the services when the poor old lady broke down in sobs or simply couldn’t bring herself to speak at all. 

For a while, Morax almost wondered if you were grieving at all. If you were simply at peace with an inevitable goodbye.

But he sees your grief now—here, as you are kneeling on soft yet cold soil, clinging to your offering like it’s the last piece of Master Lu you will ever have. 

“I’ll watch over her. Her and those flowers she doesn’t water anymore—that old granny. Always insisting she isn’t aging,” you scoff—fond, exasperated, sad. “It’s like she doesn’t look in a mirror at all. Doesn’t see the way her skin is sagging more and more. It's like she thinks she’s immortal or something—can you believe it? You’d think losing her… her husband would make her take a look at herself for a second and worry about her own health, but she’s still… still that same old meddling old woman. But I’m going to… t-to take care of her—the stubborn old thing. Don’t you worry.”

Your voice breaks off into a quiet sob as you press a small wooden box into the soil before covering it carefully with dirt to keep it buried in place. It’s worn—Morax had only gotten a small glimpse of it as he’d walked with you to the grave. As the overseer of this funeral, it’s his duty to make sure the offerings made to the deceased are appropriate and respectful, to keep the dignity of those who have passed on intact.

He hadn’t asked you what the box meant to you, nor what was in it, but the way you clutched onto it so tightly, so desperately, could only mean that it was important.

“That old lady keeps talking about joining you soon,” you sniffle, rubbing your chin free of the tears that have collected there. “Says you’ll get lonely over there, dead all by yourself. She’s not alone, even if you’re not here—she has me. And Madam Yundan. And Master Hanfeng is still eyeing her, too—too bad you’ve gone ahead and died and can’t keep an eye out for his advances anymore, you fool. He’d still try to match me with that son of his at Liyue Harbor if he could, I bet. But the old lady needs me here, yeah? So I have to stay. And I need her, so you’ll just have to wait over there for a while before anyone joins you. You…you’re the one who left after all, so that’s on you. You old man.”

You sniff again, quieter this time, and brush some loose dirt from the top of the grave, patting it flat with absent care, like you’re smoothing down a blanket.

“Don’t go wandering off too far, alright?” you mutter. “If there’s an afterlife, you'd better stay where she can find you when she gets there. Don’t go gambling, or go drinking, and don’t go getting into trouble like you always did. You always did say she kept you in line, so you’d better behave until she gets there to do it properly again.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh that turns into something breathier, something that almost sounds like another sob before you swallow it down.

“She keeps pretending she’s not lonely,” you continue quietly. “Says the house is only quieter now, that’s all, without all your hammering and sawing and nonsense. Says she sleeps better without you snoring. But she sits by your chair, you know. Still sets out two cups when she makes tea sometimes. Then she gets mad at herself and puts one back.” You wipe roughly at your eyes, like you’re frustrated with the tears that won’t stop. “So you’d better be waiting for her. I doubt it’ll be too long before…before she comes and finds you. Maybe a few years. Maybe a decade, if she’s stubborn. She always is, so who’d be surprised? I’ll probably take some more time,” you say—it almost sounds bitter. Resigned in a way Morax almost…almost understands. You’ll probably take plenty more time. 

“I only have the people of this village, you know,” you say after a long silence. “So that old lady is stuck with me. And I’m stuck with her. So you don’t have to worry about her being alone. I won’t let her be. I’ll fix the roof before the rainy season, as you showed me. I’ll carry the buckets of water so she doesn’t try to do it herself and hurt her back again. I’ll make sure she actually waters those flowers she keeps talking to like they’re people. I’ll listen to her complain about the heat every morning like she always does. So you don’t have to worry. I’ll handle everything here. So just…rest, alright? You worked enough already—worked until the day you died, you stubborn old man. What’s all that you said about retiring? And to think, you live where people come just to retire, you old fool. But anyway…don’t rush her to come find you. Let her stay here a while longer.”

Your hand lingers on the soil for a moment longer before you finally pull it away.

“…Goodbye, Master Lu,” you murmur, all too quietly. “Don’t be lonely over there. We’ll come visit you—I know you love to hear that old woman babble, anyway.”

You stand slowly after that, brushing the dirt from your hands, but you don’t leave right away. You stay there for just a little longer, staring at the grave like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re trying to make sure he knows you really did come.

“You must see this plenty,” you mumble finally, looking over your shoulder to Morax. He stays silent, so you continue. “Still, sorry you had to see such a sorry display.”

Morax does not answer immediately. He stands with his hands folded behind his back, gaze resting not on you, but on the grave, the disturbed soil where you’d buried your offering. Only after a long moment does he speak.

“There is nothing sorry about grief,” he says at last, “a funeral is not a display of composure. It is a contract between the living and the dead.” You blink at him, a little confused and a little exhausted, too. “The living bring offerings, words, remembrance. The dead leave behind their names, their stories, perhaps a legacy, even. Both sides fulfill their duty. That is what gives a life a fair and just ending. Grief is proof that the departed were loved. Tears are an offering no less valuable than incense or mora. There is no shame in them.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You really do talk like a funeral consultant.”

He inclines his head slightly, smiling just a little. “It is my profession, after all.”

“Do you ever hear people say the wrong things?” you murmur. “At funerals.”

“All the time,” Morax replies without hesitation. “Well, I suppose wrong and right are subjective—but there is always a time and place, most would agree. But thankfully, the dead never show they are offended.”

That pulls a small, real laugh out of you, quiet and brief as it is. 

“That’s good, at least,” you murmur. “I called him an old fool at least three times.”

Morax looks at the grave, then back at you. “Then I am certain he departed this world feeling accurately remembered.” You snort softly at that, wiping under your eye again. After a moment, Morax speaks once more, voice softer now, less like a consultant and more like the old man that he is (not that you would know, of course). “It is the belief of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and many, I’m sure, that farewells do not end at the funeral. The living always continue to speak to and of the dead. In this way, the dead are not yet forgotten, nor are they truly gone—they are simply living somewhere else, where we cannot yet follow.”

You stare at the grave for a long moment after that. And he wonders if you perhaps do know that he isn’t the young mortal that he appears, as you say, “You sound especially like an old man now…but I’ll come visit and complain to him a lot,” you huff. “He always liked to gossip.”

“A good plan,” Morax agrees.

You nod once, satisfied with that answer, then brush the last of the dirt from your palms.

“Alright,” you mutter. “Let’s go, harbor man. The old lady will knock me with a watering can if I’m late for dinner.”

Morax turns to walk with you, but before you leave, you glance back at the grave one last time. As if to make sure the old man knows you really did come.

-- — --

Dinner with you and Madam Lu is as pleasant as it is heavy. Both of your eyes are red and slightly swollen from the crying that comes with a funeral service (as to be expected), but there is also the silent, but oh so obvious reality that this is Morax’s last meal with you and the elderly woman.

He will have no reason to return to Qingce village again after this, and as a result, this is the final time he will eat (such lovely) cooking by Madam Lu and converse with you over his food. 

He takes his time eating. 

The goodbye comes all too quickly, and your face is mortified as Madam Lu brings Zhongli down to her height by his cheeks as she says, “Young man, do come and visit! Such a handsome face like yours is rarely a sight we get, you know! You’d keep my stubborn child good company. Think about it, alright?”

“M-madam Lu!” you hiss, quickly intervening as you pry her hands off of him and give her a withering look. “Mister Zhongli is here for business—you mustn’t make him uncomfortable!”

“I assure you,” he grins, just a little too amused, he’s sure, for your comfort, “it is quite all right. I’m flattered you think so highly of my presence, miss.”

Your glare extends to him, then, too. 

And then you are both leaving the old lady’s residence, you on your way to your own home, and he on his way to leave the village and return to the harbor as always after a hearty meal from the woman. 

It just so happens to be the same direction, so you both walk together.

“You could always stay the night, you know,” you murmur. 

“Is this your way of offering your residence?” he raises a brow. 

You sputter, giving him another heated look before you hiss, “No, you sneaky little schemer! I meant there are inns for passing travelers in this village, and the journey to the harbor is surely more risky at night as opposed to during the day. That’s all.” 

He chuckles. “I appreciate the thought, but I assure you, this isn’t my first time making a journey at this time of day.”

“Yes, well, it only felt right to offer, that’s all,” you shrug petulantly, still flustered by his earlier comment. 

Morax keeps his chuckle at bay for your sake, but you seem to know he is holding back a laugh anyway, so you send him a sulky-looking warning glance before continuing to look ahead as you walk to your home. 

You reach it in no time. And now…now Morax must say goodbye to you properly. For the last time, likely. Unless there is yet another death in Qingce village that requires his travels, but he doesn’t think that is an appropriate circumstance to hope for in order to be in your presence some more. 

Your presence—what a fascinating reality it is, now, that he wishes for it more and more. He has taken to thinking of you when he is back at the parlor, and he often finds he leaves earlier than necessary when it is finally time to come make his journey to the village. Almost as often as he pushes back his time to leave. 

Morax turns to you as you stand by your door, unwilling to look into his eyes. 

“Well,” you mumble, “I suppose this is the last time you will have to come to his boring old village, isn’t it, harbor man?”

“Yes, for now,” he nods, “but boring is perhaps not the word I would use for this village.”

“Is that so?” You finally look up, raising a brow as you afford him a smile, “Do tell, what is so interesting about a small farmland?”

“For starters, those who tend to the crops are exceptionally skilled at creating difficult walking paths,” he murmurs, “therefore, I must always be alert when wandering this village. It’s as though they are trying to make it difficult—perhaps for a discount or two from wandering businessmen.”

You laugh, bright and free, and back to that steady version of yourself he is so used to. The grief is gone, even if only for a moment. That is how grief works, he supposes—it comes and goes as it pleases. Chokes and releases when it is feeling particularly punishing or merciful, depending on its mood. But grief is not all bad, he has learned. Both from experience as a warrior and a funeral consultant. 

It is grief that tethers people to the memories of loved ones. Grief that makes it so that life is not just a constant forward-moving force. There are still old, stubborn rocks that stay still, refusing to rush along with the current. That isn’t so bad—sure, the pain is there, but so is the preciousness of old memories. Memories that have no business being forgotten, no matter how much time passes. Memories that make it so that a life is not merely just a life, and an existence is not merely just an existence. 

He wonders then, if he died, how long his memory will go on. How long he will be grieved for, and how long the grieving will keep his memory sitting stubbornly in that stream that pushes forward, so willing to move on with or without him. 

You look at Morax with a soft, delicate look. You are fond of him; he is not a fool. He has lived thousands of years, and he has learned what a look of fondness looks like, even if he has never quite understood what it feels like to be so fond of someone, or to be the object of it himself. 

But you look at him like that, and he finds he enjoys the simplicity that comes with the way life is when you live like a mortal. When you live like you do not have enough time to leisurely be in the same place for hundreds of thousands of years. When you live as if you may pass on to the next life, and must move on from one thing to another, so that you may experience enough. 

Morax has been alive for so, so long. And yet, he wonders if the mortals have lived more than he has. 

So, when you fiddle with your fingers as you murmur, “Perhaps I made it difficult to walk along this village so it would take wandering businessmen longer to leave. It’s not often that they make their company known in a place like this,” he steps closer. 

“Is that so?” Morax asks. 

You don’t meet his eyes as you nod. You’re a funny being, he thinks—so sure of your existence, yet so unwilling to step beyond what you have deemed yourself worthy of. You are confident with your life. Happy with your place and sure that you belong where you are. So certain that you are deserving of what you have and what has been given to you, but you never dare ask for more or take beyond the scope of what you allow yourself. 

Even if you want it. 

But perhaps you are starting to change, he thinks. Because you step closer as you nod, looking at him as you say, “I have never wished for a businessman to stay until now. But there is always a first time for everything.”

He laughs. Low and amused as he says, “I have never felt compelled to stay the night anywhere on my journeys—but there is indeed a first time for everything, you are correct.”

And that is how Morax is kissing you. 

He has yearned for it for some time, he thinks. He has yearned for you for some time, and there is no point in denying it. You and your chilis and your flowers and your simple ways of life. You and your soft smile to the villagers and the gentle way you play with the few children that reside here in this far, distant, yet peaceful land that he saved so long ago. He is glad he saved it—of course, he would never regret this deed, whether or not you existed here. But he is especially glad for it now. 

He has done his duty—hasn’t he? Then isn’t it only fair that he rewards himself with the luxury of enjoying his accomplishments? 

Morax is kissing you, and you are kissing him back, and he thinks you have wanted this for just as long. Your lips are soft, and the lip balm you use is sweet and sticky against his own mouth. He swallows down the taste with a low hum, fingers grasping at your hips as yours latch onto his coat. You are so small against him—he towers over you even in his human form, and you have to crane your neck up just as much as he needs to bend his down to end the gap between you for your lips to touch. 

Your breath is hot against his as you exchange it between every kiss, and he tastes you on his tongue with every time they swipe against each other. He has never felt desire like this—never felt his cock twitch like this between his legs or press so tightly against his pants. (Oh, how he aches, he thinks, to take you in his proper form, and satisfy…both of his endowments. But for now, he must settle for this much, in this form, and that is if you even allow him to take it that far. He is not a scoundrel, after all.)

He is grateful that the front of your home is angled so that there are no nearby houses to see you both this way. The path that people walk along faces the back of your home, and that gives him all the encouragement he needs to shamelessly press you against your own door and kiss along your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin and sucking as you let out a soft cry. 

The sound shoots straight to his growing member—and he is reminded just how lonely he is from these duties as a god. Just how lonely it is at the top. 

He is hard between his legs, and you are aware of it, too, because you boldly move your thigh to slot between his. The first brush of you against his clothed cock, and he lets out a low, satisfied groan that makes you shiver. You are encouraged, it seems, by the sound to keep going, rubbing against his bulge and creating that sweet drag from the friction. 

It’s so good, he thinks deliriously—so, so good. He feels the way blood rushes to his cock, the way it makes him ache with how he swells, and then there is a jolt of something so pleasant and mind-numbing when there is pressure against his girth. 

Morax has been alive a long, long time. Longer than some of the mountains and trees shape Liyue, and longer than some of the villages that make up the nation for what it is. He is no stranger to pleasure, and he is no stranger to what it feels like to grind against something when he is fully hard and aroused.

But he is a stranger to carrying affection for the person responsible—at least, affection of this kind. So he groans, loud and uncaring in a way only someone inexperienced might, and you seem to find pleasure in that with the way you smile against his lips as you tilt his jaw and bring him back to your mouth and away from your neck. 

“My, my, harbor man,” you tease, “it’s as though you wish for the old lady to hear us from here. Are you trying to get her attention or mine?”

“A fine one, you are to talk,” he bites at your bottom lip, smiling smugly when you whimper, “you are touching me so freely out here in the open, where anyone may wander by and hear closely. Tell me, do you wish that they do? Perhaps you are even, dare I say, excited by the prospect.”

You stiffen under his arms before you give him a (weak) glare as you huff. “Alright then, you loathsome man,” you say indigantly, reaching behind you to open your door as you fiddle with the lock, “if you insist on doing this properly, then so be it.”

 Morax pushes you into your home as soon as that door opens. It shuts behind him, and he pushes you and pushes you and pushes you—keeps on going until there is a hard wall behind you, and something to keep you in place as he quickly closes the gap and kisses you again. 

You’re not mortal—he has known that as soon as he met you. How could he be considered the prime of adepti if he did not recognize his own kind? But here, under him, pinned and dripping and so pliant for him, he can smell it. The sweet, lingering scent of adeptal blood in your veins and the way it radiates off of you between your thighs.

(How kind the greater divine has been to him, if they are in charge of destiny, to grant him the luxury of developing these affections for a non-mortal. For someone who will not die in what is considered a small fraction of his time. He will have proper time with you—to explore you and this world that he will now live in as his new self if he allows it to be. And oh, how he wants it to be.)

“You smell sweet,” he grunts, “so ridiculously sweet, I wonder how I’ve held myself back all this time.”

“So you’ve been lusting for me for some time now, is that it?” you hum, and edge of cockiness to your voice. He smiles despite himself, exasperated. “What a shallow businessman you are, indeed. What, the meals didn’t satisfy your fill?” 

“Is it so wrong to hope for seconds?” he chuckles. 

Then he is crouching down, and your eyes widen as you register the loss of him against your upper half, pressing his heat against you. When you blink, looking down, he is already hooking a leg over his shoulder as he kneels between your legs, lifting your skirt and pulling your panties aside. 

Wet—you are, for lack of better words, fucking dripping down your thighs, and Morax is having simply a ball. He grins, trailing his nose along the wet trail along your inner thigh, inhaling the scent of you before pressing his tongue to get a taste of your essence. You let out a mortified, choked sound, squirming, and he tightens his grip along the plush of your leg.

“Don’t move too much,” he says lowly, “that is the agreement we are to have, if you want this.”

Evidently, you do want this—and badly, with the way you still immediately. He chuckles before pressing his lips to your clit, kissing it sweetly once, twice, a third time just to tease and swipe his tongue against the sensitive nub while you whimper. Your walls clench around nothing, and he hums in amusement at the sight. 

“You are a foul businessman,” you huff, “loathsome. You ought to hold your end of the deal, seeing as I am.”

“My apologies,” he grins wickedly. 

And then Morax latches onto you, hungry and thirsty and unwilling to be satisfied until he’s turned an inch into a mile, a drop into a stream. He sinks his tongue into you, tasting your sweetness and exploring between your folds. You whine, throwing your head back against the wall, gripping onto his shoulder tightly as your one knee, not thrown over his shoulder, buckles from weakness. 

He hums, pausing only for a moment as he says, “Put your full weight against me. I can take it.”

“But—” you try to protest, but he cuts you off. 

“I said,” he all but growls, “put your full weight against me. I can take it.”

Morax—Rex Lapis—the warrior, the god, who shaped mountains and slayed more gods than you could ever imagine existed. The strong, fierce divine being who could not be crushed by even the largest of boulders, and you are worried by the weight of your body. How laughable—how ridiculous. You hesitantly lean some of yourself on him, and he grips your thigh, digging his fingers into the meat of it as he pulls the rest of you in. 

You squeal—it cuts off into a high-pitched moan when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking while he rolls it back and forth along the swollen bundle of nerves. It’s a nice sound—the way you wail. He likes the way it makes him feel powerful. He almost wonders if there is more power now, when you are crying for the mercy of his tongue, than there is when opponents are crying for the mercy of his stone spears. 

His fingers sink into your cunt, feeling your walls close around his digits as he stretches you open—you are so tight. So impossibly tight, he feels his cock twitch between his thighs at the thought alone of sinking past them. He thinks for a moment about how warm it would be when you clench around his fucking aching cock instead of his fingers, and then he is groaning against your heat as he feels a wave of desire burn at the pit of his stomach. 

You seem to like that—you shiver at the vibrations he makes against you from the sound, and he hums in appreciation at that. His fingers sink deeper into you, pressing against the back of your walls until he feels you tense before humping into his hand and letting out a desperate cry when he hits a particular spot. 

So you like him there, he thinks. He can certainly do that. After all, a skilled fighter such as Morax is adept at pinpointing exactly where his blows will land. Striking his fingers is infinitely easier than striking large spears of stone or giant boulders, so his fingertips bully mercilessly into that sensitive spot over and over again as his tongue flicks back and forth along your swollen clit. 

Once, twice—and then you are rolling your hips into his face, completely abandoning your worries about him holding your weight (which he is taking exceedingly easily, thank you very much) while you come undone on his tongue, on his fingers, on his face. 

There is the wet essence of you smeared around his lips, partially on his cheek and his chin, sweet and sticky and delicious. Like a sweet sunsettia that he has devoured without care for having an ounce of shame. There is no shame in tasting you, he would argue—only a fool would savor his taste of this nectar instead of devouring it. 

He works you through the entirety of your orgasm, until you are quivering from the aftershocks and whimpering, squeezing your legs to get away from his hungry lips that stay latched to your cunt. 

“S’too much,” you whine, “s-stop.” 

(It’s a cute plea. He’ll entertain it for now.)

Morax is fucking throbbing between his legs. His cock is hard enough that he knows there is a wet patch on his pants against his crotch—he can feel the dribble of precum even before he has freed himself from the confines of the tight fabric. When he stands, keeping your steady with an arm around your waist, he is burying his face into your neck as he groans deliriously into your neck. 

“I have little patience, if not, little sanity left,” he says, voice gruff and low. “Tell me now if this is what you want because it won’t be long before I will be in no position to stop what you are starting.”

“You are starting this,” you have the gall to argue, even after he has fucked you so thoroughly with his fingers alone, “and I will finish it, so don’t even consider the idea of stopping—not unless you intend to be a coward.”

A coward. Oh? What a fierce, stupid little thing you are. He wonders if allowing yourself to have what you have always denied yourself the possibility of has made you bolder than ever. Maybe now, you consider the possibility that you may take as you please if what you wish for is right there in your reach. 

Morax, the god of Geo, has never been known for being a coward, and he will not start today. So he grabs you easily, bringing your legs to wrap around his waist as his hands dig into the plush roundness of your ass. 

“Which way to your bedroom, then?”

“Down the hall, first door to the left,” is all you can say before his lips are immediately on yours. That lip balm you use—the taste of it will drive him to madness. You will drive him to madness. 

When you are tossed onto your mattress, there is only a second’s interval he bothers to allow you to catch your breath before Morax is impatiently hovering over you. He is raking his eyes over your form hungrily. You, and that skin that he has committed to memory under the sun, and those delicate fingers that tend to plants and pull weeds that are now fisting the sheets. He is going to take you, sink into you inch by inch, and mold you onto his cock, and you are going to look beautiful as he does it. 

And when he is done, he will ask you if there is anyone else better suited to fuck you like that. (The answer, he is confident, will be no. No one could hope to fit you better than Morax himself—and you are only seeing one of his cocks tonight.)

Stripping you fully is easy enough—you are eager, very eager to shed your clothes, and even more eager to pull his own off of him. You marvel at the size of him—first his torso and the sheer broadness of him and his muscled physique, and then his cock and the thickness of him at full mast. His hands toy with your breasts, squeezing and groping as his thumbs roll over your nipples, and you impatiently gasp while trying to roll your hips lower to rub against his hard cock. 

You succeed for a short second—and that short second is enough to make him pause as the wet friction brushes against him. He shivers, lets out a low groan—and then whatever patience he had left snaps. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says bluntly, “and you are going to take me fully. Here.”

His finger draws a line against your belly where his cock lies flat against you, long and thick and fucking swollen with desire. Your breath hitches as his fingertip trails over his tip, right along your skin, and then you whimper as you breathe, “P-please.”

“Say it again,” he grunts. “Say please—I want to hear you want me.”

“Please, Zhongli,” you sob.

Morax, he wants to correct—for a tense, fleeting second, he almost does. He debates it, decides against it, and grits his jaw in frustration. Frustration that he can only be rid of if he sinks into those tight walls of yours, he’s sure. 

So he does. 

He grips your jaw, pulls you into a hot, searing kiss, and presses his tip to your entrance, rubbing along your folds, coating you in his precum while coating himself in your own arousal, and when—and only when—you are sobbing out an incoherent plea of how badly you need him, how hard you want him to fuck you, how deep you need him to be, does he sink into you. 

Because Morax is still Morax. And a god is still a god. He is to be worshipped before he will answer. 

“Zh-zhong—li,” you whine the latter syllable of his name when he sinks fully into you, fully bottomed-out and pressed into your wet, hot folds. You take him well, he thinks—so good and pliant and obediently accommodating for the less than humble size of him. 

(He did take his time preparing you, of course, but he isn’t one to skip out on giving credit where credit is due. You are good—so good. Good to him and good for him. He will reward you accordingly for it.) 

“Yes, yes,” he chuckles, “worry not, I will answer your little prayers.”

“You loathesome, arrogant man,” you hiss, still filled to the brim with him. And yet, that does not stop you from speaking so freely. He’s amused, really. 

“You certainly are not one to sweet-talk those whom you bed,” he notes. 

“And you’re not one to be humble with those whom you bed,” you argue back.

“No, I suppose not,” he laughs. 

And he will prove it to you, he is certain, that he deserves to be at least a little arrogant when he starts to fuck you. His hips pull back, almost fully slipping out of you, before he snaps them forward and buries himself all the way again, rolling and thrusting with a steady rhythm that angles the blunt head of his cock exactly against that same spot he found earlier. The stretch this time, of course, hits harder, hits spots his fingers couldn’t reach, drags along areas that he didn’t press into then. But he does so now, and you clench around him in response, welcoming him in, gripping him hard and tight and so fucking hot, his mind blanks for a second. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuck you’re tight.”

“Yeah, and full, too,” you whisper into his ear as his face buries into your neck, “feel that? I’m full of you—all of you.”

Oh. He’ll get you for that. Get you for the way you make him moan so shamelessly at your words, for the way he loses his rhythm a little and fucks into you a little more desperately, for the way you giggle as he twitches inside of you. 

He’ll get you, so he brings his lips lower, to your breast, and latches onto a nipple, rolling his tongue over it and sucking harshly so that your back arches into his touch when you feel it. 

“Indeed, I do feel it,” he murmurs, switching over to the other breast, not leaving one nipple neglected in favor of the other, “I feel how needy you are around me, squeezing. I can hardly move, you know—are you really that desperate to be fucked?”

“B-be quiet, you awful thing,” you hiss. 

He laughs. Chuckles as he finally lets go of your breast with a pop, before his lips are on yours. Kissing you, he finds, is the only thing that makes it even a little bit possible to lose consciousness of that tight, pleasant sensation of you around him. Kissing you is the only thing that could hope to distract his mind a little bit from you. Kissing you is the only thing that could be more important than this—than you, taking him, fitting him, and making yourself his just as much as he is yours right now. 

He snaps his hips faster, and you drink in the low groans he lets out just as much as he drinks in the high mewls you feed him. 

And when you cum again, erratically clenching around him as your walls spasm with the force of your second orgasm, he can hardly breathe as he feels his own high approaching. He tries—Morax tries, to his credit, to pull away and spill elsewhere, but you insist as your legs wrap tightly around his hips and pull him in closer, deeper. 

“Inside,” you babble, “p-please inside!”

“Are you…” He pants, head spinning and vision blurring as you squeeze around him yet again. He’s so close—and it aches so good. “Are you sure?’

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry, still babbling away as you ride out the final waves of your pleasure. 

You finish, and Morax starts—the end of your orgasm triggers the beginning of his, like the ebb and flow of the tide, one wave retreating only for another to roll in and take its place.

Hot, thick ropes of his seed spill into you, and he tenses as the force of his pleasure crashes over him, hard and brutal and dragging him into the depths of some hazy, incoherent place in his mind where he can hardly breathe. Your hands are on him—distantly, he’s aware of that. One is in his hair, and the other is shakily gliding over his back, like you’re trying to soothe him while he’s gone—so far gone into the throes of pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he barely registers his own voice, “fuck—th-that’s…good.”

When he’s done—when his hips are finally finished rolling and give you a break from the extra stimulation, he collapses beside your body, and you instantly shuffle closer to cling to him, resting against his chest. 

He lets you—happily, he lets you. His arms are tight and wrapped around your body, and you are so close that he can feel your erratic heart right against his. 

“I don’t think this is what the old lady meant,” you mumble into his chest as you curl into his side, “when she said to keep me company.”

“I don’t believe she specified that this was what she didn’t mean,” he grins tiredly, and oh, you are so beautiful. So breathtaking when you are so small and vulnerable against him, and only him. “So we have not breached any agreements.”

“You are a bothersome businessman,” you yawn.

He chuckles, and then you sleep. 

────────────────────────

When dawn comes, he awakens you with a kiss to your temple, and a soft promise of, “I will return when time allows it of me, this I promise if you will be waiting.”

“I’ll be waiting, harbor man,” you mumble sleepily. 

He hums, presses yet another kiss to your temple, before he says, “Then we have an agreement.”

He is gone by the time you are properly awake, his clothes gone, and his scent lingering. The only proof that he truly was there, and that your mind is not playing tricks on you, is the simple qingxin he leaves on your bedside table and a note that reads, a flower that is not from your own fields, from a wandering businessman who hopes to evade incurring any further losses.

Perhaps time is not wasted, you think with a smile, if time is well spent. And perhaps Zhongli would not mind spending some of his abundant time with you. 

-- — --

Zhongli keeps his word and returns not long after that. 

And then he leaves, and then he comes back again. It goes on like that for some time. He never stays for long, but he comes and goes at least once or twice a month. For now, that is enough—you have a long life ahead of you, after all. What’s a few weeks to you? You can wait. 

The more he visits, the more thrilled Madam Lu gets, much to your dismay—and worse, the more he visits, the more attached the two seem to be with each other. You cannot spare yourself from her horrifyingly embarrassing words now and then, nor can you save yourself from his thoroughly amused looks as she says them. 

Zhongli, you think, could cut your long life span into a quarter of what it is at this rate. He starts every trip he makes, first, with a visit to Madam Lu—who, without fail, insists he stay for breakfast every time (and, of course, she does not have to insist for long because he agrees to her meals so easily), before sending you both off afterwards. Not without giving you a pleased, knowing smile as you leave, of course. 

You shoot her a glare before tugging Zhongli along by the wrist, hissing something like, come—before that old lady says any nonsense that will fry your brain. He chuckles every time, eyeing you with mirth, before following you without much argument.

In the time that you wait for his next return, there is news that the god of Geo has fallen. Rex Lapis is dead, they say. 

You are shocked to hear it—you are part adepti, after all. The Geo Archon is of your kind, and though you were never a devout worshipper, you have heard of the deeds he has done for your village, your people. You glance at Madam Lu as she sighs heavily, shaky and bony fingers watering her plants. 

You grab the watering can from her hand, and she lets you. 

“So much loss as of late,” she murmurs sadly, “how will people deal with so much grief, I wonder. At the very least, I hope they honor the lord well with a proper funeral.”

