#the horror of taking your own life and waking up anyways but something is wrong and you dont know what

[arciam]

Underrated JayVik moments/lines (18/∞)

"I was supposed to die."

(I can NOT get over how absolutely livid he looks.)

I always did wonder what precisely Viktor meant by that.

Because although we are led to believe that the main reason for his ire is that Jayce broke his promise to destroy the HexCore, not only would this line be entirely unnecessary for that, but this is the line that sees the focus fully on Viktor's delivery and expression (whereas his comment on Jayce's broken promise is instead "shot" from behind, with the focus falling squarely on Jayce's reaction).

All this - and adding to it how inherently striking a statement it is to tell someone you were supposed to die in the first place - goes to put a much heavier emphasis on this line over the other one, really. But why?

I believe it is because (though their parting was likely already inevitable at this point due to additional factors such as the HexTech weapons) it is in fact a crucial part of what informs Viktor and Jayce's disconnect in this scene. As I see it, one of the various ways Jayce goes wrong here is in dwelling on the HexCore and interpreting Viktor's disapproval as solely targeting Jayce's failure to "cling to principle", when the scene direction already told us he was supposed to have paid closer attention to the line above instead.

So, since the show insists - let's unpack this, I guess.

To me, the key to understanding is the question I posed in the very beginning; the question of which of Viktor's two possible deaths this line is actually referring to - his prognosed death by disease or his de facto death in the explosion (neither of which Jayce was "supposed to" avert by using the HexCore). And after some consideration, I think the answer is this:

It makes precious little difference to Viktor - and a world of difference to Jayce.

Let's take a look at the situation from their respective points of view:

"Promise. Me."

When Viktor made Jayce promise to destroy the HexCore, it's not like he wanted to die (even his suicide attempt was more of a bid to escape his guilt and despair than a death wish), but he was coming to terms with the inevitability of it. He may not know that he has only hours left to live here, but at this point, what's the difference really?

And then, something extraordinary happens:

While we don't get to see it, it is heavily implied - both by the way Viktor saying "We have to make it right" is played over the image of Silco reading Jayce's request for parley, and of course, by how he and Jayce end up presenting it to the council together - that this negotiation for peace with Zaun is a joint endeavour.

After all of the lonely struggles Viktor fought over the course of acts 2 and 3, he spends his final day working united with Jayce the way they used to be, and his final moments seeing his people be granted independence through his and Jayce's own efforts.

With him dying - or at least being knocked unconscious - instantly in the explosion, this was the "roll credits" moment of Viktor's life, and he would never have to learn how everything went to shit.

If your death was inescapable anyway - what moment could have been more beautiful to leave the stage?

...Only to wake up in a body horror nightmare, standing less than human before the person you needed to trust more than anything having broken his promise to let you die on your own terms.

"I was supposed to die." - Why did you put me back here just because you could?

"Okay... Okay. I promise."

When Jayce promises to destroy the HexCore, he doesn't want to, but he would hate to deny Viktor's plea even more. And I do genuinely believe he would have gone through with it, too.

However, imagine how exactly Jayce is interpreting what is being asked of him in this moment. To a staunch optimist like Jayce, while a devastating blow, this is not the end of all hope. This is not a DNR.

In a way, it is merely a "back to square one" - the prospect of spending however many months remain working urgently to find a different solution, perhaps. But more importantly:

It is the solace of still having those months.

(If nothing else, then just to prepare emotionally. As someone who lost her father to illness young, believe you me when I say that having the time to prepare for what's coming is invaluable.)

Jayce is not imagining the death he is unwittingly promising Viktor here to be a sudden, frantic thing. Bloodied and dirt-streaked amidst rubble and smoke, his body cast aside and broken against stone like another piece of furniture that happened to stand in the way of the blast.

Jayce is not imagining ever looking at Viktor's corpse in a state that suggests he never mattered at all.

And Jayce - no matter what Viktor thinks his promise should entail - did most definitely not promise to be able to keep his head cool and his heart detached in a situation so far removed from anything he was ever expecting to handle when he gave it.

"I never asked for this!" - It was never fair of you to ask me for this!

Speaking of fair: that's another thing I want to touch on real quick.

Because even though Viktor acts like it should have been a matter of course for Jayce to accept Viktor's death, I have often wondered what Viktor wouldn't have been willing to do if their roles were reversed; if it was Jayce caught in the blast instead. (After all, Viktor knows he is a doomed man, but not Jayce. That's not how it's supposed to go.)

Now, I don't know that he would have gone full Singed, but luckily, we don't have to know. The show tells us exactly what Viktor would do to save Jayce's life, over and over again if need be.

Forget breaking a promise - how about breaking the very fabric of time and space itself? I know we often talk about Viktor as being the one "doomed by the narrative", and while that is true, make no mistake:

For whatever it's worth, Jayce was "supposed to die" too.

If not in the snow storm, then perhaps by his own hand, or through the Glorious Evolution. All of which Viktor simply... refuses to let happen, cosmic integrity be damned.

Long story short: In Jayce's defence, your Honour - Viktor is equally unwell about him.

Additional thoughts I didn't know how to include:

The idea for this entry is very closely tied to this video edit I made (although in a classic "chicken or egg" situation, I wouldn't be able to say which inspired which first), so if for some reason you'd like to see these themes put in a music video format - there you go.

For more on "Jayce is the one doomed by the narrative", please do read this meta by @zecroswe. While I don't agree on every detail, I absolutely see the vision and highly recommend giving it a read.

I've been wanting to expand on Jayce's POV on the necromancy thing ever since part 2 (where I said Viktor "knows that Jayce broke his promise to destroy the HexCore, but not of the wide-eyed desparation with which he scrambled for any way at all to save Viktor"). On that post, @luciansuir made a comment that I really want to include here because they kinda nailed some of my thoughts all the way back then:

Jayce fumbled so bad that he pulled excuses like “maybe the HexCore wasn’t so bad, maybe Heimer was wrong” Man how was that ever about the features of HexCore? Of course Viktor was convinced that you experimented with his death and treated him as a sample. Just tell the truth that you were so desperate and couldn’t bear the thought of losing him

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[uhhhj13iguess]

let me in

peter parker x gn! reader drabble

i am a firm believer that peter parker is afraid of bad storms, especially at night. they’re a huge ptsd trigger and give him nightmares and he holds a lot of guilt around it because come on peter, it’s just a storm, you’re literally an avenger

wc: ~450

peter parker is afraid of thunderstorms.

it’s stupid. it’s feels so stupid to be afraid of something so menial compared to the horrors of queens.

but here he is anyway, curled underneath the blanket next to you, panic taking a strong hold over his body as he pleads his lungs to breathe slower, begging with his irrational brain to not wake you up.

peter hated when anyone saw him cry. he hated when he wasn’t the strong person everyone needed him to be.

so to be caught tucked under the blanket in fetal position, sobs racking his chest over some thunder? he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt that sheer amount of shame in his life.

he panicked harder as you joined him under the blanket, your voice soft to not disturb him further.

“peter? honey, what’s wrong?”

he tried desperately to steady his breathing, scrambling to wipe his tears before you could catch sight of his face. he peaked his nose out, head still facing away from you on the pillow.

“nothing, bug. just can’t sleep, go to bed.” he murmured against the comforter.

you started to prod further, but a betrayal of white light flooded the room and peter tensed, his whole body clenched as he rode out the crash of thunder.

your own shoulders loosened, a soft coo escaping your lips as you reached a hand to gently rub his back. he slowly relaxed under the touch, but not without the accompaniment of his overwhelming guilt. he laid there silent for a while, physically cringing each time he tensed with the storm.

“please go back to sleep.”

you furrowed your eyebrows. “pete, what?”

“i’m sorry i woke you up. you don’t need to worry about me, really.”

it was rare that peter didn’t immediately open up to you, too stuck in his own head.

you climbed over him, shoving yourself between him and the wall. you grabbed his face between your hands, your gentle touch pulling him back to the present. his watery eyes met yours.

“hey,”

he took a deep breath and flashed a tight smile that didn’t meet the rest of him. “hey,”

“don’t do this alone. let me in.”

there was an immediate shift in his demeanor, a surrender that was all too physical. opening his arms to wrap tightly around your waist, his head buried in your neck as he took a deep breath to steady himself. gently, you guided him with your own and matched soft circles rhythmically on peter’s back. the room was filled with whispered sweet nothings until he was sound asleep again in your arms.

masterlist and taglist!

[mrstellmeafuckingsecret]

Wipl h elaborate on YOUR wip...pls

I WAS HOPING SOMEONE WOULD ASK ME okay so !! ghoul pandora x human mary

tw/cw: ghouls, eating animals, self cannibalism

they're staying at mary's aunt's house in the quaint countryside and pandora hasn't eaten in days; she's ravenous, she's delirious, she's scared; terrified that she's going to hurt mary, that she's going to wake up and see the pretty girl curled up to her chest, smell her blood, and feel her heart, and sink her canines into it, she's so scared, so weak she sleeps all day, and another day passes, and another, and everything mary gives her she eats, and then throws up. mary seen pandora lose control, seen her attack strays in the forbidden forest and it gets so hard, it gets so, so hard, she thought she saw the worst of it when she saw pandora's hand in a slashed open baby deer, saw the eyes of a predator in the girl she loved and threw up and made pandora swear she'd never do it again - she wasn't sure what she meant by 'it', she's smart, she knows pandora needs it, needs to eat, she knows that when she's asleep pandora slips from their bed and eats and eats and eats and wipes her mouth and comes back and kisses mary with it the next morning but she's. alright with it.

but this time it's different - pandora doesn't sneak out and mary, sweet, stupid girl she think it'll be okay, that she's figured something out till pandora retching in the toilet because she bit off her own finger.

mary's scared, so scared, so pale and shaken and standing in the corner of a horror movie she feels she's directed, and she breaks down and tells pandora to eat, to live, to do whatever it takes because she'd rather an animal die than the love of her life, she goes to bed and she calms herself, tells herself it's okay and pandora will live and that next time, she won't let pandora starve herself for nine days.

it's all okay and quiet and sweet till she wakes up to bloody sheets and her aunt crying downstairs. she asks what's wrong and her aunt, sweet aunt hannah, is crying because their helpless, blind, old neighbour's dog was ravaged by some wolf and she fell down the stairs of her home and no one, no one knew. she's fine, aunt hannah assures mary she's fine but mary knows she isn't, she knows that even if she is she herself isn't she goes back upstairs and pandora's there and pandora's so clueless, so tame, so content it makes her angrier and sadder and breaks her heart and soul and before she can think she hits her and pandora's so upset because she only did what mary said. mary said she could eat whatever and she still only ate the dog, not the woman inside, not a human, not mary's aunt nor cousins and mary's angry angry angry and hits her and throws her out and pandora sits behind the house where she knows mary can see through their - her - window, sits there for days and doesn't move, doesn't eat, doesn't talk, doesn't cry even though she's so, so confused and so, so hungry. it's only two weeks, she tells herself, then they'll be out of here and back to their apartment where mary can get that nauseating raw chicken from the market that pandora will eat anyway, it's just two weeks and she's dizzy by the second, just twelve more days, she thinks, but by the fourth she's lost another finger and by the time she crawls back to their apartment behind mary she's lost an arm, she's hungry and she's upset and she's sick and mary watches and watches and watches her, still as pandora trails her own blood into the apartment, onto the carpet they both picked out.

then um idk

[juniperhillpatient]

I always hear the hypothetical

What would you say to yourself five years ago?

What about ten? Twenty?

If you could write a letter to your past self what would you say?

I never understood the purpose of such hypotheticals.

You can’t write a letter your past self.

Why waste time thinking about it?

Today I was driving

Listening to bad pop music & half singing along after work

Zoned out thinking about a writing project.

And I got stuck in traffic behind an ambulance

And I could see into the windows & they were working on the person.

And I thought about what it must be like riding back there while everyone else is stuck in traffic on a boring commute while you really need to get to a hospital.

I thought about the time I rode in the back of an ambulance.

I think maybe I tried to kill myself. I think maybe my best friend at the time stopped me.

I don’t remember. No one would tell me then & I don’t feel like tracking down anyone to ask all these years later. It doesn’t really matter now anyway. I’m fine so who cares right?

I thought about waking up in a psychiatric ward feeling crazy.

I was convinced I didn’t belong there. Looking back, I definitely did & it’s kind of funny I thought I didn’t.

I thought about all the stuff that led up to waking up there, to that ride in the ambulance that I don’t remember.

Some of those thoughts & feelings from back then go great in my fiction writing, honestly.

The way I felt back then blends right into the horror I write whenever I channel it. And I don’t even get sad anymore, remembering some of those dark times & the things I’d think about. Usually.

I couldn’t have pictured myself now back then. Didn’t think I’d make it to 21 let alone almost 30.

I didn’t think back then that I would ever learn how to drive so I definitely couldn’t have pictured getting stuck in traffic on a boring daily commute.

Then I thought

That person in the back of the ambulance right now might be dying or something & we’re stuck in traffic & you’re reminiscing about a ride in an ambulance that you don’t even remember, you self obsessed bitch.

But I do think I sort of got it then, in that reverie, about writing a letter to your past self.

I could write about sitting in traffic & the mundanity of it & how a lot of the melodramatic thoughts I had back then were silly & over the top in retrospect & how some of the unhealthy ways I tried to cope were almost hilariously bad decisions. Not that I’d take my bad decision making back. Id hate to have an even more boring story of coping with my shit than I do.

Gotta at least have some stories of law breaking & sleeping with the wrong people & substance abuse if you’re gonna maybe try to kill yourself.

It would not be a very interesting letter or a very exciting use of time travel, if I wrote a letter to my past self, telling her it gets better.

But I could do it. I get why someone would want to.

I think channeling dark memories & thoughts & feelings into stories of people with much more exciting lives than me is far more interesting than writing a letter to my past self.

She wouldn’t have believed me anyway, about things getting easier. Not back then.

She was too self obsessed & convinced of her own uniquely bleak tragedy.

She didn’t stay alive for any exciting glamorous reason & I wouldn’t have any beautiful story about a perfect life to tell her all about anyway.

Just a promise that someday she’d sit in traffic behind an ambulance & remember that ambulance ride - well, not the ride itself, but the fact that it happened - & recognize the ridiculous drama of her past decisions.

Real life trauma is typically mundane, & the healing is very boring, in my experience.

Real life tragedy is dull. Fictional tragedy is beautiful.

That’s why it’s fun to channel it all into horrific tales of triumph & failure with complex villains & heroes with bleak & poetic drama & characters that truly EARN their right to be melodramatic over the top bitches.

In real life

You get stuck in traffic & you think about the past & you think “huh, that feels so long ago & everything is so different than I could’ve imagined back then.” And that’s that. No grand revelation or perfect happy ending that comes one day wrapped up with a neat little bow.

Just a collection of good times & bad & mostly mediocre.

Or maybe you get stuck in traffic in the back of an ambulance

And you really need to get to a hospital

And some dumb self obsessed bitch gets stuck behind you & she gets lost in thought about romanticizing her darkest thoughts & writing gay little poems about it.

And this whole time you really do need to get to a hospital.

God, I hope that person is alright.

[calico-constellation]

You don't always know who you are. Sometimes the only answers you can give are who you are not. Your very identity is something that you can almost touch but never quite grasp onto.

There's never enough time. You can miss days, weeks, months, even years of your own life, only to come back and feel like a stranger in your own body. You want to live but the only life you have feels like it belongs to someone else.

For us polyfragmented systems out there; knowing that there are more pieces of you and not being able to find them. An endless cycle of finding and forgetting and wondering what all of this is even for.

Finding pieces of yourself that are stuck frozen in past fears. You want to help them. Nothing you say will reach them.

Your body feels wrong. It feels like it doesn't belong to you, but there is nowhere else for you to inhabit. You must make peace with that fact. You have no choice.

The complete lack of agency over your own life. Waking up and realizing that the other you said or did things you can't take back.

Sometimes you feel like you understand yourself perfectly, and at other times there is no one who is more of a stranger to you than yourself.

Being on the cusp of discovering something that feels important, only to have it yanked away from you by an invisible force. You know that you're missing something. No matter how hard you try, a mental block keeps you from accessing the information you want.

Looking in the mirror and staring at yourself, trying to remember what you look like. Something about this picture feels off in a way that you can never know how to describe.

Sometimes system members hurt each other. Sometimes parts do things that you don't know how you can begin to forgive, but you have to figure out how to do it anyways. You share a body and mind. There are no other options but to learn to get along.

Your thoughts never feel entirely private. At any moment, another part could catch a glimpse and realize something about you that you never wanted anyone to know.

Your thoughts aren't always your own. Sometimes they belong to another you, to someone else, and you don't even realize until later.

Knowing, with complete clarity, that you will forget later. You try to write down the experience. It feels like a story someone else has told to you.

Really, your entire life feels like a collection of stories, not something that's truly happened to you.

You experience trauma responses without knowing why. You know something happened to you to make you this way. You're afraid to find out what.

I will die on the hill that the true horror of DID isn't from witnessing it, it's from having it. It's like a horror mystery, but the mystery is your own self.

There is a Genuine Horror to being a system, and it's not what the media portrays.

The media portrayal of DID in horror is always "Spoookyyyyy there's another person in your friend! And it's a murderer!" To my horror community, there's much more horror to be had. the trope listed above... It's schlocky, it's boring, it's downright inaccurate, and you can branch out.

To my systems community, I hope you can relate

Dissociating real hard, and then when your "systems are back online", moving your arms for the first time feels like you're sliding your hands into a skin suit.

Not only do you experience the skin suit issue, right before that happened, your back straightened up to perfect posture. Now you have a bright smile on your face with empty eyes because you don't know what's going on, but you need to have a mask that pretends you *do* know. You can feel every vertebrae in your spine slowly adjusting into place as this happens.

Having a panic attack, struggling in your own head, then out of nowhere. You stand up from your corner, and then go about your business as if nothing ever happened. You felt something so strongly it was as if it would kill you, but now? You've never cared, and the only thing *You're* worried about is whether or not the dishes are getting done.

for my spiritual systems. Tarot. You ground yourself, let yourself sink, further and further below... you relax, until it almost feels like someone has their hands over your hands which are held up towards the sky. Then with that, it feels as if you've sunken into the lake, and now you're someone else. An hour or a few later, you're pacing in the kitchen and remember nothing

You have to be a detective towards yourself. you have to investigate bank statements, text messages, photographs, all to figure out what happened. You can only hope the person you're investigating was kind to you, leaving lots of clues.

When you Want to be in Front, and your time is running out, it feels as if some creature is dragging you from the depths, pulling you away from the light (Sorry if we're talking about horror, I HAD to reference the irritating movie with James McAvoy).

Suddenly being in control, and once you gain enough context, it's to know that you're there to fight, to survive, whatever you need to do to keep the system safe

Feel free to add on with more! Having DID sucks sometimes, sometimes it's neutral, sometimes it's helpful, but sometimes, DID horror can be fun, and make you feel like a creature in the best way : )

[explorevenus]

something permanent ♡ yandere!leon kennedy x reader

nsfw (18+) - minors pls dni i will scream

this is a dark fic for a multitude of reasons. if any of the following bothers/triggers you, do not read: yandere!leon, stalking, kidnapping, drugging, corruption/training, forced daddy kink, noncon, forced breeding, body horror, gore, & blood

in other words-- DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.

ahem. now that that’s over.

word count - 4.4k

description - nothing in leon’s life was ever permanent and his life circumstances made sure of that. over the years he was beaten down from a bright-eyed rookie police officer to a weary and angry shell of his former self. when a chance meeting brought you into his life, he knew what he had to do. he knew you had to be something permanent.

tags/warnings - yandere!leon, dark!leon, leon being patronizing and condescending and sickly sweet, fem/afab!reader, stalking, kidnapping, drugging, corruption/training, forced daddy kink, pet names (doll, sweetheart, princess, baby, puppy, etc.), noncon, forced breeding, housewife kink, body horror (spoiler alert he rips your IUD out with his bare hands), slight gore, blood, noncon, stockholm syndrome if u squint, dollification if u squint, descriptions of vomiting, no use of (Y/N)

a/n - ok i genuinely don’t know if anyone even wants this but i personally find it egregious how little yandere!leon content exists out there in this world because listen. i know a lot of people consider leon submissive and breedable but personally i believe this broken angry man just wants a sweet little thing to dote on and take care of to make him forget about the horrors of his life and he will stop at nothing to make that happen ♡ anyways. enjoy. and if it’s not ur cup of tea idc keep scrolling :^)

p.s. this is obviously a very canon-deviant, borderline crack fic so it’s not really established which leon this is outside of referring to the events of re2 being a long time ago, so go wild with your interpretation of that to read this as whichever leon is ur favorite ♡ i personally like to imagine post-re4 or infinite darkness leon !! ;w;

read part 2 here !! ♡

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ♡

-venus ♡

You were slow to wake, which wasn't particularly unusual... as of late, but your body felt so heavy, like your muscles had dissolved into mush overnight. Consciousness gradually took its hold of you, and as it did, you began to realize that something seemed off. Different. Wrong, even. You peeked your eyes open, vision blurry with sleep, but you could see you were beneath your pink comforter, a plush of yours held closely to your chest, all normal so far...

