Welcome to the arena, fellow champion. ā Call me Olymp! | she/her. | keeper of the arena, often seen about the place | ask me anything youād like, within jurisdiction, of course! | blog dedicated to platonic fics.
(This is a guidance page, all rules and preferences of the blog will be on here).
Iāll have you be warned, there are a couple of rules before you enter.
1; this area is meant for entirely entirely platonic archives, meaning there will be no nsfw nor romantic writings here. Just platonic interactions, since there do not seem to be that manyā¦ however, there will be inclusions of Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, and Yandere fics, but there will be no NSFW or romantically coded relationships.
Fandoms I write for:
Twisted Wonderland. (All characters).
Obey me. (All characters).
Blue Lock. (All characters, except Ego).
Record of Ragnarok. (All characters).
Spy x Family. (All characters).
Genshin Impact. (All characters).
Honkai: star rail. (All characters).
2; This is an x-reader blog, meant as a self insert, even if platonically.
3; Updates will be irregular, the keeper tends to be busy most days. But there will still be content, rest assured.
4; the blog is now taking requests! Though it might take some time, put your word in and the keeper will do her best to respond.
When Requesting, please remember:
Be respectful of the conditions mentioned above.
Be specific, please!
5; any blank/bot blogs will be blocked and reported, and NSFW blogs will be asked to please not interact. This is the harshest rule, so please, be advised.
Thatās all for now, champion. We hope you enjoy your stay up here. Peruse, if you wish. Thereās a lot to uncover, after all.
I donāt write romantic things particularly often, since I prefer platonic x readers, and this blog is made for those specifically- but I had this thought and wanted to get it out of my system, because the angst potential is soul-crushingly delicious.
In Hans Christian Andersonās original little mermaid, the merfolk are stated to have centuries to thousand-year long lives, with humans being mere blinks to them.
So what if the octatrio were the same? What if they also had lives that were ten, twenty, or even fiftyfold that of yours? Not as long as the fae, by any means- those things donāt die even if the world is burning down, but long enough for it to be painful.
I thought about this with Azul, in particular.
You mean the absolute world to him. Youāre his veritable everything. His pearl, his light, his sea star, angelfish- youāre the bounty of the sea made sapient, and he doesnāt go a day not wondering how on earth a clumsy octopus like him managed to keep someone like you in his life. Heāll lay beside you at night and justā¦ stare. Tracing each line of your face, every twitch of your brow and mouth as you dream, folding that one stray bit of hair behind your ear, or brushing that single lash off your cheek. Really, just any excuse to touch you that wonāt have his mind screaming to recoil, lamenting itād dirty you with his gross suckers and slimy tentacles, even when theyāre nowhere in sight. Even when he knows youād still love him if he showed you the clumsy, ugly, unwanted side of him that even he detests.
You came into Azulās life like a beacon of hope. You gave him worth beyond contracts and madols and that suave mask he strains himself to put on each day. You were gentle with him, patient in the months upon months it took him to open up, never wavering in your desire to show him kindness even when he made loving him difficult. For that, Azul owes you the world itself; but heāll settle for a contract and a ring, and a home together, if youāll let him. One heāll fill to the brim with all the clingy, mopey, lovesick affection youāve plagued him with since you snapped him out of that blot. You canāt really complain, not when youāre you, and he gets to lay eyes on that every day of his life.
But he wakes up one day, and instinctively, he turns over. Heās already murmuring something akin to āgood morning, my pearlā, when he stops. Youāre not there. Your side of the bed is cold. Thereās just a blanket where your waist should be, and a perfectly fluffed pillow where your head ought to have been. For a second, his sleep addled mind wonders if youāve already gone to work, and he chuckles to himself, making a mental note to make you dinner in compensation for your efforts, before the haze of his fresh mind wears off, and it strikes him, seeing your photo on the wall.
Youāre gone. Not to work, not out shopping, not on a trip with your friends.
Youāve been gone for 300 years.
That photo of you on the wall was one of the last heād ever taken of the both of you. Amidst a bloom of you and him in your primes, smooth skin and hale bodies, sits the one heād taken of you on your 90th birthday. Youāre old. Wrinkled. Sitting on the wheelchair youād been growing more and more confined to, looking down at your birthday cake, a proud ā90ā flickering back at your soft expression, setting your sagging cheeks aglow. Azulās perched on the side, the only hint of his age being the crowās feet pricking at his smiling eyes as he kisses you on the temple.