“I’m sure they will,” you hum, “after all, a funeral is for the living, not the dead—and the living cherish the Geo archon well, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’ve spent an awful long time with that funeral consultant,” she grins, eyes gleaming with excitement—with a certain glint that tells you she knows more than you’d like. “When is he next returning, then?”

“I’ve not a clue,” you huff, “he’s a busy man. He’s no reason to come spend all his free time here.”

You walk off, swiftly crossing over to another side of her garden to water flowers a distance away, but Madam Lu already has heard what she wants to—what she needs to. 

“Not a clue, hm? So you do expect him?”

“Leave me alone, you nagging old lady!” you hiss over your shoulder. She only laughs, and even if it’s at your own expense, you are glad to finally hear the sound from her. 

-- — --

There is much to catch up on with Zhongli the next time he comes—the most current update of the Geo Archon’s passing at the harbor, the investigation and the controversy surrounding it, the rite of parting he is handling on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor with the aid of some wandering traveler passing by and her odd, floating companion. 

You listen closely, feeling an unfamiliar, unsettling weight on your chest as he tells you about all the progress she has helped him make with the many, many ceremonies. And by contrast, there is little to tell him—nothing more than the idle gossip the older women conjure up in all their free time in the village, or the disagreements there have happening between merchants who purchase and transport the crops you grow and sell here. 

He tells you of all the knowledge he has on Liyue and its history, on its late Archon, on all of the duties he is so graciously carrying out, and you listen with interest—you do. But there is still an acrid taste lingering on your tongue as you swallow down his stories. 

“This traveler friend of yours,” you mutter, “she seems very capable—what a stroke of luck it is that she’s helping you.”

“Yes,” he agrees easily. You are self-aware enough to know that there is a pout on your face—you cannot help it. And he chuckles as soon as it curls onto your lips. “Why the long face?”

“I’ve no long face, you bothersome man,” you huff, “this is my everyday face. You don’t like it?”

“I like your face enough to tell it apart from your everyday one and your sulky one,” he teases with an amused smirk. 

He enjoys this, you realize—enjoys the way you are…well, what are you, exactly? Jealous? Insecure? Bitter? Or simply scared? Or are you everything all at once? You don’t know. 

When the shift occurs on your face, the one where you are deep in thought, he gently pulls you by the hand and laces his fingers with yours as he walks up to your home. You are pressed against the door—and suddenly, you are getting deja vu from very different yet similar times where you were pressed against this very door by this very body.

“There is no need to sulk,” he murmurs. 

“I am not sulking,” you huff.

“Well, in that case, if you were,” he laughs, “then there would be no reason to. I’ve come to keep you company—it was an agreement I made, after all. I am a businessman of my word, you see.”

Your chest is lighter as you look up at him with a small grin, and when he kisses you, you let him back in past your doors again, and into your bed. And you afford him some of your abundant time, just as he affords you some of his. 

You’ll tell him, you think to yourself as you free his cock from his underwear—he groans when your hand wraps around him, and you watch the way his lips tug between his teeth as you stroke him slowly. You’ll tell him that you’re not just a mortal, just like he isn’t either, and that you have plenty of time to spend with him if he’ll spend it with you, too. Time that won’t be a waste.

“You can go faster, you know,” he says tensely, chest falling and rising rapidly as he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you shift on his lap, looking down at the way his girth makes your hand look so small. You marvel at the weight of him in your hold, giving him a small squeeze, teasing your thumb along his slit as he leaks pre cum, and he throws his head back with a choked gasp. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, “then this will all be over before we’ve begun. Surely, you have better patience than that.”

“I don’t see you enough to have much patience,” Zhongli says flatly, unimpressed by your teasing. Still, he lets you have your fun, as much as it seems to pain him, sitting patiently under you while he waits for you to get him off. 

You kiss his jaw, his chin, his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, before finally moving your hand again, gently squeezing around the tip with every upward tick of your hand. Zhongli likes it that way—you’ve learned that when you touch him with the intention of making him cum, he likes it when you squeeze at the tip and when you slow down when he’s close and drag it out a bit longer, even if he might complain. He likes showing off his stamina—for such a polite and polished man, he can be a bit of a show off when he wants to be. 

You watch as his face slackens, as it morphs beautifully into that look of raw and pure pleasure. You admire the way he bites his lip and parts his mouth and says your name when he feels particularly good. You admire the way he looks when his abs clench, his hips buck, and his brows crease when he’s getting close. 

“You came to spend time with me,” you murmur against his cheek as you nuzzle your nose into it, kissing it softly. “Right?”

“Yes,” he pants, giving you a flat look even despite the way he is teetering so close to the edge, so worked up. “Of course I did, or do you think I let just anyone touch me so freely?”

“Just making sure,” you giggle. “Businessmen are known for being greedy.”

“I think the real greedy one is you,” he breathes. 

You kiss him softly, quickening the pace of your hand, and with a twitch of his cock, he spills into it. You drink in the low moans and gasps he lets out as he cums, smiling when he croaks your name in between ragged breaths. It tastes so lovely when you drink in the sound of your name from his tongue. So sweet and decadent and rich. 

“I’m the only one who waits so patiently for you, you know,” you peck his lips as he catches his breath when he’s finished coating your hand with his seed, “so you should only keep me company.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is that the new term of our agreement?”

“Yes,” you huff. 

“Well, as I said, I am a businessman of my word.”

“Good.”

You’ll tell him, you think resolutely. Soon, you’ll tell him the truth of who, of what, you are, and perhaps he will tell you the truth of his in return. And you can continue to spend more time in abundance together, you can finally stop wasting your days and simply passing them by—they’ll have meaning soon. 

────────────────────────

“Qingce village was ruled by a terrible god once,” you murmur to him one day, “or so the legends say.”

Morax feels your fingers trace aimlessly along his bare chest. He breathes steadily under your wandering little digits. For a moment, he tries to decipher what pattern it is you are tracing into his skin. He comes up with nothing. Another intricate design on the cloth that is mortality, he thinks—such seemingly frivolous acts of touch. Shapes drawn without thought, wandering lines with no meaning in mind, and yet they are not meaningless at all. There is something tender in it, regardless. Affectionate, perhaps, and expressed by the small comfort of touch alone.

He wonders if such things will become natural to him if he tries his hand at this life for long enough. They are natural to you—and you are far from mortal. He knows you are, even if you don’t tell him. Surely, if it were possible to become natural for you, then there is no such thing as impossibility for him. 

“Ah, so you are familiar with the legend of Chi,” he murmurs, “though I suppose it’s to be expected of someone who was raised in this village.”

You pout, gaping at him in shock. He smiles at the sight. “Is there anything of Liyue’s history you don’t know?” you huff. “Just when I think I can teach you something.”

He chuckles at that—you feel it rumble under your cheek against his chest where you lie. The deep, fond sound alone washes away any lingering trace of irritation you had just a moment prior. “Very well,” he hums. “Teach me.”

“You already know the legend,” you point out flatly.

“Teach me anyway,” he insists. “Hearing the same story told by numerous people is advantageous still. One comes across many different viewpoints, you see.”

“You still talk like an old man, huh?” You snort. “Imparting life lessons one after the other—I suppose working at a funeral home and seeing so many losses has all but turned you into one.”

“A terrible fate,” he says mildly.

You huff again, though there is little heat left in it. Your fingers continue their idle wandering over the warm expanse of his chest as you begin.

“Well,” you say, “the people of Qingce say there was once a great demon called Chi. Some sort of dragon-like creature that forcefully took over this place. They say he was powerful enough to challenge the gods themselves.”

Morax listens silently beneath you.

“But he was defeated,” you continue. “Slain by the Geo Archon long ago. Afterward, his body was broken apart so he could never rise again. Each of the parts was sealed away in different places—hidden in the mountains and fields around Qingce so that none might gather them. Rex Lapis even taught the people of Qingce Village to make Geo statues to crush the Chi’s remaining power.”

Your fingertip traces a slow circle over his sternum as you think.

“Oh—and the villagers say those ruins scattered around Wuwang Hill? Those are the seals. Old mechanisms the Archon left behind to keep Chi’s remains locked away. If they were ever undone…” You pause, wrinkling your nose faintly. “Well. I imagine that would be rather bad.”

“That would be a reasonable conclusion,” he murmurs.

“And the old stories say the people of Qingce protected those seals for generations,” you go on. You tilt your head, glancing up at him. “That’s why the village values its stories so much. They’re not just stories. They’re warnings told through traditions, you could say.”

His gaze lowers to you.

“An admirable tradition,” he says quietly. “I did not realize the people of this village looked at it that way.”

Your finger pauses against his chest as you beam. “Ah, so I did teach you something.”

He smiles faintly—fondly. Yet there is something hollow in his eyes as he says, “Yes. You did. You’ve taught me quite a lot more than you realize, you know.”

“How so?” You raise a brow, reaching over to poke the tip of his nose. “I taught you the joys of bedding an easy woman, is that it?”

He laughs at that, bright and warm as his arms tighten around you. There is something akin to affectionate exasperation in his expression as he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Your breath hitches at that. He notices it so easily. Morax notices so much about you. He cannot afford to give you such physical affection as often as he’d like, given how little you see of him. He holds these small, fractional moments close to his heart the same way you do, as well, whenever they come—they are few and far between, after all.

“You have taught me the joys of sharing a bed,” he agrees, pinching your hip teasingly (and he makes sure that he is rather careful to remain gentle, too), “the joy extends elsewhere, too, however. Not just the bed.”

“Mister Zhongli,” you gasp, “dare I say a businessman such as yourself has turned sentimental on me?”

“Ah, yes. A most strange development indeed,” he plays along, shaking his head in amusement. 

────────────────────────

When you awaken in the morning, your bed is empty. Zhongli has already made his departure for Liyue Harbor. Before disappointment can claw its way to your chest and make you bleed, however, you pause as you sit up and look to your bedside table. 

A single qingxin is laid carefully there, waiting for you, along with a single coin of mora. 

You smile to yourself—time is not wasted. Zhongli will afford you more time. 

-- — --

The next time you are visited by Zhongli—or rather, this time you suppose it would be more accurate to say he hunts you down—he is desperate to touch you. You have never seen him this way.

You are tending to the crops when you notice him striding toward you across the fields, his pace unusually hurried. You straighten, brushing dirt from your hands as a smile pulls at your lips.

“Back so soon?” you call lightly. “Don’t tell me your bed was so lonely you had to come all this way just to see—oh!”

He catches your wrist before you can finish, his grip firm but not painful, and immediately begins pulling you along behind him.

“Zhongli—?” you protest, stumbling once before matching his pace. “Where are we—?”

He does not answer. Instead, he guides you away from the fields, away from the paths the villagers usually take, toward the rocky edges of the mountains that loom behind Qingce village. The ground grows uneven beneath your feet, tall grass giving way to weathered stone and uneven ground. There is a small opening for what seems to be a cave of sorts at the base of the mountains, and he leads you inside. 

You recognize the place soon enough. And then your eyes widen.

“Zhongli,” you hiss, tugging slightly at his hand as he finally stops inside the cave. Moss-covered stone walls and old mechanisms greet you, and you shiver just from looking at them.

The ruins. The seals. This is one of the places, you are certain—one of the places where, according to the stories, remnants of Chi still lie, dormant and fragile.

“What are you doing?” you whisper sharply. “We cannot—” Your protest cuts off when he pulls you close. The movement is sudden enough to steal the breath from your lungs as his hand finds your waist, and his other settles against the back of your neck. “Zhongli—!”

Your words dissolve the moment his mouth finds yours. It is not the slow, measured affection he usually affords you. This kiss is urgent—desperate, almost. He pulls you flush against him like he fears you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

For a moment, you are too startled to respond. Then you melt and kiss him back. Then, when your senses return, your hands brace instinctively against his chest as you pull back just enough to stare at him.

“Have you lost your mind?” you whisper, scandalized. “We cannot do such…such indecent things here!” You gesture vaguely toward the ruins around you. Of all places. “Do you not see all this around us? This has to be where the seals are, Zhongli!”

He does not release you. If anything, his hold tightens slightly, amber eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your irritation falter.

“I am aware,” he says quietly.

You sputter at how calm he seems to be. “That does not make it better!” 

But he is already kissing you again, slower this time, though no less needy. His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist as if grounding himself. The mountains around Qingce stand silent, but it feels strangely like the ancient stone is watching over the two of you.

You are weak to Zhongli, however. Not even ancient deities and the thought of awakening them to wreak havoc on your home is enough to change that. He presses you against the hard wall of stone, and you let him, angling your head so he can kiss your neck.

He hums in appreciation. “Allow me to make it better then,” he tells you. And your resolve crumbles instantly.

────────────────────────

Morax knows exactly what sleeps beneath this place. After all, he is the one who sealed the parts of Chi away all those years ago. And his memory is exceedingly good—he does not forget such things so easily. In fact, he does not forget them at all.

He also knows what is coming to Liyue.

Soon, the sea will rise, and soon, an old god will stir. Morax knows what such god lies beneath the seas, pinned by his own stone spears. Osial has never been anything short of a tyrant—he remembers those days well. How tall and unforgiving the tsunamis were, and how easily Osial tormented the mortals of this land with such harsh waves, all for the sake of his own gain. The people of Liyue will not suffer at the hands of such shameful deities. Whether it is because they have fended off this threat alone or because of Morax himself, he will have to see soon enough.

But oh, how Morax longs for the day that he will step away from this role he has carried for millennia. How he longs for a time when he is nothing more than a wandering man in the streets, living peacefully among his people in bliss. And how he longs for the simplistic joys indulged in by the lifestyle of mortals—of affection and delicate touches and fond smiles.

So he kisses you again—because in this moment, with your hands fisted in his coat and your breath catching against his lips, he needs to know that choosing this life will be enough. That stepping away from being a deity, should his people succeed, is a proper choice and not a foolish mistake. Morax is not known for being a fool. He is a wise god and a capable fighter. He has led his people to prosperity, and in return, he is worshipped sacredly by the people of Liyue.

Morax does not make mistakes. Not when his decisions involve Liyue.

But then he wonders—what god leaves his people to fend for themselves during an oncoming disaster? A disaster that they are unaware of is on the horizon, no less. What god would step in only when his people are at the brink of defeat, and not simply from the beginning to ensure they are always guarded? That is his role, is it not? And such roles surely do not expire, do they?

But erosion has chipped away at his heart of hard stone—until the unyielding bedrock of it has worn thin, leaving something far more fragile beneath.

Morax, after so, so long, yearns for a life outside of what he has always known. What he has fought and slain countless divine beings for. What he has always thought to be his fate forever. 

You break his kiss once more, breathless. And he, when you gently cup his cheeks with those tender hands, feels weak to his knees in a way he has never felt. The Geo Archon called Morax has never felt weak. (What a laughable choice in word, in fact. And yet…that is the unbearable truth. You have weakened Morax—far more than any erosion is capable of doing.)

“I still think this is a terrible place to do this,” you mutter weakly.

His quiet laugh brushes your lips. “Noted.”

And yet he does not move away. If anything, he makes sure to settle his hands more firmly at your waist, drawing you closer until there is scarcely a breath of space between you. 

“You are impossible,” you murmur, though, he notes, your protest lacks conviction now. Your fingers remain curled loosely in the front of his coat, as though you have forgotten to let go.

“Am I?” he hums.

You open your mouth to retort, but the words falter when he leans in again—not quite kissing you this time, but close enough that your breath mingles with his. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, searching your expression with intensity. He finds exactly what he is looking for—want, need, desire. Love, dare he say. 

Do you love him? Morax knows he has grown to love you. You have taught him what it means to be human, after all—or at least live like one, and he has never wanted to live like a human more than he does now in all of his long, endless life. 

“I know you are aware how dangerous this place is,” you scold him softly.

“Mm.”

“That should concern you.”

“Perhaps.”

You huff faintly, glaring. “You are not taking this very seriously.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that—at the way you so easily make his heart squeeze with something as simple as an expression on your face. Everything he has sought you out for has fallen into place. You are the clarity he has searched for. His people will prosper, he thinks—a new age of Liyue has grown for years now. The age of the mortals. No longer do they need him to guide their way of life, and perhaps…perhaps Morax can take his place alongside them. As an equal and not a deity. 

And perhaps he can take his place alongside you, as well. 

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you a fraction closer, until your body presses fully against his. Your breath catches.

“Zhongli—”

Your warning dissolves when his lips find the curve of your jaw instead, slower now, lingering in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. The sensation steals the rest of your protest before it can form.

“You said this was a dangerous place,” he murmurs softly against your skin.

“Yes,” you manage.

“And yet you have not left.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his coat. Your heart pounds traitorously in your chest.

“Well,” you say, attempting dignity and failing somewhat, “that is because you have not given me the opportunity to.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles against your throat. 

“Ah,” Morax says gently. Then his hand slides higher along your back, and the rest of your protest fades into another kiss. “Alright then.”

He steps away. Your fingers tighten their clutch along his coat for a moment before letting go, and you stare at him incredulously. Like you cannot fathom that he has pulled away. 

“What—”

“Go on then,” he challenges. Rather smugly, too—Morax is a god, sure, but he is not without his own flaws. He remembers his less-than-humble days during the era when he was a much younger deity. “You may leave if you so desire. I won’t stop you.”

“You are a loathesome man, you know,” you grumble. And then you pull him back in, and he hums in satisfaction against your mouth. You kiss him—just as desperately as he does, and this is how Morax knows that his place has changed. 

His place is no longer on the throne of the divine, watching and guiding a nation that has evolved to survive without him. No, his place is here. With you. Where you will make his old, aging heart feel young and new again, learning and experiencing the joys of a life he has never thought possible for himself. 

“So you’ve said,” he murmurs in between kisses. 

His hands work at the bottom of your skirt, gently lifting it to trail his fingers at the thin hem of your panties. He slowly pulls them down along your thighs, just midway, and enough to expose your heat to allow his fingers to sink in. And sink in they do, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around his digits. 

That familiar scent of yours invades his nostrils—that scent that he finds he can no longer ignore. 

“...You are not human,” he says thoughtfully.

You freeze. For a moment, you simply stare at him, utterly incredulous, breath still uneven and labored from his fingers working your folds apart, pressing into your deepest, most sensitive parts. 

“Y-you…you cannot possibly be bringing that up right now.”

Morax’s expression remains maddeningly calm. “I felt it best to confirm.”

“Confirm?” you repeat, aghast. “You choose now to confirm?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you, clearly referencing the rather compromising position he has put you in. His thumb brushes idly along your hip as though he does not find the timing nearly as outrageous as you do. You glare at him for that, and Morax is all too pleased by your expression. 

He only smiles in amusement. 

“I have known since the beginning,” he says.

Your eyes narrow. “…You have?”

“Yes.”

“And you are only saying something now?”

“It seemed the appropriate moment.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “This is the least appropriate moment imaginable!”

You are just adorable, he thinks as a chuckle escapes him. “I happen to disagree.” 

And then, because Morax cannot help himself, and because he has decided that leaving his divine duties behind means that he can allow himself a moment or two to be utterly distasteful, he thrusts his fingers into you faster, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow circles. He watches as your mouth falls open, a soft, ragged moan tearing from your lips as you breathe his name. 

“U-unbelievable,” you stutter, “have—oh, fuck—have you no sense of shame?”

“You are half adepti,” he continues calmly, with his fingers still inside of you. “It is not difficult for one such as myself to recognize.”

“Oh, is it not?” You glare at him between your panting.

“No.”

You squint up at him. His fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot in the back of your walls, and your eyes flutter shut as you let out a long, wanton moan. Then, slowly, your eyes blink open. A faint, unimpressed smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you say breathlessly, “that makes two of us.” His brow lifts a fraction. “You think I h-haven't figured it out by now? You—ngh—are n-not…human either, Zhongli.”

For the first time since this conversation began, he actually pauses. The pace of his fingers in your cunt does too, and for that, you give him a hard glare as you whine in protest. But he cannot bring himself to care. 

“…Oh?”

You snort softly. “Please. Your eyes glow when you use elemental energy. Humans do not do that—I had my suspicions you were also some sort of adepti.”

A quiet laugh escapes him then—low, warm, and thoroughly entertained. “How perceptive,” he murmurs, “I did not realize you noticed me so closely.”

You huff, flustered. “And for the record,” you add dryly, “most people would have this conversation before putting their hands where yours currently are.”

Morax hums thoughtfully at that, resuming his earlier movements along your folds. “…Duly noted.”

You cum on his fingers not long after, and once you have just barely caught your breath, he pulls you into a deep kiss. 

Morax, despite all the growth and wisdom he has accumulated in his…well, thousands of years' worth of growth and wisdom to accumulate, still has his moments where he is nothing but an arrogant, cocky bastard. 

And that is exactly why he is going to fuck you here, in these ruins, where there is a god laid to rest. A god that could easily awaken if these ruins were to be tampered with too carelessly. He needs to see it for himself—as fucking pompous as it is—that he has done an undeniably good job at his duties. That he can disrespect a god by fucking the woman of his affections in their ruins, and still risk nothing. Still worry not one bit about the safety of his people. Still exist and live his life exactly as he wants it now—with you and only you, and not deal with the headache of a threat. 

“You always take me rather well,” he murmurs, groaning as he pulls his fingers from your cunt, as your pussy flutters around the digits while he unburies them from your heat. 

He means it when he says that—you always do. You take him in so easily, so effortlessly, so readily. Of course, he’d like it if he could take you properly here—and if he could have it his way, he’d strip you completely, pin you against this wall, fuck you from behind as he glares smugly right at the vault that holds Chi’s spirit, and make you cum before he fills you to the brim with his seed so you can walk out of here with the evidence of his accomplishments. 

But he doesn’t have that time nor patience, and something tells him that being that zealous would perhaps break you from your own need-filled trance and force you to draw the line. 

He doesn’t want that. 

He wants to feel you—he wants to watch you fall apart on his cock, feel himself fall apart as he kisses you senseless, and then leave knowing that he’s making the right decision for the right reasons. 

You are his reason. And you could never be a mistake. 

And now, with the fact that neither of you is a mortal acknowledged and out of the way, he can fuck you how he really wants—with both of his cocks. He pulls his own slacks down just enough to free two hard, aching cocks, giving one of them a few slow strokes and gritting his jaw as his breath grows labored, before staring down between you both as he brings the tip to your entrance. He watches as his tip sinks into you, disappearing with the slow press of his hips forward. This much, you’re familiar with, of course. 

What you’re not familiar with is the second hard, curved length that mirrors the one buried inside of you. Your eyes widen, and you stare at it in awe—maybe, dare he even say, a little bit of fear that shoots right to his crotch and makes his second length twitch. 

“Two…?” You breathe out, “what—”

“Surely this much is not hard to believe if you know I am not a mortal,” he chuckles lowly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you quiver beneath him, itching for him to move already as he stays perfectly still while buried to the hilt inside of you. 

“But…th-they won’t…they can’t both fit,” you breathe out in alarm. 

Morax laughs—low and smug and amused enough that you fix him with a sharp glare as you flush under his slightly egotistical gaze. 

“Maybe not today,” he agrees, “but I know you’re good—good for me, good at taking me. With a little patience, I think you’ll handle them just fine, don’t you think?”

You shiver, swallowing thickly as you stare at his second, well-endowed arousal before slowly nodding in a trance. Morax grins—because of course, of course, you would be so perfect for him. So pliant and easy to agree to his whims and requests, with how plainly good you are to him. And he is, as he always has been, a generous, giving deity, so he will reward you well for it, as he always does. 

For now, though, he focuses on gently grabbing your hand, bringing it to the cock that isn’t pressed deep into your dripping cunt, and watches as you instantly, obediently make a fist and wrap your hand around him, slowly stroking just the way you know he likes. You’ve done this plenty of times before, but he never gets used to how well you know him—how easy it is for you to do all the right things and touch all the right places in all of the right ways and make him feel so fucking good. 

“Fuck,” he curses, “you have always known too easily how to drive me mad, you twisted woman.”

You huff, using your free hand to tug him close by his jacket, pressing his forehead to yours, “And you have always known too easily how to do the same, you loathesome man.”

That’s all it takes for him to decide that he wants you now. Needs to feel you good and proper. Needs to watch you as he sinks in and out of you, and watch as you struggle to concentrate as you pump the cock in your hand while the one in your cunt drags along your sensitive folds and presses deep into all the right places. 

The first roll of his hips, you hiss. The second, your jaw slackens, and you whimper his name. The third, you squeeze your fist around him without realizing it, and he feels his mind fucking blank for a moment as he feels the tightness of you around him—whether that’s your hand or your cunt—not once, but twice. 

Morax groans, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he snaps his hips and fucks you, and you mewl when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles mercilessly against the delicate, swollen bundle of nerves. 

“You—your company was a dangerous agreement to make,” he breathes against your shoulder, “do you realize that? How easily you have taken over my head. Every thought I have, every agreement I make, every contract I sign—it all reminds me of you. You, your smile, your annoying chilis, your stubborn words.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you argue. 

He chuckles, disbelieving and out of breath. You drag your hand up along his cock, squeezing around the tip before quickly dragging it down and twisting at the base—he moans. Loud and uncaring, giving that damn vault (the one with Chi’s defeated spirit, he likes to haughtily remind himself) a smug look because, well fuck—he can simply just do that if he pleases. And he does. And he will continue to. 

“No,” he hums—it comes out more like a low rasp. “No, I suppose not. I suppose I only think you are stubborn because you will not leave my thoughts, and perhaps that blame is on me to bear, not you.”

He snaps his hips once, twice, a third time—by the fourth, you’re already clenching around him as you come undone, letting out a soft cry of, Zhong…li!, while he chokes on the feeling of you squeezing so tight and so fast around him like that. 

Morax wants this life. You. The easy, simple knowledge that he can step down, spend his days freely with you, beside you, (and yes, perhaps in you, too), all without breaching the contract he has with his nation, with his people. He wants to tiptoe around your chilis, and leave qingxins on your nightstand, and tell you stories of Liyue’s history, and laugh when you are flustered by that old woman whom you love so much. 

He wants this easy, simple, mortal existence after so long. The one where affection and endearment are so simply woven into his being, where power is not the reason he is here, where wisdom is not the burden he must bear. He wants you and the life you make him fantasize about. And he wants it badly. 

As badly as he wants to cum and fill you up right now—and one final thrust of his hips, sloppier in pace now that he’s so close, and he spills into you. You pull him into a kiss, and he thinks about what it would be like to kiss you like this every day, and he feels himself spill onto your hand at the thought as you continue to pump him through his high. 

“You—” he gasps, cutting himself off with a low, needy moan, “you are the one I want to keep me c-company. Always.” 

You smile against his jaw at that, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he finishes riding out the last few waves of his orgasm before murmuring into his skin, “I’ll keep you company if you keep me company, too. Deal?”

“Deal,” he breathes, cradling your cheeks like you are gold as he brings your lips to his. 

And Morax, if his people pass this final test, he decides, will have his answer for good this time. 

-- — -- 

The crisis of Osial’s summoning ends not with the drowning of Liyue, but with its salvation.

The sea recedes. The waves calm. And the people—his people—stand victorious. From afar, Morax watches the harbor where mortals and Adepti come to a truce. He watches proudly. Watches in relief. Watches with a quiet ache, despite it all, as the end of his era as the Geo Archon is finally, after so long, solidified. 

And almost immediately after he takes care of the loose ends, he leads his feet away from the harbor and up the narrow paths toward Qingce village.

Toward you.

────────────────────────

You find him near the edge of the fields just as the sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky burns amber, turning the terraces gold. Zhongli stands where the path curves, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for some time.

You slow down when you see him.

“…You’re okay,” you say gently.

Zhongli tilts his head faintly. “I was not aware my well-being had been in question.”

You cross your arms. “Oh, forgive me for worrying,” you mutter. “There was only a sea god trying to drown the entire harbor.”

At the mention of the event, his gaze shifts briefly toward the distant horizon.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “So there was.”

You study him for a moment. Something is…different. Not in his appearance. Zhongli still stands as composed and elegant as ever—still in such fine silk, even with little mora to his name. (How he has such poor finances, you will never understand.) But there is a strange ease to him tonight, as though some invisible weight has finally been set down from his chest.

“You didn’t come all this way just to stare at the sunset,” you say eventually.

“No.”

“Then?”

He is quiet for a moment. Long enough that you begin to wonder if he may not answer at all.

Then he says, “There is something I have not told you.”

You snort at that. “Well, that’s not unusual,” you reply flatly. “You are a very secretive man.”

“This matter,” he says carefully, “is somewhat…larger than most. And not one I could evade in good conscience if…I would continue to pursue you in this way.”

That gets your attention.

Pursue you. 

You have not discussed the details of this…arrangement between you and Zhongli. Not outside of when you might next see him, or if either of you will be particularly busy in the coming weeks to meet at all. Hearing him say so candidly that he considers himself to be in pursuit of you brings a delicate ache to your heart—an ache of longing. 

You want him. All of him. And you have avoided asking him all this time if that might be a possibility for fear of losing him altogether—but he has handed you your desires so easily with one sentence—confirmed he wants it just the same as you do, even. That he has been seeking you out all this time and not just the familiar convenience of your body. 

You smile at the idea and look at him with bright eyes. 

“Alright. Pursue me properly then, Mister Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.” He winces at that title a little. Your brows furrow. 

“You are aware,” Zhongli begins slowly, “that I am not human.”

You blink at him like he has grown two heads. “…Yes. We have established that, or did you forget? And neither am I, so there is no need to be concerned that I would worry over something as meaningless as that.”

“That is not the issue,” he sighs. 

“…Okay,” you say slowly, a bit more cautiously now. “Then what exactly are we talking about here?”

Zhongli exhales slowly. “I…am Rex Lapis,” he says bluntly. 

You stare at him. Blink once. Then twice. And then you break out into a fit of giggles as you look at him incredulously. 

“No, you are not. What a silly thing to say—now tell me really what this is all about.”

“I am,” he insists, almost mildly offended.

“You absolutely are not.”

