This Is The Funniest Description Of Constantine In The World (≧▽≦)

This is actually the best thing ive read in a while (｡’▽’｡)♡

I was watching a ghost hunter show where the ‘ghost’ could only use the machine to say pre-recorded words. And I had an idea. We know that technology can’t always work with ectoplasm. So what if ghost speak couldn’t be heard over the phone? And to call for help, the Amity Parkers had to get creative to get ahold of the Justice League when the GIW declares all out war on all the ghosts and liminal in town.

Dead End Call

“Hello, you have reached the Justice League emergency hotline. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Hello, hello. Emergency, hello. Justice League.” A distorted male voice answered back.

“Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me? what is the nature of your emergency?” Green Lantern asked again.

“I can hear you, emergency. Hello Justice League. Hello emergency.”

“Do you need help? Can you hear me?”

“Help. Help. Can you hear me? Help.” The voice distorted again to something like static.

“Prank calls aren’t funny kid. This is an emergency line.” With an exasperated sigh, Green Lantern hung up.

“What was that about?”

“It’s just a prank call. Some kid using a voice mod thing.”

“Really? That’s annoying.”

“I know. But it’s not that unusual. Kids don’t have anything better to do during the summer.”

“I guess. What are you doing on hotline duty? You’re not scheduled for refresher training for another few months, right?”

“Food fight in the cafeteria. Batman added everyone involved to additional monitor or dispatch duty twice a week for the next month.”

“Yikes. Hate to be you. Who else got caught?”

“Flash, Plasticman, Vigilante, and Shining Knight.”

Zatanna raised an eyebrow. “Can’t imagine Sir Justin getting involved in a food fight.”

Hal shrugged with a good-humored smirk, “Vig took a salad bowl to the head, Sir Justin jumped in to cover his retreat. Right in time for Bats to break up the fun.”

Zatanna giggled, “Poor Sir Justin.”

“Poor Sir Justin?” Hal Jorden gasped dramatically, “What about me? I was just an innocent bystander.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“What are you doing here anyway?”

“Unlike you. I’m just here for one shift for refresher dispatch training.”

“Good for you. Well, have at it. The active-duty roster is on the big screen with who's suited up and available.”

Zatanna looked up at the large monitor with pinging dots in various locations around the world. “Alright. A bit better than the old system of scrolling for available heroes and asking where they are.”

“Yeah, Cyborg linked everyone’s com into the system so we can tell who is where, when their com is active.”

“Sounds good. Alright, Let’s do this.” Zatanna put headset on and clicked ‘available operator’ on the screen. Immediately her phone rang. “Hello, this is the Justice League Emergency Hotline. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Emergency. Hello, Justice League. Emergency.” A female voice came through her headset. The connection was very poor. Interference and static came through.

“Can you hear me? This is the Justice League emergency Hotline. Do you need help?” Zatanna looked over at Hal. He was fiddling with his headset cord. He looked up at her and she gestured her head to the screen. It was the same number as his prank call.

“Hear me? Help. Justice League. Emergency Help.” The feminine voice sounded vaguely familiar. Zatanna ignored it to confront the prankster.

“Kid, this isn’t a joke. This is a serious line for actual emergencies. You can’t keep calling. I’m going to hang up now. Please don’t call back.”

“Isn’t a Joke. This isn’t a Joke. Please don’t. Hang up now. Actual Emergencies. Keep calling. Hotline. Justice League. Help. For actual emergencies.” The static under the female voice sharpened. Zatanna paused. Her finger was just hovering over the button to end the call when something stopped her. The tone of voice was sharp. Irritated. Also, strangely familiar. After a second it dawned on her. Hal was still looking at her, so she waved him over to listen into the call. Once he was listening with his own muted headset, she asked “Are you…? Are you repeating what I’m saying?”

“Repeating. Help. Isn’t a Joke. What I’m saying. Emergency. Help. Hello. Help. Emergency.”