But your walls aren't navy blue, they're white... They're supposed to be white--

You jolted wide awake, panic coursing through your weak body as you struggled to even sit up. That's when you noticed an unfamiliar, muscular arm draped over your waist, and that dialed up your anxiety about tenfold. It was hard to move, but you were able to turn your head enough to catch a look at the man it belonged to.

Strong, blond, maybe a bit tired in the eyes... maybe a bit familiar looking... but you were crying now, blurring your sight all over again.

"Shh, shh... you're okay, sweetheart, you're safe now," He hushed, holding you closely to him as you struggled. Smooching the top of your head, he spoke into your messy hair, "I've got you. I've got you, princess."

But... how? The last thing you remembered was tucking into your own bed, in your own apartment, and falling asleep there, how could you have possibly wound up in a stranger's bed with zero recollection of ever leaving yours? Your head spun as you tried and failed to fend off the unwanted affection with weak arms. His hold on you didn't dare budge as he continued to coo softly into your ear, to reassure you that you were safe, that he wouldn't let anyone, or anything, hurt you.

The anxiety stewing within you finally reached a tipping point, twisting your stomach into tight knots, and that's when you spoke your first words since you'd awoken. "I-I'm gonna throw up," You wept, clawing weakly at the covers and, well, at him, for freedom. 

Thankfully he was quick to act, scooping you into his arms as he sat up and rose from the bed, carrying you to the adjoined bathroom. When he turned the light on, you managed to get a better look at his face as you passed by the mirror, and it took you a second to recognize him, partly due to your state of delirium, but primarily because you only knew him very vaguely. You had only met him once at work many months ago, when he'd sparked up a conversation with you as you made him his coffee. After that, he became a regular at the café you worked at-- you remembered his name was Leon.

So why were you waking up in his bed, with your belongings lying around like you'd lived here the whole time?

Your knees hit the tile and you began retching immediately, flinching as he reached forward to collect your hair away from your face. Puking on an empty stomach is never a fun time, but your nerves were alight with panic and every time you reminded yourself of your predicament, a new wave of nausea would crash over you. He rubbed your back sweetly, but it didn't help.

Once the vomiting eventually subsided, an awful, hollow pain took place of it. Your thoughts were running at a thousand miles per hour. You didn't have the time to acknowledge it, let alone nurse it, outside of clutching your shirt at the waist. 

"Let me get you some water, babe," Leon said as he hesitantly stood from your side, eyeing you worriedly like you'd just fall to pieces if he let you out of his sight. "You poor thing..."

But all you could think about was getting out of here. "N-No, no, what time is it? I have to get to work--"

"I don't think so, sweetheart," He interrupted. "You're sick, you should be in bed."

"I'm fine," Much to the protest of your jellied legs, you pushed yourself up from the floor and fought through the head rush in an attempt to slip past him, but he simply caught you at the waist and brought you to a halt. Your ears were ringing, the room spinning around you, and you still weren't sure how to interpret what was even going on here. "L-Let go of me!" You cried out.

He simply hushed you, holding you tightly to his chest and petting your hair as you writhed, failing miserably to get him off of you. "Don't worry about work, okay? Just rest up and get better. I'll call them for you."

Your stomach sank even further-- what the fuck is happening right now? 

Despite your thrashing he managed to lead you back to the bed as gently as one would fine china, scooping you up into his arms so he could lay you down exactly where you'd awoken earlier. Your chest heaved with sobs as you shrank into yourself in an effort to get away from him.

His eyes left you for just a moment as he reached for the covers, no doubt to tuck you in-- in a split second decision, you seized that time to scramble out of his bed and break for the door. Sadly, as perhaps you should have seen coming, he was more than strong and fast enough to catch up to you, even caught off guard. As soon as your shaking hand made contact with the cool metal doorknob, he halted you where you stood with a bruising grip on your bicep.

You cried out, trying in vain to peel yourself away from him, but it was no use.

"Come on, silly baby, you heard me," He tsked, dragging you back toward the bed. "No need to be running off anywhere, especially on a sour stomach."

"P-Please--" You gasped through tears.

"I'm sorry, little one, but that's final," Leon hummed with a patronizing but oddly sweet tone. It was as if he were scolding a temperamental child.

He basically wrestled you back into the bed, enveloping you tightly in his arms as he laid down beside you. You struggled against his grasp, but again, it was absolutely no use. He simply pet your hair and pressed soft kisses along your cheek and jaw, attempting to soothe you with restraint and unwanted affection. 

You sucked in a labored breath, hiccupping, "Don't do this to me, please don't do this to me... I-I just wa-wanna go home, jus' wanna go h-home... Leon please--"

"Shh... oh, good heavens. You are home, princess," He mused, brushing away a stream of your hot tears with his thumb. "You'll see. Just relax and let me take care of you."

Nothing in Leon's life was ever permanent.

All he'd ever wanted was the American dream, to serve his community and meet a pretty girl to share his life with, to settle down in a big house with a fenced yard and two or three little Kennedys running around, maybe a dog. What he wouldn't give to come home at the end of a long day to his beautiful wife, belly swollen with his children, preparing dinner in the kitchen while the existing little ones play with their toys in the other room.

He would enter, slipping off his shoes with a relaxed sigh and a "Honey, I'm home!" to which the aforementioned little ones would rush to the door to hug him at his knees. He'd put one up on his shoulders while the other tugged at his hand, turning into the kitchen to give his beautiful wife a kiss. She would ask of his day and he would say it was good, but better now that he's home with her. With his free hand he would cradle her belly and ask "What's for dinner, you two?" to which she would reply "Your favorite," and as he smiled and thanked her with a kiss he would be silently plotting to thank her properly after the kids are asleep by fucking her full of his cum.

That was all he'd ever wanted. But, day after day after god forsaken day, the chance grew slimmer and slimmer until it had shriveled into something molecular. He didn't even get through his first day at the police station before everything went to shit.

Because of this, Leon began to lose himself over the years. He was no longer the bright-eyed rookie officer looking forward to his even brighter future. He was a broken man, worn down to the bone by years of death, plague, losing everyone he'd ever loved in one way or another-- Leon couldn't take the loss anymore. He wanted-- no, needed-- something permanent, something to give him even the slightest taste of that dream he once had.

When he met you, it wasn't even a question anymore. He knew you were the one. One way or another, he would have you.

He couldn't court you in the traditional way, of course-- it was too dangerous for you to be seen with him. After all, everything he'd ever touched had a way of turning to shit. So, it began with following you home after work so he'd know where you lived. Soon after that he would let himself in when you weren't home-- you weren't smart enough not to keep your key under the mat, furthering how sure he felt that you needed him to take care of you-- he would take little things of yours home with him just to have your scent around.

At first it was just little things like near-empty bottles of shampoo and stray pairs of panties from your laundry basket. Then it was sweaters from your closet, chewed gum and used flossers from your trash can. He'd pay close attention to your grocery lists and what you kept in your pantry so he'd know what kind of food you liked. 

When you did come home, he would sneak out quietly and watch you through your windows, familiarizing himself with your routine. The first thing you'd do when you came home from a long day of work was kick off your heels and change into something comfortable to do your yoga. After a while, you'd pull yourself up from the pink mat and cook dinner. After you'd eat, you'd relax with a book or a video game for a bit before taking a shower and changing into pajamas. Then, you'd brew yourself a mug of tea and retire to the bedroom for the evening where you'd watch documentaries or put on white noise until you eventually fell asleep.

At 7:00 a.m., you'd wake up in the morning and do it all over again.

All he could think about was what he'd do when he finally had you all to himself. Under his roof, you would never have to work another day in your life. Gone would be the days of pouring coffee and baking pastries for random idiots who treated you like shit. All you would ever have to worry about is being pampered, having your entire day to yourself, waiting for him to come home, spending all the money on his credit cards.

And carrying his children, of course.

So, as he held you tightly in his arms while you sobbed and begged to go back to that tiny apartment, all he could think about now was how to fix this. How to convince you he really loved you, how to make you feel truly at home.

The first few weeks were hard for him. Really, really hard.

You were refusing to eat, laying wide awake at night, swinging rapidly between sobbing, screaming and complete apathy. Sometimes he would come into the bedroom and catch you fiddling with the window, or attempting to circumvent the lock on the door by stuffing the mechanism with tissue. You would hit him, kick at him and spit in his face, even as you grew weaker and weaker with malnourishment, not that you really stood a chance before that anyway.

Still, it was hard to watch you shrink in your clothes. It was hard to see your cheeks hollowing by the day. It was hard to hold back your brittle hair while you'd vomit from the nerves, still trying to fight him off of you. It was hard to watch your body tense every time he entered the room.

Just when he'd began to lose hope, he discovered a neat little tool to help you behave. In some countries it was called "devil's breath." The slightest bit of powder could be sprinkled into your water, or over your food, or even into your clothes-- it absorbs through the skin-- and within minutes it would render you quite pliable. Leon didn't want to drug you, of course-- he liked you better when you were lucid-- but it certainly felt like a good place to start, a helpful tool to train you.

When he'd give you a dose, you would let him coddle you without incident. You would lay limp on his chest while he played with your hair and felt your soft skin beneath your shirt. You would allow him to spoon food or tip water into your mouth. You would let him dress you up like his perfect little dolly. You would blush and whimper and whine, and more importantly, not fight him, while he fucked you full of his cum, just like his dream.

There was just one problem-- after about two months of trying daily, it would seem his seed wasn't taking.

Your heart pounded in your ears as the sound of Leon's footsteps nearing the bedroom door grew louder. You glanced over at the clock-- it was 6:15. He was off work for the evening and you knew what that meant.

The lock clicked quietly before the door creaked open, revealing your captor.

"Honey, I'm home!" He smiled excitedly, approaching the bed with a glass of water in hand.

You knew it was for you. You knew he had done something to it. You also knew you didn't intend to drink it.

"W-Welcome home, daddy," You said in a near whisper, forcing a half-smile. While you had definitely lost the majority of the fight in you, that didn't mean it didn't nauseate you to comply with his wishes. "Did you have a good day?"

Tucking your hair behind your ear, he offered you the glass of water while he replied as he always did, "My day was fine, but it's so much better now that I'm home with you, princess."

You smiled at him like it was the first time he'd ever said it, taking the glass with a shaking hand. You stared at it for a moment before mustering up the courage to say, "D-Daddy, I don't want the medicine anymore. I don't think I need it, and it doesn't make me feel good."

"You don't want your medicine anymore, baby?" He asked, tipping your chin up to look at him. You shook your head, rounding your eyes to convince him that much more. "Well, alright, but you have to promise to behave for me."

Now you were nodding, a little bit too eagerly. It was sort of humiliating. "I promise, daddy, I'll behave! I don't want the medicine anymore. I promise I'll be good."

With a proud grin he took the glass from your hand and set it on the nightstand, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "That's what I like to hear, babydoll. You know, good little girls get rewarded..." His large hand spread over your thigh, inching up toward the hem of your baggy shirt.

You stiffened, but didn't push him away. He smirked, dipping his head down to kiss at your neck, large hand sliding up your shirt until he nudged it up enough to pull it off. You were bare for him now, save for panties, and given your experience with him you knew it wouldn't be long until those were discarded somewhere across the room. With a gentle hand at your shoulder he pushed you onto your back, your legs hanging off the side of the bed, and you were curious where he was going with that until he sank to his knees in front of you and began pulling your panties down.

Your eyes screwed shut, thankful that he couldn't see your face as he spread your thighs and greeted your cunt with a slow lick up the length of you. You gripped the sheets with white knuckles, pretty much holding your breath to keep yourself from kicking him away from you. His fingertips buried into the plush skin of your thighs to hold you apart as he began to eat you out more passionately, suckling your clit up into his mouth and lapping at your hole like he was starving.

If there was one thing you would give him credit for, it would be his skilled tongue. Perhaps he was crazy and obsessed, but he certainly knew how to translate that obsession into something that benefitted you both. You wouldn't have succumbed to it so willingly if he weren't at least good at it.

Still, it was hard to feel any enthusiasm. His attention might have felt good physically, but it certainly didn't feel good mentally. 

You flinched when you felt a fingertip prodding at your cunt. He pulled away just far enough to tsk, "Relax and let me make you feel good, puppy. You said you would behave for me."

"Y-Yes, daddy," You muttered, continuing to clutch the sheets as you tried to control your breathing.

His thick index finger sank into you down to the knuckle, almost immediately curling up to brush against the spongy spot within you that made you see stars. As much as you tried to fight it you gasped, quickly bringing a hand up to cover your mouth, but the sound you'd made hadn't slipped past Leon. You felt him smirk against your skin as he pressed sloppy kisses to your thigh, reaching up with his free hand to force yours away from your face.

"Don't be shy, princess," He spoke against the inside of your thigh, trailing kisses up to your clit. "I want to hear just how good it feels."

You whimpered, hips squirming into his affection, and he chuckled approvingly, bringing his mouth back to you fully to continue eating you out while he fucked his finger into you. Soon after his index finger was joined by his middle, and you keened as he reached more deeply into you than he possibly ever had.

He pumped his fingers in and out for a moment, alternating between lapping at your cunt and kissing your thighs, and just as the coil inside began to tighten he suddenly... stopped?

You waited for a second, catching your breath, expecting him to continue any minute. But he didn't. Instead, he took on a tone that froze your blood as he asked, "Sweetheart, what is this?"

Then, you felt a sharp tug at your insides that made you yelp.

"Leon!" You shouted at him in a break of character, attempting to scoot away from him, but he grabbed your hips to still you. "That hurt!"

Another tug. You cried out, trying as you might to snap your thighs shut and push him away, but he wasn't budging.

"You never told me you had an IUD."

"Well, I do, so stop yanking on it! It hurts--"

The next words out of his mouth truly fucking broke you.

"That just won't do. It's no wonder you're not pregnant yet."

You sat up immediately. "Pregnant?"

He ignored you, tugging at it again. You screamed.

"L-Leon, don't! I can get it taken out by a doctor, I swear, I'll get it taken out!"

He shook his head. "And wait even longer to knock you up, pretty girl? Not happening. It's coming out now."

You screamed again, thrashing in his hold. He withdrew from inside you for just a moment, pinning you to the bed by your hip while he reached for your panties on the floor and shoved them into your mouth to silence you.

"There, there, angel. It'll be over before you know it, like ripping off a band-aid," He hummed, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you screeched through the cotton. "I'm gonna give you my babies, I promise. Gonna make you a mommy, and we’ll be so happy."

Before you could properly react he forced his fingers back inside you, yanking at the device until you felt a sickening tear and the unmistakable heat of blood rushing out of you. You curled into yourself, wailing, gasping for breath through the panties in your mouth as he withdrew his blood-soaked fingers, holding up the gory IUD in the light.

"There you are, princess. All better," He smiled contently, discarding the device on the bedside table. "You did so good. You were so brave for me."

You were bawling, shrieking through your gag as your vision blurred into white. Leon kissed up your thighs before standing to unbuckle his belt, and he didn't get much further than that before the panic and agonizing pain got to you and you lost consciousness.

You woke up the next morning with your thighs sore and sticky with blood. You lifted the comforter to see a deep red pool seeping out from between your legs, and the more you started to wake up, the more aware you became of the pain. You were cramping terribly, sweating buckets, your ears were ringing and you felt weak. Leon had left for work already, so it was up to you to get yourself to the bathroom.

Your entire body was trembling as you stumbled out of the bed, dripping blood in a trail behind you as you dragged yourself to the bathroom and crawled into the bathtub. You peeled off your pajama shorts and panties, watching in horror as a mixture of thick blood and cum spilled out of you and ran slowly toward the drain. Once again, you began to cry. Obviously he'd had his way with you after you passed out, buckets of blood be damned.

Even with your foggy, staticky brain, you couldn't stop thinking. Thinking about the fact that he had no intention of taking you to a hospital, so there was really no telling what might happen with your profusely painful and bleeding sex. Thinking about how fucking screwed you were now without your IUD, your best defense against falling pregnant with your captor's child. Thinking about the fact that if he wouldn't even take you to a doctor for this, he must be expecting a home birth if you were to become pregnant, which you doubted he was qualified to handle and therefore had a very good chance to result in your slow, painful death.

You couldn't stand the shivering anymore, so you filled the bathtub with hot water. It felt nice, though it was rather gross that the water was stained a glassy rose color with your own blood, not that you really had the strength to care in the moment.

In fact, you didn't have much strength at all. It wasn't long before you found yourself losing consciousness once again.

"Fuck, princess, can you hear me?"

You were trying to open your eyes, to twitch a finger, anything, but it was so hard.

"Shit. Stay right here, babydoll, I'm gonna get you some help, okay? I promise. I never meant to hurt you... shit...”

You heard some shuffling, pacing and possibly Leon talking to himself in the other room. You figured he was trying to decide whether or not to take you to a hospital. Part of you hoped he would and the other part of you hoped he would just let you die there. More than anything, you just wished you would have let him drug you in the first place so maybe you wouldn't be in this level of pain.

After what could have very well been 20 seconds or 20 minutes, Leon kneeled beside the tub and draped a cold washcloth over your forehead, reaching into the bloodied water to pull the drain. With what little control you had over your own movement you managed to crack your eyes open, which seemed to please him.

"Oh thank god... thank god, baby. I almost thought I lost you there," He huffed, voice shaking. "Listen to me closely, princess. Stay with me. I'm going to take you to a doctor but you have to be a good girl, okay? You have to be good for me and go along with what I say, even if it isn't true. I'm just doing what's best for you so you can get all better, okay?"

You nodded weakly. You weren't in any position to put up a fight, and all you really wanted was an end to the pain. Besides, he couldn't supervise you constantly at the hospital. There had to be at least some opportunity to tell someone what he'd done to you.

He somehow managed to dress you in some comfortable clothes of his, a soft black t-shirt that hung halfway down your thighs and a pair of black shorts with some little socks of yours to protect your feet. Then, he carried you princess-style out to the car where he bundled you up in the passenger seat and buckled you in.

As he pulled hurriedly out of the driveway, he made a phone call to someone.

"Hey, it's me... I need the best people we have in the infirmary, stat. I'm on my way now," He spoke sternly into the phone, white knuckling the wheel. "I'm fine, it's not for me, it's my girlfriend. It's a long story that I'll tell you when I get there, but she's bleeding pretty bad. I found her unconscious when I came home... I appreciate it, thanks. See you in 10."

Leon reached over the center console to squeeze your thigh in reassurance.

"You're gonna be just fine, princess. I'm gonna make sure they make you all better, okay?"

Your stomach sank. He obviously wasn't taking you to a hospital. From the sounds of it he was taking you somewhere he had a good amount of leverage, somewhere everyone knew him, held him in high regard and wouldn't dare challenge his word, let alone take yours over his. You slumped to the side, resting your head on the cool window with a quiet bonk. Leon was quick to ask if you were okay but you couldn't muster up a response. Your ears began ringing again and the world around you collapsed into tunnel vision.

part 2 !!