“I assure you—”

“Rex Lapis is the Geo Archon,” you interrupt, pointing vaguely toward the harbor far in the distance. “The god of Liyue. The one who—”

Your voice falters as you take a look at his face.

You know that face. You have studied it over the course of weeks. How it looks when it is sleeping and peaceful, how it looks when it is tired and glum, how it looks when it is bright and joyed, how it looks when it is lax with pleasure and need, and how it looks when it is painfully serious and honest. 

You know him. You know how to read him inside and out. How to tell when he is telling the truth or evading it altogether. You know him because he is yours—he has been for quite a while. And you know that he is being truthful. 

Your stomach drops.

“…Oh. I see. You are not lying, then,” is all you say.

Zhongli inclines his head slightly. “No, I am not.”

“Fascinating.” You nod slowly. 

“You are taking this rather well.”

“Let’s not be so hasty to assume—I am still deciding if I should throw something at you.”

“That would be understandable.”

You run a hand over your face. “Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You are telling me that the man I have been—” you pause and clear your throat, “—um…spending time with is actually the god of Liyue?”

“Yes,” he says easily. His eyes flash with a momentary fit of amusement. 

“Well, disregarding the matter of why the Geo Archon would be parading around as a representative of a funeral parlor—you thought it would be appropriate to mention this only now?”

“There were…complications.”

You stare at him. “Complications,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

You let out a long breath. Then you gesture vaguely at him.

“Well, go on then, Your Divinity. Explain.”

Zhongli does not react to the sarcasm. Instead, he looks out toward the distance. “For thousands of years,” he says quietly, “I have ruled Liyue as its Archon.”

You huff, “Yes, I am aware of the history.”

“But Liyue is no longer the nation it once was. Mortals have grown. They have built their own institutions, their own systems of governance. Trade flourishes without divine intervention. Contracts are honored by people who no longer require a god to enforce them.”

Your expression softens slightly. “Your people still have reason to need you,” you say, stepping closer, “there is no need to doubt your purpose as their god—”

“It is not about what they need,” he shakes his head, staring down at the grass as he sighs. “It’s about what…what I need. What I want. I have longed for ages now to know that I have done my duty. And perhaps rest this old, eroding soul of mine. Osial’s defeat has given me the reassurance that I may step down without worry.”

“So the sea god…”

“Was a test.”

You stare at him again. “…You let a sea god attack Liyue as a test?”

“Well, I was not the one to summon it,” he defends, smiling faintly with mirth at your bewildered look, “I was simply aware it would happen. But I was prepared to intervene if necessary.”

“Well, did you intervene?” You ask.

“No. I was pleasantly impressed to see the Qixing and the adepti handled it swiftly.” 

Silence settles between you again. Then you let out a soft, delicate sigh. “Well,” you mutter, “that explains things, I suppose.”

“Does it?”

“Only a little.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Erosion is not the only reason,” Zhongli says quietly.

You look back at him. “Oh?”

His gaze returns to you. “I have carried the role of Archon for millennia,” he says. “Longer than most living beings can even comprehend. And yet, in recent years, I have begun to wonder whether there is more out there to experience than simply being a powerful deity.”

“Being a powerful deity is no simple matter,” you scoff in disbelief. 

“No, it isn’t, I suppose,” he chuckles. “But, still, there are more things to experience in life—I learned that when I met you.”

You blink. Your chest tightens slightly. “Meeting me hardly seems that relevant.”

“But it is. You…” he says quietly, “your chilis and your flowers. Your laughter. Your skin under the sun. Your voice. Your stubbornness. You have altered my perception of what it means to be alive as opposed to simply be living. Even your scolding,” he hums with a pointed look, and an endeared smile. 

You pause as it sinks in properly who he really is, and how you’ve been engaging with him—and then, your breath hitches before you gasp in horror. “Oh—I insulted the Geo Archon.”

“Yes, it would appear you have. Repeatedly.” He gives you a slightly cheeky look as he says, “Some would consider that an unforgivable sin, you know.”

You cover your face. “I am never showing my face around you again.”

“That would be unfortunate.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “…Why?”

“Because I would miss you.”

The words are spoken so simply that it takes you a moment to process them. Your hands slowly lower. “What do you wish to gain from such easy flattery?”

Zhongli—or perhaps Morax, you should call him, maybe even Rex Lapis—meets your gaze, laughing softly. “I stepped down because Liyue no longer needs its Archon,” he says. Then, more softly: “And because I wish to live as a normal man. To walk among the people I once ruled. To learn their customs not as a distant observer, but as one of them.” His voice grows quieter. “To experience the small joys of mortal life.”

“You will not be mortal,” you scoff, “even if you step down.”

“But I can live like one,” he says easily. “There are many joys to the mortal way of life.”

Your throat tightens. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And I find,” he says gently, “that many of those joys seem to involve you.”

You stare at him. “Me?”

“Yes.”

You look at him a little longer—cautious, careful. You think back on all the little moments that led you here—that first damn day he came to your quiet, small village, stepping on your sprouting chili plants as he walked confidently in the complete opposite direction of where he needed to be. That easy, effortless way he’d helped your grieving heart fill the empty place left behind by Master Lu’s passing before you’d even realized something was missing at all. The kind, thoughtful way he spoke to Madam Lu and ate her cooking, talking with her like an old friend, like someone who understood her loneliness without her ever having to say it aloud. And that soft, delicate way he slowly made you realize that your existence, outside of this small, gentle village, could belong beside other people. That you, with your half-adeptal blood and that quiet, lingering sense of abandonment you had buried down all those years ago, could still be worth something to someone beyond the only place you had ever believed you were allowed to belong.

You love him—oh, you think, how you love him so easily and desperately and hard and deep and fierce. You love him with that mixed blood in your veins and that broken part of you that has always wondered, somewhere in the back of your mind, if you truly, really belonged anywhere at all. You love him because he keeps you company, and you love him because keeping him company is the easiest thing you have ever known how to do.

You want to keep loving him. When years and years and more years pass—ten, then twenty, then fifty, then one hundred—you want to love him still. And you want him to love you, too. You want to spend your long, endless days with him and watch time pass slowly and steadily at your side. He has so much of it to spare, and so do you, and you want to spend that time believing that not one day is a waste if you spend it together.

You love him, and you want to dare to believe that he could, after all this time, grow to love you the same way.

“This sounds like a confession,” you whisper. 

He looks at you with a small glint in his eyes. “I believe you could call it that, yes.”

“You are the former god of Liyue.”

“Yes.”

“And you are confessing to me.”

“Yes.”

You let out a long breath. It’s relieved. It’s joyed. It’s fucking exasperated and annoyed. “Well,” you mutter, “be that as it may, you have deceived me, deity or not. And any man who deceives a lady must make up for such egregious wrongdoings.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. “Then I will do that. I hope it will be satisfactory. Do offer me some leniency, if you will—I have only been living as a mortal for so long.”

You study him for a long moment. Then you sigh, stepping closer. “…You are still a loathsome man.”

“I have been told.”

“But,” you add reluctantly, stepping closer, “you are the loathsome man I have grown fond of, nonetheless.” 

He steps closer, too, invading your space so freely and easily, as if he exists simply to do that. Like it is his right to do so, no questions asked. He grabs you by your wrists, pulling closer and flush against him, pressing his forehead to yours as he studies your eyes. You love him, you think, oh, you love him so much, it could kill you—it could rob you of all the endless time that you have. 

And if he knows that, then he decides to spare your poor heart and your poor life span, too, as he murmurs, “I have fallen in love with you. Won’t you let this old, eroding man settle down in your company and pass his days in peace?”

You laugh (and it’s a watery little thing) as you shake your head in disbelief. “Say that again—and then I will believe you.”

“I love you,” he chuckles, raising a brow, “must I write it in a contract before you believe me?”

“I love you too, you loathesome, bothersome man,” you sob, “I’ll keep you company too if you stop deceiving me like the shady, untrustworthy businessman you are.”

He brings you into a deep, desperate kiss, cradling your face like it is the precious remainder of his long, endless lifespan pressed into his palms. You kiss back. It’s familiar. It’s new. It’s weird and odd and frightening, all at once—and yet, somehow, it is the most effortless, and correct thing that you do. 

“It’s a deal,” he murmurs, “yes?”

“Yes.”

-- — -- 

“Does that traveler girl know that you are Morax?” you ask against his bare chest, tracing your fingers along his skin. He is still catching his breath as he pulls your naked body against his, sighing as he gives you a look. Like he already knows where this is going. 

“Yes,” he says, warily. 

“So she knew before me, then,” you narrow your eyes. 

“Technically, that is the case, yes. But that is only because—”

“Perhaps you should seek her company, then,” you say petulantly, huffing as you dramatically roll away from him. 

Zhongli—after much questioning from you over whether he should be Morax now, or perhaps Rex Lapis, he has firmly insisted that this is the name you are to call him by—sighs as he takes your wrist and tugs you back against him. He gives you an exasperated look (and yet, despite it all, there is unmistakable fondness beneath it) before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Do not sulk.”

“I am not sulking.”

“And don’t be so stubborn all the time.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you say defiantly. 

He gives you a flat look. “Seeking out your company is not for the weak, is it?”

You give him a smug, bright grin at that—and you almost think you watch him fall in love with you all over again. “Get used to it, then, old man—you have a long, long time of my company ahead. And it certainly is not for the weak, you’re right.”

He laughs—low and warm and quietly endeared, but above all, certain. “Good,” he hums. “That is fine by me. I have always been known to be rather strong, you see.”

You curl into his chest, and he holds you close, and you and Zhongli have all the time in the world.

(And no—none of it is a waste.)

shoutout to my family sized doritos pack that kept me company as i wrote the last 14k words of this fic in one setting (my eyes and wrists are dead)

[dragon-ascent]

Zhongli with his hair loose is a rare treat.

Well, not that rare, considering that’s how it looks when he’s in bed, but you almost never get to see him like that during daylight hours because by the time you’re up, he’s already dressed and his hair brushed and tied in his signature style.

So when he chooses to let his hair free during regular daylight hours, it’s almost as mythical an encounter as a Sovereign entity. Or running into an alternately-colored shiny creature in a video game.

After you hem and haw at the sight (much to his amusement), the first thing you do is promptly slither over and bury your face in his hair. So soft, so shiny…and the floral scent is so soothing. (Or maybe it’s the way his own fingers card through your hair as he holds you close during times like this, but really, everything this man does is comfort wrapped up in a warm body.)

You love running your fingers through his hair, too, so you do just that. So silky, even the finest garb can’t hope to compare to it.

Zhongli chuckles at this. “That is truly honey-tongued flattery, my dearest.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise I said it out loud,” you say, warming a little. “But it’s true. You have such good hair! Must be your divine aura at play.”

Ever the humble one, the man responds in earnest, “Not at all, my sweet. Just a bit of care can go a long way in ensuring one’s hair is luscious in both feel and appearance.”

You get a good, hard look at Zhongli, in all his aureate glory and his tresses down like a fairytale princess. Elegance and strength roll off him in waves of energy, giving him the air of both a god-king and a down-to-earth gentleman all at once.

Then you think of yourself; of your own hair. It’s nothing shabby, but..it can certainly look like a rat’s nest on the wrong day. It never stops Zhongli from ruffling your hair in moments of overflowing affection, but still. He’s a swan, you’re a frog.

“If only I could stick to a proper routine for my own hair…” you thus lament with a sigh.

Zhongli draws you close and kisses your forehead. “If you like, I can teach you firsthand what my routine inculcates. It is far from complex. Would you like that?”

With wide eyes, you nod so eagerly your head might just fall off your neck. “Yes please! Yes yes yes!”

He smiles. “Very well. Turn around and sit, darling, and allow me to massage some oil into your hair first.”

Somehow, a moment where you’d intended to dedicate to praising and doting on Zhongli got morphed into a lovely hair care session for you. Your husband sure knows how to make things about you, oh dear. Not that you’ll ever complain, you think blissfully, as Zhongli’s slender fingers gracefully rove across your scalp and give you the greatest massage ever known to mankind.

[crystalflygeo]

Pussy inspection ft Zhongli + fem!reader

cw/tags: bondage/restraints (cuffs, ft 'improper use of geo' my beloved) fingering, creampie, mentions of biting/claiming.

notes: listen.... I wrote this in a horny haze. I am very very feral for this trope (and this man)

When you told Zhongli you had been ‘hanging around a bit’ with a certain other dragon, he had already bristled a bit, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. And when he scented you afterwards oh… his inner beast reared its head.

You were his precious treasure, and no one else’s.

You whined softly, face burning and chest heaving from the orgasm he just gave you. Your hands pulling uselessly at the sturdy geo cuffs holding them above your head. Zhongli nuzzled at the side of your neck almost gentle, reverent, kissing the mark his fangs left there.

“Mmm... so good for me, my wife.” Zhongli murmurs, voice deep and sweet like molasses, making you shiver, warm breath following a path down to your collarbone, adorned with hickeys.

The mattress dips as he backs a bit and kneels between your legs. Your swollen pussy still twitching around nothing, his sticky seed starting to leak out. His large hand rested warmly at your thigh, pushing gently, and you allow your legs to part with an embarrassed whimper and more rattling against the cuffs. “Shhh…” Zhongli soothes you, his thumb brushing down your inner thigh, making your muscles tense. “It’s alright, allow me…”

Your body is still shivering, nerves alight and pulsing under the weight of his heavy stare. Your hips buck involuntarily when your feel his thumbs gently spread your pussy lips apart. “L-Li!!” You let out a choked noise.  

“Still sensitive?” He coos. You keened softly as he traced a finger along your folds, circling your opening, dipping the very tip of a finger in, not pushing in, not teasing, just appraising, cataloguing. Burning golden stare fixed on how you clenched, how the heady mix of your juices and his own cum gathered on his fingertip.

His thumb brushed your clit and the reaction was electric.

You moaned loudly as your body jerked. Head spinning almost delirious. “Li, please…”

He hums “Poor little thing, all puffy… still leaking, too. I claimed you well, didn’t I?” He says, gaze flickering up to your own, sharp eyes meeting dazed ones.

“Yes, yes… y-you always do…” You whisper.

He inhaled the musky scent of sex and let out a rumbled purr, pleased. Deft fingers ran up your slit gathering some of the slick and pressed in just slightly, relishing on the way you clenched wanting them deeper and how your glistening thighs trembled.

“I want you to keep it all in, all night, think you can do that, my love?”

You nod mutely, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good girl.” Zhongli’s hand rubs at your leg, coaxing them close. With a snap of his fingers your hands are free and he gently takes them on his, kissing and massaging your wrists. “Alright? Sore?”

You shake your head, leaning onto his chest.

“Words, darling.”

“Fine. Tired.” You mumble.

He chuckles and kisses your temple, hand rubbing at your arms and shoulders comfortingly. “Let’s get some rest then.”

“Mhm…”

[thatonegrimm]

hii! Saw a precious post of the saja boys with reader who has ADHD, could you please maybe write something about them with an s/o with autism pls? maybe like them supporting readers stimming behaviours and such?

Many thanks! And love ur writing <3

Thank you for the request! I had to ask a few friends but hopefully this is accurate to most. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Autistic!Reader

---------------------------

🧿 Jinu 

The apartment was too loud.

The blender in the kitchen, the clink of silverware, the faint sound of a commercial playing from the other room—it all grated at you in invisible, itchy layers. You sat curled into the far corner of the couch, hoodie hood up, hands pressed to your ears, rocking ever so slightly.

Jinu walked in halfway through making tea.

He didn’t say anything.

Just registered your body language in that calm, steady way of his and, without comment, walked right back out. When he returned, the apartment had gone oddly still.

The blender was off. The commercial had been muted. Even the kettle, now steeping on the side table, seemed to be letting off steam a little more quietly.

He didn’t crowd you—he just sat beside you, back to back, a comfortable weight that didn’t demand anything.

“You want to stay quiet,” he said after a moment, “or should I start reading that weird book I found at the thrift store?”

You peeked out from your hood.

“…The haunted one?”

He smiled faintly. “With terrible grammar and a ghost named Pickles.”

You nodded.

He started reading aloud in a quiet voice, calm and steady, like nothing had been wrong at all.

---------------------------

💪 Abby 

You couldn’t sit still today.

The feeling wouldn’t go away—like your skin was too tight, like the air was buzzing wrong. You paced the hallway barefoot in Abby’s oversized shirt, hands flapping by your sides as you tried to bleed the energy out of your fingertips.

Abby peeked around the corner. “You stimmin’?”

You paused.

“…Yeah.”

“Need pressure?”

You nodded, fast.

He opened his arms, no hesitation.

And you bolted into him like a freight train.

He caught you with a soft “oof” and wrapped his arms around you, solid and firm. You dug your fingers into his back and pressed your cheek to his chest, breathing in the clean-laundry scent of him.

He didn’t move.

Just swayed slightly, grounding you with a rhythmic squeeze-and-release motion of his arms.

“Feel better?” he asked softly, after a few minutes.

“Still itchy in the head,” you murmured.

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll keep holdin’ till the itch passes.”

And he did.

No questions. No pressure.

Just pressure—the good kind—until you were calm again.

---------------------------

📚 Mystery 

You found your favorite hiding spot again—under the lofted bed in the guest room, behind the stack of storage bins where the noise and light couldn’t quite reach.

You weren’t trying to be dramatic.

You were just…done.

Done with too many words. Too many plans. Too many textures on your clothes.

So you sat in your quiet little pocket of the world, hugging your knees to your chest.

Mystery found you twenty minutes later.

He didn’t knock.

Just ducked down, spotted your shape, and without a word, slid in beside you like a cat curling into a cardboard box.

He didn't ask questions. Didn't try to fix it.

He pulled out a wrapped hard candy from his hoodie pocket and offered it to you without making eye contact.

You took it, unwrapped it, and rolled the cool candy over your tongue.

It helped.

The world stayed small and manageable for a little while.

And when your fingers started tapping against your thigh, Mystery matched the rhythm with his own.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Together, in silence.

Exactly what you needed.

---------------------------

💋 Romance 

You’d warned him.

About the days when you get overwhelmed by people, by lights, by being perceived too much and feeling everything.

About how sometimes you script conversations in advance.

About how, when you rock or click your fingers or need to chew something, it isn’t because you’re “nervous.”

It’s just how you are.

Romance had nodded the first time you told him.

Said, “Okay, sweetie. Just let me know what you need.”

Today, you needed to stim—hard.

So there you were, curled up in the studio lounge with your stim rings, knees bouncing, chewing on the corner of your hoodie.

Romance walked in and immediately knelt in front of you, slow and soft, like he was approaching a sacred thing.

He kissed your forehead. Didn’t say a word.

Then he pulled out his ridiculous fidget cube—the loud, flashy one he kept “for emergencies”—and held it out.

“Wanna trade?” he whispered.

You did.

And when you couldn’t speak yet, he just sat beside you, humming softly, letting the sound fill the air while you came back to center.

“Still with me?” he asked eventually.

You nodded.

He smiled. “Then I’ve got you.”

---------------------------

🔥 Baby 

He found you sitting in the bathtub fully clothed—hood up, headphones on, chewing on your drawstring and rocking.

Did he panic?

Nope.

He just climbed into the tub too.

Shoes and all.

You paused, mid-stim, and stared at him.

“…What are you doing?”

“You’re in the Sad Zone,” he said, folding his long legs to fit. “I go where you go.”

You blinked.

Then sniffed.

Then laughed a little.

“It’s a meltdown,” you said. “I don’t know why.”

“You don’t need a reason,” he replied, already tugging his hoodie tighter. “You want me to shut up or talk about cartoons?”

“…Cartoons.”

And he did.

He launched into an impassioned rant about overpowered anime villains and morally gray protagonists while you chewed your hoodie and let your breathing steady.

No fixing.

No pity.

Just Baby, being your fireproof shield from the world.

---------------------------

They don’t treat your stimming like something strange. They don’t make your meltdowns feel shameful. They don’t call your quiet days “cold” or “confusing.”

They just meet you there.

In the quiet. In the buzzing. In the moments when everything feels like too much.

With steady hands. Warm voices. Unspoken understanding. And love.

Always love.

---------------------------

M-List

[tsuy4n]

The Artist Who Lives for the Plot

Warning/s: Fem!Reader, Mild language/casual swearing, chaotic energy (duh), unhinged humor, reader suffering (comically)

[A/n]: I had so much fun writing, and dw. Part 2 will be coming soon. It's time to live with them. If it all fits, that'll be the last and final one! Thank you for your support <3

>Part 1<, Part 2, Part 3,...

Day 1: Staff Badge, Zero Fear

You just received a job. Technically, a side-job.

You needed the extra cash. Rent was due next week, and at this point, the only thing growing faster than your stress was the mold in your bathroom.

Being a webtoon artist had always been the dream. You studied—poses, anatomy, lighting, shading, even a bit of photography thanks to that one kind sunbae back in high school. You poured years into perfecting your craft. But… doing your dream job in reality?

Yeah. Not exactly how you imagined it.

Making money through art was already hard. Add today’s economy into the mix, and suddenly budgeting meant rotating between cheap instant meals and whatever eggs were on sale. Not the healthiest diet, but it got you through deadlines. Mostly.

Anyway. Enough with that depressing backstory.

Today, you were helping out behind the scenes—cleaning up, running errands, doing whatever the other staff didn’t have time for. The entire building was in chaos, people rushing around, shouting schedules, checking equipment. Apparently, some new boy group was debuting soon.

Like, in a week or something? You hadn’t seen them yet, but you had heard things.

"They’re gorgeous," One of the stylists whispered while curling a wig. "Like, inhuman levels of beautiful."

That alone was enough to catch your attention.

You weren’t trying to ogle anyone. You just needed some visual inspiration. For art, obviously.

So when someone asked you to bring water to the practice room? You may or may not have speed-walked your way there with the excitement of a fangirl and the blank expression of a very tired assistant.

The moment you opened the door, chaos greeted you. They were arguing. And loud.

Great for drama. Better for material.

"Do you want to achieve world domination or not?!" The black-haired one snapped, voice sharp like he was conducting a military operation instead of a boy group practice.

"Then hit the beat— on time!"

Ah, the leader. Jinu, you think was his name.

"You're 0.5 seconds off." The one who's half of his face was covered with hair flatly said.

"I told you, it’s called flair." Said the one with pink hair, heart-shaped bangs framing his face.

"You mean lag." The mint haired muttered, eyes glued to his phone.

"Shut it." Groaned the one with the ridiculous muscles, dabbing sweat off his face like a disappointed gym coach. "Let’s just start from the top before Captain Serious combusts."

That’s when they noticed you.

But by then, you’d already seen them—and everything else.

Oh, your eyes. They were blinding.

It was like walking into a manhwa panel. Ethereal lighting. Sweat glistening on toned arms. Perfect jawlines. Tall, broad silhouettes. You barely managed not to trip over your own feet.

This was it. The vision. You felt it. The inspiration burning through your veins.

You cleared your throat, doing your best to keep a neutral expression as you set the bottles near the mirrors.

And then, you said it. Casual. Straight-faced. Deadpan. "If this is what world domination looks like, I think the lighting needs work."

Silence.

They stared, blinked, and glanced at one another. Confused.

Jinu sighed. "Let’s take five."

The rest of the group immediately relaxed, stretching, dropping to the floor, cheering like they’d survived a war. Understandable. You heard they’d been practicing for hours.

You tried not to stare. You failed.

A voice pulled your attention.

"Thanks for the drink, cutie." It's the long haired dude. His voice was smooth and his smile was confident, borderline illegal.

Romance. That had to be his stage name.

Your eyes did a quick scan. You were mentally labeling all of them. It wasn’t weird. Not in a weird way. No. This was research.

Another one, shirt clinging to his abs like it was painted on, snatched a bottle and chugged it like he hadn’t tasted water in days. Abby, clearly.

You blinked. He was broad. The kind of chest that made you think of shirt buttons fighting for their lives. He smirked at you.

You immediately looked away and bowed slightly, mouthing a silent apology for being caught staring.

Then your gaze moved to the one on his phone, laughing at something you can't tell.

"That's so dumb." Mint hair said under his breath. His face? Cute. His voice? Low. Totally not what you expected, but love. You eat that kinda character up in stories.

He must be Baby.

Then there was the guy with long pastel hair partially covering his face. He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even looked your way. Mysterious aura? Check. It's clear he's Mystery.

And finally, back to Jinu. The leader. He carried himself like someone dependable. Stern but fair, and he's like that because he wants to see them all succeed.

That's such an eye watering story.

You tried not to squeal. Really, you did. But your fingers were already itching to draw. You can't wait for break to come.

Speaking of break... You look at them. It's only been a minute since they started that. You shouldn't, yeah.

"Excuse me." And yet you're already speaking. "Would it be alright if I took some photos?"

The room quieted a little. You could practically hear their thoughts. Another poor staff member, helpless under their charms.

"Go ahead." Jinu said, offering a small smile. What a charming fella.

He seems like he’d be one of those knight captains in those historical webtoons. The kind who stands behind the throne, silent and strong, carrying the kingdom on his back without asking for thanks.

Daydreaming later, let’s get clicking!

With permission granted, you lit up and pulled out your phone, trying hard not to bounce in excitement. As soon as your camera opened, they were already posing.

Of course they were.

You took a few shots—clean, fast, a few from different angles. They assumed you were done. They assumed wrong.

You lowered your phone, frowned slightly, and pointed at Abby.

"Flex your arm. No—more toward that side. Yes, hold that. Chin down."

They all froze.

"Huh?" Abby blinked.

And just like that, a full-on impromptu photoshoot began. You were directing them like your life depended on it. They followed along, slightly confused but too prideful to stop now.

"Yo..." Abby muttered, peeking at one of the photos. "I didn’t know my abs could look this good. Muscle definition on point."

He's beyond satisfied and that boosts your confidence in your photography skills yet again.

Soon, the rest of them were swarming your phone, snatching it to see their pictures and gawk at their undeniably gorgeous self.

Before chaos could start between them, you took your phone back in your hands as a really huge and bright smile was on your face.

"Thank you so much for indulging this staff member her request!" You made your way to the door with an awkward half-bow, twisting the knob, turning back one last time.

"I’m rooting for you guys! You got this!"

And with that, you were gone. Silence lingered in the room.

"So are we just letting random staff direct us now?" Baby asked, glancing at the others. "Cool. Cool cool cool."

"Yeah." Romance agreed with a nod. "But she's cute isn't she?"

"Every girl’s cute to you." Abby said, bumping his shoulder against him and tossing an arm lazily around Romance’s neck. "Get new taste, man."

"She didn’t even ask for an autograph." Jinu added, almost puzzled. Usually people would ask for that. He did his research well, you know.

"She just wanted photos." Mystery mumbled, his head tilting slightly to the side.

"Of us," Abby said proudly, a sudden, inexplicable breeze swept through the room—no open windows, no vents. Just vibes(?)

The edge of Abby’s fitted shirt lifted slightly, just enough to reveal a flash of perfectly sculpted abs.

He smirked. "Duh."

Fast forward—

Your first day ended early. Convenient, right? That meant more time to look at the pictures you took earlier. You couldn’t wait to study those shots, not in a weird way.

You’d been stuck on one panel of your webtoon for days, and no matter how deep you dove into Pinterest or Google, nothing looked quite right.

But thanks to that idol group, your prayers were answered. Sort of.

You expected to be on the bus by now, earbuds in, zoning out to music. Instead, you were standing in front of a convenience store, digging through your bag for your wallet when a realization hit you like a truck.

No cable. No charger. Not even a hint of it.

You double-checked. Nope. Gone.

You groaned out loud, dragging a hand down your face.

"Perfect." You muttered with a scowl. "Love that for me."

Then again, a bit of late-night cardio never hurt anyone. Yeah, scratch that shit. The universe clearly hated you.

The studio was still unlocked, the lobby empty. You flashed your staff ID in front of the scanner near the door—it beeped, the lock clicked, and in you went.

The overhead lights had been dimmed. Most of the staff were long gone. The silence was oddly calming.

You retraced your steps, mentally going through every place you'd stopped during the day. The break room was empty. No luck. The side lounge? Same story.

Third option: the rehearsal room.

You sighed. "Third time’s the charm." You mumbled, adjusting the strap on your bag as you headed down the hallway.

Your steps slowed as you neared the practice room. The door was closed, but voices leaked through—low, intense. Not the usual banter or off-key singing. Just… murmurs. Uneven. Cult-like.

You blinked. 'Holy hell, they’re still practicing?'

You glanced at your phone. It was late. Your shift ended an hour ago.

What are they made of? Protein powder and ambition?

What are they eating? Dreams? Caffeine? Hope??

You needed to ask. Not for curiosity. For survival. Your deadline was crawling up your spine like a tax collector and you were this close to drawing stick figures for tomorrow’s update.

The lights under the door flickered—blue, then red, then something that looked like a Windows error message.

You stared. Paused. Maybe they were testing stage lights.

Maybe they were summoning Satan. You didn't care. You just needed your charger. So you pushed the door open.

"I’m really sorry for disturbing you, but—" No matter how tired you were from today’s chaos, you still had manners.

They stood in a loose circle, shadows stretched long and unnatural, and… was that a portal? How the hell did they manage that?

If it was an illusion, it was top-tier. What were they feeding these hologram artists? Everyone in this team was way too talented.

Six heads snapped toward you.

You only blinked, admiration shining in your eyes. "Cool cosplay. Is this for the music video?"

A beat of silence.

Then your gaze flicked to the ceiling, eyes narrowing in critique. "Lighting’s a bit much, though. Shadows are swallowing Jinu’s jawline—tragic. Tilt the main source up just a bit next time."

You said what you said and you don't want to wait for a reply. You turn on your phone flashlight and started scanning the floor, stepping past the demon-plush aesthetic like you were dodging cables on a cluttered set.

There. Your charger lay near the edge of the mirror wall.

You scooped it up with a triumphant sigh and gave them all a quick thumbs-up.