Zatanna finally recognized the voice. “Is that my voice? Are you repeating with my voice?”

“Repeating. Voice. You. Emergency. Help. Isn’t a Joke. Help. Justice League. Don’t. Hang Up.”

“You’re using my voice to talk back to me? My words. And…You can only repeat what you hear… is that right?” Zatanna shared a glance with a horrified Hal. Him, just realizing he had hung up on an actual emergency. Not a kid playing a joke.

Zatanna’s own voice echoed staticky in her ear. “Right. Right. Can repeat. Only. Talk back. Using voice. Help. Emergency help.”

“Are you in danger?” She looked over at Hal who was typing on his own computer to trace the call origin. He looked back at her and shook his head. Weirdly, they can’t find where the signal is coming from.

“Danger. Emergency. Help Justice League. Help. In danger”

“I understand. I’m going to ask you where you are. Do you understand?” Zatanna was going to have to narrow this down. She pulled up a world map onto her screen.

“Understand. Help. Emergency.” The static in the voice softened slightly. Like relief.

“OK, we need to know where you are. What continent are you on? Asia? Africa? Australia? Europe? North America? South America?”

“North America. Help. Emergency.”

Zatanna clicked on the screen to enlarge the North American Continent. “OK, you’re in North America. Are you in Canada or America?”

“America. Help.”

Another click of the mouse to focus on the USA. “OK are you in the North, Northeast, Southeast, West, Southwest, or Midwest?”

“Midwest. Midwest. Help emergency. Help. America. Midwest.”

“OK I’m going to ask your state now. Do you know it?” Zatanna clicked on the Midwest region of the map to enlarge it more. Hal was standing up now. Anticipation making his body glow faintly green. He was texting something on his phone, but Zatanna ignored it to focus on her own echoing voice on the other end of the line.

“Know it. know it.” Her voice repeated back, “Ask.”

“Are you in North Dakota? Are you in Minnesota? Are you in South Dakota? Are you in Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan-“

The voice interrupted her. “Illinois. Illinois, Midwest America, Illinois. Help. Emergency. Justice League Help.”

“Do you know where in Illinois you are?”

“Yes, yes. Where Illinois. Emergency. Ask.”

Zatanna enlarged the map of the state infront of her. The closest hero was in Detroit Michigan and they didn’t’ have any abilities to help them get to Illinois quickly. She gestured to Hal to look at the screen. He nodded his understanding. “Do you know where in the state you are? what region or what county?

“County. Know. County.”

“OK I’m going to name a few counties. Tell me yes or no if you are there, okay?”

“Yes, yes. Tell me.”

Zatanna listed off the counties on the map. Her tongue slightly tangling over the midwestern words. “OK, Joe Durres, Steffensen, Winnebago, Boone, McHenry, Lake, Cook, Dupage, Kane, Dekalb, Ogle, Carroll, Whiteside, Lee-“

The voice interrupted again. “ Lake. County.”

“OK you’re in Lake County. is that right?” Zatanna clicked over the county and enlarged the map.

“Right. Right, help. Emergency. In Lake County.”

“OK I’m going to name off some cities in Lake County. Are you in a city? yes or no”

“City no. name cities. Yes.”

Zatanna paused for a second. “Do you mean you are not in a city, but you can name the closest one to you? yes or no?”

“Yes. Name. Closet one. Name. Closest. City. Emergency.”

“Okay. I understand. Are you in Gurney? are you in Libertyville, Grayslake, round lake, or round lake beach? Are you in Lake Forest, Zion, Vernon Hills, Highland Park, or north Chicago-“

The voice cut her off again. “Park.”

“Are you in Highland Park?”

“No. Park. In Park. Park. Park. Park. Emergency. In Park.” The tone of the voice did’t change but the words came faster, almost overlapping over themselves.

“OK calm down. Let me understand. Are you in a park or in a place called park?”

