#they make me so violently ill if you can’t tell

[honkceasar]

Thinking about Dakota and William again and their dynamic really just is:

Who will win?

Guy that truly believes he has done/will do something so heinous that it deems him “too far gone” or “beyond saving”

or

Guy that vowed to never EVER give up on/fail to save a friend again, no matter how impossible or how futile the effort may be.

[meiieiri]

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 [toji fushiguro]

synopsis: so she tells him not to cry over the injustice of a life cut too short for at the end of all this, she’ll only be a dream.

pairing: ex-husband!toji fushiguro x terminally ill wife!reader | song inspo: soon you’ll get better, cancer

warnings: heavy angst, terminal illness (primary bone cancer, stroke and MS), mentions of divorce/past infidelity, allegories to cheating, major character death. please read at your own risk. | a/n: this was so heavy for me to write, i started writing at 2 in the morning, and it’s 6:34 now.

word count. 3k~

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

Toji should have noticed, he laments as he takes a sip of his cognac. He should have sensed that something was wrong sooner, maybe that way, he wouldn’t be begging to borrow some more time to make things right. Your fingers were trembling that day — the first time you ever ruined his morning coffee — your hands shaking uncontrollably as you washed the mug with a sorrowful look on your face, your eyes glossy with the tears you were desperately trying to hold back.

He shouldn’t have been so harsh, he realizes that now. Breakfast had been burnt to a crisp and ruined, sure, but nothing could compare to how he constantly ruins the one beautiful thing that has ever happened to him, who haphazardly spilled her smoothie on him when they first bumped into each other in Shinjuku just after he finally cashed in enough money with Shiu to get his laundry done.

Toji, whose senses have now been honed to pick up on the slightest of your sluggish movements and your pained and suppressed hisses, hears the bedsheets rustling and he instantly gets up before you could even force yourself out of bed. “Hey, hey, easy now.” He catches you before you could fall backwards onto the mattress, your skin appears cold and clammy, your thinning muscles stiff as a board — you must be having one of your episodes again. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice heartbreakingly gentle for the first time in months.

“Water.”

Your husband nods, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, hurriedly making his way to the dining table which was now kept in your bedroom so you aren’t forced to move around too much. The sound of water splashing into the glass fills the air and you feel another stabbing pain coarse through your joints.

Toji gingerly brings the glass of water to your lips and you sighed, an exasperated yet amused smile on your face. “I can do it, babe. Don’t worry.” Why did that sound like you were trying to convince not just Toji but yourself? You bring your bony hands to grip the glass and it takes everything out of your husband not to break into a fit of sobs when he sees your hand violently shaking with effort just to keep the glass steady.

His larger hands close around your defeated one. “I-I…I can do it, I did it yesterday. Y-you saw me.”

“Shhh, I know, it’s okay.”

You bite your lip to distract yourself from the anguish of realizing the truth behind the doctor’s words. Everything you feared was finally becoming your and Toji’s bleak reality.

“It’ll be a painful decline.”

Funny how you’re the one fighting to extend your life but Toji feels like he’s already gone ahead and passed on. Just a few minutes earlier, you were overjoyed to see him again. You didn’t think he’d see your text thinking that his new girlfriend must have asked him to block your number, and you most certainly didn’t expect him to arrive when you asked for him via a brief phone call to drive you to the hospital for your monthly checkup since he took the car with him when you separated. He made up a bullshit excuse when Yuko asked where he was going in such a hurry and he makes it to your old shared apartment to see you sitting on the driveway looking thinner and sicklier than ever — your eyes were sunken, and your cheeks were hollow.

Yet in spite of that, you gave him the brightest of smiles, waving shyly to him as he steps out of the driver’s seat. “Happy morning!” you smiled, greeting him with your signature good morning tagline which he used to happily wake up to everyday. There wasn’t a scintilla of resentfulness in your demeanor, and you genuinely looked so happy to see him for the first time since he moved out.

“How long?” Toji asked the doctor, his heart twisted into knots when he hears you happily humming in the MRI room as you put your clothes back on, oblivious to the solemn mood in the other room. You already knew what was going on, but you’ll just continue pretending that everything’s alright and that this is nothing more but a case of fatigue so as not to inconvenience Toji.