That photo was taken 300 years ago. 300. Your grave, where it rested on the beach, was probably algae ridden and half decayed from the waves splattering against it. That is, if there was anything left. Azul had stopped visiting almost 120 years after your death. The pain was just too much.
And now, he feels it again. That warm feeling, the morning greeting, that uncharacteristic chuckle of his, it all dies down, alongside the light in his eyes.
Right. You hadnāt been with him for 300 years.
Your life was a fraction of his. If not less. He would still be around, beautiful and powerful as he ever was, greeting your grandchildren and your great grandchildren, spoiling them callously and rolling his eyes at the chidings of his in laws, and heād be around to watch them be lowered into the ground, right alongside you.
Heās come to terms with it. Tries to make do with what he has. Heāll spoil his family line with his truly disgusting amount of wealth, and be the rock you were in your time with him, 300 years ago.
300. That damn number makes ink stain his shirt collar from where it spills past his trembling lips. 300 fucking years. Thatās how long itās been since heād last seen you?
Thatās how long youāve been waiting for himā¦?
Regardless, he readies himself. Neatens his hair, straightens his tie, and heads to work. Heād shifted to land with you, following your relationship becoming official. Albeit sometimes, he still checks in with Jade and Floyd at the secondary location under the sea.
Sometimes.
He canāt really stomach going to the beach anymore. Not without spitting up ink onto the sand. And heād rather become sea foam than stain your resting place.
He walks in to the lounge, slumps into his chair in the VIP suite, and puts on his best smile as a client walks in. The same one youād softened off his face with your warmth, 300 years ago.
He sometimes wonders if youād be saddened by him now. He makes a note to ask you in 5000 years, when he sees you again.
āGreetings, friend! And welcome to the Mostro! Now, how can I soothe your poor unfortunate soul?ā
Perhaps this has already been discussed, but Iād still like to point it out- we havenāt seen a whole lot of the world outside of NRC.
And for that reason, I think analyzing power disparities among the actual cast itself, is a little skewed of a task, because we are looking at the best of the best.
NRC is home to the best mages across the entirety of wonderland. Think about that. What weāve seen is the absolutely pinnacle of what magic is capable of in this world, both among the staff, and among the students. I can imagine the rest of the world outside of wonderland is fairly.. plain, for a lack of better word.
Small spells to wash the dishes. A tiny feat of telekinesis to lift a bath towel. Maybe something to keep a room cool in a blistering summer or heat up floorboards in a skin-peeling winter.
Nothing akin to opening the literal gates of hell, summoning lightning at will, stealing and/or trapping magic completely, turning entire towns to sand, or duplicating yourself. Nothing like that in the slightest. Iād say that Yuu isnāt all that different from the average mage-, donāt get me wrong, being magicless is still absolutely a horrible thing, and I doubt mages treat non-mages much differently than the boys did when they first met Yuu, but the gap isnāt nearly as stepp as with the cast. Weāre looking at the outliers on the magical power scaling graph. The strongest mages in all of wonderland.
Not a super detailed thought, maybe a little redundant, but something to think about, especially when it comes to overblots and phantoms. Yuu survived these monsters, the worst of the worst; the average mage, that has to be like listening to a grizzled war veteran talk about how they got their leg shot off with a perky little smile on their face, or a bit of sarcastic humor. The fact that this random magicless kid is even alive is a miracle to your everyday mage.
This is a Platonic Aventurine thought Iāve been having for a while now, and I wanted to know what you all thought of it.
In it, Aventurine adopts a young child whoās lived in similar circumstances he once did; enslaved since a very, very tender age. It leaves a permanent scar on their mind, engraving a doctrine into their skull that he fights at every turn to try and deconstruct. Theyāre convinced theyāre a worker.
Every time he plays with them, hands them treats and scoops them up, tries to tug out the childish side of them he knows exists beneath that ostensibly impermeable layer of brainwashing, they just point to the scar on their throat, just like his, and mumble āworker.ā
He tries to ignore how it makes him want to tear it out of their skin. He truly, truly does. He tries to ignore taking it out on himself, keeps his eyes facing forward instead of lingering on his marching mark in the mirror. Ineffably, the ordeal leaves him deconstructing many of his own harmful ideologies, those age-old scars that have shaped him for so long, too. Parenthood is not a singular journey, but one that tugs out the most vulnerable parts of yourself all the same. Aventurine knew this from the beginning- heās not a man to leave threads hanging lame, unaccounted variables, uninsured gambles, make him antsy. And an antsy stoneheart is the last thing anyone would want, especially the sweet little soul heās so diligently been working to help.