“In a place called Park. Help emergency. In place called park.”

Zatanna scanned the list of Illinois cities called ‘Park’ in the county. “OK are you in Round Lake Park or Beach Park, Deerfield Park, Park City, or Deer Park.”

“No. Place called Park. No city. place called park.”

“So you’re in a place called Park but it’s not a city is that right?”

“ Right. Place call park. Emergency. not city. Help.”

“OK, let's go down the list. Brook Park, Mill Park, Park Barrington, River Park, Park Township, VernonPark Hills, West Keegan Park, West Deerfield Park, Amity Park, Wheeling Park-“

“Amity. Amity Park. Emergency in Amity Park. Emergency in Amity Park. emergency help help emergency.”

“OK you're an Amity Park. Is that right?”

“Right. Right. In Amity Park”

Zatanna nodded to Hal who was still texting on his phone. He nodded back to her.

“OK, I know where you are now. Now we need to know what kind of emergency is it a natural disaster? is it a villain? is it an alien?”

“Villain. Emergency. villain villain villain.” The words came fast. Static was almost overwhelming.

“OK, calm down. I'm right here. Does the villain have powers or not.”

“Villian have. No. Powers. I'm here. Powers. Help. Natural- powers. Help. I'm. kind of. Natural. Help. Powers. We. Need help. OK?”

Zatanna paused. The sentences didn’t make sense. The villain did not have powers? But the caller said “I’m. Kind of. Natural.” She shared a look to Hal. Hal typed on his computer and a message appeared on her screen.

“I txted Flash. He can be there, but he needs to know what kind of situation he’s running into.” Zatanna read the message and nodded.

“OK. You need to give me more information. There are villains but they don’t have powers? Can you tell me what kind of natural powers you mean? Are they metagene powers? Are they magic? Are there weapons?”

“Magic. Weapons. Powers magic. I. powers. magic. Help. Can you help. Me?”

Zatanna felt a rush of fear. Magic powers. ‘Villains no powers. Weapons’ must mean that the villains don’t have any powers, but they have weapons that can affect the magic user who is calling. She looked over at Hal. He nodded. “Okay. I have magic too. I am going to Amity Park to help you. Can you tell me how many villains there are? Are there more than five or less than five?

“More than five. Villains. I have magic too. Villains. Weapons. more than we. I am going too. yes. Yes going. Help.”

So, the caller definitely needed magic backup. Zatanna gestured to Hal who began to send an all-notice message to any Magic using League hero. “Are the villains after your powers? is that right? the villains are attacking you for your powers?”

“Right. Right villains attacking for powers. Help emergency. More than me. Powers. Villains attacking. We need help. Amity park. Needs help.”

Zatanna froze. ‘We need help.’ More than me…powers. We need help. Oh god. “Is there more than one of you with magic? There’s a group of you with powers that the villains are attacking?” Zatanna asked. A group of magic users fighting villains? Maybe sending more magic users isn’t the best idea. They might need some heavy hitters for this.

“Group. with powers. Magic. Amity Park. Magic. Villains attacking. Disaster. Emergency help. Villains have. More than one of you. Of you. We. villains have. More than one. Of We.”

It took Zatanna only a second. By now she was standing up out of her chair. “Do The villains have hostages? With magic powers? How many?”

Hal had linked in the call with multiple coms. On the large monitor Zatanna could see multiple heroes dots shift slightly. All in the direction of Illinois. She was grateful to see Wonder Woman, Flash, and Captain Marvel all headed in that direction. “We’ve got hero’s coming your way. They will be there soon to help you and rescue the hostages.”

“Many hostages. Many magic in Amity Park. Weapons. Villains have. Weapons. We have. Magic. Villains have Hostages. Villains have. Soon. Powers. We need help. Heroes coming. Justice league. Help. Not villains. We not. Villains. Help we.”