“A year, maybe even less.”

“And…you’re saying it’s best if she simply…doesn’t get the treatment?”

The doctor sighs heavily. She’s seen many cases like this before, but none as utterly hopeless as yours. Even if you did start the treatment, the lesions in your spinal cord have already entered the most severe stage, you were already exhibiting signs of autonomic nervous system distress — the tremors, the uncontrollable stuttering of your words, the growing loss of balance — and as if that wasn’t enough, the doctor also discovers that you were suffering from primary osteosarcoma.

There was no way to cure you now that it’s too late.

“I suggest we just focus on keeping her comfortable. The only thing left for us to do now is to bring her home. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re so fucking embarrassing. I can’t bring you anywhere.”

By some miracle, you and Toji went out one night around four months before the divorce proceedings. He went home that day, exhausted beyond all belief from another mission, but he was in a good mood. Yuko was out working late tonight, so, he decides to take you out to your and his favorite izakaya for some yakitori.

Some time during the night, after downing three full bottles of sake together, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” you told Toji, tipsily kissing him on the cheek as you hop off the bar stool in the direction of the women’s room.

You couldn’t tell if you were staggering from the copious amounts of alcohol you ingested, but your legs were beginning to feel heavy, and for some ominous reason, you were slowly losing all sensation in your left leg. You try to hold onto one of the izakaya’s shōji panel decor pieces to regain your balance, but it was a futile effort in the end. Your knees suddenly buckle, and a sickening crack tears through your tibia as you fall to the ground.

“Are you alright?!”

Toji picks up on the commotion instantly and he sees the izakaya patrons crowding around the hallway leading to the restroom. He quickly makes his way over and a look of disgust appears on his features when he sees you crumpled on the ground and the mortifying sight of you having relieved yourself on the floor, tears of embarrassment staining your cheeks at the thought of your body suddenly malfunctioning like this.

Muttering out an ignorant apology for his seemingly drunk wife, he roughly picks you up, growing increasingly infuriated with you when one izakaya employee offers him a damp cloth to dry out your urine with. It was funny how quickly other people came to your aid — people whose names you don’t even know — while your own husband seems very reluctant to even touch you right now. He doesn’t speak to you on the way home even as you apologize while he’s loading you into the car, grimacing when the leather seat gets wet. “Toji, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened—“

“—Save it.”

What he should have said was: “Are you okay?”, “It’s alright.” or better yet, “I still love you.”.

At present, Toji decides on a whim to take you to Yokohama’s famed bayside today. It’s only a two hour drive from your place in Tokyo and Toji figures you must miss going on road trips by now with you cooped up at home all the time. “Toji, are you sure this is a good idea?” you murmured nervously as the car pulls to a stop by the bayside promenade. What happens if you can’t control yourself again? There doesn’t look to be a lot of public restrooms nearby.

Toji plants a reassuring kiss to your nose. “Babe, you remember what the doctor said, spending some time outdoors can do wonders for your health. Besides, didn’t you always love the coast?” He brings your hand to his scarred lips, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin before stepping out of the car to retrieve your wheelchair from the trunk.

“I know but what if I have another accident?” you said worriedly, rolling down the car windows so he could hear you. “What if I embarrass you again?”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about you.”

You’ve lost all control of your lower extremities three months ago, rendering you unable to walk and feel when you need to relieve yourself. Toji struggles with the wheelchair for a bit and a flash of sadness fills your heart when you see him take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He wasn’t angry, he was devastated. He looks wistfully at the boardwalk, a distant gaze trained on the sea. He remembers when you used to walk down this very lane, his hand protectively around your waist as you happily take selfies. He could still hear your fond giggles the last time the two of you went here.

“Why don’t you ever smile when I take pictures of you?”

Toji shoos away a pigeon from stealing a bite of his ice cream sandwich. He feigns an unamused look when you try to take another picture of him on your phone.

“Come on, I’ve been trying to get a shot of you all day! You still have to take pictures of me so I can post it on my Instagram feed!”

Your ever moody husband pinches off a small piece of bread and feeds it to the nosy pigeon. “You and your precious feed,” he bemoans jokingly.