This is all the basic context of the idea, but this is the actual meat of the concept:
Eventually, Aventurine brings his little one home. The sort of circumstances theyād lived in prior desperately required a hospital visit, to heal the open wounds that went unattended by their old masters, and to bring their weight back up after ages of mistreatment and malnutrition. (Donāt tell anyone I told you this, but he actually stepped out of the hospital room when he got to see their progress. Their round cheeks, pudgy hands, and chubby stomach after months of intensive treatment sent a wave of emotion he was so unused to letting himself feel that he couldnāt maintain his signature poker face. The tears that welled up were wholly genuine, and heāll take them to the grave). He takes them home that day, still recovering, yet better than before, and brings them to their room.
Itās a pompously soft space, airy and open and invoking of a freedom heād ensured the architects accounted for when he tasked them to design the room. No hard corners, no windows that couldnāt be opened, direct entryway into the gardens, and the rest of the estate. He wanted every inch of his home to be theirs all the same, and any attempt at isolation (even in the name of Feng Shui and āprivacyā) was shot down handedly. He watches them explore the space, rove their eyes across the carpet, stare at the still disorganized shelves, trace the shapes of bunnies embroidered onto the fresh sheets, and marvel at the number of plushies and toys in the opened but yet-to-be-unpacked boxes. (A stylistic choice, something heād strategically placed to imply that more was to come).
Heād done all of this, to ensure theyād feel at home. To get the chance to marvel at the sight of wonder in their eyes, to reassure himself that yes, yes heād done something right. That things would get better for them. That theyād soon revert back to that kiddish flightiness.
But then they turn to him, a plushie in their hands, and state, astutely.
āSāfor a baby, the room. Do you have a baby? When are they coming..?ā
Heās felt the world collapse many, many times. Thereās no overt reaction on his face when the words strike him through the chest and gut and pour out his quiet screams onto the supple carpets. Thereās nothing but a sly little smile, as he thinks the words over while they continue to explore.
They donāt understand. Theyāre the baby. Theyāre the little one. The room was for them, them, them, THEM. Not some prissy IPC brat debutante BITCH WHO NEVER FUCKING DESERVED IT.
But he says something wholly different.
āYeah. Itās all for a baby. I know youāre an export on these kinds of things, so-, you mind helping me out, my little nursemaid?ā
Everything can be twisted. Words can be turned into faith is you play your cards right, and Aventurine is always the final victor. He could use this. The disbelief in their voice would never, never not hurt. Never not make him scream into pillows and frantically text his few trusted associates in the middle of the night, pleading for help, venting and shouting and riddling their chats with typo-stammering paragraphs of how they donāt understand, they donāt know, why canāt they just know itās them? Why do they keep calling themselves a worker?!
But he can still use this. Can reform and metamorphose the gentility that comes with preparing for a new baby. Transition from nursemaid, to sibling, to little one themselves. The process is slow, and more than arduous- it is torturous. But long games are nothing he is alien to, nothing he cannot work around and work alongside.
So he kneels beside them, and carefully takes their soft-voiced advice about where to put what, and what this supposed new baby may like.
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
Donāt know what on earth this is, but Iāll bite.
Probably Caelus from Honka star rail. I love how unserious they made him compared to other auidience inserts; he doomscrolls, he digs through trash, his IQ is about as plentiful as my patience, and he swings around a giant baseball bat that he found 20 minutes after waking up in a mysterious space station. Heās so damn stupid yet so damn badass that I canāt help but love him.
Itās such a sordid thing to say on its own, isnāt it? Saying you like sifting through the corpse of something so vibrant. So beautiful in its own time. Wouldnāt you want some sort of heartbeat in the pillars of its ribs? In the hallways of what had once been a spine, donāt you want some life? Some artwork? Some sculpture, or maddening chatter? Something inexplicably reverent in the cacophony of its indulgence?
I say two things.
Yes. And no.
Because these dead echo chambers are a beauty unto themselves. These long dead annals feel like a museum to me. Something brilliant that now chatters only in memory. In some broken reverie I twist and wind across these narrow gateways that have since narrowed themselves with dust and the caulk of time. I brush off old, dilapidated works and translate their meanings and contexts with no help from any great source. Because that would ruin it all, wouldnāt it? That would spoil the spirit of the people whose souls still share their shards in these old walls.