Zatanna felt sick as she understood that message. ‘The villains have hostages and weapons. The caller and the others have powers. But then… villains have…soon…powers. Did that mean that the villains were taking powers away from whoever was calling? She paused at that last sentence. “You’re not the villains. what do you mean by that?

“We. Not. the Villains. Villains have hostages. Villains have weapons. Isn’t a joke. Isn’t. Isn’t Right. We. Not Villains. We Natural. We not weapons. We not villains. Help. Rescue hostages. Rescue. Me. Help Me. Help we have Powers. Help.”

“You’re not the villains, I know. You say you are natural. Do you mean that when the heroes get there, they might think you are the villains and get confused?” Zatanna knew that multiple heroes were silently listening to the call.

“We not the villains. Heroes might think. Powers. Are the. Weapons. We Amity Park. We need help. Justice league get here. Rescue Hostages.”

Hal messaged her again on her screen. Zatanna read off the message.

“We’ve alerted the Illinois National Guard as well. They’ll be there soon to help.”

“No. No. No. National Guard. No help. Villains. Guard villains. Help we. Help Amity Park.”

Zatanna looked confused. “What? No the national guard is coming there to help.”

“National Guard. The.Villains. They guard. The villains. No help. They’ll. Weapon. Amity Park. Powers. Justice League Rescue Amity Park. Help. Help. Help.” The static became so prevalent that Zatanna had to fight the impulse to rip the headset off. She tried to decipher the words.

“Okay. Okay we’ll help you. But we need to be able to find you. Are you in a house or a building? Can you get to a rooftop?”

“Building Rooftop. Heroes Find Me.”

“How can we find you? Can you wave a flag or give us a sign. Are you a woman or a man? What do you look like.”

There was a long pause. “I can. Wave. Kid. Kid. Woman. Kid woman.”

Zatanna wondered for a long moment where the word ‘kid’ came from before remembering when she first accused the caller of prank calling. She said ‘Kid, this isn’t a joke.’ The she felt bile flood her throat as she understood what they meant. “Are…are you a child?”

Zatanna’s own voice answered back. “Child. Kid. Woman child. Rooftop. Help Justice League. Find. Me. Help Hostages. Help. Amity Park.”

Flashes voice came over the com line. Muted from the call but clear in Zatanna’s other ear. “Oh my god. I’m here. It’s a war zone. There’s…We’re going to need back up. Medical units. There are tanks and fires everywhere. There’s been some kind of artillery shot at different buildings. It’s a war zone.”

There was a silent horrified moment as all the heroes listening absorbed the information. “I think I see our caller. It’s a little girl. Maybe eight or ten. White hair. She’s floating. She’s on the library roof with a giant phone. I think she sees me.”

In Zatanna’s other ear her own voice repeated. “Heroes find me. Rooftop. Help.”

“The man in red is called Flash. He’s there to help.”

“He’s there. Man In Red. Help. Flash. Find me.”

“I’m on my way too. Just stay with Flash and tell him what you need, okay sweetie?” Zatanna’s voice was infinitely softer now that she knew it was a child on the phone.

“Okay. Stay with Flash. Help. On. You. Way.”

The line shut off and Zatanna flinch at the sudden silence in her ear. She glanced over at Hal. “I’m going to Zeta down to Amity.”

“I’m right behind you. Flash said a war zone. I…I need to be there.”

Zatanna nodded at his guilty expression. “Right. Let’s hurry and get to Amity Park.”

Happy New Year y'all, great job on surviving

Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays :)

Please enjoy these chilly lil’ guys :)))

MC is that you?!?!?!

Superior Mates: Nolan Grayson X Male Reader

Summertime Prompt: Day 4, Omegaverse AU Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader referred to as ‘father’ Primary Sex: AMAB Secondary Sex: Omega Rating: E/Sex, violence, mentioned character death Warnings: Omegaverse, a/o, Viltrumite culture, imperialism, blood, smut, anal sex, breeding, bonding as mates, reader is a Viltrumite, Nolan being an asshole, Debbie mentioned, Mark is dead Summary: Nolan wasted seventeen years playing human, now he wants something from home.