“Please? Just one picture!“ you playfully nudged him. Truthfully, you just wanted to see him smile for once, a genuine one and not one of those lopsided smirks he usually gives you when he’s teasing you. “Please?” you pout knowing he can never say no to that adorable face you make when you really want him to do something or worse, buy something for you.

Sighing, he turns to look at your phone’s camera lens and you blush when a smile slowly illuminates his usually stoic face. Your thumb hovers over the stop recording function, not realizing you’re taking a video, but you can’t seem to press it. “What’s taking so long?” he holds the smile like he’s some cartoon character and you snap out of it.

“Oh shoot, it’s a video!” you laughed, and you begin to run down the boardwalk, eagerly getting away from Toji who demands that you delete it immediately. Of course, you’re no match for his borderline inhuman speed attributed to his athletic physique and he catches you by the waist, playfully swinging you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes.

Now, your giggles have gone silent.

Toji realizes now he should have indulged you more over the course of your relationship and subsequent marriage. Had he known that you won’t even make it to your third wedding anniversary, he would have allowed you to take as many pictures and videos of him as you’d like, he’d swallow his pride and he’d give you the brightest of smiles so you could happily post him on your social media accounts with a heartwarming caption about him being your “smiley hubby”.

More than that though, he should have taken more photos of you, mostly stolen candid shots, of course. You can’t catch him being all soft on you now. He still has a reputation to live up to after all. But more than that, had he known that your illness was intent on stealing every scrap of you from him, he should have made more effort in preserving all these memories. He should have kept everything from those toll tickets on your late night drives together when the two of you just needed a quick escape from the world, to receipts from your trip to Tokyo Disney Sea on your first wedding anniversary, and even simple convenience store receipts.

Toji should have kept everything down to the smallest of memories knowing one day, that’s all he’ll have to remember you by.

He opens the passenger seat’s door and he effortlessly gathers you into his arms, being extra careful with your fragile form as he sits you down on the wheelchair. He opens the backseat and he pulls out two different colored blankets, one sea-foam green and the other, rose pink. “Take your pick,” he smiles at you and you chuckled softly, pointing to the rose pink one. He happily covers your legs with it to keep you warm, stroking your cheek when you whisper a bashful ‘thank you’.

Suddenly, the wind picks up and your hair-clip that’s holding your locks in a low bun comes loose, and your head turns in the direction of where it flew off to. Toji is quick to take out his phone and he snaps a quick burst shot of you, your hair blowing in the wind, under the coastal spring weather. You turn to look at him and your face falls when you see him burying his phone in his pocket. Since you fell ill, you’ve become insecure of your appearance, banning your husband from taking pictures and videos of you altogether. “Toji, I thought I said no pictures.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The next day, you serendipitously find your photo on your Instagram handle with the caption: “Y/N — Yokohama, Spring, 2024” and when you swipe left, another picture, well to be more accurate, a screenshot of the video clip you accidentally took of him captioned: “Toji — Yokohama, Summer, 2022”.

“You don’t have to stick around for me. Please just go, I’m sure Yuko must be looking for you right now.”

Yuko, his new fiancé, had been blowing up his phone the entire day with texts demanding to know where he is and if he’s going to make it to their date that night. It’s 7 PM now, and Toji still hasn’t shown up to confirm their restaurant reservations. The damn witch will surely cuss him out when they see each other again, but for some reason, even if he tries, he simply cannot bring himself to give a flying fuck. Your immunologist and oncologist stepped out for a bit to allow you two a brief moment of privacy which had now stretched to an expanse of five hours since your results came in.

The air in the room is thick and heavy, not a single sound can be heard. Inside however, underneath this tough exterior he was projecting, Toji is throwing a fit, screaming at the sky like those broken men in those shitty Netflix romance tragedies he used to callously make fun of.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You knew, didn’t you?”

Toji’s bites his cheek trying to keep a lid on his emotions. He knows the answer. He just wants to hear you say it out loud. You hated him. You wanted nothing to do with him after he cheated on you with some girl he met at a bar in uptown Shibuya. That’s why you didn’t tell him, he didn’t deserve to know. “Shit,” he whispers harshly, crumpling the medical abstract in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Was it because you hated me? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d worry about you?”