[vaniloqu3nce]

More about the wenclair kids, this post is dedicated to @krystal-maiden because they wanted to know more about the twins! If anyone wants to ask anything about them, I’d happily share my hyperfixations with anyone (:

Leonidas is a pack animal and prefers company. He follows his moms everywhere and whenever his uncles visit he will hold something they have hostage so they can stay longer. Leonidas was jealous that Wednesday AND Enid had brothers, so he asked for brothers for his birthday. He got two twin sisters instead.

When the twins came home, Leonidas tried to return them because he thought they got the wrong kids.

Vittoria and Naenia are not identical twins, in fact one look at them and nobody could tell they were twins at all. Vittoria is the spitting image of Enid and Leonidas save for her nearly black eyes. And Naenia is the spitting image of Wednesday, except her bright blue eyes which stare into the soul of anyone and everyone.

Naenia and Vittoria were born with their dominant gene being psychic, and because of their twinship they share a connection. If Vittoria cries, Naenia will start crying soon after. If Vittoria is hungry, Naenia will cry, if Naenia wakes up in the middle of the night and sits there quietly, Vittoria will wake up and start crying. If Naenia needs to be changed, Vittoria will start crying. Leonidas noticed this and immediately started trying to experiment to figure out the limits of this. Wednesday always manages to catch him before someone gets beheaded though.

Vittoria was smiling as soon as they left the delivery room. (They had to make sure Leonidas didn’t cut the breaks) Naenia didn’t stop crying unless Wednesday held her and they didn’t like to be separated. Leonidas spent the entire car ride pouting because he wanted brothers.

Naenia has a permanent glare, unless her face is relaxed, like when she’s inspecting Enid’s fangs or near Vittoria. (Naenia will play with Enid and Leo’s fangs as a baby) The first time she smiles is at Leonidas as he’s about to set her on fire, and he decides she is more useful alive (his heart melts and he realizes he’d protect his baby sisters with his life). Vittoria is a very happy baby so long as she’s entertained. She’s very curious and tries to get into everything Leo owns (annoy him to death) and thus starts their life long prank rivalry.

Yoko loves the twins and Leo, she insist they call her aunty or dad (Wednesday firmly disagrees even though she is their god mother). Frequently Yoko just pops into the house with gifts for the twins and Leo. Vittoria loves anything colorful to chew on and expensive (she seems to be able to smell what costs money). Yoko very quickly becomes Vittoria’s favorite and Naenia loves her fangs.

Leonidas always tries to ambush and kill Yoko but she’s much faster and stronger than he is. Yoko just thinks he’s adorable every time he tries to jump on her back with a toy knife. He makes it his goal to defeat her in combat (even though he won’t say it, he respects her a lot). And he likes that she protects Enid, Leo is very protective of his moms.

Naenia loves being around Leonidas, she smiles most as a baby when he watches horror movies with her.

Vittoria loves when there are a lot of people around to watch, she doesn’t like to be bored at all. She often spends time in Leonidas’s old carrier with Enid because she likes to move around. And because Naenia doesn’t like to be far from her, Enid buys a second one for Wednesday to use in public. She is appalled. She wears it anyway. They’re in their snood colors.

Enid: We can match!

Wesnesday: …Leo I think your mom is trying to send me to an early grave.

Leonidas: Grave digging! :D

Wednesday, nodding: Yes we do have to take them on their first grave robbing expedition, they’re getting about that age.

Enid: …they’re five months old.

Wednesday: By that age my father and my uncle had already taken me across the sea to slay my first kraken with them. It’s a bonding experience for family.

[shorimochi]

Till the end of life #bingjiu

It was roughly two decades after his reign that Luo Binghe's harem was dissolved. Most of them returned to their hometown, some passed in their personal disputes against each other, while some chose to spend their remaining lifespan there.

Luo Binghe gave them the freedom to choose their own fate. However, the only one occupying him every night since then was his empress, Shen Jiu. A century passed had since they resolved all misunderstandings and got rid of their heart demons.

Shen Jiu took the position seriously, taking care of all household matters and getting rid of anything that threatened Luo Binghe.

Did his consort look sexy when he ordered for a traitor to be executed? Well, the throne can attest to that, it witnessed all the shameless things they did - things that Shen Jiu would never admit, no matter how much he enjoyed it.

It was truly strange whenever he thought about it sometimes. He could get tired looking at ten different women, but Luo Binghe could never get enough of Shen Jiu no matter how many years passed.

However for the past few weeks Luo Binghe now noticed Shen Jiu had been spending most of his time sleeping. He no longer even wanted to join the court meetings (understandable, who wants to listen to those demon elders rambling?)

He joked that his consort was growing old. Shen Jiu bonked his head lightly, but said nothing.

He even gradually seemed to be losing interest in Luo Binghe's favorite sexy times. Luo Binghe kept checking if his body smells, if his pillar wasn't working well, if maybe.... well, if maybe shizun wants to top now?

(He used to be weirded by the idea, but if it was Shen Jiu, Luo Binghe would immediately get the oil ready before Shen Jiu could even blink.)

But Shen Jiu asked for cuddles instead, and how could Luo Binghe refuse that?

Horror dawned upon him as one night while cuddling in bed together, Luo Binghe brushed his fingers in Shen Jiu's hair and noticed white strands. "Shizun, your hair..."

Shen Jiu snorted. "You only noticed now?"

Even if they were called immortals, they weren't really 'immortal'.

No matter how good their cultivation, a human's lifespan couldn't compare to a heavenly demon. And Shen Jiu, whose cultivation was ruined in his younger days, couldn't achieve his max potential - including a longer lifespan.

All healers were summoned. But they couldn't find anything wrong.

It was because there was nothing wrong. It was simply a natural passage of time, something that nobody could stop - not even a heavenly demon.

As days passed, Luo Binghe sat by his consort's bed in despair. By now Shen Jiu could barely walk. His time was mostly spent sleeping. There would soon come a day when he wouldn't wake up anymore.

Luo Binghe refused to accept that. He held Shen Jiu's hands. "Shizun...would you let me..."

Shen Jiu shook his head. "You promised you would never use it on me again."

Luo Binghe vowed that he would never use his blood on Shen Jiu, the day of their marriage. But how could he simply watch now?

Shen Jiu gazed fondly at him. He slowly linked their fingers together. "This is fine."

Luo Binghe trembled. "How can you say it's fine?"

Shen Jiu held his hand tighter. "Let me go before you, Binghe."

"Shizun-"

"I wouldn't be able to live if you were gone first, anyway."

Luo Binghe buried his face in Shen Jiu's palms. What about him? Did Shen Jiu think Luo Binghe could keep living without him?

Shen Jiu sighed. "My days are short, compared to other immortals...but the days with you weren't bad at all."

Those words were as close to a love confession he had ever heard from Shen Jiu.

Luo Binghe stubbornly stayed by Shen Jiu's side. All duties were taken over by his children and subordinates.

On a cool autumn day, Shen Jiu breathed his last.

For an entire day, Luo Binghe pondered quietly, eyes staring at the map of the holy mausoleum.

Then few days later, his children noticed that there were now also white streaks on Luo Binghe's hair.

He had let himself age.

Luo Binghe didn't want to disappoint Shen Jiu, not when he had passed peacefully. However, he couldn't bear to live centuries more without Shen Jiu.

He thus suppressed his own demon side and let himself age like a mortal.

Perhaps one day, his soul too will enter the next cycle, and they will reunite.

[widoglock]

Caleb with amnesia tho

Fic idea currently gnawing on the wires of my brain:

After Kingsley sails off on his own, the Nein don’t hear from him for months. It’s not long before the gang starts to worry. Caleb gets word of Kingsley’s last known location—luckily somewhere Caleb has seen, which permits a teleport checkup.

Caleb finds Kingsley in a pissy mood. He’s unkempt and cagey as an alley cat, dodging Caleb’s questions and rejecting his concern. Kingsley doesn’t tell Caleb, but the truth is: Over the past few months, he’s regained the last of his memories. The context of his old life has only worsened his sense of alienation from the Nein. Kingsley has witnessed all the little ways his friends have moved on without him—how his absence has shaped them into stronger, happier people. In the face of their growth, Kingsley feels like a shard that doesn’t fit.

So yeah, he sailed the fuck out of Dodge. Better that the Nein never find out how much he remembers; he’s sure now more than ever he’ll never live up to the rosy shrine of their collective memory. He’ll always be a ghost first and his own person second—a forgery, only as good as its approximation to the real thing.

Anyway. Caleb hates to push, but he knows something’s deeply wrong with Kingsley and he’s not about to let him sail off the face of the planet. So he’s like, “I am not leaving this ship until you tell me what is going on.” And Kingsley tries to call his bluff like, lol okay magic man!! :)) there’s a rat problem and the navigator has the flu and my cabin’s only got one bed!! :))) have fun and try not to get eaten by the crew!! :))))))

But of course Caleb is stubborn as a rock and he just...hunkers down, fully prepared to starve Kingsley out. The two orbit each other for days, Kingsley refusing to explain his predicament and Caleb refusing to fly away home.

Problem: a pirate fight or some-such. A wizard nukes Caleb with a powerful memory wipe spell. When Kingsley finds Caleb in the aftermath, he’s curled up and panicking in a corner of the ship, his latest memory being the stone floor of his sanatorium cell. He, Kingsley, and the rest of the crew are days from land (and therefore a healer), and Caleb has forgotten all but his most basic spells.

Kingsley does his best to catch Caleb up to speed. It’s not clear whether Caleb buys his story or not. When Caleb asks Kingsley how they met—

K: “It’s—I’m gonna do my best to simplify, all right? It’s a lot. So first: Lucian. Not the nicest guy, by all accounts. Lucian croaks, and when he gets resurrected...he wakes up sans memories, right? A blank slate. That blank slate names themself Mollymauk. With me so far?

C: “Sure.”

K: “That’s the guy you met, after you escaped with Nott. Adventures ensued; a fellowship was born, yada yada. Then Mollymauk got stabbed to death. Now—when Molly was resurrected, he came back as the first guy, Lucian. Still with me?”

C: “Ja, I...suppose.”

K: “Then Lucian died—”

C: “Again?”

K: “Took some practice to get right, I guess. Anyhow—with Lucian out of the way, you tried to resurrect Mollymauk—”

C: “Stop, stop. I am—Kingsley, I am sorry, but how many times are these two going to die and be brought back to life?”

K: “As many times as it takes for the joke to get stale, I guess. The point is, you didn’t bring...I mean, you brought back somebody. Just not...You brought back a sort of—an amnesiac hodgepodge of Mollymauk and Lucian. That’s me.”

C: “The ‘amnesiac hodgepodge.’”

K: “Just like grandma used to make.”

C: “Ha. So...You can’t remember your past. And I can’t remember my future. Have we always been so...”

K: “Unlucky?”

C: “Spiegelgleich.”

And now a pre-Nein Caleb and a post-memory-restoration Kingsley are stranded on a ship together for days with nothing to do but talk about their feelings...Oh, the horror!

[ppersonna]

out of my league - knj | 01

you were out of my league. got my heartbeat racing. if i die, don't wake me, cause you are more than just a dream - out of my league, fitz and the tantrums

✹ summary- Kim Namjoon was never supposed to find out about your years-long hopeless crush on him. And he most definitely was not supposed to find out about it in front of all your coworkers in a company-wide meeting.

✹ rating- explicit/18+/nsfw

✹ pairing- kim namjoon x reader

✹ word count- 6.6k

✹ genre- angst, smut, comedy

✹ chapter warnings- swearing, descriptions of sex, sexual content, namjoon being a sexy flirt, jungkook being a himbo, awkward conversations, jimin being a protective bff

✹ a/n- hello and welcome to this fic thats lived in my google docs for almost a year now. without @ladyartemesia @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen and @chimoona, i would never have posted it. i truly owe so much of my brainstorming and creativity to their incredible brains and thoughts and ideas. i love them very much! i hope you enjoy this first chapter! please feel free to message me, talk to me abt anything!! im always here to chat. ILY!

MASTERLIST

Kim Namjoon was never supposed to find out this way.

You planned to confess your undying, unerring love for your coworker at a better time, a classier place. You would wear a dress that highlighted your features, hair cascading down your back, makeup done to perfection and spritzed with expensive perfume. You’d confess, he’d confess right back, and you’d live happily ever after.

You’d also dreamt that Kim Namjoon would have the slightest inkling of who you are before he finds out about your year long crush. He might know you as the mousy girl in the office who doesn’t talk and doesn’t contribute much other than some crunched numbers and apparently the best coffee brewer in the office. But you’d prefer he knows you well—your favorite colors and movies and foods, what makes you happy and sad; things future husbands should know.

You very much did not think it would happen in a company wide conference, full of over five hundred suit-wearing executives. You did not think it would be done by the office bully, Chungha, who carefully takes over the mic and speaks the words clearly as she presents awards of recognition.

“Congratulations to Kim Namjoon for 5 years with the company, over $4 million in revenue, and the object of ____’s lust and affection. I’m sure you two will have the happy life she’s written in her journal about. Make sure you celebrate with her today!”

The room is silent, so silent you could have heard a pin drop from a mile away. Your face is cherry red and you wish the earth would open up and swallow you whole. Your heart feels like someone has ripped it in half and you stare in horror at the girl smirking at the front. Is this what it feels like to be backstabbed? Namjoon looks perplexed—confusion written on his face as he gestures around to no one in particular like he’s saying ‘what the fuck was that?’

Awkward coughing and clapping begins and Namjoon stands to receive his award, a fine wooden fountain pen, and chances a glance around the room. He easily spots you, with your wide, frightened face. His look remains passive, not hinting what he’s thinking behind those stormy eyes, before he turns and sits back down at the table with his buddies from his department.

You seriously contemplate quitting your job. You could find a new one easily, right? Just stand up and tell your boss you quit and you’re out of there before Namjoon ever sees you again and you’ll never have to face the mean girl who’s ratting you out.

As much as the idea rolls through your head, you know you won’t do it. You love your job, love the security and finances it provides you, and you love to look at Kim Namjoon, all day every day.

You don’t understand where things went wrong.

( one month ago )

It’s 9:03 am. You finish brewing the coffee in the small staff kitchen and sigh at the aroma of the freshly ground beans. Coffee is your favorite meal, favorite time of day, favorite snack, and preferred beverage. You drink it constantly. You’re known as “coffee girl” at work, mostly because no one really bothers to get to know you beyond that. You drink coffee like it’s a devoted religion. You could drink a cup right before bed and still sleep like a baby. It was, put simply, your drink.

The office workers deem you to be the one to make the pots of coffee every morning, claiming you were the ‘best’. You didn’t mind—you preferred to make your own coffee regardless—but you believe your coworkers are trying to pass off the twenty-minute job to someone lower in the office hierarchy. And you were one step above the interns.

The coffee machine chimes to let you know it’s hot, and it’s ready for you. You eagerly pour a mug, a large one, and smile as the waft of freshly ground beans (by you, of course) fills your senses.

You nearly knock the cup out of your hand as Kim Namjoon strolls into the office, eyes set on the coffee.

You feel your throat swell up, like he’s an allergen and you’re caught without an epi-pen. Butterflies swirl in your stomach and you can’t stop staring at him. He pays you no mind, tired yet determined to pour a cup of coffee and get back to his office.

You stand in the small kitchen, clutching your coffee like a lifeline, and pray to god you don’t do something stupid.

Namjoon pours his mug, and you watch his muscular hands grip the coffee pot. He pours a hefty amount of cream and sugar into his cup—it appears even perfect male specimens have their faults. 

Your eyes dance on his face before they tango down his body. You wonder what he looks like in the morning, crawling out of bed with mussed hair and a sleepy smile painted on his face. He’d look at you and tell you you’re the most beautiful girl and kiss you deeply despite morning breath. Maybe he’d take you to the shower to press you against the tile as he fuc-

“Oh!” it startles Namjoon to see you, and the coffee in his hand swishes violently. “Didn’t see you there. Sorry!”

Your heart melts. He’s the picture of kindness and politeness. You recognize it’s been a few seconds and you still haven’t replied.

“It’s fine!”

“Great coffee, by the way,” he smiles. His teeth nearly knock you out cold with their brilliance. “Have a good day.”

He turns and exits the room without so much as a glance back at you. Your knees feel weak.

Kim Namjoon talked to you. He complimented you. He told you to have a good day. It’s the best and most significant conversation you’ve had with your secret crush.

You definitely file that away for another day when you need to reminisce on his compliment, and you scurry out of the kitchen towards your desk.

Park Jimin is waiting dutifully at your desk when you arrive, a smug smile still slapped over your features as you sip at your coffee. Namjoon spoke to you today—how lovely.

Jimin quirks an eyebrow. 

“What’s got you so perky this morning?” 

You’re normally quiet and passive, avoiding eye contact or any semblance of emotion on your face.

You look up at the blonde bespectacled boy. Park Jimin is the closest thing to a best friend in the company. He’s who you spend time with at lunch, see on weekends, and text often. You suppose he’s the closest thing to a best friend you have in your entire life.

You send him a smirk and lean in close to whisper. “Namjoon said hi to me today!”

Jimin sends you a pitiful look and pats your shoulder. Your best friend is well aware of your secret crush and while he thinks Namjoon is a nice guy, he thinks your crush is a little hopeless. He’s the most popular guy in the office, often has dates lined up every weekend. Jimin hears the way he and his friends talk in the break room. The man is definitely not hurting for female attention.

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, unenthusiastically. “That’s great.” He can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness over how excited you’re getting from a simple ‘hello’ from a coworker.

“I know, right? Anyway, lunch today?” You ask as you settle down into your cubicle.

Jimin pushes his glasses up his face and nods. “Of course! That’s why I came by this morning. I wanted to let you know that Jungkook from marketing will join us.”

You make a face, disgust etched in the lines creasing your forehead. 

“Why?”

Jungkook is well known in the company. He’s a loudmouth, a player, a clown, and everyone’s favorite comedian. He’s just not your favorite.

“Don’t be rude,” Jimin admonishes at your grimace. “He asked to join and well—he’s cute. I can’t say no to him.”

“Oh Christ, Jimin,” you groan. “Not you too! Don’t tell me you have the hots for the serial fuckboy?”

He blushes lightly and shrugs. “Maybe I do! Be nice to him today or I’ll eat all your chocolate ice cream I know you have at home.”

You stick your tongue out, petulantly. “Fine, now let me get to work or else Seokjin will be up my ass.”

Jimin smiles and kisses your cheek before he scurries away, back to human resources.

It feels as if barely any time has passed. You’re working hard, running calculations and updating spreadsheets. You have an eye for numbers, and losing yourself in an equation is just another day for you. You’re shaken from your cheerful place by a vibration from your phone, and a text alert popping on the lit screen.

jimin 12:01 pm- it’s lunchtime!! you better get your butt out here!

You smile and text back an affirmative reply, then move to grab your lunch from the company fridge. Gliding down the steps leading to the fresh outdoors, you meet Jimin at the lunch tables in the grass.

Jimin is sitting with Jungkook. You can recognize your best friend by his hair and glasses, and Jungkook by his obnoxious laughter.

“Hi,” you murmur as you sit down and open up the brown bag lunch you’ve brought.

“Hi!” Jimin is excited to see you, and just a pinch over eager to be sitting next to Jungkook.

“You know Jungkook, right?” Jimin asks, a harsh look in his eyes that reminds you to be on your best behavior.

You nod as you pull out a bag of grapes. “Oh, yeah, hey,” you smile. “I’ve seen you around.”

Jungkook delivers you a signature smirk and you feel yourself roll your eyes internally. “Yeah, you’re Coffee Girl, right?”

You pout and glare down at your brown bag lunch. Will you ever become more than just Coffee Girl?

“Yeah, I suppose that’s me.”

Jimin clears his throat to dismiss any awkwardness. 

“So, Jungkook, I hear you like working out? ___ likes to work out too. She drags me to the gym sometimes. Maybe we could all meet up sometime?” You don’t miss the hopeful lilt in his voice. Jungkook does.