I think of titans, when I think of them.
You walk in these vacuous spaces of common psyches, you tumble down green hills and steep up rocky cliffs, in search of something to climb on. You are a nomad. A wanderer. Seeking something new, and exciting. Something to sink yourself into and lose yourself between. You suddenly feel a plop of something beside you. A painting, maybe. Or is it a talisman? Something macgufifn or doo-dad that really has no use when on its own. But you treasure it. And soon enough, youāre tailing after something the size of a skyscraper. Youāre chasing after its legs, youāre flippantly jumping from rocks and tall reeds to hang onto its bony fingers. Because the creature wonāt lend you a hand to lift it. Its thoughts are mulled by noise, noise, noise, noise! Lively noise! broken noise! Brilliant noise! Something ineffably itself and nothing all the same. You scream your own piece to the throttle, and it will finally turn to look at you.
It kneels before you, and your eyes meet its own. It asks you something, somethingās, millions of things, all at once every time. Ten thousand voices all throw upon you their vices, and they proclaim and challenge and boast and invite and diminish. A test, you can note, to see if you can keep up. And if you do, donāt be alarmed. Itāll swallow you whole, you see. It swallows you whole, and you become a part of the chatter.
And perhaps, youāre happy like that for a while. And Iām happy for you, too.
Because yes, there is joy in reverie. There is a delight in the violent coming together of these zeitgeists, and you will ravish yourself in these things like any other oligarch in the skull of that beast.
But I take care of the skeletons. A vulture, maybe. Picking on the cadavers.
But the point is not the meat, champion. The point is the etchings. The research.
Because no historian worth their salt will ever just use the bones, would they? No. They see past those crooked teeth from years of fossilization, and those calcified remnants of ribs and femurs. Theyāll gingerly wrap it in muscle, and sinew, and flesh, and skin. Theyāll make eyes from glass and teeth from enamel, theyāll make skin from rubber and resin and tendons from wire and bolts. That is what I do. That is what I love.
To see what the world has left behind, to see what these things used to be.
Because no matter the outcome of this creation, love was poured into every crack of this waning beast. Down to the marrow, overflowing with adoration, someone or someoneās pumped the titanās heart with their bare hands to make it beat. There is beauty, in recreating this. In forming some makeshift taxidermy of what I may have once been able to love myself.
Initially this was stuff I wrote pre-release to Boothill. I just wanted a semi-angsty little thought about him adopting a baby after he got mechanized, only for his canon story to absolutely o b l i t e r a t e my heart. So I figured that Iād post this here. Everything below is what I thought Boothill would be like holding his baby for the first time, pre-release.
So I had a thought about Boothill from hsr.
And itās this;
I feel like, if he would ever have a child, heād be enamored by how small and squishy they are.
He used to be human- used to have that same delicate softness to him. But heās long forgotten that feeling of delicacy. Now, nothing about him is delicate. Heās all sharp edges and harsh lines, metal scraping against synthetics and rubber, everything optimized for bounty hunting. Everything made perfect for his job, his purpose, and his new life.
But letās say he did have a child. Maybe he retired, and maybe through some means procured an infant-, most likely adoption.
I think towards the beginning heād be averse to touching them with his hands. Heād tried before, gently caressing their cheek when they were just born, reveling in how small and sweet they were, before shrinking back with despair in his eyes when they whimpered uncomfortably at his inhuman touch.
Heād been so excited, so happy and relieved when heād heard theyād been safely born. Heād walked up to the crib, and just stared with glossy eyes for a minute at the sweet little bundle cuddled up into the blankets. Their round face, their chubby little cheeks, and soft skinā¦ it all felt like something out of a dream to him.
And yet they hated it when he touched them. When their own father touched them, they recoiled, disgusted by his robotic form. He couldnāt say he blamed them, and yet a part of him had hoped that maybeā¦ just maybe theyād enjoy the cool taste of his automata hands.
It was a nurse who had saved him, positing to him of how he could hold his baby with blankets instead. And though he was hesitant, he eventually agreed to carefully hold the little one close. And when his tiny bundle of joy finally filled the space in his arms, he couldnāt help but sob in ardent pride and joy, squeezing them softly and pressing his face close to them; the only human part of him that remained.