"Good luck on the scene rehearsal." You chirped, already walking toward the door.

Click.

The door shut behind you, leaving nothing but baffled beings.

"…Who was that?" One of the figures finally asked, voice low and sharp.

"Staff." Abby replied, blinking.

"A weird human." Baby added, eyes at the door just like the others.

The tallest demon tilted its head, "Should we take care of her?"

The hunger was clear in its tone. Like it could already taste your soul.

Jinu was the first to speak. "No," He said sharply. "Not yet."

There was a pause. The demon turned slightly toward him. "You hesitate."

"I don’t make moves without information." Jinu said, arms crossed. "She’s… off."

"Off?" One of the smaller ones asked. "She looked normal."

"She looked like she was analyzing us," He muttered as he thought back to your behavior from earlier. "Not scared. Not confused. She looked like she’d seen stranger things."

"She was watching our movements earlier," Mystery informed from his corner, his voice soft. "Sketchpad in her lap."

"You sure it's not some fanfic crap?" Baby deadpanned.

"No." Jinu replied, tone quieter now. "It wasn’t that kind of writing. It was too structured. Like she was mapping something out. Watching patterns."

The demons seemed vaguely amused by the theory.

"So… a spy?" One of them asked, half-joking.

"Maybe," Jinu’s expression darkened. "Or something else. Either way, I’ll figure it out."

He didn’t voice the rest:

She looked one of the demon in the eye like she was judging him.

She also told them to fix the lighting.

She moved like the demon was interrupting her schedule.

Either she’s an expert who’ll be a problem later…or just another idiot with good timing and bad boundaries. Still. Better to play it safe.

The demons didn’t press. They glanced at one another then shrugged. Fine. Let him figure it out. Would’ve been more fun if he let them eat her soul, but hey—he’s the leader.

Without another word, they vanished through the pink portals back to the demon realm, leaving behind silence.

It didn’t last long.

Romance sighed dreamily. "Okay but… if she is a spy, she’s kinda hot."

Jinu didn’t reply. He just rubbed his temples, the beginnings of a headache forming right behind his eyes.

First a debut, now possible espionage from the world’s most dead-eyed assistant with a sketchpad.

Great.

He’d already built enough stress to level a small village. Now this?

…Cool. Fine. He’ll handle it. He always does.

Still.

Lighting advice?? Who just— No. Never mind. He stood straighter, his focus clear as glass.

He'll take care of you sooner or later once he knows your motive.

And so you lived through the first day of your new side-job.

Sure, it ended with strange flickering lights, a suspiciously cult-like gathering, and the very real possibility that the idol group you just met might be into LARPing or, worse, weird method acting.

But hey, sick concept. You respect the dedication. You genuinely hoped they listened to your advice about the lighting.

Still, your charger was back in your bag, your sketchpad was bursting with ideas, you get to draw that panel finally, and your rent wouldn’t pay itself.

So, if a bunch of pretty boys wanted to summon smoke and dramatic lighting on company time?

Not your business—as long as they made great reference material.

As you draw, you think things like:

Abby’s arms practically had their own agency. You swore his biceps flexed every time he blinked.

Jinu looked like a man carrying the weight of his group… and your outstanding bills.

And Romance? Prince face, main character energy, and probably the type to Google himself just to read the fan comments.

You, on the other hand, were so innocently, completely unaware of what awaited you.

Probably harassment, but definitely plot.

Day 2: HR Is Not Ready for This

You didn’t expect much on your second day.

Maybe some light sweating, a few awkward water runs, and enough quiet time to sneak in some sketching or brainstorm for ideas on your story.

You just wanted to observe, breathe, survive. Simple.

But the universe and apparently five very nosy boys had other plans.

The moment you entered the room, the air shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough to feel… watched.

Your gaze moved from one to the next—Abby adjusting his shirt (and definitely flexing more than needed), Mystery casually stretching nearby like a ninja cat, Baby muttering to himself while scrolling, and Jinu… he was definitely looking at you.

But you didn’t notice that.

You were too focused on your clipboard, scribbling poses and notes like a diligent little artist.

"You’ve been staring again."

You jumped a little. Jinu’s voice. Low. Observant.

You blinked up at him. "Oh, um— sorry?"

His brow arched before a tiny smile tugged at his lips. An attempt to lighten up the air around. "It’s fine. Just… felt like you were memorizing our skeletons."

You laughed, a little too nervously. "No! I mean—well, kind of? I’m an artist."

"...Right."

Was that judgment? You should be offended, right? Yes. But inside.

"It’s for character design," You explained. "I draw for webtoons. You guys are… kind of perfect models."

Jinu studied you. Scribbly. Polite. Very tired. But his gut didn’t trust you. "…Just don’t publish anything weird about us."

You gave him a two-finger salute. "No promises."

He walked off—suspicious, calculating, and weirdly handsome about it.

You sighed, then looked down. You’d circled a line on your page.

"Too symmetrical. Suspicious."

The second day at work is fun! Yeah, right. Fucking fuck. Today's exhausting. And not the "Wow, they’re so dreamy, I’m swooning~" kind.

No. This was “I swear to god if one of them breathes over my shoulder again, I will throw this pen” level of tired.

You were just trying to observe quietly, take notes, and survive the shift.

But subtle glances? Apparently that translated to "please, harass me."

Romance started singing, badly, every time your pen moved. Said it helped set the mood. You told him to change the playlist.

Abby kept "accidentally" standing right in your view. Shirt raised. Flex engaged. Asking, "How’s the lighting on my triceps now?"

Mystery appeared over your shoulder with zero warning, stared at your sketch, nodded, then vanished again like an IKEA ghost.

Baby? Baby muttered your critique out loud just to mess with you.

"‘Neck angle inconsistent’? Wow, harsh." All while smirking so handsomely. Baby. As in the one from hell. With Wi-Fi and zero respect for your peace. Like his fucking members.

You squinted at him, nearly blessing the world with the ugliest scowl known to man. "How are you even reading that from across the room?"

He didn’t answer. He just smiled wider.

Oh, these bastards were enjoying your suffering.

Was bullying the new staff part of their team-building exercises? Hazing disguised as charisma? They haven’t even debuted yet!

The audacity when their Spotify numbers are still at zero.

You'd think world domination came with manners, but no.

Contrary to their faces—artfully sculpted by angels or Photoshop—their personalities were straight-up hellspawn. (Ironic.)

By the time you were done, your social battery had collapsed into dust. You passed by a staff member in the hallway, maybe a stylist or someone from props.

"You look… drained."

You nodded. "Drained is generous. I feel like I’ve been emotionally dry-cleaned."

They laughed. You didn’t. You're mourning your peace.

Meanwhile, back in the practice room:

The air was quieter now. But tense.

Jinu stood near the speaker, arms crossed. His expression unreadable. "She’s hiding something."

The others didn’t laugh this time.

"Maybe she’s just weird." Baby offered his thought.

"Doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous." Jinu replied.

"So what, we just keep annoying her until she cracks?" Romance said, upside-down on the couch, legs kicking in the air like a chaotic cat.

"No." Jinu’s eyes didn’t waver. "We keep watching her until she shows us what she’s really here for.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Abby grinned like he's excited and can't wait to act whatever on his mind. "So. Strategic pestering. Got it."

Jinu didn’t stop him, or anyone of the boys. Whatever it takes to make you crack he guess.

Later that night, you collapsed at your desk.

Still alive. Barely.

You flipped open your sketchpad, flipping past pages of poses, muscle references, and narrowed notes.

"Abby’s arms could run their own business."

"Romance: pretty, but loud."

"Baby = gremlin with a phone."

"Mystery—??? Stop teleporting???"

You sighed, poked at your charger, then scribbled one last line before calling it a night.

If tomorrow’s like this again, I might fake a cold. Or a coma. Or both.

Still... their interest in your art? Kind of flattering. Mostly annoying.

[ihaznoclue]

Face Reveal

[Mystery Saja x Female Reader]

a/n; Finally a post about one of my favourite boys

Warnings - Kissing on the face, Biting, Slight Teasing, Face Reveal may not accurate

You were quite curious about your popular boyfriend's face under all of his silver-teal like hair, covering his entire face to only see his mouth and nose

Now here you are, standing in front of your very own boyfriend, he wasn't speaking but all he did was tilt his head in confusion on what you needed from him

"What did you need love?" He then suddenly asked you making you snap out of your very own trance

"Um.. would you allow me to see.. your face? I wanted to try something, If you don't mind that is" You smiled up at him

You saw a small smile on his lip as he gave out a little chuckle "Hun, you don't need to ask.. you can just move my hair out the way if you wanted to see my face"

"Really?" You questioned, a nod was met by him

You stepped a little closer, hands reaching up at his hair to brush it the side gently without getting it in his eyes

You were met with a gorgeous face, smooth skin, yellow like eyes that stared at you adoration and slightly thick eyebrows just above his eyes, his long eyelashes and his rosy cheeks

You were in admiration, you were hypnotised by his beauty, your palms was placed on jaw area as you looked more and more

"You that entranced by me love?" He hummed, leaning in to rub his nose with you making you close your eyes

"You're.. gorgeous Mystery" You said as you gave his nose a little peck, making his nose get stained with your lipstick and that gave you an idea

Kissing all of his face, first his cheeks, lips, forehead everywhere on his face to be then met with a gorgeous face stained with your lipstick

Mystery blinked a couple of times then smirked "My my~ Is someone confident?" He teased

"My turn~" He said which caused you to be confused but squealed as he bit your cheek softly, then went down to your neck , jaw and your other cheek

"Now you're marked by my bites~" He purred

You were about to say something until Mystery was called by the others, telling him it was nearly time to go on stage

Mystery gave you one last bite and little kiss right after making you stand there, flustered by what just happened

Then you realised

"WAIT! Mystery! Your face!" You yelled out as you ran after him

-A<3

- REBLOG, LIKES, COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED! -

[emryshunts]

Bound to Them

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 1: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

𝐒𝐚𝐣𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐱 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 3

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: 𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒊𝒓𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔.𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒔.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝑶𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍/𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒅, 𝑬𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔), 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒅𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒔, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 (18+)

𝑨/𝑵: 𝑯𝒆𝒚 𝒈𝒖𝒚𝒔 💋 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏! 𝑮𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂, 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒂𝒋𝒂 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒔? 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆. 𝑰 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 😈 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆 𝒖𝒑. 𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓—𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓—𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.

—𝑬𝒎𝒓𝒚𝒔 🖤

w/c: 4k

comments and reblogs would be appreciated!

The sleek glass doors shut behind you with a soft hiss.

Click.

You inhale—shallow, sharp. Straighten your blouse. Will your hands to stop shaking. The receptionist gives you a polite nod and disappears.

Then it’s just you… and the door.

You can feel the weight of it. Of what’s behind it. 

The silence. The pressure.

You already know who’s waiting.

The Saja Boys.

Five idols who rose from nowhere and took the industry by storm.

Unreachable. 

Unstoppable. 

Too perfect to be human.

You take a breath as the door opens.

You don’t feel the tension—not until the door clicks shut and five pairs of eyes lock onto you, all at once.

And suddenly, you feel it.

Something shifts

・・・・・​​⟢​​・・・・・​​⟢

When she walked in, they didn’t just notice her.

They felt her.

And it nearly destroyed their restraint.

The office is quiet. White walls. Cold lights. Sanitized stillness.

But the moment your foot crosses the threshold—

Five heads turn.

Five bodies go still.

And then— The scent hits them.

You.

Soft. Warm. Theirs.

The bond snaps tight.

Jinu is the first to react.

His spine straightened so fast it felt like lightning shot through it. And for a moment—just one trembling moment—Jinu forgot who he was supposed to be. Forgot the polished idol image, the perfect self-control, the hundreds of rules he’d buried himself beneath.

Because you were standing in front of him.

Soft. Radiant. Meant for him.

Theirs.

“No one moves,” he murmurs to the others, voice like velvet over a blade. “Do not shift. Don’t even breathe.”

Not when you were standing there like that.

Not when his control was already this close to snapping.

His knuckles were white. His thighs were tense under the table. And his eyes—those burning, gold-flickering eyes—never left you.

Beside him, Abby twitches. His nostrils flare. The trademark smirk is gone, replaced by something raw. Animal.

His nostrils flare once.

And then—

He purrs.

A deep, rumbling growl laced with longing and hunger. “Shit,” he breathes, gaze locked to your lips like he wants to feel every sound you’ve ever made. “That smell. It’s her. It’s really her.”

The bond is hitting too fast. Too hard.

Romance’s leg drops from the couch, his body tensing like a current just jolted through him. He blinks once—slowly. Then his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s already savoring something forbidden.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, head tipping back for a breath that does nothing to cool him down. “I knew she’d be gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. His hand drags down the front of his slacks, subtly adjusting himself with a hiss through his teeth, his jaw tight.

“But this…” His eyes rake down your body.

“Fuck,” he exhales, jaw tight. His head drops back for a second, and when he looks at you again, his eyes are dark and glazed.

“She’s too much,” he murmurs, voice strained. “One look and I’m already—”

He doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

The way his fingers linger at his waistband says enough.

“Why do I want to devour her?”

Then his gaze drops. Scans the curve of your thighs, the flutter of your breath, the tremble you’re trying so hard to hide—and he purrs too.

Quieter, but deeper.

Hungrier.

Baby, the one who never shows anything, suddenly pushes up from his seat, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like he’s fighting something inside himself. 

“Because she’s ours,” he growls. “She’s made of everything we were promised. And we’re not letting her go.”

And Mystery?

Mystery doesn’t rise. He jerks like he’s been burned.

His gaze? Locked on your throat like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to touch, taste, mark.

He breathes in once.

Then purrs.

A long, rumbling, possessive purr that vibrates the air.

“Mate,” he croaks. “Mine.”

“Ours,” Jinu snaps. Quiet. Taut with restraint. His canines peek behind his lips.

You stop mid-step, caught in their collective stare.

Your pulse flutters. Your breath trembles.

Still, you try.

“Um… hello,” you begin softly, forcing a smile. Your fingers tighten on your resume. “My name is—”

But the second your voice breaks the silence—

The sound shatters them.

They all inhale. Hard.

Abby curses under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Oh, fuck. She sounds even better than I imagined.”

You blink. Your cheeks flush.

You’re not sure why it feels like the room is getting smaller, like their stares are pressing against your skin. “I—I’m here for the manager position,” you manage to say, voice wobbling slightly.

Romance lets out a choked moan and grips the back of the couch so hard his knuckles bleach white, clawing into the leather.

“She sounds like heaven,” he groans.” Jinu—fuck—say something. Do something. Before I put her on my lap and—”

“Shut up,” Jinu snaps, golden eyes never leaving you. “Not now. Not yet.”

His voice cracks like a whip, but it’s the only thing keeping Romance from losing it.

Romance doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t pretend to be sorry.

He just licks his lips again, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with hunger.

And his claws?

They’re still embedded in the couch.

Because if they weren’t…

They’d be on you.

His eyes never leave you. Not even for a second.

Mystery makes a sound from deep in his chest—barely a growl, more like a purr, dark and rumbling. His claws are dug into the leather of the armrest, his knuckles pale. The tension in his jaw is brutal.

Baby looks calm, but the white grip of his hand on the table says otherwise. His shoulders are too still. His nostrils flare with every breath you take, like your scent is coating his lungs.

He looks starved.

And Jinu…

Jinu doesn’t move. But his fingers flex—once—on the table. His claws extend, clicking softly against the wood.

They don't blink.

They don't breathe.

The air is suffocating—saturated with your scent, your voice, the unmistakable tension of a bond that has already begun wrapping around all of you.

You shift slightly, heart stuttering.

Their stares don’t just watch.

They burn.

“She’s shaking already,” Abby murmurs with a slow, hungry grin. “Cute.”

You flinch.

Your fingers tighten around your resume. Your shoulders twitch. Your knees feel like they might give.

You didn't mean to react.

But gods—you did.

You’re flushed. Too warm. Your breath catches in your throat and you swear you can feel every pair of eyes on your skin.

Romance inhales slowly like he’s savoring your scent. “She likes it,” he says softly. “She’s trembling because of us.”

Abby hums behind him. “Of course she does.” His voice drops to a near-growl. “She feels the pull. Even if she doesn’t understand it yet—her body does.”

Your soul knows.

Your pulse flutters so hard it aches.

You open your mouth to speak, desperate to ground yourself. “I—um, I’m here for the—”

You can’t finish. Your voice fails.

And that’s when one of the staff—smirking, oblivious—laughs from the back of the room.

“Seriously? She’s already shaking just from being looked at? She won’t last a day around idols if she’s this weak.”

You didn’t mean to react. 

Just a twitch. Shoulders tightening. Eyes dropping for a second.

And they noticed it.

The world… snaps.

The change is immediate. Violent. Silent.

Jinu doesn’t speak.

He turns.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His golden gaze slices the air—sharp, frozen, lethal.

Romance’s smirk drops.

His head tilts. His eyes go cold.

“He thinks he’s funny,” Romance says. The venom is quiet—but unmistakable. “That’s cute.”

Mystery growls.

Actually growls. A low, animalistic sound that vibrates in his chest and makes the walls seem too thin. He doesn't blink. He stares the man down like a predator tracking prey.

And for a second—just a flash—you thought you saw fangs.

What… what are they?

The temperature in the room drops. The lights seem too bright now. The air too thin.

Abby doesn’t even try to hide it. He stands, rolling his shoulders with a crack. The heat that pours off him makes the room feel too small.

“You’re lucky she’s still here,” he says, teeth bared in a grin that’s all hunger and threat. “We’re already holding back more than you deserve.”

Baby doesn’t say much. But the way he moves from leaning to standing—slowly, deliberately—makes the message clear.

Back off.

You can't move. You can barely breathe.

Their fury isn’t just protective—it’s obsessive.

It’s possessive in the way fire consumes everything it touches.

You blink—your whole body trembling now—and the worst part?

You love it.

Jinu tilts his head slightly, the gold in his eyes catching the light just right.

“Everyone out,” he says.

Silence.

“This is a closed meeting now,” Jinu continues, voice low, firm. Final. “You weren’t invited to speak. And you won’t again.”

The manager hesitates. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

The others around him begin to shuffle out—no one looking back. Not one of them dares meet your eyes. Or theirs.

And the second the door clicks shut—

Silence returns.

But now… it's heavier. Hotter.

You don’t move. You don’t even breathe too loudly.

Not when five of the most powerful idols in the industry—men the world worships—are staring at you like they want to devour you.

Not with their fans.

Not with their fame.

With something deeper.

Darker.

Their eyes are all different, but every pair is locked on you.

You stood in the center of it—fingers clenched, heart pounding like it wanted out of your chest.

Abby’s hand twitched at his side. He stared like he was holding himself together with raw instinct alone.“I need to touch her,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a question.

“We found her,” Baby muttered, like he still couldn’t believe it. His voice was a hush, reverent. “We found our mate.”

The words settled. Sank. The room grew darker. Heavier. The bond pulling tight like it was breathing through them.

Jinu’s command cracked through the air like ice. “Control yourselves.” But even his voice trembled now. His smile was cracking, fangs just starting to peek through as the gold in his eyes gleamed brighter.

Romance moved first.

Not fast. Not reckless.

Predatory.

A slow, deliberate circle—his body a storm winding around the eye. You. He inhaled, deep and shaky, like your scent was feeding him.

He reached up, fingers brushing your lips. So gentle it made you shiver. He tilted your chin just enough to study your mouth, the tremble in your lashes, the flush rising beneath your skin.

“So soft,” he murmured, the words like silk against your flesh.

Then lower—closer

“This mouth…”

His thumb grazed your bottom lip.

“…Do you even know what it does to us?”

You try to step back.

But there’s no room.

Abby’s already behind you, body heat pressing in, his chest flush against your back—broad, hard, unyielding.

His palm slid over your waist.

Slow. 

Possessive.

Intentional.

Not quite touching—just enough to make your breath hitch.

He leaned in. His breath kissed your neck. “She smells too fucking good,” he growls, almost pained.

His lips grazed your skin. A feather-soft press. Like he needed to memorize you by taste.

You whimper

The smallest sound. A breath, barely audible.

But it’s enough.

Enough to snap the fragile tension in the room like glass.

Abby shudders violently behind you. His grip on your waist tightens. “There it is,” he growls into your hair. “Say it again, angel. Make it for me. That perfect little sound.”

Romance groaned like it physically hurt. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice cracking as his hand cupped your jaw. “Don’t make that sound unless you’re ready to be ruined.”

Behind you, Abby cursed under his breath, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to us.”

And then they purred.

A deep, thrumming sound that vibrates through your spine, into your ribs, into your skull. It surrounds you. Drowns you. Fills your chest with heat and pressure and need.

And your mind?

Your mind is no longer safe.

You were made for them.

You belong to them.

You gasped.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Romance whispered, dragging a single finger down your throat. “That pull. That ache. You don’t even know why you need us… but you do.”

Your knees buckled—and Abby caught you.

Strong arms curled around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. “Say it,” he growled into your hair. “Tell us what you need.”

“I-I don’t understand,” you gasped, voice trembling, eyes wide.

You didn’t understand what was happening.

Why your body was so aware of theirs.

Why your chest ached.

Behind Romance, Mystery shifts.

A low, rumbling purr vibrates from his chest—feral and drawn out. His golden eyes are glowing now. He hasn’t moved an inch, but the air around him crackles with the tension of someone on the edge.

“She’s submitting,” he rasps, voice ragged. “She doesn’t even know it yet.”

Romance hums low in his throat close to a purr.  “Oh, she knows. Look at her.”

His fingers trail down your throat again, slower this time. Teasing. Taunting “Her body knows who she belongs to. Look at her. She likes it.”

The pressure is building. Your thighs squeeze together. You’re burning from the inside out and the only thing that will fix it is them.

And in your mind—

Something curls. Something gives in.

Be a good girl for them.

Let go.

You’re already theirs.

And then you say it.

Soft. Broken. Barely a whisper.

“Please.”

Every single one of them reacts.

Romance lets out a trembling exhale, teeth flashing behind his parted lips. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, lips parting in awe. “Good girl… give us more of that.”

Abby freezes behind you, fingers pressing tighter into your waist like he's anchoring himself to your skin.

Baby flinches. His shoulders tense, and for a second—just a second—something in his skin glows. Flickers. Twitches.

You see something dark shimmer beneath the surface. Something barely restrained.“Shit,” he hisses. “They’re triggering it.”

Baby’s jaw is tight, his golden eyes sharp and gleaming.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he watches you like you’re already his to ruin.

“More,” Mystery hisses. His voice is low, feral, close. Too close. You don’t know when he moved behind you, but now you feel him. His heat. His breath. The sharp scrape of claw grazing your hip. “Let her make that sound again.”

Romance’s hands hover at your waist, trembling with restraint. “Do it again, baby,” he purrs, voice thick. “Be a good girl for us. Let us hear what we do to you.”

Abby leans in, lips brushing the curve of your neck so softly it steals your breath. “Beg, pretty girl,” he growls into your skin. “Come on. Give it to us.”

Your thighs press together, involuntarily. Your breath shudders.

“P-Please—” you choke, voice breaking as your lashes flutter. You don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore. Just that you need it.

Abby buries his face in your hair. “Fuck, she’s perfect,” he growls. “She doesn’t even know what that word does to us.”

Romance groans like it physically hurts.

He drags one hand up to cup your jaw, tilting your head just enough for his lips to hover by yours—so close, so warm. Not kissing. Just owning the space around you.

“Please what?”

Baby steps closer, suddenly in front of you, his voice velvet and burning. “Say it again, sweetheart.” His eyes lock onto yours, pupils blown wide. “Say what you’re begging for.”

You can’t look at him.

You can’t look at any of them.

“I—” You swallow. “I don’t know what’s happening. I just—please…”

You whimper again, soft and desperate.

And it breaks something.

Romance makes a low, pained sound like it hurts to hold back. “Fuck. She’s begging.”

“I can’t take it,” Abby growls, low and raw, and buries his face in your neck like he’s seconds from sinking his teeth in. “She smells like she wants us to ruin her.”

“She does,” Mystery rumbles, his voice raw. “She wants it. She wants us.”

And then you hear it.

Them.

All of them.

Purring.

Low. Vibrational. Possessive.

It rolls from their chests like thunder held on a leash. The kind of sound that wraps around your spine and makes you tremble.

You melt.

Jinu hasn’t moved from the center of the room. But his jaw is clenched, and his golden eyes are molten. “She’s trembling,” he says. “Don’t make her afraid.”

“She’s not afraid,” Abby murmurs. “She’s aroused.”

And gods, you are.

You wish they were wrong.

You wish your thighs weren’t pressed together, your skin flushed and burning.

But they know.

They feel it.

And when Romance finally dips low enough to brush his lips against your shoulder—

You let out the softest, most desperate little moan that’s ever left your throat.

And that’s the end of it.

Their composure cracks.

“Shit,” Abby snarls, stepping in tighter against you, practically caging you with his heat.

“You keep making that sound,” Romance murmurs, voice thick with restraint as he leans in. His lips brush beneath your ear, soft and deliberate. “And we’re going to lose it.”

He presses a kiss just under your jaw. Then another, slower, lower—trailing heat along your throat. Not your lips. Not yet.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, firm and possessive. “Is that what you want, pretty girl?” he breathes against your skin. “To see what happens when we stop holding back?”

“No,” you whisper.

Yes.

Mystery growls—the real kind this time, low and guttural. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Already learning how to submit.

“Say it,” Baby commands, his voice rough now. “Say you’re ours.”

The bond tightens like a noose.

You’re burning.

And that’s when Jinu snaps.

You hear the sound before you see it—wood tearing as his claws split through the polished table.

A warning.

A command.

A fight for control.

“Control yourselves.”he growls, voice dark and shaking. “She’s not ready.”

But you are.

Your body is. Your soul is.

It’s just your nerves that falter.

Your hands tremble when Abby presses close, his chest firm against your back. His breath ghosts over your skin, ragged with restraint, lips hovering just above your neck.

“She was made for this,” he growls, low and aching. “Made to beg. Made to be ours.”

He dips his head—and kisses you.

Slow.

Possessive.

Right beneath your ear.

“Our girl.”

At the same time, Romance steps in close from the front, his fingers cradling your jaw, tilting your chin up for him like you already belong to him. “To be kissed,” he whispers, eyes flicking over every inch of your face like it’s sacred. “To be worshipped.”

“Ours.”

He dips down—not to your lips—but to your throat.

He kisses there first. Then lower.

Across your collarbone.

Your shoulder.

Their mouths move over you in sync—Abby breathing you in behind your ear, Romance trailing heat over your chest, your neck, your jawline. Like you’re something holy. Something that belongs to them.

And you do.

Your mouth parts. The word nearly falls.

You want them. Gods, you want them.

But five bodies. Five voices. Their scents wrapping around you like velvet chains.

The heat. The hunger. 

The bond pulling tighter, tighter—

You’re drowning in them. And you love it.

But your body… can’t take it.

The room closes in. Your chest tightens.

Your body says yes.

Your soul says yes.

But your nerves scream “run.”

You step back again. They feel like fire closing in around you. You barely know them, but your body is already reacting—bonding. “Wait,” you breathe, backing up a step. “I—I need a second—”

Romance’s smile falters. Abby’s fingers twitch.

“Don’t run,” Baby murmurs, his arms are crossed, but his eyes track every breath you take. He shifts like he might move—like he wants to move.

“We won’t hurt you,” Romance says softly. His voice is almost pleading. “Just… don’t leave yet.”

You’re shaking. “I can’t—” you breathe, voice small. “I need to leave.”

And then—before anyone can stop you—

You turn.

And you run.

You push past Romance’s arm. Your shoulder brushes his chest. He lets you go, jaw tight, muscles taut like a held scream.

You make it to the door. You reach for the handle—

And behind you, everything erupts.

They move instantly.

“Wait—” Abby’s voice is sharper now, almost a growl. “Where are you—

Romance reaches for you. Mystery flinches forward.

And then—

“Stop.”

Jinu’s voice cuts through everything like a blade dipped in ice.

Everything freezes.

Even the air feels still—held, tense, burning.

Abby growls. Romance drags both hands through his hair and curses.

Mystery lets out a guttural purr, his claws twitching as he watches the door close behind you.

Baby just exhales sharply, eyes still locked on where you stood. 

“Let her.” Jinu’s voice is calm. Too calm.

A storm held behind golden eyes.

Silence descends.

Heavy.

Trembling.

Abby’s fists curl. His jaw ticks, breath ragged. “She was—she was about to beg again.”

“She was ours in that moment,” Romance snarls, pacing like he’s seconds from shifting. “Her voice—fuck, that sound—do you know what that did to me?”

Mystery hasn’t moved.

But his golden eyes glow with a slow, simmering burn.

His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. Strained. “She ran.”

Baby doesn’t speak. He just watches the door like he can see through it. Like any second she’ll come back through it and throw herself into their arms.

His hands tremble at his sides.

“Let her breathe,” Jinu says quietly—but there’s nothing calm in him anymore. His voice is tight. Controlled. Dangerous. “She doesn’t understand what’s happening yet. But she will.”

No one speaks.

“She’s ours. You smelled it. You felt it. So did she.”  His jaw clenches. His voice dips “And if you chase her now, she’ll run harder.”

Romance paces, frustrated. “She wanted it. She was trembling. You saw her. She was seconds from falling apart for us.”

Abby’s voice is broken. Barely held together. “She made that sound,” he grits out, eyes wide and wild. “That sound that’s going to haunt me. That little whimper. That plea. She gave it to us. And now I can’t fucking breathe without hearing it again.”

They fall silent again.

Not because there’s nothing more to say—

But because the bond has already said it.

Because they can still feel her.

Out in the hallway.

Running.

But tethered.

Tangled.

The bond never breaks. It just tightens.

And gods, she feels it too.

You lean against the wall just out of view, gasping softly, hand to your chest like you’re trying to keep your heart from tearing through your ribs.

They're still inside.