“Oh, yeah?” He narrows a sexy look at you, rather—a look he thinks is sexy that you find off-putting. “What do you do at the gym? Little cardio sets with 5 pound weights?”

What an asshole.

“Sometimes,” you state as you take a bite of the homemade salad you handcrafted last night. “Most of the time I’m lifting heavy. I can bench 275 and deadlift 300.”

Jungkook looks taken back. “What, really?” He sounds breathless. “You lift more than Namjoon-hyung.”

At the sound of the love of your life’s name, you pause. Your face heats quickly and Jungkook smirks. Of course, he recognizes this and not Jimin’s obvious flirting.

“Why are you blushing?” He asks. “Did I say something?”

You’re quick to dismiss things. “Um--no. I just um,” you’re grasping at straws. “I’m hot.”

Jimin is trying not to laugh, hiding his mouth behind a petite hand.

Jungkook tilts his head. “It’s not even sunny today.”

You gulp. “Yeah, I must be hot. With a fever. M-malaria… probably.”

Jungkook snorts. 

“You have malaria? Bummer.” He picks at his nails. “I thought for a moment you had a thing for Namjoon.”

“No!” The retort is quick, too quick for normal conversation, and it gives you away.

“Aha!” Jungkook points an accusing finger at you. “You have the hots for him, don’t you?”

Your features melt, and Jimin tries to assuage the situation. “Jungkook, please don’t tell anyone,” he pleads.

Jungkook smiles at you. “That’s so cute. It’s like a little nerdy freshman crushing on the senior class president.”

You bury your head in your hands, suddenly unable to stomach any food.

“Jungkook,” Jimin’s tone becomes more firm, authoritative. “I’m asking you this as a friend. Please, don’t say anything.”

Jungkook holds his hands up to prove his innocence and waves his proverbial white flag. 

“Secret is safe with me,” he promises. “But it’s cute. I know him really well, you know. I could try to hook you two up.”

You blanch, unsure if you want Jungkook saying anything about you to the man of your dreams. 

“I’m good, but thanks,” you offer meekly. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head back to work, okay?”

Jimin frowns, knowing you’re feeling like a cornered animal, and nods. “Feel better, babe,” he sighs.

Jungkook watches as you leave and turns to Jimin. “Man, he’s way out of her league.”

Jimin slaps the boy in the chest. “Be nice, asshole, that’s my best friend.”

Jungkook promises to be nice, and Jimin is blissfully unaware that others are listening and that the man beside him is easy to persuade.

( present day )

The company-wide meeting adjourns soon after what is likely to be the most embarrassing moment you’ve ever lived through.

You’re grabbing at your things and trying to run out of the room, desperate to get out before anyone sees you or talks to you or laughs at you.

A hand grabs at the coattails of your suit jacket and you’re pulled backwards with a yelp. You turn to seek your captor and find the concerned face of your best friend, Jimin.

“Are you okay? What the fuck just happened?”

Jimin’s concern makes it all real. Until now you could pretend you were in a fugue state, totally dissociated from reality. Now, you realize that everyone in the entire company is aware of your crush on Kim Namjoon.

You can feel your bottom lip wobble, tears threatening to spill. Jimin murmurs an ‘oh shit’ and drags you out of the large room and into the nearest bathroom. He pushes you to sit against the sink and passes you toilet paper to dab at your eyes.

“I don’t know how she found out!” you cry. “God, I feel so stupid and embarrassed.”

It incenses Jimin. He’s holding it back to ensure you’re okay, but in reality, it’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen. He’ll find who did it and punish them accordingly.

They will suffer. 

“It’s okay, babe,” he pulls you into a hug. “Everyone will forget about it soon. They’ll think it’s just a lame office joke, okay?”

You nod, feeling the slightest bit comforted by his words. 

“How could she find out, Jiminie?” You ask with a sniffle. “You’re the only person who knows.”

Jimin sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know, but they’re dead. I haven’t told any-... oh, my god,” Jimin stops suddenly. You look up at him to catch what he’s thinking.

He growls and balls his fists. 

“Jungkook knew.”

You let out a sob and bawl your eyes out into the tissue you’re holding. Jimin holds you tighter while he conjures up a hundred different ways to hurt someone and make it look like an accident.

“Don’t worry,” Jimin sighs, trying to comfort both you and himself. “I’m HR. I have to handle this. I’ll make sure they get what they deserve.”

You feel a sting of pain for Jimin. He’s been hopelessly doting on the man who spilled the beans for a few months now, even got to take him on a few dates. It was still nothing serious, but Jimin was clearly smitten.

“I’m sorry you have to do that, Chim,” you whisper. “I know how you feel about him.”

“Yeah, well,” he swallows thickly. “You’re more important than any asshole.”

Jimin holds you tight for a few minutes longer, before you clean yourself up and steel yourself. Ignore everyone, Jimin encourages. Just get to work, he says. Then you can go home and we’ll drink wine and forget about it all, he promises.

You replay his words in his head like a prayer as you walk down the corridors and towards your office. Everyone in the hallways stops to stare at you. They lean towards their friends and whisper. You hear snippets of their gossip, like “Namjoon” and “out of her league”. It drives the sharp blade lodged in your chest even further. It threatens to collapse your lungs and break your ribs.

You make it to your desk safe and sound and bury yourself in work and forcibly ignore the gawking and the stares. 

Just make it home. Just get through the day. You’re almost there.

You could do this.

You nearly make it the entire day before running into the one person you didn’t want to see, Kim Namjoon.

At the end of the day, you’re taking the stairs down to the parking garage instead of the elevator. The elevator is too busy, too many people, and you’re trying to avoid the stares and giggles at your expense. The stairs are always deserted and you figure it’s your safest bet.

You can nearly hear the wine calling your name at home. A delicate glass of Sauvignon Blanc and some chocolate ice cream and a good cry—it sounds like the best and only way to unwind after the worst day you’ve ever had in your life.

The chanting of your name gets louder and you wonder if you’ve finally lost your mind—if you’re actually hearing your wine bottles all the way at home talking to you.

No, wait. The voice is real, and coming from behind you. You turn around to face who’s calling you and nearly faint at the sight.

Kim Namjoon stands on the landing above you, one strip of stairs between you.

“Hey!” He seems glad he’s caught you. “I’ve been calling your name for a minute.”

You swallow and search for an answer. 

“Sorry, I’m-.. I guess I’m just a little out of it today.”

Namjoon grimaces. 

“Yeah, about that…” he begins as he takes the steps down to be on equal ground as you. Your heart is spinning wildly. He’s so close to you. He’s talking to you. On any other day you’d be erupting towards the sky like a firework. But today isn’t any other day.

“I feel like I should apologize,” he states. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t plan it or anything.”

Damn him and his kindness. Damn him and his cute, awkward smile.

“No, no,” you assure. “I know you didn’t. You don’t have to apologize.”

It’s hard to make eye contact with the man. You want to, know it’s important in intense conversations like this, but the thought of him seeing you—really seeing you makes you ache inside.

“It was a really shitty prank,” he begins. “I’m sure you don’t even know who I am, let alone have a crush on me.”

For the millionth time that day, your face heats to a near boil. You stammer and you’re sure you’ve blown any chance at even thinking about a date with Namjoon.

“Oh, uh, right,” you seek an answer, beg your brain to pick something to say that doesn’t make you sound stupid. “I do.”

“You do what?” He’s confused and you widen your eyes at what just left your mouth.

“I do know you! I mean, I do have a crush on you! Oh, fuck,” you shove your face into your hands. “Please, ignore that. I need to go. Sorry!” You don’t give him a chance to reply, you book it out of the stairway as fast as your heels will take you.

Today was the worst day you’ve suffered through in your life.

The next few days aren’t much better.

Not only are you “coffee girl”, you’re now also sarcastically called “Namjoon’s girl”. As much as you hate your initial title, you’d prefer it to the new one they throw at you as you walk by.

Jimin rats out Jungkook and Chungha to the bosses. They get two weeks probation and they have to write you apology letters if they wish to keep their permanent files clean of any reprimands. It’s a slap on the wrist, and everyone involved knows it. Jimin is furious and wants the boss to reconsider. You tell him not to push it. You’d rather this be over and everyone to forget it even happened. Jimin unwillingly agrees.

You’re working at your desk, earphones shoved in your ears to diffuse the gossip in the room, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn and are greeted with the face of Judas Iscariot himself, Jeon Jungkook.

“Hi,” he sounds sheepish, cheeks reddening.

You narrow your eyes at him, sharper than steel. “What the fuck do you want?”

He winces, knowing he deserved that. “Well, I just wanted to apologize. I know they told me to write you a letter, but it seems too impersonal…”. 

You can’t believe Jungkook is sucking his ego up and actually coming to you to apologize. You thought he’d for sure be the one to cop out and send a shitty letter.

He continues. 

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry that all went down. I didn’t mean to tell her. She got me drunk and said she saw me eating lunch with you and Jimin. I think she was jealous or something and it slipped out. I know that’s not an excuse. I fucked up your trust and Jimin’s trust. But I just wanted you to know I didn’t do it to be an asshole. She sort of duped me.”

You pause as you take in the man’s apology. He didn’t have to come to you in person. He could have easily taken the shitty route and half-assed a letter to you. But he didn't, and he owned up to his mistake. God dammit.

“I appreciate your apology, Jungkook,” you sigh and you see his body visibly relax. “I’m still mad, but I guess the anger is at her for doing it in the first place. I’m sorry she tricked you.”

He breathes a sigh of relief and kneels down beside you. “I’m really happy you believe me. I was worried you were going to kick me in the nuts.

“I won’t lie, I thought about it.”

He smiles with you, and you feel like this is the restart of a friendship. “I definitely deserved it.”

You shrug and smile. “Jimin would kill me for hurting you. He might even kill me for thinking about hurting you.”

Jungkook’s smile drops at the name of your best friend. Yikes. Looks like there’s still trouble in paradise.

“I think you’d be in similar company with Jimin right now. He’s not speaking to me.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Yeah, he’s a little protective of me.”

“For good reason,” he admits. “You’re like a cute little flower. A cute nerdy flower.”

“Jungkook,” you warn. “I just forgave you after I was humiliated in front of the entire company. I’d be careful with calling me nerdy right now.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

It’s hard to stay mad at the boy, no matter how much you dislike his reputation around the office. The fact that he humbled himself enough to seek you out and apologize is proof enough to you of his character.

“It’s okay, Jungkook. I forgive you,” you smile. “Thank you for apologizing.”

He rubs the back of his neck anxiously as his cheeks flare red.

“Yeah, it felt pretty shitty to just… do anything else. Plus, you seem really cool.”

“You seem great, too, Jungkook.”

He smiles and pulls you in for a hug, catching you off guard. For the fuckboy type, he’s surprisingly sensitive and soft. You like that about him.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” He says as he pulls away from you.

“Maybe you should apologize to Jimin, too?” 

His smile drops, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, maybe I’ll go find him now.”

“Good luck,” you offer with a pat on his shoulder.

With a sad smile, he turns and heads down the hallway towards the HR department. You pray Jimin shows mercy to the handsome boy.

A few weeks go by, and you’re sure that everyone has forgotten about you and your most embarrassing moment to date. You make the coffee, you calculate the numbers, everyone ignores you. Things return to relative normalcy.

Until it doesn't. The moment you think you're safe is the moment your guard comes down and everything falls apart around you.

It's when you're in the staff kitchen, grinding fresh beans to brew a second pot of coffee, that it happens.

The kitchen is fuller than usual. You normally try to wait until the lunchtime crowd dwindles and leaves to make your second pot, but you're so desperate for the caffeine that you can't find it in you to care.

You trudge into the kitchen with your handy coffee mug clutched in your tired hands and head towards the cupboards to grind up the beans.

There's a few groups of coworkers lingering in the room, and as your grinder whirs the beans around into a powder, you chance a look around to see who's among the crowd.

Your eyes flick immediately to where a hearty laugh erupts. It makes your heart still in your throat. Namjoon sits with his usual crowd of friends, hand gripping a homemade sandwich while the other assists him in telling his story to his friends. He pays you no mind—why would he?—and you can't help but stare at the way his dark brown hair lays perfectly against his forehead, and his eyes crinkle so cutely at the edges when he smiles.

You nearly forget about the coffee grounds—you're snapped out of your Namjoon-induced trance when suddenly a woman's laugh echoes around the room.

"Look at her," the voice states.

You peer up and see a girl you vaguely recognize. Is she from Marketing? Or perhaps Sales? You’re not sure, but she’s staring at you with a sneer.

“She’s so weirdly obsessed with Namjoon. It’s so creepy.”

Your face turns cherry red and you’re sure your lungs stop functioning. The air your body needs to breathe freezes and your chest aches. 

Namjoon turns to look at the girl before he looks and sees you grasping your coffee grounds tightly.

“Chungha was right—it’s so weird. Namjoon, you should talk to HR about this!”

Namjoon turns back to the gossiping coworker and frowns. “Can you leave it alone? She wasn’t even doing anything.”

The girl huffs and crosses her arms over her chest and looks back at Namjoon.

“How can you stand to be in the same room as her? She clearly thinks she has a chance with you.”

Her words come out like a bite. She punctuates her point with a harsh laugh and the group around her mumbles and chuckles in agreement.

You’re desperately grabbing at anything you can, wanting to leave as quickly as possible before you’re embarrassed further.

“Well, she does!” Namjoon replies loudly, annoyance written in his features. “I was actually going to ask her to dinner this weekend in private, but since everyone is so fucking interested in my love life, I have to do it publicly.”

The room falls silent, and your favorite mug falls out from your hands and shatters on the floor. All sets of eyes stare at you while yours widen with disbelief—you don't even care that you’re standing in a pool of old coffee and shattered ceramic. 

Namjoon stands and heads over to you, bending down to pick up the shards of your coffee mug. You take a few stunted breaths to kneel and help. 

His eyes peer into yours. They’re warm—a chocolate brown color that makes you feel safe.  

“What do you say?” He asks with a smile so gentle it nearly breaks your heart. “Will you let me take you out this weekend?” 

You’re gaping like a fish and the surrounding room is silent—bated breath waiting for your reply. 

“Yes, I would l-love that.” 

His smile turns even brighter, and he stands to throw the broken mug away. 

“I’ll email you the details, okay?”

Your head nods dumbly without thinking. His eyes sparkle as he smiles at you, and he extends his hand down to you to assist you off the floor. As your hand slips into his, you can’t help but feel how soft and strong he feels. You wonder what his hand would feel like caressing your face, smoothing down the expanse of your bare back, running down the length of your body.

The thoughts shake out of you as he winks and kisses your hand gently, causing the gossiping coworker to grunt her disapproval and for murmurs of shock to echo around the room.

“I’ll talk to you later, doll.” Namjoon winks at you before he grabs his sandwich and leaves the room, gesturing to his crew to follow along.

The place on your hand felt warm where his lips once lingered. You no longer cared about the angry glares from the rest of your coworkers. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, and you leave the kitchen nearly floating on cloud nine.

Email from: Kim Namjoon

Sent: 3:06 pm

Subject: Hey good lookin ;)

Hey! 

Just wanted to see how you are! I’m sorry about what happened at lunchtime. That was super petty and uncalled for. I really wanted to ask you out, and I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much by doing it in front of everyone.

I was wondering if you’d like to go out this Friday night after work? Say around 7? If you send me your address, I’ll pick you up.

Let me know!

Xoxo, Joon

You’re sure if you weren’t sitting in your tiny cubicle, you’d be screaming your lungs out.

The second the notification of the email came through, direct from the man of your desires himself, your body froze.

You re-read the message, over and over and over.  

The winky emoji, the xoxo, the nickname ‘joon’. It’s all so much and makes the grin on your face threaten to split your lips in half.

Your fingers press the “FWD” button and you quickly send the message to Jimin, before you stand demurely, attempting to give off an air of professional confidence. You need to talk to Jimin, now.

As soon as you’re out of the eyesight of suspicious coworkers, you bolt down the hallway towards Human Resources. Your high heels click loudly on the tiled floor, but the sound doesn’t even register in your mind. All you can think about is Namjoon, the email, the press of his lips on your hand, the way his smile made you feel as if you could fly.  

The door to HR swings open with your tight grip around the doorknob, and you open your mouth to call to Jimin, the lone employee, when you’re startled by the sight ahead of you.

Jimin sits on the edge of his expansive desk with his arms thrown around Jungkook’s neck and is clearly engaged in a deep, sensual kiss. At the sound of the door opening, they quickly break apart, with matching cherry red blushes on their cheeks and mused hair.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp. 

The men are silent and you can’t help but giggle after a moment passes. “I’ll take it you two made up?”

Jungkook flashes you a dopey grin, one that gives you an answer, while Jimin smirks haughtily.

“Jungkook and I were just discussing, umm… his 401k.”

Jungkook looks at the blonde boy for a moment, confused, before he gets it. “Yeah! Totally. Retirement. Love to t-talk about it?”

You laugh out loud and walk towards the couple.

“I’m sure it was a titillating discussion,” you tease. “I have good news though, if it’s okay to interrupt this retirement planning session.”

Jimin nods and Jungkook rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess I should leave?”

“It’s okay,” you smile. “I trust you.”

Jungkook smiles as if he’s just won the lottery. He looks between you and Jimin, face pure and excited like a puppy.

“What’s up?” Jimin asks as he moves to sit down at his desk.

“I forwarded you an email. Read it.”

Jimin nods and logs on to his posh computer, scrolling and clicking before narrowing his eyes and reading.

“Oh, my god.” Jimin’s face is shocked—it's written all over his features. “Namjoon asked you out?!”

Jungkook’s child-like grin turns into one of shock himself. He runs around to stand behind Jimin, eyes seeking over the words of the email.

“Well, hot damn,” Jungkook whistles. “He asked her out.”

Jimin exchanges a look with Jungkook, one that you’re not sure you can read. It quickly slips your mind, however, as you’re more focused on the task at hand.

“Can you come over tonight after work and help me pick out something to wear?” You ask excitedly.

Jimin smiles at you, a touch of sadness in his eyes, before he nods.

“Of course, babe,” he assures. “We’ll make sure you look nice and hot for the date with Mr. Kim.”

“Thank you!” You squeal as you wrap your arms around your best friend. He hugs you back before you scurry out of the office and back to your cubicle, itching to reply to the message.

Jimin sighs as the door to his office closes behind you.

“Kook, please don’t tell me he’s going to break her heart. He’s asking her out to make himself feel better about this, isn’t he?” 

Jungkook slips his hand into Jimin’s and squeezes. 

“I’ll find out, baby.”

Jimin smiles and nods appreciatively at the boy, before leaning up and kissing him.

Jungkook smiles against his lips, and is determined to ensure the young HR specialist never hates him again, even if he has to go behind his hyung’s back to ensure his new boyfriend’s happiness.

Jungkook has one mission now, and that’s ensuring Namjoon takes you on the greatest date known to man.

He grills Jimin with questions about what you like over dinner one night. Jimin finds it endearing that Jungkook is so eager to rectify his mistakes, but he still can’t help but worry that Namjoon is doing this to save face—not because he actually likes you.

“So, what does she like doing?” Jungkook asks as he spins his pasta around his chopsticks idly.

Jimin smiles as he takes a bite of the ramen Jungkook has thoughtfully prepared for their stay-at-home date.  

“I’ve told you already! She’s easy to figure out.” Jimin pats Jungkook’s hand gently. “She loves cooking and baking, working out, daydreaming about Namjoon.” 

“Cooking, hm,” Jungkook looks thoughtful as he takes a bite. “I think Namjoon can work with that. I’ll let him know!”

Jimin tries to hide the anxiety brewing in his stomach. He’s had to plaster on a fake smile for you while you tried on different outfits, wondering which will be the one to finally convince Namjoon he is the one for you. It’s hard to fake it around his boyfriend, too—but something tugs in his stomach that flares the cynical side of him.