āPapaās sorry, babyā¦ papaās sorry heās not as warm as he used to be.ā He whispers to the bundle, pressing his lips to their small head with a teary smile, nuzzling their cheek with tender protectiveness. Theyāre so unbelievably beautiful and delicate, he canāt stop the tears from flowing. He almost feels unworthy of even touching them, of being able to hold this precious little sweetheart so close to him and his metallic heart. Yet almost paradoxically, heād fight the world itself if they ever tried to separate him from them.
When he feels their tiny hand gently touch the bridge of his nose, he shudders a small breath in joy. Heād never felt more grateful that at least his face preserved his former humanity, keeping him from devolving into some gunslinging Hephaestus of his own making, just another mech wandering the outlands in search for another bounty.
He kisses their tiny knuckles tenderly, so light itās almost not even there. Their little eyes open, looking up to him with so much curiosity. No hatred. No prejudice. No disgust. Just curiosity, and even joy. His smile is absolutely darling, as are the words that spill from him, praises that feel so sweet they could cause cavities.
āPapa loves you so much, my little baby.ā His voice loses its confidence and white-hot recklessness, displaced and lost in a fog of sweet affections and gentility. It feels alien, coming from his sharp mouth, but he could care less when he sees how his little bundle smiles so brightly.
āDo you even know how much he loves you? All the things he would do for you? How far he would go to see you happy and safe?ā His forehead rests against theirs, bending himself over to where he stands above them in a protective arch, hiding them from the world. It was maybe an act of jealousy, something done to keep their curious eyes on him and him alone. In that moment, nothing should have mattered more to them than him; just as nothing mattered more to him than them.
All those pretty beauties of the world and those worlds beyond- they would come later, but for now, he just wanted them to see him. To see their papa, and no one else.
I had a really cute thought about Loid and Anya from SxF:
Anya always calls Loid āpapaā despite towards the beginning of the series he had initially requested her to call him āfatherā. Throughout the show and series he never minds it, but imagine this;
One day Anya comes home from school and just randomly starts calling him āfatherā because she thinks itāll get her closer to Damien (who also calls his dad father) and help Loid with his mission.
And Loidā¦ feels a little weird about it. Itās not bad. If anything, itās evidence her vernacular has improved! But, he canāt help the stinging feeling in his gut when Anya begins to call him āfatherā around the house. Nothing else has changed, Anya is just as bubbly and lively as she ever was, proud of how sophisticated sheās being, but the term just feels soā¦ cold, to Loid. Empty. Thereās little heart behind it, heās gotten soā¦ averse, to the very notion of Anya calling him that. And he has no idea why.
Cue Yor needing to be his shoulder angel and explain why he keeps flinching and stiffening up when Anya calls him āfatherā-, he feels like he has to go lie down when he realizes what he has to do.
Come to terms with the fact that heās gotten quite attached to the term āpapa.ā
I donāt know about the thought, and I just quickly jotted this down because I thought it was kinda cute. Would anyone want to see a full fic of this?
~warnings: x wriothesley, unwanted touching by stranger (grabbed on arm), otherwise just fluff.
~a/n: thank you @harlekin6 for the ideaš„° i hope this satisfies your requestā¤ļø
You step off of the elevator, relieved to finally be off of it. Even though you've taken it for the past three years, it still gets tiring from the long ride. You check in at the entrance of the Meropide Fortress. It's a quick check in as usual due to you being known around here by the employees. You were known as the Duke's wife. You were a cute, bubbly, talkative, and outgoing person. The complete opposite of your husband. The workers sometimes wonder to themselves how you two ended up together. You didn't mind their questions, laughing them off because to you, you knew who your husband was. Only you saw his softer and teasing side, the part of him you fell in love with.
You planned to surprise your husband with his favorite lunch today, wanting to spend time with him due to his work schedule keeping him busy. He would usually return late at night after you've fallen asleep and leave early in the morning before you woke up, giving you two no time to spend together. While walking to his office, you greet the usual employees and notice Sigewinnie down the hall. Her eyes shine as she sees you, happy to see you again. After a little small talk, you ask her the whereabouts of your husband. She tells you that he was currently in a meeting, busy interrogating new prisoners. You planned to wait for him in his office, but Sigewinnie excitedly asked if she could show you some new stickers she recently made. How could you say no to that face.
You follow her to her little infirmary. She excitedly shows you all of her new stickers while you give her your full attention, happy to see her like this. You enjoyed spending time with Sigewinne as did she. She was like a daughter to you. She saw you and Wriothesley like parents to her. After a while of listening to Sigewinnie talk about puffy stickers, you both were suddenly interrupted by a rookie guard entering the infirmary.
