did anyone ask for a self-indulgent Imu x Reader piece? No? Well, too bad, ‘cause that’s what I’m providing today.
scenario: you’re the newest servant at Mariejoa, and, just a few weeks ago, shortly into your new job, you come across a mysterious figure in the garden. Now they give you an offer.
warnings/tags: power imbalance, nonbinary S/O (they/them pronouns), gender neutral reader, SFW.
requests are CLOSED, but I am still taking asks! Come talk to me about anything you’d like!
They promise you the world. It's a bit too grand for your tastes, and promises have, you've regrettably come to find out, little meaning in the eternity of the skies - but you won't say no. You can't say no.
Their hand, so delicate and slender, untouched by the world, is inviting you in. Take it, your descendants say. Run away, says your ancestors.
Kiss it, says the God. For that it is what they are. Once, they may have been a man, but now they are beyond such trivial terms. King, Queen, God, Goddess - they are simply the ocean itself.
You listen to God, for it is all you know now. Their hand smells of lavender, tastes of peppermint. It takes all your effort not to taste their lips at that moment, to dare defy the ocean and sun and all that comes in-between, but they smile at you and you feel your heart catch in your throat.
"It is the future that is promised to us," they whisper. It echoes in the garden. The plants sing their words back to you, a butterfly lands on their shoulder. "It is the past we must eradicate."
Every part of you is screaming run away. And your body is right - you should run away. Forget you ever came here, forget what you saw, apply for another job outside Mariejoa. The honour of working in Pangea as a servant was nothing, nothing compared to the fear of this being.
So why do you love them so much?
You let out a shaking breath. "I'm sorry, my liege. I cannot hold a crown, no matter how insignificant."
Their eyes widen for a moment, before narrowing down to slits. You flinch, wondering if you've said the wrong thing. You absolutely have, but their words are dangerous, and you are not destined to be a ruler. It was a miracle in itself that you were able to come here at all.
It was fate, miracle and karma that led you to this very garden, before this very being, all those weeks ago.
You feel their fingertips brush over your lips, reaching past your cheeks before hovering down to your collarbone. It takes all of your energy not to shudder, and even more not to shiver in excitement.
"Don't," they begin, their voice octaves lower than it usually is, "be so arrogant,' they bend down, grasping your face in their hands, "to think that you are worthy of being a monarch."
Your body is pulled towards them, from your head, and you're too frightened to even make a sound.
"I promised you the world. I said nothing of the crown, little rabbit."
The crown. The accursed thing that weighed so heavily on their head. Your gaze flickers to it, and don't think they don't notice that. Their lips curl into a sneer. How could one so beautiful make a face so ugly - but yet their ethereal qualities remain, despite their expression, and you're reminded of marble statues. The ones that are carved in honour of deities and Gods and the heroes of the past. You wonder if they were a hero, once.
It wouldn't surprise you if theirs was a tragedy.
"Do you understand?" they ask.
You nod, for what else can you do?
A hint of a smile graces their lips, and they let you go. You lose your balance, for a brief moment, but they're there to catch you before you fall. Such a gentle soul, one that holds your hand and body so warmly (despite the fact that they were as cold as ice) that you forget what had just transpired for a brief moment. Just a moment.
"But I am not a monster," they say. "I will give you a choice: stay with me, and be privy to the wonders of heaven, or go, and see the skies from the ground you mortals call home. Look upon my clouds, in a world where the people live in harmony, or be my cloud."
My cloud. They've already decided they own the clouds. And now they're giving you an ultimatum: belong to them, or look at Mariejoa from afar. You know what to say, of course.
"I'll stay here."
The words fall from your lips, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. As if you hadn't meant to say it. But you did - you decided on that answer. You did not think of your home, nor your friends waiting for you in the oceans. But you did think of them, how exhilarating their touch was when their fingertips brushed over your skin, how every heartbeat you heard pound against your own rib cage was a soft melody to them.
You take on a more defiant look - because, damn it, you are not a docile little servant - and stare at them.
"But the instant you treat me as anything less than fantastic, I'm leaving you," you say. There. You've got enough self-respect to say that, at least.
One of their brows rises up. "I wasn't going to give you a throne. I said nothing about not treating you as such."
You tilt your head. "Does that mean you'll treat me right?"
"Oh, my rabbit," they laugh, and it sounds like they haven't done so in decades, "when have I ever treated my possessions wrong?"
You think to the wars and slavery and revolutions and corruption and hell that is happening to the world below.
You think it wise not to comment.
“When did I ever say I was your possession?” you bite back. This being in front of you may be a king, may be a God, but you have enough autonomy left to know what you are. If they weren’t going to make you a damn Goddess, then you’d expect at least some decency from them. “If you want me, if you love me like you claim you do, then you will treat me as an equal.”
Their hand twitches at the word love - they’d never said the word before, not to you, and certainly not to themselves. A moment passes, and you wonder if you’ve committed blasphemy. Then another moment passes, and another, and they kneel down on one knee. They bring your hand closer to their lips and, mirroring what you had done earlier, plants a kiss on the back of it.
You widen your eyes.
“Little rabbit,” they murmur, red eyes piercing through your body, “if you want to be worshipped, you have to earn it. If you want my respect, you must learn how to keep yourself from drowning.”
They told you, when you first met, when you first asked them for their name, that they were the Ocean. You think they might be as ancient.
“Have you ever worshipped anyone before?” you ask.
A pause. Something crosses over their eyes - grief. “Once.”
“Do you think you could worship again?”
Their gaze trails up your arm and to your own. They tug on your hand, lightly, gently, but enough for you to know that they want you to kneel before them, as they kneel before you. You do so, curious. They lean forward to your ear, so close you can feel their breath - cold as ice - on your skin. Goosebumps pop up on your arms, and the hairs in the back of your neck stand up.
“No one has earned that respect from me,” they whisper. “I’ve had many who’ve tried.”
“And what could one do to earn your respect?”
They think on the question for a long while, their expression stern. Finally they look up, and, with conviction, say, “nothing.”
What an odd God, you think.
Still. You’ve always been one for a challenge.
A smirk spreads across your face. “You’re on.”