Namjoon went from not knowing of your existence, to watching you get publicly embarrassed in a matter of minutes. While Namjoon isn’t a terrible guy, Jimin knows he doesn’t like anything to tarnish the gentleman reputation he’s built in the office. And as much as Jimin likes him, and surely likes his friend Jungkook, he can’t help but feel skeptical.

Jungkook hurriedly pulls out his phone and types away, letting his elder friend know of what he’s found out. Jimin swallows his food, and his pride, and hopes to god his growing cynicism is wrong.

Friday comes slower than you’d like. You wake up every day during the week, one day closer, and your eagerness hits peak levels. Namjoon sees you in the hallways during the week and winks at you, hands shoved in his tight slacks that make you salivate.  

He emails you again Thursday afternoon, confirming things and getting your address. You reply in nanoseconds, uncaring how overeager you come off. 

By the time your alarm clock rings on Friday morning, you’ve already been awake for 4 hours.

All you can do is daydream about the date, the way his hand fits into yours, the warmth of his eyes when he smiles at you.

It’s what fuels you through work.

You hope to god the numbers you’re attempting to work during the day come out right, because your mind is elsewhere for more than most of the day. There isn’t enough coffee in the world, but also your body feels as if you’ve overdosed on caffeine already.

The clock eeks towards 5:00 pm and you’re bolting out the door at 4:56 to head home and get ready for your date.

Jimin attempts to meet you before you leave, but your desk is cold and empty by the time he gets there.  

He sighs and heads back towards his office to gather his things, waving bye to various coworkers as they file out of the corporate building.

He turns the corner towards his office but stops in his tracks as he sees Namjoon’s back to him, phone pressed to his ear.

“Baby, I’ll come over later tonight, okay?” Namjoon speaks into the phone.

Jimin feels his heart fall into the pit of his stomach. He retreats and hides behind a wall, ear carefully peeled to listen to the tall man’s conversation.

“I’m going on this date with that chick from work,” he sighs. “It won’t last more than a few hours. Poor girl has a crush on me and you know the usual assholes won’t leave her alone.”

Jimin bites his lip and clenches his fist. Namjoon thinks he means well, but he knows his suspicions have been confirmed, and he’s torn inside. He wants to tell you, to warn you not to get too invested in the man, but he also has no interest in popping the bubble you’ve been in since the day he asked you out.

Jimin lets it simmer for now. He decides he’ll monitor Namjoon and cut things off if it appears the man strings you along for fun.

Namjoon finishes his phone call with a promise to see whoever is on the other end of the phone later that night, and Jimin quickly pulls out his phone and fakes a conversation with no one when he hears the man approach.

“Oh, Kookie,” Jimin giggles, leaning against the wall casually. “I can’t wait to see you tonight, either, babe.”

Namjoon walks towards Jimin and makes eye contact with the HR specialist.

“Bye, Kook! See you tonight, baby.” Jimin finishes up the fake phone call as Namjoon arrives next to him, and he plasters on his best fake smile.

“Congrats on you and Jungkook,” he speaks sincerely.

Jimin hates how nice he is, hates that he’s a nice guy who gets too wrapped up in his own good looks and reputation.

“Thanks, Namjoon,” Jimin smiles uneasily. “You too! Have fun on your date tonight.”

Namjoon’s face lights up and Jimin desperately wishes he could go back in time to 30 seconds ago, before he heard the conversation, and believe that Namjoon truly wanted to date you.

“Thanks, should be fun, huh?” He winks and nudges Jimin, before he waves a goodbye and continues out the door.

Jimin pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials the number of his boyfriend.

“Hey, baby. We’ve got a problem.”

tag list! - @jimidol @aretha170 @dearbambideer​ 

[cinnamonest]

//extra toxic fuckboy behaviors especially at the end, impreg, slutshaming, blackmail, mildly sexist But anyway instead of Childe drugging post have Childe drunk sex post Childe with a cute fem subordinate darling. The thing is, he doesn't actually drug you, per se. It's a little more deceptive than that -- you're certainly under the influence, though. Like Kaeya, he's only doing this if he's reached a point where he's desperate. You've turned him down over and over, he's tried everything he can to get you to fuck him and you won't. He's frustrated and blueballed and that's a very unfortunate combination for poor darling, because he's considerably less nice when he's frustrated. But that's what you deserve. If you were good and just let him fuck you all those times he tried before -- and believe him, he tried a LOT -- then this wouldn't have to happen. He tried so many times, and he tried everything he knows! All the lines he rehearsed in his head didn't work, and he came on pretty heavy, leaving him just feeling sad and bitter. Obviously you want him, how could you not, so he’s just doing something wrong. He's your superior, he could just, dunno, demand it? But that would feel kinda emasculating, to be honest, at least, more so than the plan he does settle on. And that's why you won't be knocked out, not all the way. He's very particular about it. He doesn't have anything against this morally, no, it's normalized to him, and it's not like he'd get in trouble. Granted, he has plenty of drugs available. It's pretty well known that the Fatui guys do this kind of thing pretty frequently, the men go in groups to taverns in Mondstadt and pick through girls and even some young guys to find the most naive and gullible to spike and lure away when they start swaying. Luckily for those, at least, it's a one time ordeal they can forget and move on from, but you aren't going to be so lucky. Nor does he need to drug you to get what he wants. He thinks you're a little stupid, really. You accept his invitation so quickly. Camped out in the wilderness with nothing but liquor and your own two selves. For a moment, it occurs to him he doesn't even need to put you under the influence, he could just force you right here and you couldn't do a thing. Still, he did have to pay a bit to get this nice stuff, so he might as well, and he can't afford you screaming and drawing attention from a potential passerby. So he watches you take the cup designated as yours, and before you can even take a moment to question or doubt, he challenges you. You can't outdrink him, he says. Bet you're a lightweight. You'd probably get sick a few shots in. Where he's from, people actually know how to hold their alcohol, unlike you weak-livered people. And of course, you scoff, you fold your arms, you insist he's wrong, just as he knew you would, just as he hoped you would. And he just smiles at you. Ok, prove it then. You glare back and say you're on. You don't question that he's pouring out of two separate flasks. You can't see the color difference between the liquids in the darkness of the night sky, nor the grimace on his face as he drinks -- maybe he should have brought water from the town rather than filling his flask out of the river, yuck. Your determined face is so cute. Your eyelids start to get heavy. You scrunch your face as your blink and try to stay alert. You drop one of your shots on the ground and he smiles and says maybe you should just accept defeat. You shake your head and keep going. Admittedly, he's actually a bit impressed, you got more than he thought you would by the time you finally drop the glass for good and slump on the ground. Whew. About time, he was starting to get sick of drinking so much water. And you do twitch a bit, open your eyes and stumble around and mutter something about not accepting defeat, you'll prove him wrong, but he just laughs and picks you up and drags you into the tent with ease. He likes it when you're not blacked out all the way. That's why drugging you would have been no fun. This way, your eyes open just a bit, heavily lidded and blinking, you mumble out incoherent words. You protest just a bit when you feel your clothes slide off -- what are you... but you don't finish the question. He's a good guy, really, he cares about you, which is why he does a quick check and feels your skin to make sure you're not actually under any alcohol poisoning or something, but your skin is warm and dry, not clammy. Good, now you can get to the good part. He thinks about how grateful you should be. His friends and subordinates even have teased him for the longest time because he won't just go out with them to try to get lucky somewhere or participate in their drugging of randoms, no, he's whipped, they snicker, obsessed with this one little bitch that just won't put out. He can't say they're wrong, and that irritates him even more that you humiliated him like that. Which is why this isn't just a one time thing, no, this is part of the plan. He talks to you while he fucks you, maybe you'll remember some of it, maybe not. Actually, hopefully not everything, since he more or less admits how desperate he is in his lust-hazed rambling, how much it's irritated him that you wouldn't just be his and let him fuck you. Why can't you just admit you like him? Why do you have to play hard to get? He rambles about how soft your body is. How good pussy really does feel, holy shit, those guys were right, it's so warm and grips his dick so nicely. Not that he'd limit himself to that, while he's got you like this he might as well put his dick in your limp mouth, but admittedly he imagines that would feel a lot better if you were awake and actually sucking on it. Your mouth moves just a bit, and in your nearly-blacked-out state your tongue runs over the intrusion and you let out the softest confused little sound, but that's all you do. But he makes sure to breed you, cumming several times, all deep deep deep inside of your tight cunt. Again, part of the plan. Just not the most important part of the plan. The most important part is the kamera. It captures moment after moment. The first round he just leaves it aside, takes time to really just live in this sweet, precious moment... and then he breaks the kamera out. Gets all the nice shots with his dick in your holes. Gets a few full body ones, makes sure it's unmistakable as you. Captures your cute drunk face, with your eyes open just a bit, it looks like you're just awake but eyes lidded from arousal. You look awake. Willing. And so, when he finally goes to sleep, he does so very very happily and confident. And when you wake up, he was so rough that there's absolutely no doubt as to what transpired. Your throat and pussy are sore as hell, you're both naked in bed and his cum is still leaking out of you. The regret and shame comes crashing down, holy shit, you slept with your boss that's been trying to fuck you for ages now and your life is over. You'll have to transfer or something. But then... you know you drank on your own choice, but something feels... wrong. He's heavily snoring away, so in morning light you spot the flasks from last night. Your head is pounding, but you make your way over to the first one, and take a swig and spit it back out, yeah, that's the stuff you had... and then take a swig from the other... and when you taste water it all clicks. Bastard. You shake him awake in fury and immediately start telling him off, cursing and snarling. He was half expecting that, to be honest. Sure, obviously you want him, but he gets that you'd be a little mad over the way you got what you wanted, and you’re just embarrassed because you were so dumb, you're just hysterical like that. And you’re just naturally ashamed after fucking, like most girls apparently are, he gets that. But he just smiles and laughs in your face. It cuts deep, it's like a knife in your stomach, because you know why. He's untouchable, even if people believed you, nothing will happen to him, and he knows that. He has nothing to fear. You grit your teeth and your eyes tear up and your lip quivers and you finally drop your head and sniffle, asking him to just take me back. You'll quit, transfer to another department, and then, you tell him bitterly, I'll never have to see you again, at least. And that's what makes his smile drop. You're not gonna do that, he says. Your eyes widen with some new horror when you see the pictures. He talks to you like a child, in that dumb oversimplified way of speech, it's degrading and dehumanizing. Explains that this is how it's gonna go. You're gonna keep being his little subordinate. You're gonna be his girlfriend, publicly. And you're gonna fuck him whenever he wants. If you decide you don't like that, the entire branch, hell, the entire organization sees these photos. You have a very easy, simple choice. It's up to you to decide what happens. Oh, and you're probably pregnant, by the way, he timed this whole thing based on that calendar you keep that he snuck a look at. Would hate for you to have to deal with that on your own, right? People do envy you, down the line. How easy your job must be, since you're nothing more than an assistant now. Everyone knows you're just fucking the boss, that's probably how you got that position in the first place, right? And it's not like he doesn't make it obvious. Whenever he gets with the group of guys at his own level, when they all start saying horrendous things about the women they work with and sharing over-embellished tales as men do, he has plenty of very detailed stories to brag about the cute girlfriend he has. How she drops to her knees at any given moment, and how good and tight she is, and how eager she is, how much she loves fucking him, worships him, he's not like the pathetic bastards that have to go drug some poor unsuspecting thing once a month or so, no, he can get all the sweet, devoted pussy he wants at any time. He has the pictures to prove it! They roll their eyes because they've seen the pictures a hundred times now, everyone has, he shows every guy he works with, and they all know not to tell her that they've seen them. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter, she'd be dumb to leave him this late into pregnancy anyway.

[heliads]

Deserve You

Based on this request: “Bucky imagine where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good at all for him even though he loves you more than anything. one time he comes from a mission to you waiting in his room, doubting again but he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then? :)”

masterlist

You open your eyes gradually, the last remnants of sleep being dragged away by the brightness of dawn. You allow yourself one final moment of lingering silence before sitting up with a yawn. A brief spurt of panic flashes across you when you realize that you’re alone in your bed, but then you hear a quiet noise from the kitchen and your pulse begins to settle once more. Bucky must have already gotten up, there’s no need to worry.

You keep having moments like this, where you turn to find yourself alone and keep thinking that this is it, that he’s finally left you. Then you mentally chide yourself for thinking that way- every single one of the Avengers that you’ve met on your trips to the old Stark Tower keeps talking about how Bucky’s head over heels for you, so why would he ghost you out of nowhere? You always smile for a second, thinking about your boyfriend, and then the doubt creeps back in and you glance around to find him. Every single time, without fail, those lurking remnants of doubt always worm back into your mind, and sometimes it feels like there’s nothing you can do to get rid of them.

The only available option is to find Bucky and put your mind at ease by knowing that he’s still here. So, you slide your legs out of the still-warm blankets, grimacing at the shock of the cold air, and pad over to the kitchen. Sure enough, Bucky is holding a mug of some hot beverage, maybe coffee or tea, and staring out the window at the city below him. He does this, sometimes, just watches the city like he could do it for hours. You have a feeling that he’s studying the city for any last lingering resemblance to the New York he’d grown up in, when the most pressing news was World War II and he didn’t see himself in Siberia for anything more than a ski trip, if he could put together enough pennies to afford it. However, life has a way of throwing you for a loop, and all of Bucky’s plans for the future evaporated as soon as he plummeted from the train all those years ago.

Bucky turns when he hears you approach. “Good morning.” You smile, joining him by the window. “Good morning yourself. Are you up early for an assignment or because of a nightmare?” Bucky frowns. “The latter. Did I wake you? I thought I was quiet.” You shake your head. “No, I was asleep the whole time. I just knew because you have that same look on your face after you have your nightmares.” Bucky laughs quietly. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the spy who knew everything. Sure you don’t want a job at S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not sure that paying attention to my boyfriend really qualifies me for FBI: Avengers Edition, but I’ll keep it in mind.” You head over to the fridge, starting to pull out some items for breakfast. Bucky leaves within a few minutes, mumbling something about an early morning meeting, and you head to work yourself soon after. Your own workplace is no Avengers Tower, just a typical office building, and you slide into your seat just in time to start the day.

The morning itself is fairly uneventful, and you’re just starting to think that it’s going to be another boring day as usual when you head off to your lunch break. As you’re waiting in line to use the microwave, you hear a pair of women talking at a table near you. You had no intention of eavesdropping, but although their voices are fairly loud your attention was hooked from the beginning when you realize they’re talking about Bucky. More specifically, they’re talking about Bucky’s girlfriend, or lack thereof.

Ever since you started dating Bucky, he had been careful to keep you out of the public eye. When you work as an Avenger for long enough, you learn to keep everyone important to you out of focus, out of danger. If a HYDRA agent got word of the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend, you’d be on a train to Siberia with handcuffs and a blindfold within the hour, a ransom request already placed on your head. That’s if they were patient- if not, they would just shoot you to send a message. By making sure nobody heard about you, Bucky could keep you safe.

The downside of this is times like now, when you have to listen to two of your coworkers discussing how strange it is that a man as attractive as James Barnes would still be single. Obviously, you can’t say anything, and you’re not sure that they’d believe you if you tried, but it’s still slightly uncomfortable to hear the conversation swirling around you even as you have to stay silent. 

One of the women clicks her tongue in confusion. “I mean, isn’t it weird, though? He’s a friend of Tony Stark, there’s no doubt he’d have a shortage of girls who’d be willing to go out to a bar or something on a weekend.” The other woman laughs. “I bet that surplus of girls includes you, right?” The first woman grins cheekily. “I wouldn’t say no if he asked, but even I don’t have a chance. I mean, he’s an Avenger, and one of the hottest ones there. No one here could hold a candle to him. He saves lives on a daily basis and what do we do, sit around all the time? The only woman I could see him with is an agent or maybe Black Widow. At least then he’d be dating someone who’s his equal.”

The words feel like shards of ice threading through your heart, and you turn to go back to your desk, hunger suddenly forgotten. As you stare at your work, though, you find you can’t concentrate. You keep hearing what the women had said, that no one in this miserable office could be worthy of dating the famous Avenger Bucky Barnes. They’re right, aren’t they? Bucky was saving lives all the time while you complained and acted so needy. You sigh to yourself, feeling your spirits dampen by the second. Why did Bucky see in you anyway?

Bucky’s shoulders feel like they’ve been carved from stone. He’s been tense for so long that he’s certain he’ll never be able to move again. Today is the day that he has to begin reviewing case files from his time as a Winter Soldier. He’ll have to come face to face with photo and video evidence of all the wrongs he’s done, of all the killings and blood shed by his own damaged hands. He’s been trying to avoid it for a while, but S.H.I.E.L.D. needs his input on all of the past Winter Soldier missions in order to proceed with the ongoing investigations into the last HYDRA strongholds. Bucky has no choice but to confront his past, he knows that, but it doesn’t make his job any easier.

It’s not like he’s alone, though. Natasha is here, because her experience with the Red Room could prove useful with putting together some pieces of the HYDRA-Siberia-Soviet puzzle that’s been plaguing them for some time now. Steve is also here, one door down, looking at his old medical files that detail exactly how some brilliant scientists turned a scrawny kid with a death wish when it came to standing up to bullies into the strongest man of the century. 

Bucky clenches his jaw, and turns back to the manila file folder in his hand. He flips it open, taking out the diagrams and security camera stills and laying them out onto the table before him as he reads. He’s flipping through the rest of the contents of the folder when he pauses, staring at the images awaiting his acknowledgement. Natasha sees him freeze slightly and glances over to see what’s troubling him. Her brow dips in understanding.

Lying before him are photo after photo of death and destruction. Bucky remembers this day now, after it was buried so long under HYDRA mind wipes and his own crippling want to forget. The bodies of the dead line a small street, buildings reduced to rubble. He can see the dead, so many of them. There aren’t just the few military commanders he was sent to exterminate- no, HYDRA wants no witnesses and so Bucky had killed everyone in sight. There are children in pools of blood, their mothers reaching over them as if to shield them from the inevitable bullets coming their way. He tells himself that their deaths were quick, efficient, maybe even painless, but it is not enough. There is no way to justify this amount of bloodshed.

Natasha puts her hand on his shoulder. The gesture, meant to bring comfort, startles him and it takes all of Bucky’s self-control to not flinch. Bucky swallows hard. “I did all of this. I killed every one of them.” Natasha’s voice is low and quiet. “It wasn’t you. You had no choice in any of this.” Bucky laughs, thought it is heavy with horror and breaks in upon itself. “It’s easier to say that, but it was still my hand pulling the trigger.” He leans back against the wall, trying to steady himself.

“How were you and Steve able to convince anyone to trust me? Why did you even want to save me in the first place?” Natasha stares at the photos, taking in the broken bodies of the dead. “Steve knew the real you, the one who’s standing here right now and would never attempt this sort of carnage. I knew what it was like to lose all control and feel like your hands would always be stained with blood. Second chances are more powerful than you might think.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly. “I don’t deserve that chance. I don’t deserve any of this.” He closes his eyes for just a second as if by blocking out the world he can block out the memory of the methodical shudder of the rifle in his hands, the recoil as he fired again and again. “I don’t deserve Y/N. She-” Natasha cuts him off smoothly. “Y/N knows what you’ve been through, and she knows that you are not that same man. I’ve spoken with her before, and she knows the full extent of what you did.”

Bucky’s eyes cut back to the photographs. “Then why does she stay?” Natasha’s gaze feels like a leaden weight, unflinching and unyielding. “She stays because she loves you. She stays because she knows that the real Bucky Barnes is a hero, someone who is willing and able to move on from their past. Y/N is one of the most important parts of your life, not because she’s a good kisser but because she’s one of the only people who can see straight through you and know that you’re a good man.” 

Bucky nods. “I don’t need you to tell me twice.” Natasha’s right, though, and even the barest mention of Y/N brings back a wave of good memories to fight against the bad. She’s like an anchor, someone holding him in place even when all of the darkness he’s had to endure threatens to pull him under. It astonishes him sometimes that he still wakes up beside her every morning. She’s so perfect, so wonderful. What does Y/N see in him anyway that would make him so lucky to have her with him?