"Miss Sigewinnie, I have a prisoner who is feeling unwell. Could you take a look at him?"
"Of course! You can bring him in." She said, getting her medical instruments ready. A tall man enters the room. He didn't look scary or dangerous so you thought nothing of it. Sigewinnie tells him to sit on the infirmary bed so she can check him out. You notice while he walks over to the bed, he keeps looking at you. You pay it no mind. It takes a few minutes for Sigewinnie to figure out what was wrong and she goes into an adjacent room to make some medicine for the inmate. The whole time, the inmate keeps watching you which begins to make you a bit uncomfortable. He begins talking to you, giving you compliments on how beautiful you looked. You were polite and thanked him but continued to be uncomfortable. You hoped the visit would be over soon so he could leave. Suddenly, he gets up from the bed and walks over to where you were sitting, deciding to sit in the chair next to you. He was a bit too close causing you to scoot away from him. You ask him politely to leave you alone, not wanting to piss him off by being rude, but he ignored your request and continued bothering you. He began to say more inappropriate things to you while eyeing you up and down. You had enough and got up from your seat, planning to talk to the guard waiting outside the room. But before you could leave, the inmate grabs your arm harshly.
"Where do you think you're going. It's rude to ignore someone where they're talking to you. It's not everyday I get to see a beautiful chick like you."
You try to break your arm free, sternly telling him to let you go. He laughs and doesn't let up his grip. You begin to push him away causing him to get mad. He pulls you towards him, his grip tightening causing you pain. You yelp. Suddenly, theres a loud crash as the infirmary door is slammed open. You both look over to the doorway and see your husband. He notices the inmate's hand on you and quickly moves over to him. Wrio roughly grabs the man's shirt, moving him away from you and getting the man to remove his grip on you. He slams him against the wall. Anger is evident on your husband's face while he silently glares at the prisoner. The room begins to get a bit chilly due to your husband's vision.
"Why are you putting your hands on my wife." Wrio coldly asks.
"Wrio." You put your hand on his back and gently call his name, wanting to stop him before he beats the prisoner to a pulp. He relaxes a little. He calls the rookie guard in and orders him to take the prisoner into solitary confinement.
"Y-yes sir!" the guard nervously says before he quickly takes the prisoner away. Once they're gone, Wrio turns to you with a soft look.
"Are you okay?" he asks as he walks closer to you. You gently smile at him and nod your head. He looks down at your arm, noticing a red mark forming where the prisoner grabbed you. His anger flares again but he stops himself, focusing his attention on you. He pulls you into a hug, wrapping his arm tightly around you while he strokes your hair.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here to protect you. What are you doing here anyways? I didn't know you were going to visit."
"I wanted to surprise you with lunch and spend time with you. It's been a few days since we've spent time together and I missed you." You tell him as you nuzzle into his chest. He chuckles from your cuteness of being honest with your feelings.
"I'm sorry I haven't been able to spend time with you lately. I promise I'll make it up to you by spending the whole day with you on my next day off."
"Deal." You giggle.
"Come on. Let's go eat." While you two walk to his office, he has your fingers intertwined, walking close to you to make sure you are protected. You arrive to his office. He sits in his chair while you go get another chair to put beside him.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
"I'm looking for a chair."
"Don't need one. Come here." He pats his lap. You blush, walking over to him. Even though you've sat in his lap many times before, you still get a bit bashful.
"But you can't eat if I'm in your lap Wrio." Without another word, he pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you so you can't escape. He nuzzles his face into your neck, leaving a quick kiss on it, making you squirm.
"Wrio." You shyly say. He chuckles at your cuteness.
"What did you bring me for lunch?" He asks, changing the subject.
"Your favorite. Steak with a side of vegetables and mashed potatoes." You say as you take everything out.
"Smells good. I bet it takes great. I always enjoy your cooking."
"Yeah, I don't explode the kitchen when cooking." You tease.
"Hey, that just means it's going to taste great."
You laugh. "I will give you that. Your food does come out tasting yummy even thought you ruin the kitchen. But I suppose it's worth it." You cut the steak, taking a piece on the fork and holding it out for him. "Here. Say ahh." You tease.
He sighs. "I'm not gonna say ahh but I'll still take a bite." He eats the piece of steak. "Delicious." You feed him the rest of his meal, taking some bites for yourself here and there. Once you two finish, he kisses you and thanks you for lunch. Even when his work schedule gets in the way of your time together, special moments like these make up for it.