The rush of air hits you before you see him. You had been standing in your kitchen, simply staring at your fridge to decide on a snack but clearly Nolan has a lot more going on. When you shut the door and look up at him you find him covered in blood and panting. His shoulders move up and down with every breath and his bloodshot eyes are full of that familiar Viltrumite rage that reminds you of home.

“What happened?” You ask, unfazed as you wet a towel in the sink.

“Mark.” He says simply, almost growling.

You approach him slowly, putting a hand on his shoulder and feeling his muscles relax under the touch. No doubt he’s calmed by the natural Omega scent. You run the towel over his blood covered face and he closes his eyes to let you.

“Is that who you’re covered in?”

“He refused.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

He sighs. “Waste of my time.”

“Seventeen years is nothing, Nolan.”

He leans into your hand as you run the towel over his cheek. “I want a Viltrumite.”

“Then raise the next one on Viltrum.”

His hand grabs your wrist and squeezes with a force that would’ve broken a human’s bones. “I want a Viltrumite.”

“Your obsession with fatherhood is concerning.”

His grip loosens and he runs his other hand through your hair. “You’ll think the same during your heat.”

You scoff. “I’m not mating with you, Nolan. We have a planet to conquer.”

“And it’d be easier with a few kids to help.” He says softly, rubbing your head. “I’d fuck you over and over until we had our own planet’s worth.”

“You’re assuming I want kids because I’m an Omega?”

He grips your hair. “Because you’re a Viltrumite.”

“Yeah, and I’ll do my duty and have the necessary number.” You sigh. “At some point.”

He shakes his head. “Now.”

You shove him away, turning back to the kitchen. “Go back to your little human toy, Nolan.”

He glares. “She can’t handle what I want to do.”

“Then go home and pick up some Omega bitch there.”

“They wouldn’t be you.” He seethes. “I want the father of my children to be you.”

“And I want to snap your neck, but we don’t always get what we want.”

“They sent us here.” Nolan growls, moving to stand in front of you. “They expect us to mate.”

“If they did, we’d have orders.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder and you look at him. “I need to fuck something that can take what I give it for once.”

You stare at him, watching his eyes turn from a glare to something more honest. “Fine.” You sigh. “Once.”

“All night.” He squeezes your shoulder. “Let me fuck you until the sun rises and we obliterate this rat infested planet.”

“I’m not having your kids.”

“I know.” He moves his hand to cup your cheek. “Not tonight, but eventually.”

You roll your eyes and he wraps an arm around your waist.

“Is there anyone else you’d want to do that to you?” He whispers. “Anyone better suited?”

“Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“Depends. Can I at least pretend I’m fucking Mark’s replacement into you?”

“If you make me cum twice as much as you get to.”

He smiles. “Deal, Omega.”

His lips connect with yours in a hungry kiss, teeth and tongue with so little care but so much desperation. In a flash you’re in your bed and he’s palming you through your pants and his other hand squeezes your ass. His dick presses against your leg, taking over the length of your thigh as he grinds against it.

“I’ve wanted you since we got sent here.” He mutters. “I wanted to fuck you in front of this whole planet of inferiors and show them how perfect a Viltrumite Omega takes it.”

“Then why aren’t you fucking me yet?”

He chuckles. “I was trying to be a gentleman. Human sentiments, they must’ve worn off on me.”

“I didn’t sit through your sob story to not be knotted tonight, Nolan.”

He groans, leaning up to rip his clothes off. “Fuck, I missed Vilturmie Omegas.” He rips your pants off and grips your hips to pull you closer. “You know you’re superior, not whiney like bitched humans.”

“Happy to be of service to the Empire.”

He groans, lining himself up. “Is that what that slick’s for? The Empire?”