You’re in a despondent mood for the rest of the day. You slump home, not even bothering to turn on the lights but discarding your coat and bag in the dark of the room. The faint light still shining through the windows is all you’ll need. You stare unthinkingly at the apartment for a while, then head to your bedroom. As you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, you stop with a sigh, leaning your hands against the dresser underneath.

You stare at yourself, at the dark circles under your eyes. Who are you, anyway? Who are you to think that you would ever be good enough for an Avenger? At this point, it’s only a matter of days before he breaks up with you. No wonder he keeps waking up before you- he’s trying to leave without seeing you that often, as a way to lessen the blow of the eventual goodbye.

The problem about gloomy thoughts is that they tend to wrap around you, pulling you away from everything else. You’re so distracted that you don’t hear the front door open, and you don’t notice Bucky enter the apartment until he knocks softly on the wall of your bedroom as he stands in the open door. You turn around with a flash, plastering on a smile, but your reaction is too late and his brow furrows. “Are you alright?”

You try for a smile, reaching out to kiss him in greeting. “Of course I am. How was your day?” Bucky is not to be deterred. “I saw your face, Y/N. You looked really upset. Is everything okay?” Maybe it’s that velvet tone of his, or the concern laced in his eyes, but your few fragile defenses break down. You turn to him, fighting back tears. “Why are you still with me?” Bucky frowns. “What?” You hold your hands up uselessly. “You’re an Avenger and you’re out there saving lives all the time. Why would you ever be interested in some girl from the city? I’m not half the person you are.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, then wraps his arms around you, drawing you close. “Y/N, love, why would you ever think that?” You look away. “Because it’s true. You should be dating some other superhero of a woman who could be your equal.” Bucky’s frown tinges slightly with anger. “Did you hear about this on some news show? I told that one news outlet that if they said a single thing about me I’d shut them down, and I’ll do it-” You cut him off. “It’s not like that. It’s just- You’re an Avenger, Bucky, and you deserve someone equally as brave as you are.”

Bucky guides you gently over to the bed, and the two of you sit down on the edge. He pulls you into his arms. “I don’t want some superhero. I want you. Y/N, I love you because you’re the only one here who sees me for who I really am, not just some soulless Avenger but a faulty person. Honestly, if anything I’m surprised that you’d still stay with me.” Your tears dry up as you stare at him. “What?” A quiet smile spreads across Bucky’s lips. “Every single day, I come home and you make a difficult day a thousand times better. You know me better than I know myself, and even despite everything I’ve done and the monster I’ve been, you still make me feel like a good man again. You’re one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met, Y/N, and you deserve someone equally as good as you are.”

You shake your head slowly. “That’s not the same. Anyone can be nice.” Bucky cups your cheek in his hand. “Nobody else knows that I always get up in the mornings and pace around because of the nightmares. Nobody else knows that I always stare down the alleyways on the walk home because I keep thinking I’ll see Steve in there getting beat up, or help me pick out jackets based on how easy it will be to remove the left sleeve. You’re the only one for me, doll, and I wouldn’t trade you for a heartbeat.”

He reaches into a pocket. “Here, I’ll prove it.” He takes out something silvery, like stamped metal. With a jolt, you realize they’re his dog tags, the ones he had from fighting in World War II all those years ago. He gestures for you to turn around and you do, feeling the weight of the metal around your throat as he fastens them. When you look back at him, he’s smiling. “See? You can’t get rid of me, love. Not in a million years.” 

You smile, running your fingers over the faded lettering. “Won’t you want them? You know, as a memory of your old life?” Bucky shakes his head, a content expression lingering in his eyes. “I don’t need them to remember. I’ve got you, and you’re the only home I’ll ever need.” When he kisses you again, you can feel the dog tags right over your heart, like a promise that he’ll always be with you, no matter what.

[animeomegas]

Omega!Sasuke - Domestic headcanons

Anon: I love your omega sasuke writings!! Their sooo cutee!Could I ask for fluffy domestic headcannons with omega sasuke and his mate pleeasee!

(Thank you so much! My omega!Sasuke writings have become something of a feature of this blog heehee. This ask is the oldest one I have, so I apologise for the wait <3<3 Enjoy)

Warnings: None.

Sasuke is not the most domestically skilled (although he’s not bad either), but he is definitely a homebody.

Sasuke is just the happiest when he’s at home. There’s no pressure, no judgement, no expectation, and for those reasons, it’s his favourite place to be.

And to share that space with someone he loves and cherishes makes him very happy. 

I want to write this by taking a look at a perfect day at home when neither Sasuke nor his mate has to work. 

Morning

Sasuke has always been an early riser. Never in his life has he been able to sleep in. Whether it was following his brother around, training, nightmares, or missions, Sasuke considers 7:30 am a lie in. Most people disagree with him. 

But something that has changed compared to all those times, is that now he likes to spend a few extra minutes in bed, taking in his alpha’s scent, and revelling in the warmth of another person. (He also sometimes leaves a few kisses on his alpha’s face but will deny it if he’s caught.)

Sasuke gets out of bed, gets dressed and goes downstairs silently. He always makes a pot of tea. 

Sasuke finds a great interest in tea as he gets older. He enjoys finding rare blends and brings back tea whenever he goes travelling. 

He sits and enjoys his tea on the porch in the peace and quiet of the early morning.

When he’s done, he waters the plants in your garden, mainly tomato plants.

He had started a small tomato garden after prompting from you and his therapist. Sasuke thought it was stupid, but you convinced him to give it a shot. After experiencing so much death, curating life was like a breath of fresh air. 

As an introvert, Sasuke enjoys spending this time by himself in the mornings.

When he’s done, he heads back into the kitchen and starts to cook breakfast for the both of you. 

And he can never keep the smile off his face when he feels your arms snake around his waist.

“Morning,” you whispered, leaning you head on Sasuke’s shoulder and watching him fry some fish. 

“Morning.”

“Did you sleep okay?” 

Sasuke hummed in the positive as you started to place kisses on his neck. You buried your face into his neck and took a deep breath. Sasuke huffed and pushed your face away.

“Go be useful and lay the table.”

You laughed and pulled away from him to do as you were asked, but not before giving him a slap on the behind. Sasuke rolled his eyes at your behaviour and swatted you away.  

Sasuke is the sort of cook who is very good at cooking a small collection of meals and as such, tends to lean towards traditional meals, the kind his mother used to make for him. For breakfast, he always makes fish, rice and miso soup.

You both always eat breakfast at your dining table. If you ever suggest eating it in bed or on the sofa, Sasuke will judge you heavily. He’s a dining room table only kind of guy.

Sasuke is very traditional in a lot of ways, and his mother and father always taught him that meals were eaten at a table.

 Afternoon:

The afternoon, the perfect time for errands and cleaning. According to Sasuke, anyway.  

As long as he doesn’t bump into anyone he knows, he actually finds running errands pretty relaxing.

Unfortunately, he almost always bumps into someone he knows, so you’re on errand duty, and Sasuke will stay safe inside his own house and clean.

He gives you a list of things to pick up. The list is very extensive and specific. And Sasuke will be grumpy if you buy the wrong kind of thing.

While Sasuke doesn’t have the largest repertoire of meals he can cook, he’s very good at cleaning.

He likes to keep a minimalist, traditional style, very similar to the style of the house he grew up in. This style only works with a tidy and clean house.

Sasuke gets stressed if his home space is messy, so he tidies and cleans every day unless he’s on a mission.

If he is on a mission and the house isn’t at least mostly clean when he gets back, he gets salty about it.

 “Sasuke!” you called out. “I’m back, can you help me with the bags?”

 He immediately shunshined next to you.

 You swore in surprise, dropping the bags that you had cradled in your arms.

 Sasuke was unperturbed, catching them smoothly with a muttered, “Don’t drop the bags,” before sweeping them into the kitchens.

 You stared after him from a moment.

 “’Don’t drop the bags’,” you mocked him under your breath.

 “I heard that.”

 You ignored him, walking into the perfectly clean kitchen. He managed to clean everything before you were done shopping? You shook your head in disbelief. Before you lived together, you would never have pegged Sasuke as the neat freak type, but he absolutely was. You can still remember the horror on his face when you spilled wine all over the tatami mats in your bedroom. You laughed lightly at the memory.

 “Did you pick up the aubergines?” Sasuke asked, rifling through the bags.

 “Yes, of course.”

 “And the green tea?”

 You huffed out a laugh and rolled your eyes.

 “I got everything you put on the list, Sasuke, I promise,” you put your hands on his shoulders, leaning down to kiss him to shut up his nagging.

 Sasuke sighed quietly into the kiss, bring his arms up to wrap around your waist.  Eventually, you broke the kiss, but continued to rest your forehead against Sasuke’s.

 “The house looks amazing by the way, thanks for cleaning it,” you whispered.

 “If it was up to you, we’d live in squalor, so someone has to do it,” he grumbled, trying to cover up the pleased blush covering his face at your compliment.

 You just shook your head, leaning down to steal another kiss from your grumpy husband.

 Evening:

Evenings with Sasuke are very calm.

He enjoys an evening of coexisting while working on different tasks.

Maybe you’re sewing something and Sasuke is reading a book, his head on your lap.

Or perhaps you decide to do some writing while Sasuke gets some work done, shoulder brushing together.

He’s not one for talking, but casual physical affection with his alpha is something Sasuke loves.

Evenings like this after long missions, Sasuke often falls asleep on your shoulder, leaning instinctively into the warmth and comforting smell.

If he’s in a good mood, sometimes you can hear a few purrs escape, which is the cutest thing ever of course.

Sasuke’s purr is very quiet generally, but it’s a lovely sound. Every time he does it, it just fills you with a warm feeling.

Peaceful coexistence really it Sasuke’s bread and butter.

 You sat as still as possible on the sofa, supressing a smile as you felt Sasuke’s head get heavier and heavier on your shoulder. He was falling asleep.

 When you had first met, he wouldn’t have trusted you to tell him the time correctly, but now? Now, simply being in your presence put him at ease enough that he simply fell asleep.

 You turned ever so slightly to press a gentle kiss to his head. His hair was still slightly damp from his bath. He smelt clean and a little sweeter than normal. Sasuke had tried out a new shampoo when the shop had run out of his favourite one. You made a note to tell him that you preferred this one; it mingled much better with his natural scent.

 You looked out the window briefly, noting how dark it had become. You had to get yourself and Sasuke into bed soon, but you just didn’t have the heart to wake him up.

 The silence was suddenly broken by a quiet purring sound.

 Sasuke was purring into your neck.

 Well, now you definitely couldn’t wake him up.

 You could feel the vibrations from Sasuke’s chest on your arms, while his steady breathing tickled the hairs on your neck. You sighed in resignation. Guess you were stuck here for a little longer, not that you were complaining, of course.

 You grabbed a book from the side table to entertain yourself while Sasuke slept peacefully on your shoulder. Peaceful rest didn’t come often for Sasuke, so you weren’t going to be the one to ruin it.

[ofmermaidstories]

hEWWo merms, i'm just gonna toss my... pitch for an isekai plot here if you don't mind: y/n has always been frail from birth or maybe she's very sick or something and likes reading superhero stories like bnha and maybe even self-insert/reader insert fanfic for wish fulfillment, and then idk something happens and one day she wakes up in the hospital and like bakugou is there and at first she's just like 'omg i read too much fanfiction i must be dreaming now' and bakugou says like 'yadda yadda yadda you fucking idiot why'd you go do some hero shit alone' and y/n just goes along with it because this is a dream right and yeah sure she could be a pro-hero in a dream world.... but then the 'dream' keeps going and she gets discharged from the hospital and eventually goes 'wait why is the dream not ending what's going on' and she's expected to go back to work as a PRO-HERO and she doesn't know what to do or maybe even what her quirk is supposed to be and she has to look 'herself' up to try and figure it out. all the while, bakugou and possibly even deku are like 'something very strange is going on with y/n' at this point i think either y/n (since she was sickly in the real world) would try to own the pro-hero life she's inherited- tho when i first thought this up i thought it'd be interesting if she quit because she finds out being a pro-hero is actually very scary when faced with some situations and y/n is not emotionally equipped to handle it/doesn't really know how to use her quirk and bakugou starts banging down her door and demanding to know why she quit like a loser or deku showing up and trying to ask what's wrong because she's been acting strange. maybe she'd try to quit after her first foray if something went wrong and she doubts if she can be a pro-hero at all... i'm unsure ANYWAY I'M SORRY FOR RAMBLING SO MUCH ABOUT THIS I JUST WANTED TO SHARE. ;;;;

NAHHHHH Stell!!!!! You gotta write this wtf, it’s so GOOD. 😭 Omg, imagine the angst LMFAO. ALSO???? “quit like a loser” BAKUGOU!!!! BAD!!!!! and omg, like—could you imagine Deku going into his tunnel-vision I have to save them mode??? He’d be so concerned. 😭 And both of them, watching Y/N flounder in a life she used to be so incredible in—the suspicion!!!!!!! the panic attack Y/N would have??? bc im telling you now, Stell, if it were me and I suddenly woke up in a life where i was expected to like, idk, lift buildings off of school buses full of children or an old folks home or whatever i would just simply lay down and die LMAO. lkdjflksdjlskdfr. i’d wait for my dreams to take me back home. 😌✨ not ONE THING could convince me to stay and play in a league where people regularly get thrown into buildings or fried to a crisp!!!!!!!!! i just simply would not. Bakugou himself could pound on my door demanding answers and i would simply pretend i can’t hear him <3 what pro-hero career??? what world filled with quirks????? idk what you’re talking about bestie, but i write fanfiction and mind my own damn business <333 ESPECIALLY!!!!! especially if our Y/N was like, so poorly beforehand. 🥺 Like nah girlie—don’t play their game!!! run free!!!!!!!!! take that new health and BOLT, LOL. sdlkjflksdjfklsfdg. (this is the literal opposite of what you were going for i know, LOL, im sorry stell sdljlksdfhjlksdj).

me n Cat were talking about isekais and i was like, “isekais are a form of horror” and honestly i stand by that LMAO, like, omg. the nightmare of waking up and having like, idk, people depend on you for their very lives……. no thank-you <3 not even the most beloved of anime boyfriends could convince me to square up to that. :’)

saying all that, i’d be curious as to how you’d end it, Stell. 🥺 Like… does your Y/N grow into herself and her new life and new responsibilities???? Is it her life forever, now?????? Does it get taken away from her???????????? This is why I’m sticking by my isekai=horror take, like, idk—imagine being all, “okay… okay this is fine, everything is fine” and like, adjusting to your new life and getting to enjoy it and learn to be good at it, to love your new relationships—to watch yourself grow—and then you wake back up in bed, in the real world. :’))))))))))))))

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur has never had wings. He has long since resigned himself to that fact. However much of his father's blood runs through his veins, it is not enough to grant him that gift.

Wilbur comes back to life, and his back begins to ache.

(word count: 6,141)

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

It’s stupid, but when his back first begins to ache, he assumes it’s old age.

The thing is that he doesn’t have any real frame of reference for what constitutes as old and what does not. His father is old, but his father has lived for literally thousands of years. Technoblade is not quite so old as that, but Technoblade never dies is more than just a catchphrase. Tommy is young, he’s sure of that much, but Tommy has days where he wakes up and his head and ribs won’t stop aching, remnants of that third death that have never quite left him, so Tommy is perhaps not the best gauge of what pains are and are not normal for a young person.

Wilbur doesn’t think that he’s particularly old. He’s still not yet thirty, unless he counts the void years. Then, he’s older than thirty. Then, he’s older than his own bones. He tries not to dwell on the void years, because dwelling on the void years gives him urges that he’s still learning how to ignore. Urges like informing everyone gaily and at length when the inevitable heat death of the universe will be, or giving everyone a graphic description of what happens at a microscopic level in the human body when it picks up a stomach bug.

The point is, he’s not very old. But he feels it, a lot of the time, so when he wakes up one morning and his back is killing him, he shrugs it off and goes about his day. It hurts, sure. It hurts kind of a lot. But he’s had worse. The void took him apart molecule by molecule and put him back together again so many times that he learned to love it, and compared to that, this is nothing at all.

Life in the Arctic has been—nice. It’s been nice, reconnecting with Phil, cautiously rebuilding his relationship with Technoblade. Tommy comes to visit a lot, and it’s odd, trying to juggle the kid he thinks of as a brother with his father and his father’s best friend, especially when there’s so much bad blood between the lot of them, but they make it work. And Ranboo is around a lot, and he’s a nice kid, and Niki stops by every so often, and it’s good to see her. No one else is very interested in coming to visit him, which is understandable, but she always smiles at him, and he knows that they’re still friends. Which is good.

He’s fairly sure that the four of them, Phil and Techno and Niki and Ranboo, have some sort of secret club thing going on. They always give him different answers when he asks about it; Niki blinks and tells him it’s a book club, and Ranboo does not blink because he does not have eyelids, but Ranboo claims that it’s a pet grooming society. So they’re lying to him for sure, and he thinks he could know the truth if he wanted to, if he tapped in just a bit more to those bits of void that have nestled in his heart. The temptation is strong, sometimes, but he resists.

He doesn’t want to mess with a good thing, is all. He’s found a peace here in the snow that he didn’t think he would be able to find outside of the grave. He is hesitant to call himself healing, but most days, when his head cries out for blood and fire and burning the world and himself along with it, he can push the idea away and carry on without trying to act on it. That is healing, perhaps.

Captain Puffy tells him it is, anyway, and he’s found that Captain Puffy tends to know what she’s talking about.

But so. His back hurts. And he expects it to stop after a while, because even old person aches surely can’t last forever. Except, it doesn’t, and in fact seems to only get worse over the next few days, to the point that he starts to worry that it’s going to begin interfering with his functionality. Which he doesn’t want. He needs freedom, freedom to go where he wants, even if where he wants to go usually isn’t very far. It’s the principle of the thing. He does not do well with confinement, with spaces that are too enclosed, and if this pain ends up laying him out in his room, he’s going to go insane.

Poor choice of words, that. But the point still stands, so he makes a decision. The decision is this: he’s simply not going to allow that to happen.

So he slaps a smile on his face and carries on with his business, and does his best to ignore the way his spine starts to feel like it’s cracking open and stabbing into the surrounding muscle. And he is a very good actor, if he does say so himself, so for the most part, no one seems to notice that anything is wrong. Phil asks him if he’s feeling alright, but he’s able to deflect by claiming fatigue, and Phil accepts the explanation easily. And the pain only increases, does not let up at all, but it’s a gradual sort of increase, so before too long, he figures out how to adjust to it. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

And then Tommy stops by for a visit, and they’re chatting outside for a moment, and Tommy says something stupid and ridiculous, so he smacks him gently upside the head, which Tommy takes objection to. And then they’re wrestling, which makes the pain flare a bit, but it’s manageable, especially since he gets Tommy pinned in about four seconds flat, which. Is concerning, a bit, because he is not particularly strong, physically, so if he can pin Tommy, there are a lot of other people who could also definitely pin Tommy.

But he’s probably not thinking about it the right way. This was a play fight, not a real one, and it’s difficult, sometimes, to remember that the server is currently at peace.

He pins Tommy, both of them panting and grinning in the snow, and he doesn’t let up until Tommy admits defeat. And then he gets to his feet, and here is where he makes the error: he turns his back.

The snowball impacts him right between his shoulder blades. He stumbles forward with the force of it, and his knees hit the snow.

Tommy is already cackling, is calling him a bitch. Wilbur barely has time to think oh, shit before something spasms, and it’s like something has taken a knife to him from the inside out. He hears a strangled little scream, choked and agonized, and barely recognizes the fact that it’s coming from him, because black spots are dancing across his vision and his lungs aren’t inflating properly and he can hardly think.

“Oh, come on,” Tommy says, a wide smile still in his voice. “Don’t be such a pussy. I didn’t even pack any ice in.”

He can’t reply. The agony is centered where the snowball hit, but it’s radiating outward, and the whole of his back feels like it’s burning and freezing all at once, and he shudders violently, breaths coming in short, quick gasps. He clenches his fists, braces them against his thighs, pressing down hard enough to leave bruises.