And you feel them.

Their tension. Their desire. Their claim.

Like invisible fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling.

Their voices echo in your memory.

Say it. 

Beg for it.

Be a good girl for us.

You’re ours now.

Your lips part. Your chest rises. You can barely breathe.

You should be terrified.

But you’re not.

A part of you—deep and trembling and starving—wants to turn around, throw the door open, fall to your knees and whisper what they’ve been aching to hear.

I’m yours.

Back inside, Mystery stiffens.

He lifts his head slowly, golden eyes glowing.

“…She’s still close,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I can feel her. She didn’t leave.”

Jinu’s jaw is locked tight, but the burn in his eyes betrays him. His voice is cold steel wrapped in heat. “She will,” he says. “She’ll try to run. But she’ll crawl back.”

A pause.

“And when she does…”

Abby smiles—slow and terrifying. “We won’t let her leave”

“The bond has already begun,” Jinu says quietly, stepping toward them. “She’s tangled in it as deeply as we are.”

His canines flash. “She feels it too. I know she does.”

This time, no one stops smiling.

No one pretends.

Romance steps toward the door and rests his palm against it, eyes fluttering shut like he’s praying.

But there’s nothing innocent in the prayer. Just hunger.

“When she comes back,” he says softly, “we take her.”

Abby growls deep in his chest. “No more soft touches. No more teasing her with what we could give.” He steps forward, voice dark with promise. “Next time, she gets everything.”

A low, rumbling purr vibrates from Baby’s chest. “Everything she begged for,” he murmurs, voice like silk-wrapped sin. “And everything her pretty little body’s still too shy to admit it needs.”

Jinu turns, his golden eyes flickering with something dark and endless.

“No matter how far she runs…”

His lips curve—not a smile. Something deeper. Hungrier. Fated.

“…she’s already ours.”

A beat.

A breath.

Then, lower—richer—deadly tender

“And we’ve been hers from the moment she stepped into this room.”

They don’t chase.

Not tonight.

But the heat of their restraint crackles in the air like lightning about to strike. Their bodies are tight with the need to move. Their teeth ache to sink in. Their hands are still open, waiting—aching—to feel you again.

And when you come back—because you will—

they’ll be ready.

Not to ask. Not to beg.

To claim.

Next Chapter...

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[wispitty]

(short reacts) | "he confronts you after a spicy dream" + one piece men

summary: you left on a mission for a few days. but you haunted his dreams each and every night. moaning his name, begging for him. now you're back. and he can't take it anymore.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

The office is dark when you step in.

The only light? The glow of a cigar. And a man in a chair, surrounded by smoke and silence—eyes locked on you.

“You’re late.”

You blink.

“What? I came as soon as I got ba—”

“Not tonight.”

His voice is low. Rough.

“Two nights ago.”

He stands.

You barely get out a breath before he’s in front of you.

Back hits the door. His real hand catches your chin. Tilts your face up.

You inhale.

His scent is overwhelming—smoke, spice, and something darker.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?” he murmurs.

You shiver.

“I—”

“You think I didn’t feel you in those dreams you left me?”

His lips brush your jaw. Not a kiss. A threat.

“You said my name like it was the only word you knew.”

His hook rests cold at your hip, grounding you as his hand slides down your side.

“Begged me to touch you. Open you.”

“I—I don’t remember—”

“Then let me remind you.”

He kisses you.

Not soft. Not tentative.

Devouring.

You gasp. He groans—like he’s been starving and just tasted salvation.

“You haunted me.”

“Crocodile—”

“Say it like that again and I’ll bend you over this desk until there’s nothing left.”

You whimper.

“That’s the sound.”

He nips your collarbone. Hard enough to mark.

His hand drags down. Under your shirt. Fingers grazing your skin, slow and possessive.

“You sure you don’t remember the dreams?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

You shake your head. Barely.

“Then maybe I should show you everything you begged me for.”

And this time?

He doesn’t stop.

MIHAWK

You return late, without a word. Just how you left.

Boots click softly through the marble halls of the castle-like manor. The candles are dim. The place is quiet.

You round a corner.

He’s there.

Leaning against the wall. Cloak heavy around his shoulders. Eyes gleaming under low light. Watching you like he knew the exact moment you stepped foot on the property.

You blink.

“...Mihawk?”

He says nothing.

Pushes off the wall.

Walks toward you—purposeful. Silent.

Something in your chest tightens.

You take a step back—

He’s faster.

His hand slams the wall beside your head. You flinch—your spine hits stone.

He leans in. So close your noses nearly brush.

“You’ve been gone. Too long.”

His voice is low. Rougher than usual.

“I—I had something I needed to—”

“And every night since...”

His hand trails down your side. Grips your hip.

“You came to me in my sleep. Whispering my name. Writhing beneath me.”

You freeze. Lips parting.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

His other hand catches your jaw, fingers tilting your face up.

“You think I believe that?”

His eyes lock to your lips. And for a moment—he hesitates.

But you’re looking up at him like you want him to break.

And that’s all it takes.

He crushes his mouth to yours.

Hard. Heated. Deep. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

It’s possessive.

His lips bruise. His tongue leaves no space between you. His hand on your waist tugs you tight into him.

Your gasp gets swallowed.

He presses you to the wall like he’s trying to anchor himself there.

“You cast quite the little spell on me.”

“Mihawk—”

“Say my name like that again and I’ll ruin your throat.”

You moan softly into his mouth.

He groans.

Your legs go weak. He notices.

And he loves it.

“Don’t you ever disappear like that again.”

You nod, dazed.

He kisses you again. Slower. But no less deep.

This time, it’s not about frustration.

This time, it’s about need.

MARCO

You return to the medbay late, expecting a quiet reunion. You’re humming. Tired. Just hoping to get off your feet.

But the moment the door shuts behind you—

“Oi.”

His voice is low. Hoarse.

You turn.

He’s standing near the supply shelf. Lab coat undone. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

And his eyes? Locked on you.

“...Marco?”

He doesn’t say a word.

Just strides toward you, slowly, like a lion pacing down from its throne.

You barely open your mouth—

SLAM.

Your back hits the cabinet. A low gasp escapes you.

His hand settles against the wood beside your head. The other curls around your waist, pulling you in tight—flush to his chest.

You can feel it.

His heat. His tension. His arousal.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

“W-What do you mean—?”

He chuckles darkly. Nudges your nose with his.

“Four nights, baby.”

“Marco—”

“Four nights of you on top of me. In my head. Moaning my name like I was the only thing keeping you alive.”

You blink. Breathless.

“I—I didn’t know I—”

His lips crash into yours.

It’s deep. Wet. Desperate.

His fingers slide under your shirt, ghosting over bare skin. His knee slips between your legs, pinning you harder to the cabinet.

Your body arches into his without thinking.

“I woke up aching for you every damn morning, yoi.”

Another kiss. This one filthier. Your gasp draws his tongue in deeper.

“I thought it would stop when I saw you again…”

He growls against your mouth.

“But now I want you worse.”

You whimper.

His hand tangles in your hair.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Your lips meet his again with fire.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he whispers.

And this time, when he kisses you—

He kisses you like he’s never letting you leave again.

ACE

You come back from your assignment around sunset.

Your boots echo down the corridor as you head to the deck of the Moby Dick.

He’s sitting on the railing just outside the kitchen, watching the waves, posture relaxed.

But when he hears you?

He turns his head— And his whole body stills.

You smile.

“Hey, straaanger. Missed me?”

His lips twitch.

“You have no idea.”

You walk closer, thinking nothing of it. He stands as you pass.

“Phew, long trip! I brought snacks, though. Figured you'd be—”

He grabs your wrist.

You blink up at him.

“Ace?”

His expression is unreadable. A soft frown. Something burning low behind his eyes.

“You were in my dreams.”

Your breath catches.

“I was? Awwww, how cute—”

He glares. Steps closer. You're almost touching.

“Not just once.”

You shift, your back brushing the wall behind you. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.

“For three nights.”

He places a hand against the wall beside your head.

“Kept thinking it’d stop.”

He chuckles. Dry. Not amused.

“But it didn’t.”

His eyes lower to your mouth.

“You had your hands all over me. Said my name like it actually meant something for once.”

You try to respond, but your breath betrays you.

He leans in.

“It felt real. Too real.”

His voice drops, low and steady.

“Woke up sweating. Frustrated. Missing you.”

Your back hits the wall completely as his hand slides to your waist.

“And now you’re here…”

“—Right here in front of me.”

He kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Hot.

A kiss that knows exactly what it wants.

You gasp into it. His hand on your waist tightens. His body presses into yours just enough to make your knees shake.

When he pulls back, his voice is husky and the air is scorched.

“Did you mean it?”

You swallow.

“...What?”

He brushes your hair behind your ear.

“The way you touched me. The way you said my name.”

You stare into his eyes.

Then nod.

“Y-Yeah.”

He leans in again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles.

“I'm glad.”

He’s so glad. Because this time?

He’s not letting you wake up without him.

SHANKS

You board the Red Force just before sunset, waves golden and glittering behind you.

You stretch your arms and laugh.

“Mmm, it feels so good to be back!”

He hears you before he sees you.

Leaning against the railing near his quarters, half-shadowed. A bottle in one hand, his coat slung over his shoulder.

But his eyes? Dead on you.

“Well, well… look who finally came home.”

You grin.

“Miss me?”

“Every night.”

You laugh—but don’t notice how still he’s gone.

“Bet the crew missed me more.”

“I didn’t say the crew.”

Your smile falters.

He steps forward.

You step back on instinct.

“Shanks—?”

Your back hits the cabin door. He cages you in—one arm next to your head, his chest pressed against yours.

“Three nights.”

His voice is low. Rough. Not joking.

“You. Me. Right here.”

You blink, breath catching.

“I don’t—I didn’t know I—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours.

“You rode me like you owned me.”

“Shanks—”

“Said I was aaall yours.”

And then?

He kisses you.

It’s filthy.

His tongue parts your lips without warning. His hand grips your thigh, pulling it up against his hip as he pins you harder to the door.

Your gasp disappears into him.

His breath is fire. His mouth is all heat and hunger.

When he finally pulls back, you’re dazed—barely holding yourself up.

He chuckles, low and dangerous.

“Still think I didn’t miss you?”

You shake your head.

“Good girl.”

His lips graze down your neck.

“Now let’s see if you meant everything you whispered when you were possessing me in those dreams.”

Your knees give out.

He catches you.

And smiles like he’s won the grand line.

LAW

You walk into the Polar Tang’s medbay with a skip in your step, tossing a file onto the counter.

“Mission complete. I didn’t die. I deserve snacks.”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance over.

He’s sitting on his stool, coat off, gloves gone, eyes on you.

But there’s something off in them.

Sharp.

Tense.

You blink.

“...You okay?”

He stands.

Silent.

You open your mouth to speak again, but he’s already crossed the room—grabbing your wrist.

“Law—?”

You’re turned, spun, and pinned to the steel wall.

His body cages yours. His hand slams the wall beside your head.

“Three. Nights.”

His voice is dangerously low.

“Three nights you’ve been crawling on top of me in my sleep.”

You blink. Red.

“What? What do you—”

“Shut up.”

His fingers slide along your jaw.

“You said you wanted to be ruined. By me. Only me.”

“I-It was just a dream—!”

“No. It wasn’t.”

He leans in. Breath hot. Voice sharp.

“Because I’ve thought about it every minute since.”

His lips brush yours.

“And now you’re back. And I just don’t give a fuck anymore.”

He kisses you.

Rough. Desperate. Unforgiving.

You gasp—he swallows it. His hand grabs your waist, the other threading into your hair. His body presses close, hips locking you into place.

He kisses you like he’s claiming you.

And maybe he is.

“Law—” you whisper, dazed.

He breathes against your lips.

“You want me to stop? Say it now.”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

His mouth is on yours again before the word even leaves.

Because whatever happened in those dreams—

He’s making it real.

CORAZON

You slip into his room like always, balancing a warm drink and a little smile.

“Rosi, I brought you chamomile! Thought you could use a quiet night in.”

He turns.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, coat off, shirt wrinkled, hair ruffled like he’s barely slept.

And the moment he sees you?

His whole body goes still.

You don’t notice at first.

Until you take a step closer—and he suddenly stands.

Tall. Towering. Staring.

You blink.

“Rosi—?”

He crosses the room in three slow, heavy steps.

Takes the cup from your hand.

Sets it aside without a word.

Then leans in.

You try to speak—

“I dreamed of you.”

His voice is quiet.

But deep. Raw. Wrecked.

“Every single night you were gone.”

Your blink, then smile. Hesitantly.

“U-Um, was it at least a nice drea—”

“—You were on top of me. Whining. Begging. Touching me like you’d die if I stopped.”

You freeze.

His fingers brush your jaw. Tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it.”

He leans closer.

His nose grazes yours. His lips hover.

“But now you’re here, and I...”

“I can’t.”

And he kisses you.

Not soft. Not shy.

Hungry.

His hand cups the back of your head. His body presses into yours, guiding you gently but firmly against the nearest wall.

The kiss deepens—wet, open, breathless. You whimper. His hand tightens at your hip.

He pulls back, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he pants. “I just can’t pretend you don’t undo me.”

“Rosi—”

You kiss him back.

And he melts.

But only for a moment—before pressing his forehead to yours.

“You said you loved me. Tell me you meant it.”

“I did.”

He exhales—shaky.

Then smiles.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

He huffs a laugh, blinking back tears.

And kisses you like he’s never letting go.

[lover-from-the-past]

“I’ll Crawl Home to Her.”

Sir Crocodile x reader

Sir Crocodile’s name was shrouded in infamy after his encounter with Strawhat in Alabasta. Leading Baroque Works to overthrow a kingdom and siphoning the water to destabilize the government, all while publicly being a hero? It was scandalous; especially because he was a Warlord, appointed by the World Government to be one of the “good” pirates. His defeat landed him in Impel Down, stripped of his title and power, left to rot below the sea.

But he was a clever man. He allied with Luffy, escaping the World Government after the mess that was the fight at Marineford.

Now, in the dead of night, he returns to the home he saw in his dreams during those long months chained away.

The home was small, cozy in a way he was unfamiliar with. It sat on the beach of a small island, one he hid away long ago.

Comes rang out as he approached the door, ducking inside the doorway quietly. The house was dark, and even in his time away, nothing seemed to change; your favorite mug still sat on the wooden table, books piled up beside it. Your shoes still sat neatly at the door, your coat and umbrella beside them.

He made his way down the familiar hallway, his eyes catching on the pictures lining the walls. Inside gilded frames was your shining face, glowing and proud, with his own face beside yours. His lips curled as he exhaled smoke, tendrils of it curling around the images.

Quietly, he opened the door at the end of the hall, stepping inside the room and taking in the scene. The windows behind the bed were open, the soft linen curtains floating through the balmy beach air. In the bed, you were curled around a pillow, the sheets tangled around you. Slowly stepping towards the bed, he put out his cigar in the ash tray you had gifted him long ago. He put a knee down on the soft mattress, planting his hand down and crawling over the expanse of the bed to wrap you in his arms, careful not to snag you with his hook.

Taking your still sleeping head in his hand, he pressed a kiss to your temple, inhaling the lingering scent of your perfume from the day before.

Looking at your face, he was reminded how lovely you were. How much he had missed you.

As your eyes fluttered open, something in his chest settled as he met the eyes that had haunted his dreams when he was imprisoned in Impel Down.

“You’re back,” He heard you say, your voice sleep heavy. As your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, he pressed a kiss to the skin of your neck.

“I knew you’d come,” You told him, stroking his hair, “The moment I heard you were free, I knew you would come back home to me.”

He would, and he did. During the long days in Impel Down, he thought of little more than you; what you might be doing, what you might be reading, what you might say when he returned. And sometimes, when it was late into the night, he pondered what he might do to you, once he escaped.

And now, here he was, back in your arms. He could plot in the morning, devising all the ways in which he would get his revenge on those who imprisoned him, create plans to gain back his wealth and power, strategize new alliances and partnerships. But for tonight, he would hold you in his arms and finally rest.

a/n: this is probably very ooc but it was self indulgent because I love him a lot so hopefully others enjoyed it too! Thanks for reading!!

Also I saw live action Chopper and he’s SO CUTEEEE!! My only wish was they made him chunkier like in the anime but I’m so happy with his design!! I’m also SO happy to see the next season bc everyone on there is so fine omg

Also I might start writing for AOT… I’m undecided so lmk if that’s smth you might want ok bye

[kultofkorii]

− Higher than a Kite

✎strawhats x stoner! reader

♦︎fic type: drabble/headcannon

♦︎summary: short scenarios between the strawhat crew and their assassin who's always higher than a kite.

♦︎word count: 2.7k

♦︎warnings: none? smoking?

♦︎a/n: i was bored and decided to make a drabble for Stoner! reader whose a Strawhat. but I got carried away, so it's pretty much a bunch of scenarios I thought of for the past few days!

Stoner! Reader who is so relaxed and mellow almost to the point of concern from the crew.

Luffy asked you to join the crew because of how stealthy and undetectable you were. Given the fact that you were a feared Assassin and Hitman, but once everyone got to know you as a person, they questioned how you were able to become one of the world's greatest assassins.

I like to think that Sanji's never smoked weed before, mainly because cigarettes are easier to come by, but he'd definitely be willing to try it atleast once.

You convinced Usopp to smoke with you every once in a while, thinking it'll mellow him out. But the first time he ever smoked with you, he was so paranoid, he nearly threw himself overboard. Ever since then he's been apprehensive about the bud.

Despite that fact you've taken him under your wing as your prodigy, teaching him all the tricks and shortcuts when it comes to rolling up a blunt.

----

You find yourself sitting on a crate, a freshly rolled blunt in your hands, and a mischievous glint in your eye. Usopp is nearby, tinkering with one of his gadgets, when you decide to call him over. "Hey, Usopp," you say, patting the spot next to you. "Come here for a sec." He looks up, already wary. "What is it, Y/N? Another one of your crazy theories?"

You shake your head, chuckling. "Nah, nah. Today my friend, I’m going to teach you the art of crafting the perfect blunt." Usopp sighs, a look of exasperation crossing his face. "Do I have to?" You grin, patting the crate again. "Trust me, it’s worth learning. Come on, sit down."

With a dramatic sigh, Usopp takes a seat beside you. "Alright, fine. But if Chopper catches us, it’s on you." You laugh, shaking your head. "Don’t worry, he’s busy checking on Zoro. Now, pay attention." You pull out your supplies, laying them out with the precision of a seasoned craftsman. "See, the art of weed is the craftsmanship that goes into making the right blunt and perfecting your technique."

Usopp side-eyes you, a look of a disapproving mother gracing his face. "You act like this is a science project..." You smirk, your hands moving with practiced ease. "I like to think that it is. Now, first, you’ve got to break up the weed just right. Not too fine, but not too chunky either."

Usopp watches, his skepticism slowly giving way to curiosity. "Okay, so what’s next?" You continue, your hands deftly maneuvering the rolling paper. "Next, you spread it evenly. This part’s crucial. Too much on one side, and it’ll burn unevenly." Usopp leans in, his interest piqued despite himself. "Alright, I see. And then?"

You carefully roll the paper, tucking it neatly before licking the edge to seal it. "Then you roll it up, nice and tight. Not too tight, though. You want it to have a bit of give." He nods, clearly impressed despite his initial reluctance. "Okay, I think I get it."

You hand him the blunt, a proud smile on your face. "And there you go, your very own blunt!" He takes it gingerly, inspecting your handiwork. "Thanks, Y/N. I guess it is kind of like a science project."

You laugh, clapping him on the back. "Told you. Now, go enjoy it when you’re ready. Just remember to relax and have fun with it." As Usopp walks away, you can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Teaching him something new, even something as unconventional as rolling a blunt, brings a smile to your face.

----

Despite the fact that you're always higher than a kite, Sanji trusts you in the kitchen without his supervision. Something you take advantage of, as one morning you found or yourself whipping it up in the kitchen.

Sanji doesn't usually intrude on your time in the kitchen but he's often curious about what you're up to.

----

You’re deeply engrossed in your task, the rhythmic stirring almost meditative. The scent of the simmering mixture fills the room, a sweet aroma with a hint of something extra. A few silicon candy molds are on the counter, some filling with assorted gummy mixtures. You hum to yourself, content in the quiet moment.

Sanji strolls into the kitchen, his usual suave demeanor intact. He stops short when he sees you at the counter, a curious smile playing on his lips. "Well, well, if it isn’t our resident assassin turned chef. What are you making, Y/N?"

You glance up, a mischievous glint in your eye. "Gummies," you say simply, returning to your task.

Sanji approaches, peering over your shoulder with interest. "Oh, these look perfect. I have to say, I’m impressed with your craftsmanship." You smile lightly, appreciating the compliment from the ship’s renowned chef. "Much thanks my dude, I've been into candy making for years! I like to think I'm sorta an expert at this."

Sanji reaches for one of the gummies, curiosity evident in his eyes. "Mind if I try one?" Before his fingers can make contact, you swiftly intercept his hand. "Woah there tiger! Uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you." He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Why is that?"

You shift a bit, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. "They’re, uh, special. Unless you wanna see music and taste colors, you might wanna wait for my next jar..."

Sanji blinks, realization dawning on his face. He bursts into laughter, shaking his head in amusement. "Edibles, huh? I should have guessed." You grin, shrugging nonchalantly. "What can I say? It’s a versatile ingredient."

He laughs again, clearly entertained by the situation. "Well, as much as I appreciate your culinary creativity, maybe we should keep these out of the reach of certain crewmates. I don’t think Luffy needs any more reasons to act crazy."

You nod in agreement, a chuckle escaping you. "Yeah, probably a good idea. The last thing we need is Luffy on a sugar high and an edible trip." Sanji pats your shoulder, still chuckling. "You're definitely right, just remember to label the jars, alright?"

You give him a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Chef." With a final laugh, Sanji heads back to his own devices, leaving you to finish your batch of gummies.

----

You tend to get really philosophical and scientific when you're high. You and Robin having long conversations about the human minds or the prospect of alternate realities.

Robin was just happy to have someone to share her thoughts with who could comprehend it, even if you were in the clouds.

Sometimes you just do it for fun because you find Usopp's panicked reactions funny.

----

The moon hangs high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the Thousand Sunny. The crew is gathered on the deck, the usual mix of chatter and laughter filling the air. You’re sitting cross-legged, a freshly lit blunt between your fingers, enjoying the cool night breeze. You take a deep drag, exhaling slowly as your thoughts begin to swirl. "You guys ever think about parallel dimensions?"

Chopper chimes in to the sound of your voice, and tilts his head, clearly intrigued. "Parallel dimensions?"

You nod, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Yeah, like, what if there are other versions of us out there, living different lives in other worlds? And what if we could, like, cross over into those dimensions?"

Usopp, who had been quietly listening, suddenly perks up, a look of alarm spreading across his face. "Wait, cross over? Is that even possible?" Chopper, ever the worrier, looks equally concerned. "Y/N, are you sure that’s not just the weed talking?"

You wave a hand dismissively, your words spilling out in a rapid, excited torrent. "Nah, nah, think about it! We could totally cross over if we found the right way. Maybe through some kind of portal or a wormhole or something. I read in a book that some people have crossed over through mirrors!...or maybe that was a cult pamphlet..."

Nami, sensing the rising panic, tries to calm everyone down. "Alright, everyone, let’s not jump to conclusions. Y/N’s just... speculating." She had to admit the idea was intriguing but just as scary. Luffy, eyes wide with fascination, is clearly enjoying the conversation. "That sounds so cool! I wonder what other Luffy is like."

Usopp, on the other hand, is not having it. He's been through too much with this crew already, the idea of alternate realities had his mind spiraling. "No, no, no, we do not need to think about that! What if there are evil versions of us out there? Or worse, what if we get stuck in another dimension?"

Sanji steps in, trying to de-escalate the situation. "Okay, okay, let’s all take a breath. Y/N-san is just having a bit of fun with some wild ideas. There’s no need to panic." You lean back, clearly amused by the reactions you’re getting. "Come on, guys, it’s just a thought. But wouldn’t it be cool if we did find a way? Imagine all the crazy shit we could get into!"

Chopper’s eyes widen further. "But what if something goes wrong? What if we end up in a dimension where everything is upside down?"

Robin, who has been quietly observing, decides to join in, her tone calm and measured. "The concept of parallel dimensions and the multiverse is quite fascinating. If multiple dimensions do exist, it’s possible they could collapse into a single timeline under certain conditions."

Laughing in morbid delight, you turn to face Robin, a nearly manic smile on your face. "That would be freaking wicked, like what if all of our alternate bodies collapsed and fused into one singular body? Would we be able to retain the information our other selves have learned?"

A look of horror crossed Usopp's face, his knees visibly shaken."Oh great, now we’re talking about collapsing timelines? Can we please discuss something less terrifying?" He drops to his knees, hands clasped in front of him in a comically exaggerated plea. "I’m begging you, let’s change the subject!"

You can’t help but laugh at his theatrics, your low eyes shining with amusement. "Relax, Usopp. It’s all hypothetical. We’re not actually going to start dimension-hopping."

Luffy, still thoroughly entertained, claps his hands. "I think it’s awesome! I bet other Luffy is just as strong as me." Sanji sighs, rubbing his temples. "Luffy, please, let’s not encourage this any further." You take another puff, leaning back with a contented sigh. "Alright, alright, we’ll drop it. But you have to admit, it’s fun to think about."

Nami, visibly relieved, gives you a grateful smile. "Thanks, Y/N. I don't think Usopp’s heart can take much more excitement tonight." Usopp, still looking a bit shaken, nods vigorously. "Yeah, let’s stick to talking about normal things. Like treasure hunting or navigating the Grand Line."

Zoro, who has been blissfully unaware of the entire conversation, shifts in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible. You chuckle, shaking your head at his obliviousness.

----

Even when you're high, you have moments where you're really attentive to your friend's feelings.

You don't like seeing your friends feels down, and even if you can't fix all of their problems with a blunt, sometimes just being their for them is all they really need.

----

You notice Nami sitting alone, her usual confident demeanor replaced by a thoughtful frown. You take a seat beside her, offering her one of your expertly rolled blunts. "Not in the mood," she says, waving it away.

You shrug, lighting it for yourself. "You know, Nami, life is kind of like a blunt." She raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued despite herself. "Oh really? How so?"

You take a slow drag, letting the smoke curl around you. "Well, you start with the raw materials. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's not. But it's what you do with it that matters. You roll it up, make it your own. And then you light it up, and you enjoy the ride."

Nami stares at you for a moment before bursting into laughter. "That's the most ridiculous metaphor I've ever heard." You grin, pleased to see her spirits lifted. "Hey, if it works, it works." She shakes her head, still chuckling. "Thanks, Y/N, needed that."

----

Just like he is with Sanji, Chopper is against you smoking especially to your extent.

Although he does know that weed has medicinal properties, he knows that too much of it can have negative affects on your mind.

----

After a particularly rough fight, you find yourself in the Going Merry’s infirmary, Chopper diligently patching you up. The little reindeer works with precision, wrapping bandages around your arm while his expression shifts between focus and concern.

“There, all done,” Chopper announces, finishing the last wrap. “This medicine will help with the pain,” he adds, turning to grab a small bottle from a nearby shelf.

You watch him, a mischievous grin slowly spreading across your face. As he turns his back, you pull out three blunts, placing them in your mouth with practiced ease.

When Chopper turns back, his eyes go wide with shock. “Y/N! What are you doing!?” he exclaims, hands on his hips, his voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

You freeze, caught in the act, and offer him a sheepish grin. "It's medicinal?"

Chopper facepalms, shaking his head in exasperation. “You can’t just say that every time!”

You chuckle, taking one of the blunts out and twirling it between your fingers. “Hey, I promise it helps me relax. Besides, your medicine is great, but this is my kind of therapy.”

He lets out a deep sigh, and goes it open a window to air out the room. Before he turns back to you, his stern facade softening slightly as he looks at you. “You're lucky Marijuana actually has medicinal properties, just don’t overdo it, okay?”

You nod, winking at him. “No worries, Chopper. I’ll save some for you next time.” He blushes, clearly flustered. “I don’t smoke!” Laughing, you pat him on the head. “I know, I know. Just messing with you, Doc.”

Chopper huffs but smiles, the tension easing as you both settle into the moment. The infirmary is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. You take a moment to appreciate the calm, even as you fiddle with the blunts in your hand.

“So, Doc,” you say, breaking the silence, “how long you think it'll take me to heal this time?”

Chopper’s expression shifts to one of concern. “Since you're injuries aren't too bad, you shouldn't be bedridden for too long. You really should be more careful, Y/N.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. “Yeah, I know. Sometimes I can't help it though, I just get in the moment and half of the time I don't even notice I've been hit when I fight.” He rolls his eyes but can’t help but chuckle. “You’re impossible, but you're not invincible.” You shrug, lighting one of the blunts and taking a long drag. “I like to think that I am, that's part of my charm, right?” Chopper shakes his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

As the smoke curls around you, the door to the infirmary swings open, and Usopp pokes his head in. “Hey, is Y/N—” He pauses, eyes widening at the sight of you with multiple blunts.

“Oh, come on!” Usopp exclaims, throwing his hands up in mock despair. “Are you serious right now?”

You grin, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “What? It’s all part of the recovery process.” Usopp crosses his arms, trying to maintain a stern expression but failing as a smirk breaks through. “You’re unbelievable.” Chopper sighs, looking between you and Usopp. “She’s always like this. Just try to keep her in check, okay?”

You laugh, waving them off. “Relax, guys. I’m fine.” Usopp chuckles, shaking his head as he turns to leave. “Yeah yeah, just take it easy.”

You watch him go, then turn back to Chopper, who’s busy organizing his supplies. “You know, I really appreciate you, Chopper. Thanks for always patching me up.” Chopper looks up, his eyes softening. “It’s my job, Y/N. But try not to make it harder than it has to be.” You nod, the humor in your eyes giving way to sincerity. “I’ll try, Doc. Promise.”