You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to press closer. “No. That’s all for my Alpha.”

He stills, timidly running a hand over your taint, hardened dick, and up your stomach to rest on your chest. “Let me mark you.”

You meet his eyes, his scent hitting your nose. “I wanna feel you inside me first.”

He doesn’t hesitate, plunging inside of you and pulling your hips flush against him. His dick fills you completely, the tip pressing so far in that it bulges out your stomach even through your layers of muscle and fat. He holds himself there, leaning over you as he licks at your scent mark.

“Good enough?” He mumbles, kissing the sensitive spot.

Your legs are frozen around him, your body split open and head foggy from the Alpha arousal scent. “Y-Yeah…”

He leans his head up, a hand brushing through your hair. “Who’s your Alpha?”

“You… Alpha.” You shutter as his dick twitches inside of you. “Nolan.”

🫧𓂂°𓇼  ִ۫ don't feel bad when those fkers all drown🫧𓂂°𓇼  ִ۫ 𓂂

The One With the Blouse (1/2)

Part 1/2

Wolfstar x reader      Sirius Black x reader      Remus Lupin x reader      Sirius Black x Remus Lupin      Sirius Black x reader x Remus Lupin 

Established couple (throuple)

Summary: Reader cares about how people see her, tensions boil over when the group get ready for a Gryffindor party

Warnings:

Angst (argument)

Hurt (and minimal comfort…)

Lots of insecurity, feeling disposable in a relationship

my first fic ever so please be kind…will potentially write a part 2 if people like this one (feedback is welcomed)

word count: 1.8k

Sirius looks so pretty in his white blouse. The silk brings out his dark hair perfectly, and the fabrics warm undertones complimented his pale skin. “Is all the fuss really necessary?” Sirius asked, bothering with the bow neckline of the blouse.

“You want to look good, don’t you?” You respond stiffly, tying, and re-tying the bow, unsatisfied with how it sits around his neck. 

“You forgot to Iron it.”, you say, Tying, untying, re-tying. Completely zeroed in.

“Does it really matter?” Sirius responds, completely exasperated.

Remus watches on from the armchair by his bed. It’s standard routine at this point. Before every common room party, Remus is ready by dinner - always a plain top and trousers, today a white T-shirt with blue jeans. “Very James Dean”, Sirius had said. He's been sitting there entirely patient on the same armchair for the past two hours, reading only half attentively as you and Sirius get ready.

“Sweetheart, the bow is fine”, Remus advises gently. He’s not in a rush, but he can tell that as much as you usually enjoy it, today the up-doing process is stressing you out. 

“No..no, not yet”, you respond absentmindedly, still fixated on Sirius’s blouse. 

Tying, untying, re-tying the bow. Sirius huffs out a humourless laugh and takes a quick step back turning completely away from you. Your hands are still held up, frozen where his neck would be. Your eyebrows furrow, and Remus looks up from his book.

“It’s the same every bloody time!”, Sirius suddenly cries out, you’re completely taken aback. 

“Sirius”, Remus warns.

“Godric, Forgive me! I didn’t iron my fucking blouse!”, he feigns, “You’re suffocated me” he finishes, coldly, glaring daggers straight through you. He’s still so beautiful, with his ebony hair hanging long and dark over his face, but the pit in your stomach is somehow darker. 

Remus is stood to his full height now, book abandoned. “You’re out of line”, his anger still somehow contained. And Sirius has the gall to let out a laugh. The party in the common room seems to have started. You can hear music and laughing below the bluestone floors. You try and divert your focus to that lively sound and take it off the painful bob in your throat. 

“I’m out of line? You’re kidding Moony”, Sirius laughs. his lack of sincerity is incredibly unnerving. “The bitch is vapid”, and your heart nearly stops, you can feel the sick climbing up your throat. Remus is seething, but you’re not sure he knows exactly what to say anyway. 

“What?”, is all you can muster hopelessly. 