For both TWST and Obey Me, what if the MC had a child after the events of the game? Here are some upcoming long-fic ideas I have;
Notes; the MC here is mentioned to be female, and her child is given a name for clarity. MC also has no romance with anyone, so the child isnāt related to any of the in-game characters. The character mentioned is not the MC, but their child.
āThe angel in the basement.ā
(Obey me: MC).
Gwynn never saw the miracle in magic. To her it was quite elementary to use oneās fiery breath to melt the butter on their toast, or to ask the west wing a favor for braiding hair, or make the flowers on your nightstand sing you good morning instead of listening to a snazzy phone alarm. (Sunflowers were her favorites; they had the sweetest voices, like honey, honestly.)
Gwynn never saw the curiosity of creation. She always sat listening to documentaries bored out of her brain, listening to theories of the ābig bangā. Whatās the point of learning something when you already knew how it happened? She had half a heart to get up and tell the world just how it was made, but her mother was always stern about not saying a word about such matters.
Gwynn never saw the philosophy of what happened after one passed. Reading theology and theory always had her confused, and sullen, pursing her lips and pondering about whether or not she should spill the truth, wondering how it would be received. Truth was an odd thing like that; always sought, but never received kindly. She always pondered on who would believe her, before tutting and putting the tome away. Rambling on to her mother about it, the two of them chuckling along.
Gwynn never saw the evil in demons.
The vicarās many rants about the āvicious seven lordsā would always have her biting her lips in restraint, holding back a smile and a laugh, her mother giving her a strict look of indignation, whilst popping her own eyes out in humor. It was just too good, listening to the evils of āthe great sinsā while thinking of all those video calls gone wrong with their antics. There was never a day where they didnāt leave church smiling, her mother reminiscing of Gwynnās āgodā-fathers, over some nice coffee. Whenever these tales were shared in mocking voices over video calls, everyone would get a good laugh out of it.
The world always seemed a little bit brighter in those moments. The light and warmth of paradise never felt so distant, in Gwynnās life. No, never. It in fact always felt to be shining down on her, casting her in its warmth and love, eternally.
Indeed, Gwynn never saw the evil in demons. Never. To her, they were just about as heroic as even the most virtuous angel, and just as nuanced as the most faithful human. Though, sitting in the small basement of a church, as the vicar handed her food, her idea of piety had begun to crack. āFor you, my angel-ā āIām not your angel.ā She glowered at the man, kicking the tray away. āAnd I never will be.ā He only smiled softly, watching the glittering light from the window frame her face. āOh, my angelā¦ Iām sorry, I must have come during an off-mood!ā He had a gentle chuckle, an oxymoron to the sheer depravity of his nature. āNo worries. Even those whose hearts can heal the fallen have their off-days.ā He winked at her, friendly, fatherly, disgustingly. āIāll come back later, around dinner. Do you prefer steak, or chicken?ā He tilted his head inquisitively, rolling his shoulders. āIāll just get you both!ā And he walked away without a care. Indeed,
Gwynn never saw the evil in demons.
But she could always see the evil in man.
Set post the plot of the Obey Me game, after MC returned to the human world to raise her child, Gwynn, the young healing mage finds herself locked away in the church basement, mistaken for the angel Raphael, as the day to return to the devildom approaches at rapid speeds.
The fic deviates from āthe MC has no idea about the otherworldā by having the MC explicitly know and accept the existence of the otherworld.
Divided into three parts, ātrappedā, āwelcomeā, and āhomeā, the fic takes place over Gwynnās journey through her arrival, acclimation, and settling in the devildom.
āMirror mirror on the wall, whoās the youngest of them all?ā
(TWST: Yuu)
āI donāt want to go in..ā the little girl clung to her motherās leg, scared of the shifting, writhing mass of the mirror before her. In waves, the black surface of the bathroom looking glass rippled and dipped, up and down, up and down, in large, ebony swoops. Within these bulbous shapes that would dissipate into the smooth edges of the once firm glass, the pale palm of a hand would appear, ashen and white, it would beckon and reach for the young girl, a silent whisper of the eye, asking her to join, to step through in delightful mischief. But mischief and malevolence were confusing to the little one, the two big words very similar in her seven-year old brain, their many syllables and consonants coming out in convoluted messes when she tried to sound them in her head, the noise echoing in her scared little brain.