[sh4nksslvt]

Smoke Break

A collection of fiery, smoky encounters where passion burns as hot as the cigars and blunts exchanged between you and some of the world’s most dangerous daddies i mean men — every kiss laced with smoke, heat, and unspoken desire.

Benn beckman x reader x sanji x smoker x crocodile | ONE SHOT

Tags: fluff, flirty, smok!ng, w3ed mentions, blvnt smok!ng, cigarette smok!n, mouth-to-mouth sm0ke sharing, minor spit description, light nsfw tension

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

word count: 3.3k

MINORS DNI!!

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

I'm so high in here, been smokin' on this weed

Only drug a bitch is on is the tree

But I lasted ten rounds like a freak

Like a G

Benn Beckman

The deck still stank of gunpowder and sea salt by the time you slumped onto the steps leading up to the helm, boots heavy with exhaustion. Your knuckles throbbed from the earlier brawl with some no-name pirate crew dumb enough to pick a fight with the Red Hair Pirates. You won, obviously—but victory didn’t erase the tight coil of stress still buzzing under your skin.

You dragged your hood up over your head, shielding your face from the low sun. Hands steady, you pulled out a battered little tin from your pocket, the familiar ritual already soothing your frayed nerves. You broke down the nug slowly, fingers working with careful, practiced motions. You barely even registered the distant sound of boots approaching.

Benn Beckman stopped a few feet away, cigarette halfway to his lips, brows lifting slightly at the sight of you hunched over the tray.

He leaned against the rail, arms crossed.

"Rough day?" he drawled.

You didn’t look up right away, just finished rolling your blunt with a lazy flick of your thumb. When you finally glanced his way, your gaze was cool, detached—like you were sizing him up and decided he wasn’t worth worrying about.

"Nothing a smoke can't fix," you muttered, voice low and even.

Benn whistled low under his breath, impressed.

"Didn't think you were the type to roll your own medicine."

You snorted, lighting the blunt with a snap of your lighter.

"Cigs are for rookies," you said, plucking the cigarette from his fingers without asking. You tucked the blunt between his lips instead, your touch casual, intimate.

Benn played along, inhaling deep. His eyes hooded slightly as the taste hit him—stronger, sweeter than he expected.

"Holy shit," he coughed out, laughing.

You took the blunt back from him with two fingers, tapping it lightly against the railing.

"Too much for you, old man?" you teased, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of your mouth.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated in his chest.

"Old enough to know better. Dumb enough not to care."

You offered the blunt again—not by hand this time, but by leaning in, smoke trailing from your lips in a lazy, tantalizing swirl. Benn caught on quick, closing the small distance between you. His mouth brushed yours just enough to catch the exhale directly, smoke passing from your tongue to his.

The heat flared instantly.

Before you could pull back, he tilted his head slightly, deepening it into a kiss—slow, languid, tasting of smoke and adrenaline. His hand found your jaw, rough thumb grazing your cheekbone with a kind of reverence that didn’t match how fucking cocky he was about it.

When you finally parted, a thin, silver thread of spit clung stubbornly between your tongues until it snapped, leaving a hot smear of want in its wake.

You sat back, lazily dragging the blunt between your lips again. Your expression barely shifted—still that same unreadable cool—but your hooded eyes glittered with something dangerous, something alive.

Benn wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning like he just won the biggest prize in the world.

"You always this generous after a fight?" he asked, voice low and rough.

You exhaled slow, letting the smoke roll between you both like a secret.

"Depends who's asking."

Benn’s grin widened, cigarette long forgotten at his side.

"Good," he said, leaning in close enough that you could smell the faint whiskey on his breath.

"'Cause I’m not planning on being just a one-time habit."

Sanji

The galley was quiet at night, all the chaos of the day gone still. It was your favorite time—when the ship seemed to breathe slow and easy, and nobody was around to bother you.

You sat perched on the counter, blunt half-rolled between your fingers, working fast but precise. You glanced around — no way in hell you could borrow a lighter from anyone without exposing your little habit.

Of course you didn’t bring yours. Of course.

You sighed through your nose and hopped down from the counter, moving toward the stovetop. You twisted the burner’s dial, letting a tall flame lick up from the gas, the soft click click whoosh breaking the silence.

You leaned into the flame, lighting the tip of your blunt directly against it, shielding it with one hand like an old habit.

That’s when you heard a low whistle behind you.

"You know," Sanji’s voice drawled from the doorway, lazy and amused, "most people come to the kitchen for food. Not... that."

You turned slightly, the blunt between your lips, glowing softly as you took your first pull. You held his gaze through the smoke, your expression unreadable, unbothered.

"Guess I’m not most people," you said coolly, exhaling a slow, thick ribbon of smoke into the low light.

Sanji didn’t flinch. Didn't fawn.

Instead, he grinned, a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth as he stepped into the kitchen, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hands sliding easily into his pockets.

"You could've just asked for a light," he teased, voice like silk and heat. "I would've given it to you. Anything you want."

You shrugged one shoulder, casual.

"Not exactly advertising my hobbies."

Sanji stopped a few feet away, head tilting just slightly, studying you. You could feel the weight of his gaze — not heavy, not invasive — just... there, like a hand trailing just over your skin without touching.

"You're full of surprises," he murmured, voice dipping lower.

You took another hit, slow and deliberate, letting the thick taste settle on your tongue. As you exhaled, Sanji moved closer, crossing into your space so naturally it felt like gravity.

"Mind if I...?" he asked, eyes dropping to the blunt between your fingers.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward slightly, parting your lips just enough to offer the smoke right to him.

Sanji caught the game instantly.

He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and set it on the counter. Then he leaned in, mouth brushing dangerously close to yours—not kissing, not yet—and drew the smoke straight from your mouth with a slow, deep inhale.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the warm skin behind your ear.

When he exhaled, it was right against your lips, warm and intoxicating.

The space between you crackled.

You barely had time to process before he closed the gap completely, his mouth pressing to yours in a kiss that was all slow burn, all slow claiming. His grip tightened just a little, guiding you against the counter behind you without force—just the kind of confident pressure that made your stomach flip.

You kissed him back, matching his heat with your own, the taste of smoke and fire mixing between your tongues. When you finally parted, a thin, sticky thread of spit clung between you, snapping when you tilted your head back, breathless but still wearing that same cool smirk.

Sanji stayed close, his forehead brushing against yours, his fingers still tangled loosely in your hair.

"You," he said, voice low and warm, "are way too dangerous to be left alone in my kitchen."

You chuckled, flicking ash into the sink.

"Then don’t leave," you said, voice lazy, teasing.

Sanji smiled against your cheek, teeth just grazing your skin as he whispered,

"Wasn't planning to."

And from the way his hand slid down to your hip, you knew he meant it.

Smoker

The port was busy, noisy, and reeking of salt and sweat.

Perfect place to disappear for a while.

You slipped between two battered brick buildings, finding a patch of shade away from the main street. No patrols, no Marines. Just the low hum of the sea and the sharp scratch of your lighter as you tried, once, twice — and cursed under your breath.

Dead. Perfect.

You rolled the unlit blunt between your fingers, considering your options. Borrowing a lighter wasn’t on the table — too many judging eyes. Especially for someone like you, already treading too close to the Navy's leash.

"Problem?"

The deep, rough voice made you freeze. A shadow stretched into the alley. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

Vice-Admiral Smoker stepped into view, coat draped over his broad shoulders, two cigars clamped between his teeth, smoke curling around his head like a storm cloud.

You gave him a flat look, the blunt dangling lazily from your lips.

"No lighter," you said simply.

Smoker snorted, amused in that dry, almost imperceptible way of his. He pulled one cigar free and tucked it into his coat, flicking his silver lighter open with a smooth motion.

He lit his remaining cigar, took a deep drag — and then, without saying a word, held the lighter out to you.

You raised an eyebrow but leaned forward, cupping a hand around the flame as you lit the blunt, your face close enough to his chest that you could smell the faint scent of smoke, leather, and something warmer underneath.

You inhaled slow, savoring the first pull, then leaned back against the rough brick wall with a sigh.

"Didn't peg you for the sharing type," you said, smoke curling from your mouth.

Smoker grunted, replacing the cigar between his lips.

"Don't make me regret it," he said, but there was no real bite in his voice.

For a moment, you just stood there, passing slow, lazy pulls between you. The world outside the alley blurred into meaningless noise.

Then, bold from the buzz creeping in your veins, you leaned forward again—holding the blunt between your fingers—and offered the smoke directly to him, a silent challenge.

Smoker’s gaze sharpened slightly, amused. He plucked the cigar from his mouth and stepped into your space, his broad chest almost brushing yours.

Without hesitation, he caught the smoke straight from your lips, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him — and then, instead of pulling back, he kissed you.

It was rough at first, full of the same heat and tension that always seemed to spark between you. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing firmly as he tilted your head back just slightly.

You opened for him without thinking, the kiss deepening into something slower, hotter — tongues brushing, breath hitching between you. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt and something that was just him.

The world outside the alley dissolved entirely.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t messy — just breathless, lingering. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath in the haze of smoke curling between you.

"You," he muttered, voice low and thick, "are nothing but bad news."

You smirked against his lips, your hands still fisted loosely in the fabric of his coat.

"Good thing you’re terrible at saying no," you murmured.

Smoker let out a rough, half-laugh, half-growl, and kissed you again—deeper, slower, like he had no plans to stop this time.

And honestly, neither did you.

You barely had time to settle into the heat of Smoker’s mouth again, the slow grind of his body pressing yours back against the brick wall, when—

"S-smoker-san?!"

The sharp voice cracked through the alley like a gunshot.

Both of you froze.

Smoker broke the kiss with a low, almost feral growl under his breath, his hand still curled possessively around your waist.

You cracked one eye open lazily, barely lifting your head from Smoker’s shoulder to glance toward the entrance of the alley.

Tashigi stood there, sword awkwardly bumping against her hip, her entire face rapidly turning the color of a boiled lobster.

"I— I— I was looking for you to discuss patrol routes— but I can—! I can come back later!" she sputtered, already halfway turning on her heel, practically tripping over herself to get away.

Smoker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, the kind of breath that usually meant someone was about to get absolutely wrecked—but he didn’t move away from you. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still flexing slightly against your hip.

"You’d better," he said, loud enough for Tashigi to hear as she fled back into the chaos of the port.

You couldn't help it—you laughed. A low, smoky sound that vibrated against his chest.

"Think we traumatized her," you said, voice rough with amusement.

Smoker shot you a sideways glare, but there was no real fire behind it. If anything, he looked... pleased. Dangerous. Like a man who didn’t give a damn who saw what he wanted.

"Serves her right for barging in without knocking," he muttered, gruff.

You arched a brow, grinning lazily up at him.

"Maybe you should install a door in your alleys."

Smoker huffed a laugh — a real one, low and brief — and bent to kiss you again, less careful this time. Hotter, a little messier. His free hand finally dropped the half-burned cigar, grinding it under his boot as he pressed you back into the wall, fully claiming your mouth again like he had all the time in the world.

And honestly, for once, you hoped he did.

Crocodile

The lounge was dim, soaked in the kind of golden light that made everything seem a little more expensive than it probably was.

Low jazz music played from hidden speakers, and the soft clink of chips and whiskey glasses filled the background.

You slouched lazily in a velvet armchair near the back, rolling the blunt between your fingers, cool and unbothered. No one really noticed you here — not with the heavyweights and high-rollers stealing the spotlight.

But, of course, he noticed.

You felt it before you saw him — a shift in the room’s atmosphere, a change in the way conversations dropped to murmurs.

Crocodile’s presence was like a thundercloud creeping over sunny skies.

You kept your expression blank, indifferent, even as you realized your lighter was nowhere to be found.

Perfect.

Exactly what you needed.

You sighed, the blunt sitting unlit between your lips, considering your next move.

A shadow fell across your table. You didn’t bother looking up.

"Need something?" Crocodile’s voice rumbled, amused.

You tilted your head slightly, fixing him with a bored stare, the blunt still balanced at the corner of your mouth.

"Seems I’m short a flame," you said, voice dry.

Crocodile’s lips curled around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something sharp and entertained.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he bent slightly at the waist — slow, deliberate — bringing the burning tip of his cigar close to the end of your blunt.

Too close.

He stopped just shy, forcing you to lean in to meet him.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and steady, and leaned forward, lips brushing barely near his cigar, lighting your own off the glowing ember. The flame caught with a faint crackle, a tiny hiss.

The whole time, Crocodile didn’t move an inch.

The smell of smoke, expensive leather, and something faintly spiced wrapped around you like a second skin.

You leaned back into your chair, taking a long, slow pull from the newly lit blunt. The first hit bloomed warm in your lungs. You exhaled lazily toward the ceiling, your eyes half-lidded.

"You're welcome," Crocodile said, voice dripping with dry amusement, straightening to his full height.

You tapped ash into a crystal ashtray nearby without even glancing at him.

"Didn’t say thank you," you replied coolly.

He chuckled — a low, dangerous sound that vibrated in the base of his chest.

"Didn't expect you to."

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The tension crackled softly between you, thick and slow, like molasses dripping from a knife.

Crocodile shifted, the gold of his rings catching the low light as he pulled a chair up to yours — close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table.

Deliberate.

Territorial.

"You planning to cause trouble tonight?" he asked, cigar smoke curling lazily around his words.

You blew out another cloud of smoke, just as lazy, just as unbothered.

"Depends," you murmured, voice low. "You planning to stop me?"

Crocodile smirked around his cigar, eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry.

"Not tonight."

He sat back, perfectly relaxed, the image of a king amused by the antics of his favorite piece.

You could feel his eyes on you as you smoked, weighing every slow drag, every lazy exhale.

Watching.

Waiting.

The house always won in places like this.

And tonight, it was clear you weren’t going anywhere.

The minutes slipped by in a slow, heavy haze.

The blunt burned low between your fingers, each drag slower than the last. Across the small table, Crocodile watched you like a predator sizing up easy prey — not rushing, not moving, just waiting for the exact right moment.

You met his gaze through the rising smoke, your face blank, but your heart starting to thrum a little harder behind your ribs.

He shifted finally, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. The gold of his rings caught the light again, flashing like a warning.

"Come here," he said lowly, almost conversational, like you were a thing he fully expected to obey.

You didn't move immediately. You took another lazy pull from your blunt instead, blowing the smoke off to the side with a small smirk. Testing him. Pushing.

Crocodile huffed a small laugh under his breath, all amusement gone razor sharp.

Without warning, he reached across the table, hand catching you by the wrist — not rough, but firm, dragging you forward until you were pulled out of your chair and into his space.

The blunt dangled forgotten from your fingers as he leaned in — close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across his face, the glint of amusement and warning in his heavy-lidded eyes.

He reached up with two fingers, plucking the blunt casually from your grip and setting it in the ashtray with a careless flick.

"You’re slow," he murmured, voice like warm gravel. "Let me show you how it's done."

You barely had time to process it before Crocodile’s lips crashed into yours.

It was rough — like he was making a point. His mouth devoured yours with an intensity that was unexpected, yet exactly what you needed. His cigar still burned between his fingers, and before you even had the chance to think about it, he tilted the cigar toward your lips, offering the smoke as you kissed.

The warm, glowing tip of the cigar hovered near your mouth, and you instinctively opened up, taking in the deep, spicy taste as you inhaled. The heat of it filled your lungs, mixing with the taste of Crocodile’s kiss — rich, dangerous, intoxicating.

You pulled back just a bit, lips brushing against his, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling out from your mouth and into his.

Without breaking eye contact, Crocodile inhaled the smoke you gave him, his gaze darkening as he held it in for a beat, then exhaled it slowly, sending it back toward you.

The air was thick now, saturated with smoke and the lingering taste of him. Every breath felt like it stretched the moment, making it last forever, and yet, you knew it was only a brief exchange.

When he pulled away, his lips were curved into that same smug, dangerous smirk.

"Better," he muttered, voice rough with satisfaction. "Now you’re getting it."

You smirked back, though your chest felt a little tighter than it had before.

"You’re insufferable," you said, the words coming out softer than you intended, but your heart was still racing in your chest.

Crocodile chuckled low, the sound like a dangerous promise.

"Only when it suits me," he said, leaning back in his chair and taking another slow drag from his cigar. He didn’t look at you directly but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your lips. "You’ll learn, eventually. That’s how the game is played."

You stayed there, breathless and still, as the tension simmered between you.

The house always won.

And tonight, you were playing Crocodile's game

[shujichii]

your husband had a very convenient advantage over you.

and that would be picking you up— whenever and wherever.

falling asleep anywhere other than your bed was never an issue, not with him around. because rest assured— your very strong, very responsible and very devoted husband, has made it his mission to pick up his beloved wife and deliver her to safety and comfort.

you fell asleep on the couch while reading a book or watching a movie? no problem, he had already anticipated it. cue him carefully picking you up bridal style, grip firm but gentle, your head comfortably cradled against his chest. then, he'd start walking to your shared bedroom with slow steps— but not before staring at your sleeping face for a moment with a painfully tender gaze and pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple. everytime you woke up, you would find yourself neatly tucked in bed with him holding you close to him or simply gazing at you in quiet awe, like you were the very embodiment of beauty itself. (to him, you were, even if you disagreed.)

now, that's not the only place where his strength came to use. whenever you decide to act stubborn and bratty, you'd best be prepared for a pair of large, steady and warm hands to suddenly settle themselves on your waist, hoisting you up over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. he'd go on about his day just like that as if he didn't have a living, breathing, adult-sized human creating a fuss over his shoulder. he'll only put you down when he feels like it. or maybe if you manage to bribe him with some affection… (spoiler; it always works.)

another time would be when you're feeling particularly lazy to get up from bed in the morning. you don't want to get up? that's fine too, he'll let you latch onto him like a koala— your arms lazily looped around his neck, legs around his waist, and his hand keeping you steady while he casually takes a sip of his coffee with the other. that's his life now. happy wife, happy life.

however, there was also a time when he had you questioning your entire existence. you were standing in front of a drawer, very much distracted by an item in your hands. it just so happened that your husband needed to get something from the said drawer. his solution? extraordinary. lift you off the ground by your waist, relocate you to the side, get his drawer business done and casually go on and about with his day. you only processed this a minute later and he had no idea why you kept on staring at him like he had personally rewritten the laws of the universe itself.

long story short, he loved picking you up— even during times when it was unnecessary. why? because he simply could. and also because it was the perfect excuse to have you in his arms yet again.

♡ nanami kento, kamo choso, ryomen sukuna, gojo satoru, geto suguru, fushiguro toji (jjk), sylus, zayne, xavier, caleb (lads), wriothesley, alhaitham, neuvillette, diluc, itto, kaeya, childe, zhongli (genshin), rengoku kyojuro, uzui tengen, tomioka giyuu, himejima gyomei (kny), ukitake jushiro, kuchiki byakuya, kyoraku shunsui, kurosaki ichigo, ishida uryuu, abarai renji, hitsugaya toshiro, jugram haschwalth (bleach), your favorite.

[dragon-ascent]

Normally, Zhongli has a very elaborate morning routine. He awakens before the sun does, freshens up and drinks plenty of water, eats a fruit, goes on a long walk through the just-stirring city and even brings breadcrumbs to feed the birds of dawn, watching them hop and twitter about him cheerfully. If time permits, then he'll pay some of his adepti a visit, sipping tea together and watching the sun peek out from the horizon. When he returns home, he writes in his journal, penning every moment he is grateful for. Oftentimes he fixes breakfast as well, the aroma wafting from the kitchen at the same time the sun's rays hit the bedroom in full force to rouse you.

Not today, though. You're cuddled up particularly snugly against him this morning, clinging to his side for warmth only he can provide, and the darkness of the pre-dawn shoos all waking life away, pleading to slumber a while longer. So he obliges, staying rock still and closing his eyes again.

He feels you stir a bit, your fingers curling around his arm before stilling again, securing his position here for the foreseeable future. If he moves, he'll disturb your rest, and that's the last thing he ever desires.

This is alright. His other arm wraps around you, and he smiles when you purr in your sleep. This is better, in fact.

[fanaticsnail]

My Favorite

(Image Source: Artist: Inpolariis)

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,114

Summary: Sir Crocodile has founded a league of highly trained assassins named "The Choirs" - all coded after the nine choirs of angelic influences. You are his favorite: his prized "Seraphim" who's ferocious brutality is only outmatched by your incredible beauty. Not truly knowing if your affection is all an act to continue being paid a wage in berry, he has not made a move of his own aside from calling upon you to sit on his knee of an evening, and have you utter praises into his ear. It is only when the two other members of the Cross-Guild begin flirting does he find his limit being tested. Will he bend, or will he break?

Themes: Boss!Crocodile x Assassin!Reader, lap princess, Croc is in love with you, begrudgingly in love, mutual pining, “I don’t want to fix him, I want to make him worse”, wealth, Cross-Guild dynamics, partial Buggy x Reader, partial Mihawk x Reader, sign language, afab!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to the wonderful @discordantwritings who wrote a beautiful Benn Beckman fic recently. I had to return the favor with some Cross-Guild content, although it became quickly a Sir Crocodile fic. Based on this prompt, because it has a hold over my very soul.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine @cinnbar-bun @writingmysanity @gingernut1314

The broad right hand of the brutish Sir Crocodile massaged his temples beneath his thumb and index finger. He began rotating them in an attempt to rid the swelling migraine caused by the crackled whines pouring from the lips of his clown companion. Barely paying attention to the whinging words strung into messy sentences, his ears pricked and spine tingled at the knowledge there was another presence within the hollow chambers of the Cross-Guild meeting space. 

Bringing his hand away from his temple, his smirk broke the displeased position of his lips, as his eyes rose to meet with the yellow hue of the gaze of the swordsman. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, no longer processing Buggy’s words as he attempted to locate the source responsible for the expression change of the larger gentleman in front of him. 

“-And I wasn’t the one responsible for that screw up, so I shouldn’t be the one paying for it. Really it should go to the one with the most berry. Who was it again? Between the reptile and the hawk, who has the most-.” Buggy’s voice halted as the shadows split to reveal your presence, stalking closer to the largest man in the room with an aura of silent danger. 

Mihawk reached for the hilt of Yoru, ready to strike your approaching silhouette: armored and cloaked in the darkest black to blend within smoke and shadow. Your hood concealed your face, your facial mask shieling all but the intensity of your eyes smeared in darkened war paint. You made no sound; no tap, no whisper as you wordlessly approached Sir Crocodile.

“Returned so soon, my Seraphim,” his voice purred, leaning back in his chair while placing a thick cigar between his teeth, “Did all go according to plan?” You wordlessly bent your knee, bowing your head to the large gentleman to whom you entrusted your implicit loyalty. His smile drew further up his scarred face, the purple hue of his eyes dancing with a dangerous twinkle at your wordless confirmation. 

“Good,” his voice praised you, reaching for his lighter lying atop the table. You rose to your feet, quickly reaching for the golden object, flicking open the lid and igniting the flint to spark its flame. Sir Crocodile leant forward, holding his eyes firmly on yours as your concentration was fixed on the task of lighting the tip of his cigar. 

He narrowed his eyes, noticing a small smear of red atop the darkened warpaint and streaking down your face mask and onto your leather breastplate. He sighed, reaching into his left hand breast pocket and fishing out a silver handkerchief and passed it to you within his index and middle fingers. 

“Is it yours?” he asked, gesturing to the blood congealed and spattered against your uniform. 

“No, sir,” you whispered with no vocal tone depicted within your silence. He hummed in response, narrowing his eyes as he scanned your body further. 

“Are you unharmed and unmarked?” he asked, his left brow raising in question. You stiffened your shoulders, arching your chin within the air and confirmed with a simple utterance of: “Yes, sir.” 

“Very good, my Seraphim,” he complimented further, inhaling a deep lungful of the nicotine laden cigar smoke, exhaling through his nose. Buggy did not know what to make of this interaction, feeling completely and utterly ignored as Mihawk and Sir Crocodile’s eyes and attention remained fixed on your statuesque figure clad in cloak, leather and dark plated armor. 

Leaning forward, Sir Crocodile ushered you to stoop forward to receive the next whisper of a command parting from his lips for your ears alone.

“I have laid out a new uniform for you to wear,” he uttered intimately, reaching up his left hand with his golden hook threatening to touch your shoulder. “See to it you are bathed, perfumed and clad in the ensemble within the hour,” the tip of his hook brushed with the rivets of your shoulder plate, dragging down your bicep to the inner crevice of your elbow, “And I will have you sat as my trophy upon my knee for the evening, my Seraphim.” 

At that final utterance, he withdrew his hook from your arm and focussed once more on your eyes now depicting a darkness within usually withheld for victims beneath your concealed daggers. 

Bowing to your boss, eyes now closed, you rose from your deep and respectful stoop and paid no mind to glance at the other two members of the meeting space. If Sir Crocodile found no reason to introduce you to these men, you did not deem them important enough to care who they were. Silence followed you as you trailed outside of the room, resubmerging yourself within the shadows and hastily making your way to the suite gifted to you by your boss.

“Baroque Works employee, Crocodile?” Mihawk uttered, his eyes fixed on the exit you withdrew from. 

“A thing of the past, Hawk,” His smirk not leaving his face for each deep inhale of his cigar, “I no longer put my faith in an amassment of bounty hunters to get their hands dirty for my berry.” He took the butt of his cigar from his teeth and pushed the ignited end against the glass tray with his thumb. “No, my faith is no longer spread to the many, but to the few.” 

“How many o’ them you got?” Buggy’s nasally voice chimed in, his brow furrowing and lips curling back in an uneasy smile, “Like twenty or thirty?”

“I have nine,” he confessed, eyes now bored with the conversation and lip curling down into an arrogant snarl, “And that one,” he gestured to the door with his chin, “Is my favorite.”

“Why?” Buggy asked, his voice cracking in a small apprehensive whine at the end of his question, “What does that one do that the others don’t?” Sir Crocodile’s lips curled into a darkened grin, his teeth revealed in the light. 

“You will see.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

After bathing and cleaning yourself of the debris and carnage of the last assignment, you glanced at yourself in your large, ornate mirror. Looking over the new uniform set aside by your boss as it clung to your body, you couldn’t help the pull of a shy smile at the corner of your lips.

Of all of “The Choirs” founded and financed by Sir Crocodile, it was no illusion that you were absolutely and without a doubt his favorite. Your titles held your specialist skills as covert assassins within your roles; each skilled with a unique ability to complete your tasks to the utmost quality. 

Principalitie, Archangel, and Angel were charged with gathering information and relaying it from a great distance. They were to look like civilians; innocent and coy with the ability to blend into a crowd seamlessly. 

The Devil-Fruit users; Dominion, Virtue, and Power, were charged with carrying out tyrannical punishment and wrath without care for the casualties they caused under the utterance of a single command from your hook-handed leader. 

Cherubim and Ophanim, the two of the higher in the chain of command, followed your explicit instruction in covert operations taken either together or separately. They were your trusted confidants, you could even call them your friends if it were not too bold to say so. 

You, his ‘Seraphim’, were silent and embraced by shadows with such flawless success that it was rumored you were born in them. You were lethal with your daggers, your skill with a blade a sight to behold before life was drained from your intended target. The last thing they saw as their breath was claimed by your hand, was the ferocity in your blown pupils and lengthy eyelashes beneath the dark warpaint smeared atop your eyelids. 

Glancing over your features once more, the pale white of the dress held stark contrast to the dark armor you adorned almost an hour prior. While your armor kept all of your features hidden to the world around you, the anonymity shielding you from emphasis on your features; this dress left little to the imagination. 

The deep hook of the backless dress clung low to your hips in an ovular shape, bodice dipping down to above your navel with a thin band of fabric dancing above your cleavage to suture the bust shut with barely any support. The length of the dress halted little below your hip bone on the left-hand side, the right hand side down to the ball of your ankle to allow for the straps of your gold heels to be revealed with each step you took against the floor. 

Your mind begins to wander the longer you stare at yourself in the mirror. This was the most provocative and scandalous item your boss had ever asked you to don. You almost allowed yourself to rush to the conclusion that your boss harbored more than simple favoritism for you, you assumed you were wearing this ensemble to impress a guest with your presence on his lap. 

Silence was nearly impossible with the gold-dipped base of your heeled shoes. Each step you took after exiting your suite echoed in a foreign clack that you were unaccustomed to creating with your foot-falls. 

Immediately upon entering the large celebratory area of Sir Crocodiles casino, you scanned the perimeter of the room for your boss to begin your new role for the night: the princess sitting upon his knee and doting on him with small caresses and whispers of praise within his ear. This was not a role you were exposed to often, but one you did well enough for him to continue asking for you after the first night you played it. 

You would be lying to yourself if you said you did not harbor affection for your boss. Nothing ever transpired between you after you had finished this role for the nights he asked you to fulfill. No brush of lips meeting yours, no writhing while sprawled out beneath him against the green fuzz of the gamblers table. He would bow his head in gratitude to you, his eyes blinking shut out of respect, and dismissing you without a further word. 

Adoration, respect, loyalty, and your wage is what bound you to that man. At each moment he spent with you on his lap, or performing a deadly task for him, your desire grew. You knew, without a semblance of a doubt, that you would cast aside your wage with an instant for the luxury of remaining by his side. You loved him, and it was the only thing that truly frightened you.

After concluding your brief scan of the room, you noticed Sir Crocodile was yet to make an appearance to darken the tables with his brutish figure. However, you smiled upon meeting the eyes of ‘Ophanim’ dressed in a simple waiter's uniform, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows and shaking a steel container filled with ice, syrups and hard liquor. She shot you a wink, gesturing with her chin to wait with her at the bar. 

An honest smile sprung to your lips as you grasped the barstool within your hands, taking a seat atop it and hooking your left knee over your right; the slit of your dress revealing the entirety of your left leg to your thigh. 