Sirius takes a step towards you, and you all seem to move at once. You take one step back at the same time Remus steps between you and the shorter boy.

“Cut it out Sirius”, Remus warns, towering above the both of you with his height, and his domineering demeanour. But Sirius is undeterred.

“You. are. entirely. vapid”, he repeats, now looking over at you past Remus’s shoulder. “you’re just like my mother” he whispers to himself, like some sort of secret revelation, and you just want it all to end. “Completely superficial, shallow, and entirely vapid” he seethes, before turning back away from you again, taking in a slow deep breath. You think you can hear his heart beating nearly just as quick as yours.

Sirius’s accusation sits inside you. You can’t deny that you do like nice things. Your jewellery was all made custom, you shopped at the best boutiques on Diagon Alley, and you kept up appearances. 

Your parents have always been devastatingly high-achieving. You were no stranger to the odd charity gala, or pureblood ball. So, for you that meant endless expectations to live up to. Making sure clothes were ironed, hair was done right and shoes were all polished was just second nature. You pay attention to these things because you have to. Your label as a “washed-up-witch” in Witch Weekly’s coverage of the Macmillan ball in 72 serves as a reminder. Filtered through pre-teen public humiliation, these things stick. As deflated as you felt regarding Sirius’s outburst, you could feel an equal anger bubbling just below the surface. 

“You did not just compare me to your draconian fanatic of a mother”, is the first thing that leaves your lips. Your eyes are wide, and that anger is bubbling over. Yet, your voice is so level that you think you just might have the upper hand. You can tell that Sirius was expecting you to respond with equal fervour, he wanted a fight, and your composure has caught him off guard. You think for a second, maybe he didn’t even mean to hurt you. 

Remus would back you up if you needed him to, but he knows you really don’t need him to. You’d like to say your piece, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in support.

“Just because you can afford to reject tradition and expectation doesn’t mean we all have that luxury” you seethe.

Sirius has always had the reputation of a Black Sheep, but it made him shine nevertheless. Every act of rebellion on his part was praised and admired by your peers. But as a woman in the 70s, and the only child in a pureblood family - you were often subject to incomparable scrutiny.

“Maybe I’m too much sometimes” your voice breaks, and the tears have started to flow of their own accord now. Rushing like silent broken faucets, or shower heads. Sirius’s eyes flash with regret. You look up at the ceiling to blink them back, and Remus gives your hand another squeeze, silently shaking his head and biting his tongue. He’s glaring at Sirius with a healthy mixture of disappointment, and something akin to fury.

“I can’t help but care about how I look”, you whisper to no one in particular, “This is usually fun, getting dressed up together”, and Sirius looks completely in despair. That almost cocky, goading aura that surrounded him has been evaporated by your undeniable heartbreak. He’s fidgeting with the hem of the blouse now, and his fingers move hesitantly up to his neckline, where your hands sat only moments ago. He’s palming at the skin there, as it slowly turns pink from the pressure.

“I’m only fussy because I care, Sirius”, you say wavering, lip quivering as your crying takes both your eyes, and your voice. He can’t look you in the eye.

The subtext isn’t missed by either of the boys, you care because you love them. You enjoy dressing them up because you want them to look good and enjoy themselves. To protect them from any anxiety associated with landing on a worst dressed list, even informally among the Gryffindor party-goers three flood below.

You look down at your disco boots, perfect stockings and shift dress. It all feels so silly now, wearing the outfit you picked out three days in advance. You want to crawl out of your skin, and you really don’t feel like dancing. Sirius is still palming at his collarbones, staring with dazed and shallow eyes at his feet and the floor below them. You can’t see his face properly behind his hair, but you know him well enough to think he might be crying too. “I hope you’re proud of yourself Black” Remus chimes in, and you wince at the use of that last name. Remus’s hand rubs small circles around the back of your neck, you can't help but want his hot skin off you.