Her mother gawked pensively, ogling at the mirror in an odd mixture of intrigue, excitement, and deja-vu, memories and hopes all coming back to her in odd thought. How long had been since she last saw such a thing? How long had gone by on the other side?
Carefully, she watched the hands in the ripples, tracking the bends and curves of their elegant fingers and perfect grace with protective eyes, squeezing her daughterās shoulders. Down, they would sweep, down in large, elegant archways, towards her daughter, some of them, and then up, pointing at her gaze through the rippling and dancing surface of the molten looking glass, towards her, others would point. Both of them, she realized, weāre being beckoned, both of them being called back yet again, for another adventure, another year, another trip to the other side.
She stared for a bit, glancing down at her daughter. Over her shoulder, into the living room, she then stared at the lilies shading a slumbering Grim, placing the pieces together in a growing g grin.
With gentle, loving hands, she picked her child up, pointing to the flowers. āLailah? Sweetie? Do you remember those flowers?ā Sniffling a little, the little girl nodded, now more curious than scared. Her mother stroked her squishy little cheek, pressing a small kiss to her forehead. āRemember how you brought them back after Grim set them on fire?ā Again, a sweet little nod. āWell,ā her mother went on, āyouāre very special for doing that. Youāreā¦ā she paused playfully, āmagical!ā And finished with a smile.
Lailah waited for a bit, before gasping in realization, in a cute little face of surprise, with bright, happy eyes. āSo, Iām like your friends? who you told me about in your stories?ā Her mother laughed lightly, waking up a sleepy Grim with a light tap to the head. āYes, sweetie. Yes you are. And, you see, if we go through the mirror, youāll be able to meet those friends, and others who can do the things you can. And youāll learn how to do more things.ā Confused, Grim watched his henchman and his ward talk, before his ears lit up in pretty blue flames, reinvigorated and excited, jumping ahead to go start packing as Yuu followed him.
āBut,ā the mother whispered, looking at her daughter sincerely. āWeāll only go, if you want to go. Under no other condition. If you donāt want to go, then we wonāt.ā At that, Grim stopped packing, holding a pair of shorts in his teeth whilst a t-shirt hung precariously out of reach of his right ear, slipping as it twitched in curiosity, waiting for little Lailah to respond.
The little girl sat in her mothers arms comfortably, looking around the messy bedroom. A suitcase lay haphazardly opened, almost falling off the edge of her bed with how much weight rested in one wing, ready to combust with how many shirts, pants, suits and shoes had been haphazardly packed into it, held only by straps. Grim paced about impatiently, but he did not look at her unkindly, waiting without a word to let her think about it, even making his flames make little flowery and butterfly shaped sparks to make her smile a little. Looking curiously at the catās tidbit shaped tail, now that she thought about it, did other cats have those? Did other cats have fire in their ears? Did other cats speak? She guessed not, since Mom always his Grim away whenever guests came over inside the laundry basket.
She always wanted to meet Momās friends. Momās other friends sounded fun, and miles more interesting than her boring neighbors. She always wanted to know what merfolk were like, and how faeries actually looked. Maybe the world on the other side of the mirror was less scary than the mirror itself. She looked back outside the door to the bathroom again, and nodded at her mother quickly, giving her a quiet āokayā, as Grim quickly resumed his packing, whining in despondence as her Mother undid his āhandyworkā, attempting to actually organize the clothing properly before merely tossing everything in, quickly dashing to the still ruminating bathroom to gather some quick toiletries, and lightly jogging into her daughterās room to pack a separate suitcase entirely for Lailah.
Lailah herself merely sat beside the suitcase on the bed, watching Grim ramble on excitedly about āanother year of making peopleās jaws drop with his awesome magicā, as she daydreamed, already thinking of what to say when sheād introduce herself to her mothersā oh-so coveted friends.
Set after Yuu leaves Twisted Wonderland and makes a life for herself and her toddler, Grim of course included, the mirror calls her back once more, ready for her second year at NRC, though this time, a second guest seems to also be invited; and a very young guest indeed.
Yuuās child will in fact have Magic in this fic, as well as a signature spell, but Yuu will still be completely magicless. Additionally, Lailahās magic might work a little differently, though thatās under development for me.
I wanted to try and experiment to see what the characters would be like after all of Yuuās help and influence; this fic is more lighthearted than the Obey Me one, focusing more on the chemistry between the OC and individual characters rather than the intense plot.
Well, thatās all for now. Feel free to comment or repost; let me know what you think!