Immediately as you began to open your mouth to converse with your fellow “Choir” about her latest mission, your eyes were thrust into an amassment of lengthy cerulean hair. The person seemed to ignore you as their voice informed your friend of his order of a fruit-forward and harsh liquor cocktail with an insane amount of complex ingredients. The products he asked for sounded as if it would split and separate, with the immediate souring of creamy liquid with the acidic elements. 

Grimacing with your lips curled in disgust, the individual turned to meet your disapproving gaze: his eyes widening and breath hitching in his throat. A large, rotund red nose lay central to his features, his dark vest cinching his waist beneath a white shirt and dark trousers. He looked as if he was not comfortable wearing the assortment, as if it was a mask he was given to wear akin to your arrangement set aside by your boss. 

“You are fucking gorgeous,” he stumbled over his words, the syllables falling from his lips quicker than he could silence them within. Immediately your grimace upturned into a smile, forcing a laugh to flee from you at his unbridled compliment. You arched your left brow up, leaning in close to the individual in front of you and tightening his dark tie with your right hand. 

“You are very easy to look at, yourself,” you purred in return, assuming your flirtatious role with ease. You darted your gaze between his two teal eyes, a coy smile now pursing your lips together innocently, “And who might you be, bright eyes?” Your question had his heart swelling, his cheeks filling with a boyish fluster. 

“B-Buggy,” he wheezed, gulping back his words and grunting out a small cough to mask his uneasiness. “Captain Buggy D Clown,” he attempted to meet his elbow atop the bar, missing the polished wood entirely and instead stumbling under the uneven distribution of his weight. As air met his elbow with the heel of his palm capturing his chin, he flew his head down and met it against the wood with a harsh thump. 

Wincing in empathy, you immediately reached forward and claimed his cheeks within your palms and raised him back up to his former stature. You brushed his shoulders, readjusted his collar and checked over the rising swell atop his left temple. 

“Honey, can we get some ice please?” you asked your colleague who attempted to halt her laugh behind her palm, nodding as she retrieved the frosty cubes and placed them within a checkered tea towel. She passed it to you and shook her head, you nodding your thanks at her for the object and immediately reaching for the blunt-force trauma the blue-haired clown brought upon himself. 

“Are you alright Captain Buggy?” You asked him, holding your hand against the towel and pressing it firmly against the rising bruise. He clasped his left hand around your right, leaning into the touch you were providing him and closing his eyes. 

“I like the way your tongue makes my name sound,” he confessed in a breathy gasp. You again found yourself laughing at his words, the melodic ring of your voice stirring something dangerous within the purple hues of Sir Crocodile’s eyes. He continued watching your interaction with Buggy from his place darkening the threshold of the entrance to his casino. 

“What happened, Clown?” A voice called behind him, the curve of a pale shirt clinging to the back of a dark-haired individual you could barely see. Buggy apprehensively turned away from you and lulled his head towards the man with a snarling expression. 

“It’s her fault,” he gestured to you with his thumb, “She was sittin’ on that chair all innocent-like, as if she doesn’t look like walking sex.” 

“Hardly walking if she’s sitting,” the man called over in a bored and disinterested tone, without sparing so much as a glance in your direction. You found him intriguing, but you decided to match his energy and remain aloof to his comments yourself. 

Turning away from the two men beside you, you began moving your hands in a flurry of wordless gestures to your coworker as discreetly as you could.

‘Where is he?” you asked her, watching her hands flicker in response as she continued to attempt to uphold her own persona as bartender.

“Approaching slowly,” she managed to signal to you, before she placed a glass of wine in front of the broody aloof gentleman beside the clown. The corner of his lips ticked at the corner, a whisper of gratitude depicted on his face as he turned to face you with the crystal glass rising upwards. 

The small widening of his honey-coloured eyes told you all you needed to know within his gaze. Your head cocked to the side, your eyes wide and feigning innocence to the best of your abilities. 

“My, my,” he commented, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body from your decorated toes to the follicles of your styled hair, “I do see why you would be the cause for such a stumble.” He expertly brushed the blue-haired man away from you, extending his right hand forward to seek out your own and collecting your four fingers within his grip. 

He raised your hand to his lips, his mustache tickling the knobbed joints of your knuckles before his lips brushed against your flesh. Your eyes turned sultry, not once either of you breaking your eye contact against one another. 

Unable to control the rapidity of the thump within his chest and the dry lump forming in his throat, Sir Crocodile began a stalking approach towards you. How dare they fawn over you. You: his favorite of his Choirs. His angelic muse and harbinger of brutality. 

He knew you would make heads turn with the uniform he laid out for you, but he did not anticipate the primal urge swelling beneath him to pull you into himself and shield you away from their eyes. He wanted you all for himself, in any capacity you were willing to give it to him. He didn’t care that you were paid berry to serve him, it felt real enough for him.

“Dracule Mihawk,” he uttered against your flesh, withdrawing from his stoop and arching his back to puff his barely shielded chest to you, “And you are, my darling?” Before you could answer with your name, you felt a warm graze dancing up your spine. His breath tickled against your skin, tingling your spine beneath his lips as they pressed intent and longing to your flesh. 

On any other occasion, you may have been alarmed by such attention from an individual without seeing their face. The cologne dancing with the whisper of his last cigar floated with each kiss against your skin, informing you exactly who was giving you such a touch. 

He had never offered you this unbridled affection in the past, not allowing himself to give into his craving for you, and you not willing to test your place serving under him. This touch felt natural, his lips continuing to press into you, as you continued to hold your gaze on the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of you. 

Sir Crocodile’s lips found your left shoulder, his purple eyes pulling the swordsman’s attention away from you to meet with your boss as he continued to map his lips up your neck to your jaw. His left forearm circled around your front, the golden hook firmly secured against his wrist collecting your chin beneath the smooth surface. He turned your attention away from Mihawk to look into his eyes through lowered eyelashes. 

He leant forward, drawing your lips against his by the gentle tilt of his hook against your chin. Darting his tongue out to stroke yours, his nose brushed against your own as he circled his jaw to deepen the embrace. Your hands clutched the base of the stool you were sat atop to anchor yourself down for fear of floating to the roof. The hum of his lips in joy had a small moan pull from your lips the longer he was joined against you. 

You felt his right hand brush against your bicep, curling his firm grip around it as he pushed his chest flush with your own with a gentle turn of your body. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes immediately falling to your rapidly swelling and kiss-bruised lips, slightly smudged paint falling below the perimeter of your bottom lip. Tapping your chin with his hook, your eyes darted from your own gaze against his lips to meet with his purple eyes. 

“My Seraphim,” the rumble of his voice and the small smirk of his lips had your attention hyper fixed and hanging on his every word. You held your gaze firmly affixed to his, watching as he turned away from you and greeted the men in front of you with the nod of his head and the small utterance of their names.

“Mihawk,” the rumble of his voice rubbing within his throat had your spine tingle with anticipation, “Buggy.” He turned back to meet your orbs that had not yet broken from his face, but raked your gaze over his face with half-lidded lashes. Your eyes continued to float in a daze against his lips and flittering back up to meet his gaze. 

He extended his right hand in a gesture for you to take it, you reacting immediately by placing your hand within his larger palm to encircle his digits around it. You allowed him to pull you away from your former position atop the barstool, your heels clicking against the floor as he escorted you to the desired table for the night. Now in the shroud of seclusion, he leaned down and uttered a small apology in your ear. 

“Forgive me,” he began, taking his seat within the plush armchair and patting his left knee with his right. Without hesitation, you gracefully placed yourself atop his thigh with the small flick of your hair, crossing your left knee over your right and arching your back. 

“What sins am I forgiving, sir?” you asked him, feeling the dangerous caress of his hook brushing against your spine and collecting a small portion of your hair within its curvature. Your boss took in a deep breath through his nose, expanding his broad chest beneath his suit jacket. His exhale had a small quake to it, his eyes closing as he basked under your attention.

You reached your hands and began to dance your fingertips against the hem of his collar. Although this was a routine you had practiced with him over man a night on his lap, this touch felt almost forbidden as his brows furrowed. 

“I should not have kissed you like that,” he uttered in a voice below a hushed whisper, “You deserve better than something so public. I desire you-... -for you to be treated as a seraphim I know you to be.” His vocal catch had your attention completely focussed on every word, your body leaning itself further as your hands halted their movement. 

“I am not a seraphim, sir,” your lips were now almost brushing with the shell of his ear, your hypnotic perfume, intoxicating and mesmerizing the larger gentleman the longer your presence remained atop his lap. He angled his head away from you, exposing the side of his neck to reveal the rapidity of his heartbeat displayed against his pulse. 

“And what are you, if not a seraphim,” he whispered darkly, allowing to be disarmed by your presence as he leant into your touch, yet away from the descent of your lips upon his ear. 

“I am your seraphim,” you confessed as your lips grazed against the sensitive flesh of his cheek, his dark hair tickling against your eyes. 

Sir Crocodile was glad he had withdrawn you to a secluded portion of his casino at this moment. He truly did not desire for the other two members of the Cross-Guild to notice how much of a grip you truly had around his heart, but refused to break away from your display of unrestrained physical affection. He knit his brows together, furthering their descent down his face as he processed your words.

“Because I pay you to be,” he uttered, leaning away from your touch and forcing the mask of his arrogance back onto his features. He dropped the hook from your hair, reaching his right hand into his left breast pocket to locate a thick cigar and his golden lighter. Placing the bitten end between his teeth and clamping down on it, he drew the flame up to his lips and attempted to ignite the end. 

“I will return my wage to you,” you uttered quietly after swiping the golden lighter from his hand and reigniting the flame, “I have no need for it when you take care of me so well.” His eyes held an aloof boredom to his expression, refusing to meet with your face as you lit his cigar for him. 

“And if my wealth was taken from me?” He questioned before inhaling the smoke from his cigar, exhaling it away from your face, “If I was to go to prison once more, what then?” Your eyes narrowed, your lip curling up to reveal your displeasure at the question.

“I would claw tooth and nail to free you from your confinement, sir,” you confessed, reaching your left hand forward and collecting his chin beneath your thumb and index finger, turning his jaw for his eyes to meet with yours once more, “And although living in luxury is a welcome experience, I would stand by you regardless.” His eyes depicted his craving for your words to be true, although not believing it yourself. 

He began to open his mouth to speak, silenced by your words cutting through the air like your daggers meeting with the jugular of your foe. 

“You have my loyalty, my blades, and my body at your disposal,” you leant forward further, darting your eyes between focusing on each of his. “Should you order me to jump, I will ask how high. Should you ask me to kneel, I will fall to my knees,” you continued, your grip holding more firmly against his chin, “Should you wordlessly aim your finger at an enemy, I would be a channel of your wrath as I claim their lives for you.” 

Allowing a few moments of thick silence to swell between you, you felt the scrape of his hook trailing itself against your spine, hovering over the soft point of your rib and pressing his point firmly into your flesh. 

“While your words are as beautiful as you are,” he whispered, looking down at the plunging neck of your dress and back up into your eyes, “They are as decorated by the impact of my wealth as your body is in that dress.” You narrowed your eyes at his comment, taking the expression as a challenge. 

Shrugging away from the point of his hook, you rose to your feet between his legs and slowly drew your hands up to the thin straps on your shoulders. You hooked your thumbs beneath the material and began to slowly slip the material over your shoulders and down your biceps. Sir Crocodile’s eyes widened, immediately reaching his right hand and left forearm to halt your hands from revealing more of your flesh to him. 

“What are you doing?” His growl should’ve had your actions stuttering in any other setting, but his rasp had your heart beating in desire in place of fear. 

“I have already informed you that I will be returning my wage to you,” you cocked your head to the side, arching your back towards him and looking down at him under your lustful expression, “Why not start with the dress you claim to despise so much.” The rise of his fluster depicted in his eyes at your words had a smirk drawing up to decorate your lips. 

“What has someone like me done to deserve such devotion from you, my seraphim?” he whispered, his right hand elevating the strap of your left shoulder and securing it firmly in its prior place. You followed suit with your right strap, securing it firmly against your shoulder and leaning further into his welcome embrace. 

He leant his torso closer to you, his broad forearms circling over your own with his fingertips brushing against your skin. You began to open your mouth, confessing your adoration for your boss further upon the tip of your tongue before crudely interrupted by the presence of the blue-haired clown followed behind by the broody gentleman from earlier.

“Are we playin’ cards yet, Croco?” Buggy’s voice hitched as he met with an intimate moment shared between you and Sir Crocodile. Your boss’ hands caressed your skin, pulling you against his torso as he aimed his disapproving gaze over your right shoulder. 

He growled at the interruption, his voice holding more feral animosity than he felt he should. You drew your hand up to claim his cheek in the palm of your right hand, looking down at him with your eyes holding your unspoken answer of lustful adoration at him. His breath hitched as his gaze met with yours, prompting his right hand to grasp the flesh of your back firmer within his spread fingertips. 

“I recall you having barely enough berry to survive the last time we played, Clown,” Mihawk’s aloof tone called from beside him. Neither you nor Sir Crocodile paid either man any mind, too wrapped up in the intimate moment you were sharing holding one another. 

You removed the cigar from Crocodile’s teeth in your left hand, stooping forward and claiming his lips beneath your own. Your nose brushed against his, the kiss as hastily departing in severance of the connection as it did in its descent. He arched his chin up, chasing your retreat with his eyes closed. 

“Shall I get the table ready, sir?” You asked him in a subtle whisper, relishing in the small hum of pleasure falling from the lips of your boss. His eyes split slowly open, remaining half-lidded as he lulled his head on his neck to glance at you. The silver mark splitting his face danced in the illuminance of the soft bar light, his striking features appearing more chiseled under its glow. 

“Please,” he spoke slowly, his tongue darting out and danced as the ‘L’ passed his lips. You raked his hair back over his scalp, replacing the fallen strands in their rightful place, while leaning down once more with a smirk.

“Right away, sir,” you purred at him while returning his cigar to his teeth, watching as he bit the tip with a small snarl. Turning and walking away to collect several items to place atop the green felt for your boss to engage in a game of cards with his two unlikely colleagues, eyes fixed on your back as you exited the secluded area.

“Who is she?” Buggy’s shocked voice cracked out the stuttered question also plaguing Mihawk’s mind. Sir Crocodile relaxed in his chair, inhaling the cigar smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it. Upon it exiting from his lungs, he confessed the place you held within his heart with the utterance of two words.

“My favorite.”

[discordantwritings]

Our Precious Assistant (Cross Guild x Reader)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 4.5

Warnings: 18+ NO MINORS. gn afab reader, exhibitionism, slight voyeurism, dom/ sub dynamics, dom! Mihawk, dom! Crocodile, sub! Buggy, sub! Reader, oral sex, facefucking, PiV sex, spit roasting, creampie, aftercare is important guys, Mihawk and Crocodile are mean to Buggy but in a consensual way, not beta read

Word count: 5.7k

Summary: You’re the assistant to the leaders of The Cross Guild, and after one night of overhearing them having sexual relations, you can’t help but notice their affections towards each other, and eventually… you?

Note: the cross guild can use me any day

Being the executive assistant to three of the most dangerous men in the world was terrifying.

At first.

But after one year of working with them, you’ve grown desensitized to their presence. You see them at their best and their worst. And working for them you see a lot of worsts.

Sir Crocodile is the one you interact the most with since he deals with most of the money and bounties. He works hard and barely rests, which leads him to a short temper. At first every time he glared at you you were sure his hook was about to take you out but now you know when that happens he just needs a nap. You’ve managed to mitigate a lot of employee deaths by planning his appointments around when you know his mood will be bad. And even over time you’ve learned that if you stand firm with him, he respects you more. Never in a million years did you expect that a former warlord of the sea would appreciate you draping a blanket over him when he falls asleep at his desk. You often have to stop yourself from thinking about how peaceful he looks when he actually manages to sleep.

Dracule Mihawk was easier to work with than Sir Crocodile, demanding less of you on a daily basis, but that’s not to say it’s been easy. Being a solitary man he doesn’t interact well with anyone under him (or over him for that matter) so you’re often left to smooth over meetings and negotiations. You don’t talk with him often but when you do he is always polite, if a bit short. Nothing gets past him and it’s worked out in your favor more times than not. He recognizes your work and once when he caught you sneaking a peak at his library he let you borrow the book you were after. When you tried to return it once you were done he told you to keep it. The book sits on your nightstand and helps you remember on the hard days why you stick with the job.

And Buggy?

Well. He’s Buggy. You’ve had the best and the worst times with him. It became clear after only a few months of working with The Cross Guild that Buggy wasn’t actually the one in charge. Between the way Mihawk and Crocodile treated him and how incredibly incompetent he could be led you to put the pieces together on the real power structure. Now that isn’t to say Buggy was a failure all time, quite the opposite actually. Despite how under qualified he was he pulled off the showmanship of the roll quite well and out of all of the leaders he was far and away the best with people. While you didn’t interact with him as much as you did Sir Crocodile he often went out of his way to be around you. He gets bored easily and it often falls on you when there aren’t any of his crew members in the immediate vicinity. As much as it derails your work you find yourself glad for the company. You think it’s because you do actually respect him and sometimes in The Cross Guild that’s hard to come by.

It wasn’t until recently a few things about the relationship between the leaders of the guild clicked for you. You knew the had extended meetings behind doors and on more than a few occasions you’d seen Mihawk or Crocodile laying into Buggy but it wasn’t until you had to come back to the office late one night when it all became crystal clear how their dynamic worked.

You had forgotten some paperwork that you needed to work on so you slipped back into the office after dark when you thought everyone else had gone home. When you got to your desk however, the door to Sir Crocodile’s office was cracked and light spilled out. It wasn’t strange, you knew he pushed himself to work late hours. Normally you encourage him to cut it short so you made your way over to the door and where about to knock when-

“Croc- Please-“ Buggy’s voice was pained and you almost rush in to defend him but a loud moan stops you dead in your tracks.

“I don’t think you’re sorry enough clown.” Crocodile’s voice is sharp and clearly pissed, but there’s an edge to it that you’ve never heard. You almost manage to back away from the door when a third voice speaks up.

“You’re right Crocodile, he really should be apologizing better. He certainly could be putting his mouth to better use.” Mihawk sounds almost bored, but the filth that left his mouth made your blood run hot.

“I’ll do anything- you know I will!” Buggy pleads.

Crocodile chuckles. “Oh, we know you will. You’re always so eager to get on your knees for us, aren’t you.”

The sounds of a zipper being pulled jolt through you and that’s enough to get you to run out of the office as quietly as you can. You pray to whatever gods are above that they didn’t hear you because no matter how fond of you they were- this was too much for anyone to know.

Ever since then you’ve noticed things. Face paint on Crocodile’s collar, stolen glances between Mihawk and Crocodile, or Buggy actually blushing when Crocodile threatened to knock his head off. It felt crazy to know that your bosses were in some kind of polyamorous relationship but no matter how much you want to tell anyone you didn’t. Not even for fear of your job- it was just what you felt was right. But you had to admit thoughts about what the three of them do together creeped into your mind often. It was embarrassing but some nights you got off to imagining what it would be like to be a part of something like that.

Well not something like that. Exactly that. Those three powerful men that you’ve grown fond of. But it was a pipe dream. You kept those thoughts in the darkest recesses of your mind where not even Mihawk’s observation haki could detect them.

But then things kept happening.

It started off easy to ignore. You would see Buggy blushing as you walked into Crocodile or Mihawk’s office, or Mihawk pulling away from Crocodile’s desk quickly as you passed by the door. But when you walked into Mihawk’s office and saw Buggy on his lap there wasn’t much you could do but quickly throw his requested papers on his desk and hurry away, face flushed.

After that it was noticing Buggy’s shoes under Crocodile’s desk when he called you in for a report. Then being asked to stay late and catching Crocodile and Mihawk share a kiss through a wide open door.

You wouldn’t acknowledge the incidents, and they didn’t either, so you were left flustered and confused almost every day. As if seeing them together wasn’t bad enough- it got worse.

Attention started to be directed towards you. You didn’t notice at first, Buggy’s clinging attitude was nothing new and you almost thought nothing of it when he was more touchy than normal. Then Mihawk invited you to stay after work to have a drink with him. You refused- but almost immediately were faced with Crocodile asking you to help him in his office with some more paperwork. Working close at his desk together shouldn’t have been as intimate as it was but you could see him stealing glances at you throughout the night.

Then came the pet names.

Buggy waltzing around your desk calling you star, dear, angel, and any other cheesy ones he could pull out. You hate how much you reacted to them, doing your best to act annoying and praying that he never saw the blush creeping up your neck. Mihawk and Crocodile were more subtle though. Mihawk tagging on darlings at the ends of his requests, Crocodile calling you sweetheart after you deliver paperwork to him. It was almost too much to take on a daily basis, sending you home flustered and now occasionally sexually frustrated.

But you never allowed yourself to think that any of them, let alone all three of them, would want something with you. You knew for a fact they were all in a relationship of some sorts and maybe this was their fun- being cruel to the person they all had easy access to. But you couldn’t stop your heart from soaring at every pet name and every touch or glance they would throw your way. You’d think about quitting- but you couldn’t leave them. As much as you hate it you care about the three of them too much.

But that might all stop today. Earlier in the day Crocodile approached you and said he needed you to stay after for a meeting and your blood ran cold. This was it. You’re getting fired.

You spent all day anxious, subtly packing up your belongings in preparation for the worst. When the time rolled around you knocked on the large door to Sir Crocodile’s office.

“Come in.” His gruff voice answered, and you slowly opened the door to reveal all three leaders of The Cross Guild. Crocodile behind his desk, Mihawk at one of the chairs across from him, and Buggy stationed on a couch along one of the far walls.

You weren’t being fired. You were being killed.

Your fear was clear to all three of them and Mihawk cast an annoyed glance at Crocodile. “I told you this was not a good idea.”

Crocodile rolled his eyes. “And what did you propose? Keep doing Buggy’s plan?”

“Hey!” Buggy sat up on the couch, offended. “I thought we could be a lot more flashy!”

Glares from both Mihawk and Crocodile made him sink back into the couch without another word. Mihawk looks back to you and gestures for you to sit down in the other chair at Crocodile’s desk. Scared and a bit confused you quickly sit.

“I’m sorry.” You speak up, trying to be ahead of this whole thing. “I should have been more careful with your privacy and it’s my fault and I understand why you want to let me go.”

Crocodile, Mihawk, and Buggy all share confused looks before Buggy breaks out in a laugh.

“You’re not being fired.” Crocodile speaks up, leaning over his desk. “And you haven’t been mishandling our privacy.”

“Except on that first night.” Buggy chimes in from the couch. “Not that that was a bad thing!”

Your eyes dart between all three of them, now properly confused. “I don’t understand…”

Mihawk sighs. “We noticed when you accidentally overheard us in this office.”

Of course. You were stupid to think they didn’t.

“But after that and some discussion we thought you might be interested.” Mihawk says it so casually you almost don’t register the words. They thought what?

“It was Buggy’s idea to get bold with our affections to see if you were interested as well but like most of the clown’s plans it was clearly poorly thought out.” Crocodile speaks from behind the desk, filing in the gaps.

“Honestly I think it was just an excuse to be the little exhibitionist he is.” Mihawk comments with glance towards Buggy.

“Hey, hey, maybe there was some self fulfillment there but! You all liked it and we clearly saw they liked us too. Didn’t ya dear?” Buggy leans on the couch to smile and wave at you and it’s only about now where everything is finally sinking in.

“Oh.” You’re sure your entire body is blushing, all the anxious energy now turning into something different.

“So we are sorry if this has all been too convoluted for you. I thought we should make a formal request.” Crocodile gets up from his desk and walks around it, towering over your seat. “Would you think about being a part of our relationship?”

“If you don’t we will forget this ever happened and there will be no more sexual run ins with any of us.” Mihawk adds as he too gets closer, his hand on the arm of your chair.

“And of course, take your time.” Crocodile mentions from above, taking a long drag of his cigar.

“But also could you not because I’m really excited to-“ Buggy is once again cut off by the looks of the two former warlords. But now understanding their dynamic you guess he probably riles them up like this on purpose. The line between fear and arousal is pretty thin, as you are learning right now.

“I can’t say I’m not interested.” You speak up and see Buggy beaming from across the room. “But I just- I’ve never been in a relationship like this.”

Mihawk’s hand glides from the arm of the chair to the outside of your thigh. “Neither had we before this. It’s not easy all the time but we make it work.”

It’s hard to ignore how much of an effect the small touch has on your body and you shift in your chair. “And you all really like me?”

“Yes.” All three of them answer at once, bringing a huge smile to your face. They rarely agree on anything but seeing them so automatically in sync for the answer- it douses a lot of your worries.

“So how would this work exactly?” You ball your hands in your lap, unable to look any of them in the eye directly.

“You would be ours.” Crocodile leans back on his desk to get more in your line of sight. “We go on dates occasionally. We share a bed when we are all in one place.”

“Due to our positions we can’t be as public as we would want to be. But that would be for your safety.” Mihawk’s thumb is drawing small circles on your thigh.

“But that doesn’t mean we won’t occasionally smother you at work.” Buggy bounces off the couch and moves over behind your chair. “Or at least I will.”

“You mean you don’t already?” You turn slightly to smile up at him and he returns your grin tenfold.

“And of course we would love to have you join us in our sexual endeavors.” Crocodile’s large hand creeps under your chin and pulls it over so you’re looking him in the eyes. “If you’ll have us.”

You melt under his touch and a small moan leaves you when Mihawk’s hand slides ever so closer inwards. Buggy’s hands land on your shoulder a gently rub and you are overwhelmed in the best way.

“I’ll have you. All of you.” At your words Buggy’s arms come around and hug you from behind and you can’t help but laugh a bit at his enthusiasm. “So what’s next?”

“If it’s not too fast you’ll come back to our room. Now.” The authority Crocodile exudes makes you nod your head quickly. You don’t know if you would be able to function properly if at least one of them didn’t take you to bed tonight.

Buggy tightens his hug before releasing you and bouncing to the door. Mihawk retracts his hand from your thigh but holds it out for you to help you stand. You take his hand and lace your fingers through it as you turn to the door, Crocodile bringing up the rear.

It’s a whirlwind getting back to their place- which you learn is Crocodile’s originally. None of them kiss you yet but their hands wander. Mihawk never lets go of your hand and squeezes it as Crocodile keeps a guiding hand on your lower back. Buggy’s detached hands are a bit braver, sneaking around your waist and hips and thighs. He gives your ass a light slap as you walk into the bedroom and it’s your turn to whip around and glare at him. There’s no malice behind it though and he waves at you as the offending hand snaps back onto his arm.

Turning back and looking around the room it is more distinctly Crocodile’s than anything from the simple and modern decor with his signature emerald green as accents. The other two have snuck their way in here though. You notice a large vanity mirror with makeup strewn around it and the bed is covered in dark plush fabrics. Despite being mismatched with the rest of the room it makes it more human, and you appreciate that as you slowly make your way over to the almost comically oversized bed.

Turning, you sit yourself on the edge of the bed and look up at the three men. “So, how do we start this?”

Buggy goes to walk towards you but is stopped by Crocodile’s arm. Mihawk and Crocodile share a glance and communicate something without words. Crocodile drags Buggy off to a large loveseat not too far from the bed as Mihawk approaches you.

“We’ll start off gentle, how about that?” Mihawk says as he crowds your space, looking down at you with those striking eyes.

“Hey- you never started gentle with me-“ Buggy’s voice is cut off and when you look over Crocodile has a fist full of blue hair and is harshly pulling his head up. He’s violently pulled into a kiss with Crocodile that you see the clown melt into, the gloved hands going to Crocodile’s knees to stabilize himself. You could watch them make out for hours but your gaze is gently pulled back to Mihawk with his hand on your chin.

“There will be plenty of time to watch. But I have to get you relaxed.” Mihawk grabs your waist and easily hoists you further into the bed, laying you down. He crawls over you, one hand stabilizing himself as another wanders up over your hips, waist, bust, and the finally resting gently around the side of your neck. Using his grip he brings you up and pulls you into a kiss.

Just as promised he starts off gentle, letting you set the pace. His lips are soft and you can taste his favorite wine. Breaking away to catch your breath you loop one arm around his shoulders and slide your mouth next to his ear.

“I appreciate this but-“ You lightly bite at his earlobe. “I don’t want you to be too gentle with me.”

When you retreat back to look at the swordsman’s face you see his eyes blown out, only a slim amber ring left. “I’d knew you’d be wonderful for us.”

He dives into another kiss, this time fully dominating it. His tongue presses against your lips and you let him in easily, letting him take over completely. Mihawk’s calloused hand comes around the front of your neck and he doesn’t squeeze but the thrill of it being there sends chills down your spine.

Eventually that hand sneaks down to your shirt, lightly squeezing one of your breasts before it moves down to the hem of your shirt. Fingers play with the edge before they slip under and push your shirt up as he travels back to your chest. You lean up and he allows you to break away from the kiss as you finish pulling your shirt up and over your head, throwing it somewhere on the floor. Mihawk wastes no time and unclasps your bra as you are doing so, and he pitches the garment far away as well.

Sitting up slightly the former warlord allows both his hands to wander your chest, earning small gasps from you as he squeezes and cups your breasts. He leans back down and kisses down your neck before replacing one of his hands with his mouth, kissing under your breast first before placing an open mouth kiss to your nipple. You bring your hand up to stifle a moan but from across the room a voice chastises you.

“Be loud love, we want to hear you over here.” Crocodile’s voice reminds you of his presence and you look back over his direction and are rewarded with a lewd image.

Crocodile sits wide in the seat, a cigar lit as he watches you and Mihawk. His pants are opened just enough for Buggy to work his cock, one hand on the base and his mouth covering the rest. Crocodile’s grip is strong on the clown’s hair as he forces Buggy’s head down. Seeing Crocodile so composed as he uses Buggy turns you on much more than you ever thought it would and you can feel how wet all of this is making of you.