“I-I didn’t-”, Sirius starts, but you walk from the room with Remus quick at your heels before he can finish. 

The stairway down to the common room is empty, with the party building up below. It’s just you and Remus standing still on the stairs. “You know he didn’t mean that”, Remus says kindly, more for your sake than Sirius’s. He’s brushing the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, and gently pushing the hair back from around your face. “He gets like this when he’s stressed, it’s not your fault”, he reassures, kissing the top of your head. 

“I stressed him, I should have just let him be”, you whisper, and Remus is silent. This is the first big fight you've had as a couple. You’re a slightly more recent addition to their pairing. Quips and little disagreements have never been an issue. Even when you were all just friends these things were always resolved in a matter of minutes - or a few hours at most, but this is the first time a spat has ended in tears. 

You wonder if this was a mistake. You hope to Godric that Remus isn’t thinking it too. “I think I’ll go to bed”, you say finally, and you can feel him frown. 

“But you were so excited for tonight” he says sadly, more of an acknowledgment, you know he doesn’t mean to change your mind. You’re all hardly in the mood for a party.

“Maybe you and Sirius can still have some fun”, and you hope it doesn’t come across as bitter, but Remus’s solemn expression suggests otherwise, he lets it go.

“I’ll talk to him”, Remus assures, as he molds his body around yours in a much-needed embrace. Having him so close stirs a vulnerability within you, and you’re sure that if you could see his face, you wouldn't have the courage to open your mouth. 

“Maybe we were wrong”, you whisper into his chest, scared. 

Remus is burning 20 degrees hotter.

“What makes you say that?”, he responds measured, but the unease in his voice is palpable. He’s pulled back to look at your face now, and you fidget under his gaze. You give him a look to say without words, ‘are you kidding?’.

“But you know we love you”, Remus says desperately, more of a question than a statement, gripping the sides of your head firmly, so as to say, ‘please believe me’. You just shake your head between his hands. “You heard him, didn’t you?”, you start, “Completely superficial, shallow, and entirely vapid” you quote, and Remus cringes. 

“I’ll talk to him”, he repeats.

“No, no its okay, I’m going to bed”, you say, almost completely defeated by the tidal wave of self-doubt flooding through you.

“Dove-”

“How about you talk to him, and you two can decide what we do from here”, Remus looks heartbroken at the implication.

“Surely you don’t think we don’t want to see you anymore?”, There seems to be something sparkly welling in his eyes too, Godric, what a horrible evening.

You’re so in your head you hardly register Remus’s question. When he goes to pull you close again you take a small step back, your fingers still interlinked. The moonlight shines in through the stained glass, and the sparkle of salt in Remus’s eyes begins to fall. You can hear Diana Ross’s smooth voice echoing off the stone from downstairs, tonight could have gone so differently. You can’t help but feel you’ve caused all this. Whatever animosity Sirius seems to have been harbouring towards you, you’re sure it lives inside Remus too, even if you can’t see it yet. You turn around before you have the chance to look back.

“I’m going to bed”.

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.”

I just love the colors on shit like this ☆(≧∀≦*)ﾉ

[Monster High] so since pink lagoona is a hot topic in the fandom, i though it'd be a fun challenge to try and make some pink lagoonas myself. there's actually a lot of material to work with imo!

these are all essentially looks for a recolored g1 lagoona, only the last one being intended for her g3 personality. i wanted to make more for g3, but didn't quite like them in execution, so maybe another time..

tropical treasure: beautiful, glamorous, colorful, but a bit more of an aquarium decoration than a strange beast. loosely inspired by bettas

ghost ship cruise: etherial haunty lagoona, inspired by jellyfish. light, translucent and probably cold to the touch

coy classic: elegant mermaid pond lagoona, inspired by koi fish. this one is kind of an amalgamation of her g1 dolls that exists in my head tbh

little axolotl: cute and quirky, like the new lagoona. inspired by axolotls and sea slugs :)