“Wilbur?” Tommy asks, more uncertain. And then, Tommy is there, kneeling down in front of him, and his face goes all wide and panicky. “Wilbur? Holy shit, are you dying? Are you having a heart attack? A stroke? Are you freezing to death? Have I just killed you with a snowball? You’ve got three lives again, right? Where are you hurt, Wil, come one, you’ve got to tell me, you’ve gotta tell me so I can fix it, are you—”

“My back,” he manages, “my back’s been—my back’s been hurting, it wasn’t your fault, it’s just—” He cuts off with another gasp as all the muscles in his back convulse, tensing and untensing and tensing again and sending a wave of stabbing pain through his nerves.

“Oh, Prime,” Tommy says, “oh, Prime, alright, you’re gonna be fine, big man, let’s just get you inside, alright? Can you walk? Nevermind, just—” Tommy hooks his hands underneath his arms and hauls him to his feet, slinging one of his arms across his shoulders as soon as he can get them in the right position. He lets out a little whimper, and hates himself for doing so, just a little bit, but fuck, that hurts.

The stairs are a trial. His feet drag, and he would trip and fall flat on his face if it weren’t for Tommy. But then, they’re inside Phil’s house, and Tommy sits him down on Phil’s ratty little couch, and he immediately curls in on himself, hands gripping his forearms as if the pain will go away if he hugs himself hard enough.

“Okay, shirt off, Wil, let me see,” Tommy says, and he blinks dumbly for a moment.

“What?” he asks, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.

“No, just—you’ve got to let me see what’s wrong, yeah?”

“‘S old man aches,” he mumbles, but doesn’t try to fight it when Tommy begins manhandling his arms, pushing at his coat sleeves.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Tommy demands. “You’re not that old. Who do you think you are, Philza fucking Minecraft? Come on, just let me see—” He finally manages to get the coat off, and then the shirt, and his skin erupts in gooseflesh as it’s exposed to the air. Tommy freezes.

“What?” he asks. “What is it, what’s—”

“I don’t,” Tommy says, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t, Wilbur, I don’t know what this is, I don’t—holy shit, that’s actually kind of scary. Um! No, nevermind, don’t pay attention to me, just keep um, breathing! Breathing is good! Breathing exercises!” He breathes in and out, loud and exaggerated. “See, just like that. I’m just gonna—”

And he puts a hand out, and before Wilbur can stop him, he rests it on his back. Light and cautious, but still too much, and Wilbur stuffs a fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming. In the same motion, he flinches away, violently, but the damage has already been done. Because the contact hurts, a lot, but what’s worse is the horror, because in the split second that Tommy’s hand touched his skin, he could feel the way that it is wrong, that his back is wrong, that there is something terribly wrong. Because there are ridges protruding from his back, long and thick and raised, and it’s wrong and it hurts and Tommy’s right, actually, this is scary, he’s fucking scared.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Tommy is saying, “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I won’t do that again, I’m so sorry, Wilbur, are you okay? Please be okay, please—”

He nods, though it’s more like he lets his head fall and then painstakingly brings it back up a little.

“Okay, I think we need—” Tommy says. “I think that I don’t know what to do, so I think we need—” He takes a deep breath. “Phil! Phil!” Loud, panicked, earsplitting. Wilbur winces. “Phil! He is home, isn’t he? Phil!”

A second passes, and then, drifting up from the basement, a distant, “Tommy? Everything good?”

“Phil, get up here right fucking now!”

There is a beat of silence, and then there are footsteps, quiet at first but growing closer, and they are quick, hurried. Phil must have detected the genuine fear in Tommy’s voice, because Tommy and Phil generally stand on very shaky ground with each other, so while Phil will typically indulge Tommy in his whims, it depends on the day as to how far he’ll go, how quick he’ll respond. But it’s only a moment or two before Phil’s head pokes out of the floor, his hands clinging to the ladder, his face twisted in confusion.

“What on earth is the matter?” he asks, and then breaks off as his eyes land on Wilbur, who—he must be a sight. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. But terror flashes across Phil’s face, and he is crossing the floor in an instant, hands hovering over him, fluttering helplessly, though thankfully, he doesn’t touch.

“What’s wrong, where are you hurt, what—” The words come out in a jumbled flurry, but he stops just as abruptly, and Wilbur knows that he is looking at the horror show that is his back.

“It hurts, Phil,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Phil says, sounding—still concerned, but perhaps marginally calmer? “Okay, you’re going to be alright. I think I know what this is.” He settles himself on the couch right next to him and opens his arms, and Wilbur doesn’t hesitate before leaning forward, slumping against him. Phil seems to know better than to put any kind of pressure on his back, and instead places one hand on his arm and the other on the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair.

“Then what the fuck is it?” Tommy demands.

“Tommy, I need you to run over to Techno’s and ask him for something for pain, and something for sleep. Can you do that for me?” Phil asks instead of answering, and perhaps Wilbur should be terrified by the implication that he’s going to need either of those things, but the promise of some kind of relief overrides any kind of trepidation.

“Like fuck I will,” Tommy says, “Not before you tell me what the fuck is wrong with him!”

Another convulsion wracks him. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, and tastes blood. His breath is hitching, and he can’t stop it.

“Tommy.” Phil’s voice is sharp, but then, Wilbur feels rather than hears him sigh. “It’s wings, I think. I don’t understand why now, but I went through this a long time ago, when I was very young. I recognize the signs. So Tommy, please.”

Tommy makes a surprised little sound. Wilbur isn’t looking, has his face buried in Phil’s shoulder, but he can imagine the look on his face: the slack jaw, the wide open eyes. And then, there are rushed footsteps retreating, and the door slamming, and Tommy’s muffled voice calling out for Technoblade.

And then, Wilbur processes what Phil just said.

He twists his head around so he can see his face, regretting it a moment later. Any kind of movement seems to make the pain worse, and he has to take a moment to tremble through it.

“Wings?” he whispers. “How?”

He’s never had wings.

If he were going to have wings, he would have gotten them a long time ago. He remembers nights spent as a child, staying up and hoping for feathered appendages to somehow miraculously appear on his back, just so he could be more like his dad. He remembers the crushing disappointment when he finally accepted that no matter how much divine blood runs in his veins, it is apparently not enough.

But he did accept it. He accepted it years ago. There is absolutely no reason for him to be developing wings now, as a fully-grown adult, but Phil sounds so very sure, and his back hurts so very much, and perhaps that’s consistent with actual appendages trying to sprout out of him.

“I don’t know,” Phil says. “I’ve never heard of it happening so late, even in avians. Which, I’m not exactly, but I got mine when I was a kid like they do, and I don’t—I don’t know, Wil, I really don’t, but I remember what it was like, yeah? I know what to do. It’s gonna suck for a little while, but you’re going to be fine, I promise.”

“Okay,” he croaks, “okay—” and then he has to stop talking, because the pain flares again, bright and intense and holy shit, but it’s worse this time, because now that he knows what’s going on, he can feel them. He can feel things inside of him, pushing against his muscles and his skin in ways that absolutely should not be possible, and there is too much of him to be contained in his body, and there are things inside of him trying to escape—

It’s almost like the way he gets when he thinks about the void too hard. Except not, because when he does that, he feels the urge to dissolve away, gently and peacefully, to let himself back into the quiet that is not quiet and the darkness that is not dark, where all the knowledge of the world is at his fingertips, too much for a mortal brain to contain and remain sane. That is not this. This is his own body trying to explode. There is no peace, no dissolution; it’s messy and physical and Prime he just wants it to stop.

He shifts in Phil’s grasp, fruitlessly trying to find a position that takes the pressure off, a little bit. It’s no use, of course, because he can still feel something moving under the skin of his back, and his vision whites out, and when he comes back to himself, he’s shivering, shivering and shaking and sobbing in Phil’s hold, and he doesn’t remember when he started crying but he can’t seem to make himself stop. Phil is keeping up a steady stream of soothing nonsense, and he latches onto the sound of his voice like it’s the only lifeline he has.

And then the door bursts open, and Wilbur doesn’t bother trying to look, but there are two sets of footsteps, not just one.

“Here,” Tommy says, panting, and there are several thumps, and several clinks, glass on glass.

“Oh god, don’t—and he’s doing it, he’s just dumping all of that on the floor. Don’t break those, Tommy, those aren’t splash pots. Have you never handled a potion before.” Technoblade pauses for a moment. “So, what exactly’s wrong with him? The child was making no sense at all.”

Wilbur thinks he detects a note of concern. But he’s not thinking clearly, and it’s always hard to tell anyway, with Technoblade.

“He’s got wings growing in,” Phil responds, voice clipped. Wilbur feels his hand leave his arm, and he whines at the loss of touch. And then another spasm, and he whines again, pressing his face harder into Phil’s shirt.

“Oh. Huh. Yes, that makes perfect sense, of course.”

Phil’s arm dips a bit, and Wilbur finds himself being moved, his head gently tilted back. Phil’s face comes into view, pale and blurry.

“You want to drink this for me, Wil?” he says, and then there is glass at his lips, and he parts them immediately. He doesn’t like being knocked out, doesn’t like the loss of control that comes with it, but if he has to be aware for another five minutes, he’s not going to be able to keep himself from screaming aloud.

He swallows, grimacing at the taste. The effects start hitting right away. His mind detaches from himself, and the pain drains from him. Every muscle goes lax.

He exhales.

“There we go,” Phil murmurs, “there we go. It’s gonna be alright, Wil. I’ll be here the whole time. You’re gonna be okay.”

The world falls away. He lets it. He trusts his father to catch him.

----------

He wakes up a few times, and each time, it hurts. Phil is always there, and usually, Tommy too, and sometimes Techno, and he can barely move but they always see that he’s awake, and they give him a potion and he’s under again, and he’s glad for it, because those moments of consciousness are a spiral of pain and confusion and his thoughts flying apart because he barely understands what’s going on or why he’s hurting and he just wants it to go away.

And then there is the time he wakes up and he thinks somebody is cutting his back open, and he can feel his own blood on his skin, sticky and hot, and he thrashes, trying to get away, and that makes the pain so much worse, and the sound that comes out of his mouth is inhuman, and he fights until a potion is poured down his throat and it’s back to sleep again.

And then there is the time he wakes up, and people are talking in low, hushed tones. He can’t make out what they’re saying. He cracks his eyes open, and it’s Phil and Technoblade, deep in some discussion, both looking terribly concerned. He decides he’ll ask what’s wrong later, and then closes his eyes and goes back to sleep again.

And then there is the time he wakes up, and some part of him is moving, and he doesn’t understand what it is because it’s not any of his limbs, not his arms and not his legs, and it feels alien and foreign and his back feels like it’s been shoved under a woodchipper and then tossed through a paper shredder for good measure, and he’s not aware enough to know why, so he panics. There is a bit of the void that still dwells in his heart, and he calls on it, cries out to it, and it answers, comes rushing in around him, and his mind expands to peer into galaxies.

Philza is at his side a moment later, and he is able to look at him and see all the weight of years that lie behind his eyes, and all the years that lie ahead of him, and the moment of his death, all spiraling out like a tapestry and like a mass, and the music is atonal, confused, but a closer glance reveals it to be twelve-tone, order in the chaotic lines. Wilbur is with the void again, and his heart still beats, but it’s a near thing, and he could stop it if he chose.

“Do you want to know, Philza?” he asks, words spilling from his lips like rain, like the river, like the flood. “Do you want to know when it will happen? I can see it. I can see how some part of you wants it. All our histories are like tangled up threads, but they all come to an end, and I can see those endings, Philza, I can tell you about them if you like.”

Pain constricts Philza’s face, and Wilbur doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know who wouldn’t love the void and its peace and its everything.

“I know, Wilbur,” Philza says, “I know, but how about you come back to me now, okay? Come back to me?”

“We’re all little bits of code, Philza,” he informs him. “None of us are real. We’re little bits of code and words on a page and lines in a script written by our better selves. Nothing in this world really matters. We might as well have all the fun we can before the lights go out. Do you want to know when that will be, Philza? Not too long after you, Philza. Not too long at all. I told Tommy, he knows, he didn’t want to know but that’s alright, he’s better off for it, if he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Come back, Wil, come on,” Philza says, “you can do it. You’ve got a heartbeat, do you feel it?”

Philza takes his hand and places it over his heart, and—that’s right. He’s alive. He’d forgotten. The void spins, and then it tucks itself away again, waiting for the next moment he needs it, and he is left with only vague impressions of what he’s just said and a vague idea that everything hurts and something is wrong with his back and he’d like to go to sleep now, please.

“Alright, yeah,” Phil says, “here, you can have this, you can sleep. You’re doing so well, Wil, I promise it’s almost done.”

He takes the potion. Or tries to; Phil has to hold it for him.

“Okay,” he says faintly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he hears Phil say, very far away. “So long as you come back, everything’s okay.”

He goes back to sleep again. He thinks he wakes up a few more times, but he doesn’t really remember. He doesn’t really want to.

----------

And then: awareness.

The first thing he processes is that everything aches, deeply and acutely, but none of it feels nearly as bad as it did before, and not even as bad as it’s been over the past couple of weeks. It’s irritating, painful, but more than manageable, really, practically a relief. The second thing he processes is that he’s lying on his stomach, and that there is something weighing him down.

His mind puzzles over this for a moment. He tries to roll over, to see what’s going on, but something stops him, and then he remembers: wings.

He’s got wings. There are wings on his back. Growing out of him. A part of his body. Wings.

As soon as he realizes that, he becomes aware of them. And it is so very strange, to suddenly have access to two extra limbs, to suddenly have additional body parts to move about and control. It’s a feeling impossible to describe, and he has to take several minutes to process it, to try to become accustomed to it. It doesn’t really work, but he tries moving them anyway, just a bit of a flex, and—

Ouch.

He groans, shoving his face into the pillow. A mistake. That was a mistake. He’d rather like to go back to sleep now and pretend that none of this is happening.

But his vocalization draws attention, and then there is a hand on his shoulder, gently brushing him just enough to feel, not enough to pain him. He turns his head to the side, reluctantly, and Phil is kneeling beside him, his face open and soft and clearly relieved, his lips curling into a slight smile.

“Hey,” he says. “How you feeling, Wil?”

He considers this, and decides on honesty. “Bit like I’ve been caught between a piston and a wall for the past couple of days,” he admits. “Better than before, though.”

“Good to hear,” Phil says, and then his face goes a bit more serious. “How much of that do you remember?”

“Not much?” he says. “I don’t think? Impressions, I guess. I know I wasn’t having a good time. I’m glad I don’t remember it too clearly. I was out for most of it, yeah?”

“Most of it,” Phil agrees, and Wilbur thinks that perhaps there is something he’s not saying, but he doesn’t feel like pressing the matter. He can guess what it is, anyway; there is a chill in his chest, and his thoughts feel just slightly more fractured than usual, so it’s not hard to assume what might have happened. Not hard to assume where he might have gone. He’s sure he’ll feel terrible about it when everything stops feeling so surreal.

He has wings.

“It’s over now?” he asks, and winces at the way his voice cracks. “It’s done?”

Phil’s eyes do the thing where they go immeasurably soft and crinkly at the edges, and it’s love and relief and sadness all at once. “It’s done,” he agrees, and then hesitates. “You’re not gonna be able to fly on them for a while, but would you like to see?”

He doesn’t understand why Phil is being so cautious about it. Of course he wants to see. If he’s going to be put through hell, he wants to see what came of it. He wants it to be worth it.

“Usually, when wings grow in, they’re all downy and shit. Like a baby bird,” Phil says, probably in response to whatever face he’s sure he’s making. “Flight feathers come in over the next few weeks.” He pauses again, and Wilbur thinks he understands his reticence, now, understands the still-present concern.

“But that’s not what happened with mine,” he states, and Phil shakes his head.

“Yours are fully fledged,” he says. “Probably part of why it hurt so much. I don’t know why, Wil. But do you wanna have a look?”

Wordless, he nods, and Phil takes that as his cue to reach out and help him sit upright. It’s far more effort than it should be, compounded by the fact that his sense of balance feels all wrong, and that’s going to take some getting used to, he can already tell. And he’s sore, like he’s run a marathon or fought another half dozen wars all in one go, and his head spins a little bit when he finally situates himself. He closes his eyes against it, breathing in sharply.

He feels Phil guiding his wings forward, into his field of vision. He opens his eyes.

They are very big, is the first thing he notices. They would have to be, of course, to hold his weight up. Magic and suspension of disbelief only stretches so far. They are very large, and the feathers are very large, and they are very angular and neat as well, so neat that someone has to have arranged them while he was unconscious, because there’s no way that they came out looking like that.

The color, though. The color. He swallows, hard.

They are black, perhaps. They look black. But he knows on an instinctive level that they are black in the same way that the void is black, and that if someone were to stare at them for too long, they would realize as much, would realize that actually, they are not black at all, but rather some color or some lack of color that is beyond human comprehension. The void translates as black to the human mind because it is as close as the human mind can get to true perception, and most of the time, Wilbur remembers it as black, but it was not, and his wings are not, and he is never going to be free of it, is he?

On some level, he knew that. Knew that the void is in him and about him, and no matter what he does, it will never leave him completely, not after all the years he spent with it, intertwined with the infinite nothing. But now he has wings on his back, and they should be a connection between him and Phil, should be something to celebrate, but he stares at the plumage and feels sick to his stomach.

“Wil?” Phil asks. He sounds confused, sounds worried by his reaction. “You okay, mate?”

He’s not sure how to phrase this in a way that Phil will understand. Not sure that he wants to.

“Void,” he manages, voice a broken whisper. “They look like void, Phil.”

He looks up just in time to see Phil’s face crumple.

“Wil—”

“They look just like it, Phil,” he continues. “Just like it. And I know I’m not always good about, about being here, about keeping myself stable, but I’m trying. I try to ignore it when it calls, I try not to reach out to it, and when I fail, I, I try to come back, I do, I swear. I can’t—I can’t have these, Phil, they’re from it, that’s why I’m getting them now, maybe it triggered something, I don’t know, but I can’t, Phil, I can’t—”

He reaches out toward them, intending to do—something, maybe, and Phil must have a better idea than he does, because his hand darts out and snags his, stopping him in his tracks.

“No, Wil, don’t do that, okay? We can work on it, we’ll figure it out, but please don’t—”

“You’re up!”

He and Phil both freeze, and as one, look to the door. Tommy is standing there, grinning like nobody’s business, and Technoblade is lurking behind him, his face contorted into an expression that looks like he wants to murder someone but really just means he’s feeling very awkward.

Tommy glances back and forth between the two of him, and his face slowly falls.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Nothing—I mean, it all went right, didn’t it?”

He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. Gently removes his hand from Phil’s grasp, and then spreads out his wings behind him, putting them on full display, as far out as he can make them go, and it aches and he’s not going to be able to hold them there for long, but it’s worth it. He wants Tommy to see. Because Tommy will know. Tommy remembers. And unlike him, Tommy hates to remember. Tommy hates the void. So perhaps this is an act of self-sabotage. That’s what Captain Puffy would say. But he does it anyway, because he wants someone else to see and understand, understand in a way he knows Phil won’t be able to.

“I’ve got void wings, Tommy,” he says, and a smile splits his face. “See them?”

Tommy’s eyes widen, and he flinches.

Gratification is not nearly as sweet as he thought it would be. Actually, he just sort of feels like crying.

But then, Tommy’s brows draw together. And he steps further into the room, coming closer and closer until he’s standing right up against the bed, staring at the feathers. Wilbur holds himself very still.

“I see,” Tommy says slowly, “but Wilbur, I’m not sure you do.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, and cranes his neck to try to see whatever Tommy’s looking at. For a moment, he doesn’t; there’s just the feathers, void feathers, death feathers, a reminder that—

But arctic sunlight slants through the window, and if he shifts his angle just a little bit—

The noise that escapes him is small and involuntary. He hopes no one calls him on it, but that’s the least of his concerns right now. Because the colors do not change, not exactly, but if he holds them to the light, the sun illuminates the feathers, haloing their edges in gold, and there is a sheen of color running across them, a sheen that ripples and moves as he shifts them in the sunbeam, and it is a beautiful, rich blue.