You’re snapped back to Mihawk as he lightly bites at your nipple and this time you don’t muffle your moan. A hand wanders down your stomach and to your pants where deft fingers unbutton and unzip them quickly. After a harsh bite to the plush of your breast, definitely leaving a bruise, he leans back and brings both hands to the waistband of your pants.

“Lift your hips for me.” You obey his words and he takes off your pants and underwear in one go, and you shudder at the sudden coolness. One hand lays on your hip and another goes to your thigh. Gently he pushes your thighs open and he groans at what he sees.

“All this already?” His fingers skate down to your entrance and he pulls his fingers over it, collecting your slick. Bringing his fingers up to his mouth you watch slack jawed as he licks them clean. “I think I’ll have to taste more.”

Pushing himself back he kisses the insides of your thighs and you moan as he gets closer and closer to where you want him to be. One of your hands fists into the sheets and you bring the other gently to Mihawk’s head, tangling your fingers in his hair.

Finally his mouth reaches your folds and you buck up against him but he quickly brings a hand up to hold you down. With just one hand he’s able to pin your body and that sends another flood of warmth to your core. After another second, making sure you’ll stay still, he finally dives in fully.

His tongue flattens and draws up across your opening and up to your clit where it stops. He presses a kiss to it that makes you gasp before his tongue travels back down and dips inside of you. The hand in his hair grip hard and you’re afraid for a second he’ll stop again but he just moans in appreciation. His nose rubs against your clit and you throw your head back, again getting a glance of Buggy and Crocodile.

Buggy was still kneeling at Crocodile’s feet but he wasn’t blowing him anymore. Instead Crocodile’s own hand was on his dick, gripping the base and slowly tugging as he locked eyes with you. You were finally able to see just how big he was and for a second you got concerned with how that would ever possibly fit inside you. Your eyes went down to Buggy and you could barely make out him softly whining and it took a second before you looked even lower and realized his pants were off. One of his detached hands was steadily pumping a finger into himself and his face was nestled on Crocodile’s thigh. The sight cause you to try and buck into Mihawk’s mouth against but you were powerless and all you could do was writhe and whine against his mouth.

Mihawk’s excellent skills were quickly bringing you to the edge and he could sense it. Pulling away for only a second he called out to Buggy. “Clown, come put your hands to good use.”

You saw the unoccupied glove hand fly over and hover by Mihawk and when he dove in to give attention to your clit the gloved hand when close by, easily slipping two fingers into you. Almost immediately you’re thrown over the edge and scream in pleasure.

The world is fuzzy for a few seconds and when you come back to your body you realize neither of them have stopped their movements. So sensitive from your orgasm you loudly moaned and gripped Mihawk even harder.

Peering up at you he breaks away for a second. “You can give us one more, can’t you darling?”

Buggy’s fingers curl inside you and Mihawk lightly nips at your sensitive clit and you’re cumming again, a deep groan leaving your body as pleasure washes over you again.

Finally the mouth and hand retreat and it takes you a bit before you focus back on the world around you. When you do you see Crocodile, naked and stroking his cock right above you. You sit up and look to him for direction, earning you a sly smile.

“You’re already so obedient aren’t you.” His hand comes up and fingers gently thread in your hair as he pulls you closer to his dick. “Want to show me how good you can be?”

“Yes sir.” You say, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

That earns you a moan from him and he drags you closer, the tip of his cock pressing against your lips. Obediently you open your mouth and let him press himself further in as he guides your head. You take a deep breath through your nose as you push yourself further feeling his dick fill up your mouth and into your throat. When your nose is finally up against his pelvis he moans deep in his chest and lets himself sit there for a moment. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes but it’s worth it for this feeling.

You can only hold like this for so long, and you have to let him slide out of your mouth. You hold your mouth open for him though, thick strings of your saliva connecting him to you.

“Fuck, you’re good.” He praises, the hand in your hair gently petting you for a second before gripping again. “Gonna let me use your mouth more?”

Knowing he loved it the first time you respond with the simple, “yes sir.”

He plunges immediately back into your mouth and all you can do is focus on your breathing as he fucks your face relentlessly. You know you’re dripping onto the bed as you rub against the sheets for any sort of friction. It isn’t long before you feel Crocodile’s cock twitch in your mouth and you assume he is going to cum down your throat but to your surprise he pulls away.

You look up at him, slightly disappointed, tears and spit covering your face. His hand reaches down and wipes away some of the spit.

“I’m not going to waste my load in your mouth tonight sweetheart, there will be plenty of time for that later.” His promise sends a thrill through you and suddenly you are joined in the bed by Buggy.

When you turn to him he looks just as fucked out as you are, his face paint smeared and bruises along his neck. Buggy’s eyes dart up to Crocodiles and you can’t see what’s exchanged but in a flash Buggy is on you, kissing you.

He’s eager and it fills you with new energy as you ramp up to match him. Hands wander every inch of your body, never stopping for too long.

“Been wanting to touch you for so long.” He whispers in between feverish kisses. “So soft…”

He gropes your boobs and ass with detached hands and you gasp into his mouth, giving him the opportunity to snake his tongue in. You give into him but it’s short lived as soon Mihawk is dragging him off of you.

“Hey!” He protests, his hands still full of your body.

“You’ll have your fun.” Mihawk chides. Buggy sulks a bit but brightens up when you cover the hand on your tit with your own and squeeze.

Crocodile’s hands join Buggy’s on your body and you feel him maneuvering you so you’re laying on your stomach, ass to him. Buggy is on your side and Mihawk is in front of you, now naked like everyone else. Now it’s his cock at your mouth. Not as big as Crocodile’s but slender and curved.

“Think you can take two of us at once?” Mihawk asks, hand gently petting you.

“Yes, please.” You moan, embarrassment having left you long ago.

“You’re so perfect darling. Now open up.” You immediately obey the swordsman and he lets his tip sit on your tongue, lightly dragging it barely into your mouth and out.

You’re about to lean forward to take more of him but something presses against your entrance and your head snaps around to see Crocodile lining himself up with you. Mihawk’s hand is in your hair again as he brings your mouth back to his dick.

You feel Crocodile’s cock push into your cunt and you moan at the intrusion. Taking advantage of that Mihawk slips himself down into your mouth further, causing you to almost choke. He seems to enjoy that, lightly thrusting in at the noise.

Crocodile moves slow and you’re thankful for the time to adjust to his size. As you get into rhythm with Mihawk you realize Buggy is stroking your back, gently soothing you. Needing him to be included you reach your hand out and find his thigh, slowly reaching up until you find the base of his dick. You can’t see it but it’s heavy in your hand as you slowly begin to pump him in time with Mihawk’s thrusts into your mouth.

With one final push Crocodile has bottomed out and you feel his hips against your ass. He pauses for a second and leans down, pressing hot kisses to your back while you finally adjust to his full size. It’s not too long however before he’s upright again, and his hand goes to the base of your back as he starts slowly thrusting in and out of you.

Your senses are overwhelmed by pleasure and every moan you release is muffled by Mihawk’s dick and he picks up the pace, loving the way you feel around him. You focus on keeping a steady pace with Buggy and let the rest of your body be used by the two other powerful men.

It’s Crocodile who falters first, his thrusts becoming faster and irregular as he grips your hips firmly and pushes you down with every thrust. You feel him shudder and he reaches over and replaces Mihawk’s hand in your hair with his own, pulling you up off of him.

“Where do you want me to cum, tell me.” He demands, not slowing down at all.

“Inside.” You manage, voice wrecked.

He pulls you into a heated kiss before pushing you back down and doubling his efforts. His hand flies down to your clit as he helps you to reach your peak with him. You cum quickly from his touch and that send him over the edge too, burying himself deep and unloading into you.

Crocodile slowly pulls out of you and you can feel his cum seeping out. You feel his large fingers at your entrance and he pushes some of his seed back into you.

“Take a look Hawkeyes.” Crocodile voice was gruff.

You didn’t even register that Mihawk had walked around behind you until you heard his voice. “Fuck that’s a picture. Buggy, flip them around.”

Suddenly Buggy’s hands were on your waist, flipping you over as directed. You finally get a good look at him and he’s kneeling next to you, dick bright red and leaking. Reaching over you go to continue your earlier work with him but your hand it caught by Mihawk’s.

“He doesn’t cum until the end.” He informs you. “Don’t worry, he likes it that way.”

A bright red creeps up Buggy’s neck that confirms that fact. And you can’t help but flash him a smile.

“Think you can still take me?” Your attention is brought back to Mihawk as he drags his length over your entrance, coating it in yours and Crocodile’s cum.

You nod eagerly, desperate to please and be filled up again.

The swordsman easily slips into you and he wastes no time, roughly thrusting into you. You cry out from the feeling, overwhelmed and fucked out from your previous three orgasms. Buggy is right there besides you, gently running his fingers through your hair and whispering praise about how good you looked and how well you’ve been taking them. It’s all enough to send you quickly to the edge and it’s clear Mihawk is right there with you.

“Can I-“ His voice is cut off when you clench around him.

“Yes, inside, please Mihawk.” Your pleading sends him over and his fingers dig into your thighs as he cums inside you. You’re not far after him, Buggy’s helpful hand going between your legs to give you the final push.

Mihawk pulls out and you are full, cum gushing out of you. The swordsman stops and stares at your fucked out cunt in appreciation before Buggy stands next to him to look as well. Mihawk pulls Buggy into a kiss and when he breaks away he gives Buggy a small nod before walking away.

“Hey I’m not gonna push you love.” His hand is pumping up and down on his length fast. “Just wanna cum on you, can I do that, please babe?”

The desperation in his voice is clear and you nod, no longer having a voice to use.

“Fuck, thank you, you’re perfect, just like that-“ His words are quick and dissolve into unintelligible as he works himself faster before spilling himself onto your folds with a loud moan.

You finally allowed your body to relax, sinking into the bed, exhaustion overtaking your body. Crocodile comes back into view and he gently cleans you up with a wash cloth, pressing a kiss to your knee when he’s done. Mihawk comes to your side and helps you properly into bed, under the covers. Buggy is at your side almost immediately, arms wrapping around you as his face settles into the crook of your neck. It’s not long until Crocodile joins you on your other side and you allow yourself to snuggle up into his chest. You vaguely notice Mihawk climb into bed on the other side of Crocodile as sleep starts to take you.

Crocodile presses a kiss to your forehead right before you fall asleep.

“We love you.”

[short-honey-badger]

Miss Twilight

You are a lower member of Baroque Works, but you are damn good at what you do, always bringing your boss even more than what he asks for when he sends you out on missions. You don't know it, but you've caught Crocodile's attention. It's just too bad he got himself arrested before he could express his interest in you. Now, he's on a mission to find you and get you back to his side.

Part 2 -> HERE Part 3 -> HERE Part 4 -> HERE Finale -> HERE

Crocodile doesn’t have many regrets in his life, but not making it known how much he wanted you before his untimely arrest was one of them. You’d been a lower ranking member of Baroque Works, but you’d proved yourself useful time and time again to him. Your ability to remain unassuming and gather information was invaluable, and after some time, Crocodile had begun to notice more about you. The confident way you carry yourself, that amused gleam you got in your eye when you found something humorous. Your presence had become an addiction, and Crocodile had found himself calling you to his office just to have you near.

But he hasn’t seen nor heard about your whereabouts since he broke out of Impel Down and created the Cross Guild. He had hoped that you would make your way back to his side after the news of his escape reached you, but it’s been months now, and still nothing.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Crocodile lifts his gaze from the paper he is reading to see Mihawk leaning in the doorway of his office, a glass of wine in one hand, and the other propped up on his hip. Those golden eyes are staring at him, the hawk’s head cocked to one side.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” He grumbles and tosses the paper on his desk. Mihawk scoffs and saunters further into the office, plopping down in the chair opposite the other man and crossing his feet at the ankles.

“Even the Clown can tell that there is something going on with you,” he drawls and takes a slow sip of his wine, staring at Crocodile over the rim of his glass. The older man has been more snappishly lately, quicker to anger, and the guild has suffered for it. At least three men have been dehydrated to the point of death just this week.

Crocodile sneers and swaps his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth, “An old employee of mine. I thought she would show up by now.”

He doesn’t like admitting to the other man. It felt like showing Mihawk a weakness, but it wasn’t like the swordsman would be turning on him anytime soon. They had struck up a respectful partnership, but Crocodile would kill over before he admitted he thought of Mihawk as a tentative friend.

“An old flame, then?” Mihawk asks, and cocks a brow, “I would have thought you to be above such trivial matters.”

Crocodile huffs and turns to stare out the window, looking out over Buggy Town and the tent city that grew larger every day, “No. I never had the chance to express my interest in her before strawhat ruined all my hard work.”

You’d been lucky that he had sent you out for another mission before the Strawhats had gotten to Alabasta, saving you from being taken to Impel Down with his other operatives after the navy showed up. He’d tried the number to your personal snail transponder, but the line had been dead, leading him to believe that you’d destroyed it after he’d been taken in. You’d been a constant on his mind since, leaving Crocodile wondering when he would be able to see you again.

“Why not put the word out that you’re looking for her?” Mihawk asks. He is curious to know what kind of woman you were to catch his co-leader’s attention. Crocodile had always put business before pleasure, and the older man was all about business.

“And let everyone on the Grand Line know that I’m looking for her? I’m not that desperate,” He grouches and stands from his chair, loping over to the window so that he doesn’t have to look at the other man. He doesn’t want to admit that he has already thought about putting some feelers out to see where you’ve disappeared off to, but he knew that you were the type to stay hidden if you wanted to stay that way. It was why you’d been so good at information gathering.

Maybe you’d joined someone else without him there to pay you, or maybe you were still biding your time before you came back to him. Or you'd finally been caught and were locked up in a cell somewhere. Crocodile didn’t know, and that frustrated him. He didn’t like not knowing where you were, not when you belonged at his side.

“Then stop acting like a teenager and stop killing our men if you’re not going to do anything about it. It brings down moral, you know,” Mihawk quips and watches Crocodile shrug one shoulder. He purses his lips, rolls his eyes, and stands. It wasn’t like he would be getting anywhere else with the other man, not now, at least. Mihawk drains the last of his wine and saunters to the door, “What was her name?”

He can’t help but ask, too curious about the woman who’d gained the older man’s attention.

Crocodile rolls his cigar around his mouth, annoyed with himself over the fact that he didn’t know your name, only the alias that you’d chosen when he’d brought you on.

“She went by Miss Twilight.”

--------

Hundreds of miles away, you sneeze loudly, but no one hears you from where you've been tucked away in the dark cell. You frown down at your hands, cursing yourself for being so careless as to get caught sneaking aboard. You knew you were better than this, but in your excitement to get back to Crocodile after hearing about the Cross Guild, you forgot yourself, and now look where you were. Locked up in the belly of a navy ship. How the hell were you supposed to get out of this one?

[chocolilies]

─── messy sheets. ꒱

( ୨ৎ. roronoa zoro x fem!reader. . .ᐟ

one of zoro's many favourite things about dating you is how you pick up on each other's mannerisms.

◟ꪆ୧ nsfw (afab!reader, thigh riding, groping, fingering) porn with a tiny bit of plot, though the plot is mostly fluffy! based on this request! spreading my titty fiend!zoro agenda... reblogs and comments are appreciated a lot!! (⁠ʃ⁠ƪ⁠＾∇⁠＾) !

w.c : 3.2k.

also on ao3 + op masterlist !

“don’t ever come back here again!”

“you don't own the ship, asshole! I'll go wherever I want!”

dodging a kitchen knife, zoro slammed the door to the galley shut, stomping down the corridor as anger seethed through him. 

“can’t even get a drink in peace,” zoro growled as he clutched at one of his swords, pushing open the door to your room, having half the mind to turn back around and slice the cook up a bit until he set eyes on your bed. 

he found you sprawled out horizontally over the covers, one of his too-big-for-you shirts pulled over your sleeping body, head falling off of one of the pillows, while you hugged the other tight against your chest. 

now, one thing zoro loved about dating you was seeing just how much you influenced each other. 

when you’d both first joined luffy’s crew, you’d snap and whine at him for napping at the most random intervals of time, kicking him awake or simply complaining very loudly with nami about how he used his free time, driving the swordsman up the walls. 

yet after all that time spent grumbling about his sleeping habits before you’d gotten together (and maybe a bit more after that), here you were. messily spread out on your shared bed with drool running down your chin, taking one of those naps you once objected so much against. 

he held in a laugh, his tiff with the cook fizzling away in his mind as he took in your sleeping figure, the light from the afternoon sun shining into the room and hitting you in an almost angelic way, which for zoro, you were nothing but. 

he carefully propped up his swords against the wall, shaking his shoes off before silently moving towards what you’d both silently agreed on was his side of the bed, though thanks to the way you had moved around in your bed, were now occupied by your bare legs. 

zoro had once heard about how you moved around a lot during your sleep, having heard nami’s complaints about your sleepy kicks or slaps back when you used to share a bed with her, always laughing loudly at the way you would shy away from her in embarrassment, unaware of how squirmy you were asleep. 

surprisingly enough, though, the moment you started to sleep alongside zoro, you stopped moving. maybe it was because of his incredible pain tolerance (since one slap from you would hardly register as painful) that your movements didn’t stir him awake, or maybe it was because of the unyielding grip he had on you the moment his arms found your wriggly body. 

he found it hilarious that it was the latter. 

zoro carefully took both of your ankles in one hand, pushing your legs and subsequently moving your body so you were lying in a more “appropriate” manner, though considering the many times he’d ended up horizontal on a bed, he shouldn't really be judging. 

once he’d made enough space for himself, he let go, kneeling on the mattress before pulling his shirt and haramaki off, polloping himself down on the bed as soon as he’d flung them across the room (something he knew he’d get reprimanded for later).

a grunt left him as he tried to get comfortable, arms immediately spread out instinctively to find your body, wrapping them around your waist and dragging you across the already messy covers into his chest. 

you let out a whine as the rough movements forced you to let go of the pillow you’d been cuddling, though seemed to immediately calm down once you subconsciously realised whose arms you were now in. 

“messy girl,” zoro murmured as he looked around the state your bed’s covers were in after what he assumed had been less than an hour (he clearly recalled you screaming at luffy for something or other a bit before he’d wandered into the kitchen), craning his head so he could press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. “mean, too. napping without me…”

he adjusted the arm underneath you so it was right against your neck, not wanting for you to grow uncomfortable with it digging into your waist, watching as you immediately rested your head against his warm bicep, letting out a soft noise of content. 

his other arm, though, had completely other plans. he moved it from its place around your waist, dragging his hand underneath the oversized shirt of his you’d stolen, placing his warm palm right above the elastic band of your panties, chuckling as your body shivered in response. 

one thing you'd quickly learned about zoro the moment you'd started dating was that he loved your tits. 

he'd once “joked” about throwing all of your bras overboard one day in which you'd walked out of your room without one, eyes trained to your chest each time you walked by, not shying away from showing his attraction to you in that state, though you (and everyone else who had heard his proclamation) knew he was fully capable of doing it. 

zoro's hands were on you every chance you got, taking your tits into his hands and squeezing like they were stress balls, thumb and index slowly working on your pebbling nipples, chin perched on your shoulder and just watching, never making a sound except for the sighs or grunts that would leave him in response to your own whimpering noises. 

sometimes it wasn't even sexual. sometimes he just found comfort in groping you, playing with the flesh as you say in his lap working on something or as a stress reliever after a particularly gruelling battle. 

this, he thought as slid one of his legs between yours, was not one of those times. 

zoro leaned down to press kisses to the exposed skin of your shoulder, leading a trail right up to the spot behind your ear, smirking as you shivered in response to the soft blow of air from his breathing. 

“...’ro.” you mumbled sleepily, hand moving to cover the one that had started playing with your tummy, stirring awake due to his movements, completely different to how zoro could sleep through wars if he wished to. 

“mornin’,” he joked breathlessly into your ear, deciding to continue teasing as he nibbled at your ear lobe, making you squeak and try to move away. “hey, hey, stop moving.” 

“stop bitin’!” you slurred out tiredly, swatting at his face with a huff, knowing it was probably pulled into an annoyingly smug look. 

“can't… ‘specially not when you look this cute in my shirt, all sleepy…” 

“you get turned on by the weirdest things…” you groaned, already feeling his hand start to move up your abdomen, going directly towards his two favourite things. 

his teeth immediately sunk into your neck in response to your little insult, taking advantage of your body's natural reaction to the pain to finally grab at your tits, tugging at your nipple almost immediately, his other arm moving from the position he'd previously put it in to grab at your other tit, not wanting to leave out any of your two girls.

“you’re so pervy, zo… y’re no better than-” your words were cut off as you moaned out in surprise at the immediate attack on your slowly pebbling nipples, the action sending shockwaves through your body, arms lying stiff at your side as you tried to decide what do with your hands, teasing words fizzling away in your mind, too busy enjoying the way your boyfriend was massaging your chest. 

“don't.” zoro growled into your ear with a pinch to your nipples, a high pitched whine leaving your mouth at the little retaliation, knowing full well what was about to leave your mouth, not wanting to think about the perv-cook when he was in the middle of playing with his girl's tits. 

“m-meanie…” you gasped, back arching at the slight pain that accompanied the pleasure that rushed through your body at his actions, feeling the leg that he'd slipped between your own start to move, the coarse material of his trousers along with the pressure of his thigh pressing tight against your panty-clad core. 

“yeah? ‘m just a big meanie?” zoro grunted, licking at the spot he'd previously sunk his teeth in, slowly but surely moving his thigh back and forth, loving the way your tiny frame jumped and shivered at every stimulation he gave. 

“y-yeah-” breathlessly, you started to move down to meet the movements of his stiff thigh, muscles rippling between your legs despite the little effort it took for him to move like this in comparison to you, who was already growing tired from the constant movements without the help like you usually had. 

“this is me being nice,” he licked a stripe up your neck to the spot behind your ear, where he pressed a very uncharacteristically sweet kiss to, your mind flowing with confusion as to how he could focus on kissing, groping and grinding into you all at once. 

well, considering you were dealing with a man who fought with three swords, you shouldn't be surprised at his dexterity. 

each movement of his thigh against where you needed him most sent waves of pleasure through your tired body, and you could anxiously tell that you were leaving a damp spot on his trousers by the way you were dripping, your boyfriend's ministrations enough to get your pussy soaked. 

it also didn't help that each time he pulled his leg forward, his knee would bump against your already throbbing clit, sending shockwaves up your spine and forcing whines out of your wet lips, saliva pooling in your mouth and threatening to slide down your chin like it previously had been doing during your nap. 

“y’really don't want me to be mean,” he taunted, leaving more kisses across the expanse of skin his too-big shirt exposed for him to touch, fingers letting go of your already abused nipples, a sigh of relief leaving your parted lips at that, focusing instead on groping at the rest.

at your lack of response, zoro grinned, basking in the sounds you were making before he slid his leg out of yours, not missing the way they immediately tried to press down onto it, a horrified sound leaving you at the sudden lack of pleasure. 

“z-zo!” you exclaimed, trying to turn around to look at him, but by the way he had you pressed tightly against, you found that movement to be impossible. “wh-what was that for?” 

your whines were music to his ears, ignoring the way you were squirming in his arms, though his hands continued to play with your tits. “what was what for?” 

he acted like he hadn't just put a pin in your pleasure, instead moving to grind his front against your backside, evidence of his growing pleasure pressing into your ass. 

“mean enough for you now?” 

you whined at his taunt, a gasp escaping you as one of his hands let go of your tits, confusion filling you as to what that lonely hand would be getting up to. 

“‘m sorry!” you whined, finding it slightly ridiculous that you were apologising for simply implying that your boyfriend was being mean, though you would've done anything to get that beautiful pleasure back. “please- please…” 

“please what?” you could hear the smirk in his voice, though by the way his hand was already trailing down your stomach towards your soaked cunt, you knew you wouldn't have to do any more begging except to please him. 

“touch- touch me, pleaseee…” you begged, even though his index and middle finger were already teasing the spot right above your clit, tracing the soft texture of your panties, trying to discern which pair you'd worn that day. 

“there's my girl.” he grinned, pride filling him up as he finally got that initial brattiness out of you, pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek as his fingers went up to the elastic band of your underwear, reaching his hand under it and running over your pubic hair, fingers sliding right between your soppy folds. 

your breath hitched in your throat as he immediately found your tiny bundle of nerves, already an expert on how your body worked and what you needed from him, rubbing slow circles into it like he knew you liked, a sharp contrast to the way he'd previously been grinding his leg against it. 

your legs twitched with every movement, your pleasure picking up from where he'd left off, tummy growing warm as he toyed with you, and though you could feel yourself slowly making your way up to your orgasm, you knew zoro wouldn't let you cum just like that. 

“shit, she's a messy girl, jus’ listen to her…” he murmured, referring to the sounds your cunt was making with every move of his finger, adding a second one in hopes that the cacophony of sounds would increase. 

“don't teaseee…” you drawled out, lolling your head back against his shoulder as he peppered kisses all over you, sliding his fingers around the erogenous zones around your clit, sparking pleasure all over you. 

“‘m not teasing.” he grunted, his hips jerking slightly to make contact with your ass, rubbing his erection against you in tandem with his own fingers, though still completely zeroed in on your pleasure. “I jus’ know what she wants.” 

you puffed out your cheeks, though whatever you were about to snap back died in your throat as he finally slid his fingers down to your soaked entrance, teasingly running his fingers around the ring of muscles. 

“fuck, y’feel tight.” zoro groaned, the heel of his palm pressing right into your clit, stimulating your little nub with each twitch of his fingers. 

“gonna fuck me open?” you jeered, out of breath at the continuous amount of pleasure being forced onto your sleepy body, another wave of slick leaving your cunt at the thought of getting fucked. 

“fuck, I wish…” zoro rasped, cock twitching against your back at the shared idea, shaking his head slightly, too comfortable in this position to move around. “not today, though. ‘m just enjoying playing with your little cunt for now.”

he slipped his middle finger into your hole before you could even reply, though he knew you had no qualms with his reply, always admiring his hands and exclaiming how much you loved having them on your pussy. 

his finger immediately found your g-spot, arching it to rub against the spongy spot that made your toes curl, palm still grinding against your clit deliciously. 

“s-so good!” you cried out, one of your hands grabbing at the arm he'd shoved down your panties, nails digging into his tanned skin in pleasure, though no pain registered, too busy playing with your cunt to focus on it. 

“yeah? ‘course it is, it's me.” he said, ego inflating at his own words as you twitched in his arms, slipping another finger into your tight heat to join the attack on your g-spot, his other hand still playing with your tit, warm pleasure building up in your tummy as he worked you out. “‘know you better than anyone.” 

fuck, it almost pissed you off how right he was. 

“no one like me, right?” 

“no one!” you cried out on instinct, moving your hips in tandem with his hand, amplifying the rising pleasure and grinding back on his stiff cock at the same time. “only one for me, zo!”

“atta fucking girl.” he spat out, breathless from the possessive talk and the own pleasure that was rushing through his body, pre leaking from his tip and forming a wet patch against his trousers. “y’close?” 

“mhm!” you shook your head up and down aggressively, moans and whines tumbling out of your mouth as you neared your peak, hand pulling at zoro's arm to alert him of it and ask that- 

“I got you, don't worry.” he sighed, knowing what you wanted before you even said it out loud, pulling his fingers out of you with a loud squelch, pressing his wet fingers against your clit like you wanted and rubbing quick circles onto it, your legs shaking as your hips tried to keep up with the sudden switch in stimulation, though thankful for the help, as it was what you needed to get where you wanted to the most. 

“fu-fuck, zoro! m’so close!” 

zoro knew what that meant. already too familiar with your body and your needs, he knew that that meant to continue whatever he was doing. not to speed up, not to slow down, not to switch techniques, just keep doing what was making his girl scream. 

“it's okay, I got you,” he almost purred, grip tightening on your tit as his hips jutted out to search for stimulation on his leaking cock, although he knew he'd probably be able to cum just by witnessing your orgasm alone. 

“oh god, oh god-” zoro grunted at your words, knowing that he'd usually let out a teasing ‘god’s not fucking you this good, baby’, at your whiny words, smirking as you immediately changed your tune. “zoro! oh, zoro, zoro!

your mouth flew open in a silent scream as you finally reached your peak, riding out your orgasm with help of zoro's fingers, that were quickly covered in slick by the way you'd came, soaking both his hand and your panties, probably even leaking onto the already messy covers. 

you whined as the hand that had been groping you moved to grab at your neck, moving your head painfully to a side so zoro could slot his lips against yours, drinking up your moans and whimpers as you swapped spit, eyes wide open and taking in the way you were falling apart on his fingers. 

you quickly found yourself twitching in overestimation once your orgasm washed away, whining into zoro's mouth, a telltale sign to slowly stop his ministrations. 

“hey, hey…” he shushed you as he leaned back, letting you lie down properly as he propped himself up on the bed, watching you shiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm as he pulled his fingers back from your perky clit, leaning back down quickly to press a kiss between your furrowed brows. “y’okay?” 

you hummed in response, cracking your eyes open to take a look at your grinning boyfriend, his face flushed and sweaty as his chest rose and fell with each quick breath, almost like he'd- 

“zo, just by-?”

“just by seeing you, yeah.” he exhaled, eyes flicking down to his bulge, cock softening against his trousers as he himself came down from his high, bringing the fingers he'd used on you up to his mouth and licking them clean, eyes darting around the room as if he wasn't in the middle of licking your juices off his fingers. 

“don't goooooo…” you whined, knowing he was probably looking for the closest thing he could use to clean you up, much rather preferring cuddles with your boyfriend to a dry cunt. 

you outstretched your arms out to him and made grabby hands, watching as he grinned in response to your need actions, landing on top of you with a grunt and resting his head right on the tits he'd previously been attacking. 

“brute!” you gasped, hands finding solace in his hair and running through his green strands, pouting down at your boyfriend. 

“mmm… next time don't let me suck your tits, unless you wanna see a real brute.”