And they’re lovely.

“Oh,” he says, and Tommy laughs at him, the fucking gremlin.

“Yeah, fucking oh,” he says. “You’re such a moron. They’re so fucking ace, Wilbur.”

“I think that maybe you need to work on rememberin’,” Technoblade says from the doorway, “that you’re the sum of all your experiences, and not just one.”

Wilbur stares at him.

“Oh my god,” he finally says. “That’s so cheesy. Who the hell are you and what have you done with Technoblade?”

“Alright,” Techno grumbles, “see if I do anythin’ nice for you ever again. I didn’t come up here to receive this kind of treatment. This is an outrage.”

He laughs. He laughs, from the sheer relief of it, and his trepidation is melting away like snow in the sunshine, and he can allow himself to revel in it, to revel in the wings on his back, and he is sore and tired but this is what glory feels like, maybe, and perhaps he can fly into the air and there will be no wax to drip away.

Perhaps these wings are of the void, but they are of him, too.

And he looks to Phil again, and Phil is smiling at him, warm and happy. His own wings are flared out behind him, tattered at the edges, so many feathers torn or still missing entirely, and the more time that passes, the more and more likely it is that those feathers are never going to grow back, that Phil truly will never fly again. Phil has already resigned himself to it, he knows, but Wilbur has never given up hope, will never be able to bring himself to give up hope.

“It’s not fair that I can fly when you can’t,” he says quietly, and the room goes still and quiet. Especially when it’s my fault, he doesn’t say, though he knows everyone hears it.

“Wil,” Phil says, “nothing could bring me more joy than this.”

And Wilbur hears what he means: you, here.

So he flexes his wings and revels in the ache and revels in the sunshine and revels at his family, here, his father sitting by him and his friend-protege-brother poking at curiously at his feathers and Technoblade still in the doorway, not leaving even for all his grumbling. He revels in this, revels in this life, and for a time, the void recedes entirely.

And in its wake is the sunlight.

[its-not-a-phase-mom-i-d8-demons]

The Brother’s Reaction to MC having a Nightmare

bAby

this gif... holy SHIT 

Lucifer

Whether you started the evening snuggled up under his chin or all alone in your room, he’s an extremely light sleeper since he’s got to keep an ear out for Mammon being stupid at 2 am

So when you start to move restlessly and/or whimper and cry, naturally he’ll awaken and see what the issue is

Lucifer will sit up and gently rest a tentative hand on your trembling shoulder, so as not to startle you

His presence only seemed to make it worse! Your tears got bigger and your cries got louder, your breathing became more uneven until you woke with a start, your own shrill scream scaring you into a frightened, crying ball in front of him

Boi is at a loss…

Was this his fault?

“MC, darling, what has gotten into you? Are you alright?”

“L-Lucifer?” You whimper, watery eyes roving aimlessly in the darkness “L-L-Lucifer?! Where are-”

Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, he reassures you: “I’m here, right here princess,” “I’ve got you, it was just a dream MC... nothing to worry about.”

Strokes your head, smoothing your rumpled hair and supporting your back while you hide your puffy, tearstained face in his collar and cling to him for dear life until you calm down

You’re still shaking when the usually stiff demon presses a kiss to the crown of your head and begins to rock from side to side, murmuring gentle, reassuring words in your ear

“Nothing can hurt you as long as you’re in my arms, MC.” “Deep breaths my love, deep breaths…”

Mammon’s vivid scary stories before bed had obviously been a bad decision, Lucifer decided as he dabbed your cheeks with a kleenex

his poor, sweet human having nightmares about silly campfire tales…

How endearing, yet upsetting

He’ll carry you to the kitchen bridal style and hold you close after getting you a glass of water, then carry you back to bed and tuck you safely against his broad chest for the rest of the night making a mental note to hang Mammon upside down from the banister the following morning

Mammon

He woke up from his dream about goldie who had read “∞” on the ATM and opened his door in answer to the frantic knock to find his favorite human crying

You rushed into his arms, burying your face in his chest to hide your shuddering sobs, nearly sending the now blushing Avatar of Greed off balance in your haste

“Jeez, human! Wha… What happened? Why’re ya crying like that?”

No, like seriously, plz stop crying babie or he’s gonna cry too

Returns the hug, holding MC firmly as he regains his footing and manages to shut the door behind you

“MC, sssh, I’m right here! You don’t hafta worry, ok? Luckily you’ve got the best demon on the job to make ya feel better! Hug me as hard as ya need, ok?”

*forehead and cheek smooches*

Lets you curl up in his lap until you can talk to him without stuttering or choking on tears

Holds you the whole time, almost as if he’s afraid to let go for fear you’ll cry again

“Bad dream? What was it about?”

“Th-Those characters from Levi’s horror game w-were eating you alive and I c-couldn’t move!” You whimper tearfully, “You were begging me for help a-and I couldn’t do anything to save you from them because every time I moved th-these ropes got t-tighter around my neck a-an-”

First of all, he’s horrified that Levi showed you those games when he knew they gave you nightmares. Unfortunately, you had to if you didn’t want to be called a normie for the billionth time that week

Second, he, the great Mammon, begging a mere human for help? Yeah right

Even though he knew in his heart of hearts that that would definitely be the case

“They’re not real, remember that. And if you still think those freaks are lurking in the dark, come find me and the great Mammon will protect you!”

You can't help but giggle and hug him more tightly, knocking him back onto his pillow

Neither of you felt like moving, so Mammon pulls the sheets up over your shoulders and you snuggle together until the morning comes

At the breakfast table, Mammon doesn’t hesitate to screech at Levi for giving you nightmares while cradling your tired, sleep-deprived body against him

Leviathan

Doesn’t hear MC’s knock at first, he’s too absorbed in the 14th episode of I Was Eating Avocado Salmon Sushi at a Hundred-Yen Revolving Sushi Restaurant When Suddenly I Was Thrown Back in Time a Thousand Years to the Heian Era, Where I Was Selected to Be a Personal Chef for a Princess and Was Later Chosen as a Possible Candidate to Be Her Husband… Now someone Please Tell Me How That’s Even Possible

As the knocking gets louder and more frantic, the otaku finally notices and pauses the anime, goes to the door and opens it a tiny bit

Just enough to see the teary-eyed MC, hugging their waist in discomfort, shivering in fear, and looking left and right down the hall for danger

“... Yeah?”

“L-Levi? C-Can I come in? *sniff* I just had a really scary dream-”

“I-uh… Ummm I g-guess,”

He lets you in and on a whim, places a tentative hand on your back

He expected you to push him away, but when you choked and rushed into his half-open arms and buried your face in his chest, leviachan.exe has stopped working

EXIT

What was he supposed to do with his hands?!?!??

MC was crying and he was just standing there like a normie? Wh… WhAt wOULd HenRy dO?

“MC, h-hey, it cant’ve been that bad… here, um let’s s-sit down a-and you can talk to me. Sound good?”

He feels you nod and leads you to his large gaming beanbag chair and you get squooshed against his side, shivering and sniveling, but warm and safe

Levi dries your face with the edge of his shirt and after a few moments of comfortable silence, you begin to explain your dream

The slimy creatures scaling the walls of the House of Lamentation with their slimy entrails dripping whitish goo in their wake. Eight spindly legs to each monster, sixteen sinister red eyes, and countless rows of gleaming fangs ready to take a chunk out of anyone who came too close

They managed to get into the house and they chased you and the brothers, but the otaku had tripped over a fallen suit of armor and a spider creature made its move before he could get away

At that point, you’d woken up absolutely terrified and rushed to see if Levi was ok

“But you’ve played horror games with me and we watched My Sister and I Found a Spider and Took It Home, Realizing Soon After it Was a Demon Who Eventually Escaped From the Glass Jar We Used for a House and Ate Our Toes, Transporting Us To Hell Where We Were F-”

“Yeah… I know… B-But it wasn’t that bad. I was reading one of the books Satan recommended. It was a really well-written horror story and it had very realistic pictures. I just can’t seem to get those gross monsters out of my head:(”

Your voice slowly trailed off and Levi realized what he had accomplished

You… You weren’t crying anymore!!

Also, you weren’t breathing really hard or shaking too much! Had… had this yucky otaku really calmed the human down?

*gasp* he was rubbing your back too!? And you hadn’t slapped his icky hands away?

You… you were ok with this? B-Being all snuggled up together on the beanbag chair?

“L-Levi, I-I’m ok now. I’ll leave you alone… I hope I didn’t wake you up…”

“N-No!”

“Something wrong?”

“No… I-um,” (he couldn’t let you get away now! This was perfect! He had you all to himself!! No WAY was he gonna screw this up!!) “You c-can stay a little longer if you’d like… I-I was in the middle of I Was Eating Avocado Salmon Sushi at a Hundred-Yen Revolving Sushi Restaurant When Suddenly I Was Thrown Back in Time a Thousand Years to the Heian Era, Where I Was Selected to Be a Personal Chef for a Princess and Was Later Chosen as a Possible Candidate to Be Her Husband… Now someone Please Tell Me How That’s Even Possible… Do you maybe want to stay and watch?”

“You don’t mind? I don’t want to intrude-”

“No! It’s fine!”

And so he fumbled with the remote and hit the play button, but couldn’t focus on a single word the protagonists were saying

You. Fell. Asleep.

On. Him.

Uh

“Maybe… Maybe MC doesn’t think I’m a… ‘yucky otaku’ after all… But don’t get your hopes up, Levi.”

Satan

He fell asleep in his chair, book resting on his chest when he heard a short, quick (almost frantic) string of taps on his door

Being a light sleeper (just like his papa), he immediately woke up to hear your voice on the other side of the door

“Satan? Are… Are you awake? *sniffle*”

It was you

What could you possibly want at this hour?

Upon opening the door, your body crashed into his own, but not before impulsively throwing your arms around his neck and breaking down on his shoulder

“M-MC? Are you alright?”

No, you weren’t

Judging by your stormy sobs and trembling figure, something must have shaken you up horribly for you to act like this

The sweet MC he knew usually kept their cool

He leads you to his big armchair and sits you down, careful to keep a firm hand on your back for support, both emotional and physical

Your eyes were wide and glassy, pupils darting to each corner of the room looking for monsters, bad demons, giant bugs, etc.

Finding none, you finally make shy eye contact with the blonde demon who has kept his arms close about you and dabbed your endless tears away until you were calm enough to speak

“MC, did you have a night terror or something?”

“*sniffle* M-hm. I-I’m sorry S-Satan, I was just so scared I c-couldn’t stay in my room all alone and you were the first person I thought of. So… I ran here. Did I wake you?”

“I fell asleep in my chair again MC. So I would have awakened during the night anyway,” He replied, “Plus, I don’t mind at all. I’m… I’m happy you came. What was your dream about?”

“It was really twisted… are you sure you want to know?”

“You’ll feel better when you talk about it and I’m always up for a story.” He smiled.

He sat back in his chair tentatively resting your head on his chest as you began describing the terrors from only minutes before

“Asmodeus and I, we watched some of those cringey teen romance movies this afternoon and somehow they morphed into a really scary dream. You and I, the rest of your brothers, the angels, Solomon, Diavolo, and even Barbatos were playing spin the bottle for some reason and I landed on you, but when I kissed you, you turned to dust! Th-Then when I landed on Mammon and Beel, the s-same thing happened again, but no one seemed to notice! Th-”

Noticing you were getting worked up again, Satan rubbed soothing circles into your back, hushing you gently and assuring you that everything was fine and ‘innocent’ kissing games weren’t actually deadly

Unless they were

But he didn’t mention that to you at that moment

Instead, he cradled you in his lap and read to you until your eyelids began to droop once more for some much-needed sleep

Being the good boy he is, he tucked you into his bed

BUT

Before he could walk back to his chair

“Satan, aren’t… aren’t you gonna lay with me?” You ask, tired, sweet voice ringing in his ears, “I-If you don’t mind that is. I mean it is your bed, after all, I didn’t mean t-”

He’s blushing up to his ears at your request, but nonetheless rolls onto the mattress next to you and you snuggle up close and fall asleep almost instantly

“As long as you’re here with me, you’ll be safe MC.”

Asmodeus

Why… Why was he up so early? What was that noise? Wait… Where were you?

He could’ve sworn he fell asleep with you in his arms

Sitting up groggily he looked around after rubbing the crust of sleep from his eyes

Something was moving and whimpering next to him, caught in a snare of fluffy blankets

The fearful cries of “Asmodeus! Oh, Asmo please don’t die! No, no, no, NO!!” broke the sweet demon’s heart

Your ragged breathing turned to a blood-curdling scream and you shot upright, but the blankets blocking your vision increased your tearful unease tenfold and you began struggling even harder against them

Taking action, Asmo tugged at the sheets, doing everything he could to help you

When your face emerged from the heap, you took a great gasp of air and immediately began sobbing your heart out

Asmo paused, knowing it unwise to approach someone who’d just escaped the clutches of a nightmare, but he couldn’t just sit there and stare at you!

Luckily, you chose that moment to look around

Your eyes met his amber ones in the semi-darkness and you tackled him, wrapping him in an impossibly tight hug

“A-ASMO!”

“Darling, wh-”

“Oh my god! I thought I killed you! I r-ruined your pretty face! You just sh-shriveled up a-and-”

“Sweetheart, hey~” He murmured, closing his arms around your back and cradling the back of your head in his hand, “Don’t cry anymore, Asmo’s here…”

His gentle comforting coos as he rocked from side to side brought your tears to a halt and soon you were able to look him in the face

Your glassy, frightened eyes had almost a look of reverence when you ever so slightly cupped your palm over his cheek, afraid he would crumble away at your caress once more

When he didn’t, you let out a shaky sigh of relief and visibly relaxed; shoving your face in his shoulder and wrapping your legs and arms around him so he couldn’t escape

It was quiet for a moment

Asmodeus settled his forearms around your waist and said

“Dearest, are you alright?”

“I… I don’t know.”  You fisted his shirt in your palms and looked at him, “That was a really vivid one.”

“Tell me what it was about!” He smiled sympathetically and stroked your cheek, “I have bad dreams sometimes too, MC. If you tell me yours I’ll tell you a few of mii-iiine!”

You couldn’t help but crack a small grin as his sweet tone and nod

“Yesterday Beel told me about the one time he touched Satan’s favorite plant. He’d seen Satan pet the stalk and petals before and he wanted to do it too. (Satan is a plant dad, fight me) But when he touched it, it shriveled up and died on the spot. I… I had a dream where I touched you and you shriveled up! I tried to help you, but every time I touched you, you screamed in pain! Then… Then you died in my arms and I woke up.”

:(

You clung to the demon as he moved, lost in thought. Settling back into the abundant pillows and tugging a sheet over your shoulders, he began to speak

“That sounds absolutely terrifying! What would you do without me?”

“Asmo…”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” He nuzzled your cheek and hugged you tighter, “Why don’t we find a way to help you forget about it? I have a couple of suggestions… if you’d like to hear them~”

Beelzebub

He’d only been gone for a minute… or four… maybe five…? Right?

Why were you writhing around like that? You sounded like a lost little puppy and… were those tears?

“MC? Are you awake?”

No reply, just your continued whines of discontent and a steady stream of tears soaking the pillow

He dropped his snacks on the floor and carefully knelt on the edge of the mattress, putting a gentle hand on your forehead

Lucifer used to do that when he was sick, long ago when they still lived in the celestial realm. Maybe it would help you? Somehow? Hopefully?

The strangled sob that fell from your lips as you forced his hand away broke his big heart in two

Hold on, your eyes were closed! Wait, you were having a bad dream!

Throwing all caution to the wind (and not knowing the consequences of waking someone in this state) and began shaking you rather roughly, scaring you awake and making you bonk heads when you sat up too quickly

Now you were crying for more reasons than one

Your head hurt, two big scary hands had your shoulders in a tight grip, there was a large figure looming over you in the dark, your dream was still raging and replaying in your head, and it was really dark and uncomfortably warm

Even in the dim light, Beel witnessed the look of pure terror that crossed your face

You thought his heart was broken? Well it just fucking shattered

You were scared? Of him?

“MC, it’s just me! Don’t be afraid!”

He’d woken you up, but apparently he’d only made things worse…

Beel is vewy sowwy :(

Those lovely amethyst eyes…

“B… Beeley?”

“MC? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I didn-”

You silence the ginger demon by throwing yourself into his arms in unparalleled relief, afraid you hadn’t really woken up and the shadow of your favorite brother was just MC’s Nightmare, Continued

Happy you’re in his arms, he squeezes back with all his might and burying his face in your shoulder

“I just had the worst nightmare Beel. I’m so happy you’re here…” You murmur, wiping your nose on your sleeve.

“Is your head ok?”

“M-hm.”

The pair of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, Beel offers you a tissue to dry your face, but you can’t seem to stop crying

“MC, maybe if you told me about it, you’d feel better!”

His sweet, honest smile made you melt

But the contents of your dream… You looked guiltily toward the bed on the other side of the room where you knew the Avatar of Sloth was sleeping peacefully

“You… You promise not to tell Belphie?”

“What do you mean?”

“W-Well I dreamt about that time… you know… when he killed me? He gave me a hug before bed like he always does a-and I love Belphie’s hugs but I can’t help but think about... that. I feel bad, it’s the same as holding a grudge! I’m sorry Beel.”

*insert pikachu face meme* = beel

“Why are you apologizing? It’s not your fault you had the dream.”

“I know… I feel bad though. Did I wake you up?” You ask, changing the subject.

“Nuh-uh. I was already up grabbing snacks.” He pointed to the untidy pile a few feet away. “Maybe some TSL and food will bring your smile back. Don’t worry about your dream MC, the secret is safe with me. Plus, you’re only human and I guess being killed would be really scary for you. I didn’t protect you that time, but if anyone ever tries to hurt you again, I’ll be there before you can say Burgers from Akuzon, ok?”

The smile lifts your lips before he finishes his sentence warms his heart and puts a happy smile on his own as you give him a final squeeze and whisper

“Thanks a lot, Beeley.”

Belphegor

It is said the Avatar of Sloth could sleep through anything, even the loudest storm and the echoes of 4th of July from the human world

But when the precious human cuddled up in his arms every night begins to move around and/or whimper in fear, Belphegor is awake in minutes only to find you squirming away from him and begging to some invisible entity “Just… Just d-don’t hurt them! I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, please don’t hurt me I-”

The seventh born is squeezing your hand and whispering encouragement in your ear, telling you you’re safe and that it’s just a dream

Slowly opening your eyes you look around, still terrified and jumpy from your vision, but the warm hand intertwined with yours and the comforting arm around your back, plus the familiar scents of the twins’ room slowly bring you back to reality

“MC?”

“Belphie? I-Is that you?”

“Who else would it be, dummy.”

You ignore the half hearted insult and bury your face in his chest, allowing your heart to reach a normal pace and his natural scent and warmth to wash over you

“Tell me about it. Sounded pretty scary.”

“I’m sorry for waking you up Belphie, I know how you hate losing sleep…”

“Just… Be quiet and tell me your dream!”

“S-Sorry… Um, so I didn’t know you too well yet and an angel came and took the precious grimoire, but me and Beel were caught up in it and there was this whole thing with Purgatory Hall and Luke and-”

“Your stories can put me right to bed you know that? Anyway, so what happened? Did Lucifer tear the angel’s head off?” He looked rather hopeful…

“Of course not! Lucifer was gonna make me choose who I wanted to save, either Beel or Luke and I didn’t want either of them to get hurt so I said ‘both’ and Lucifer got really mad and scary and in my dream he ended up hurting Luke and Beel and he would’ve gotten me if you hadn’t woken me up.”

“You’re welcome.”

“... *sigh* Thanks for listening Belphie.”

With a sigh of his own, he pulled you into his arms, resting his chin on your shoulder

“It was just a dream. You don’t have to be afraid, you know. I’m right here for you. Always.”

“Aww, than-”

“Forget I said that! Shut up and go to sleep!”