You screwed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You didn’t hate him, not even when you have every reason to. He abandoned you, left you to waste away and to die and yet, even now, you can’t bring yourself to resent him for the simple reason that he is the literal love of your life, the reason behind your smiles, your happy mornings and passionate midnight hours. “At first, I thought I was fine, maybe just fatigued or something.”

“Don’t lie. You knew something was going on and that something in your body was seriously fucked up.”

“And we weren’t married anymore so, I didn’t think it was right to tell you…I wanted to though, but I didn’t want to intrude on you and Yuko,” you said meekly. Even in your greatest hour of need, you were still thinking of him, putting him first even when he doesn’t deserve it. “I-I…I don’t hate you enough to worry you, to make you feel that you could have done something to prevent this. Because I’m telling you right now, regardless if you were faithful or not, I was bound to get sick anyway. You couldn’t have done anything to change that.”

“But I could have been there. I should have noticed. I shouldn’t have downplayed everything.” He says this as if he wants to shake this noble, self-sacrificing bullshit attitude out of your system. “I’m your husband. I should have been there.”

You flash him a heartbroken smile at his little slip-up, so, even now, he was still referring to himself as your husband, not your ex-husband. “To see me waste away? Babe, I don’t want you to see that.”

You begin to feel tears streaming down your face, the emotions you were experiencing now flowing like a free river after an entire dam is destroyed. Toji watches you unravel before his eyes and his bottom lip begins to tremble. What has he done? Dear god, what has he done to his poor, poor wife?

“I want you to remember me healthy, I want you to remember me as myself not this…sickly pitiful woman you’re unlucky to call your ex-wife…besides, after all this, I’ll only be a dream.” A mere passing second in his life. “And believe me, my life wasn’t so bad.”

He loses it at that.

“Just stop this, Y/N! Stop acting like you’re not scared shitless of dying, like you’re not gonna have regrets once all this is over! Stop pretending that things are gonna be alright one day because it won’t! Not when I’m now being forced to accept that you won’t get better, not when I’ve wasted so much time putting you through hell and back instead of taking care of you like a proper husband should, and certainly not when I’m suddenly supposed to learn to say goodbye and to live without you! Because fuck that, Y/N!”

You are left speechless at that.

Toji was never one to lose his cool, even during your worst arguments, he may slide a few snarky remarks here and there but Toji Fushiguro…never yells, and he doesn’t sob either.

You hesitantly stand up and walk over to him, crouching down in front of him as he covers his tear-stained eyes with his right hand while the other is crumpled around your medical abstract. Taking his left hand, you gently remove the medical abstract from his grip, and for the first time in so many months, you feel one another’s warm skin against each other. You press your forehead to his hand as you wept with him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be a dream. I want you to be real.”

“Can’t you be bothered to clean up in here?!”

You wake up from your nap, you’ve been battling muscle and joint pain the entire day, the slightest of movement causing you to double over in agony and because of that, you weren’t able to clean the apartment today. You slowly get up from the couch, being extra cautious not to make any sudden movements. “Well?” Toji presses, his lips curled into a scowl.

“I’m sorry, I was feeling a little tired,” you sighed heavily, picking up a broom to sweep the living room floor despite the excruciating pain you were in. Toji rolls his eyes, handing you a Manila envelope. “What’s this?” you asked softly, peering inside.

“Divorce papers,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Everything stops, even the very rise and fall of your chest halts into an uneasy stasis. “I already signed them. I just need your signature then, I’ll move out by tomorrow.”

You must be dreaming. That’s the only logical explanation to all this. You’re asleep, in a deep REM sleep, utterly oblivious to the world. This wasn’t happening. But you could feel the rough surface of the brown envelope, and you could still feel the agonizing stabs of white hot pain throughout your body. Glancing at Toji, you see him texting someone with an eager look on his face that screams: “I’m free.”.

Instantly, it dawns on you.

“Will she make you happy?” you asked, putting down the broom to look around for a pen but Toji pulls one he stole from the law firm office out of his pocket.

“She will,” he answers simply.

And you are indeed grateful that he is completely upfront about finding another while the two of you are married. It would have hurt much more, you silently remind yourself, if he had just upped and left without another word leaving you to wonder what went wrong between the two of you. This was Toji’s final act of mercy in your marriage, and he’s not opposed to honesty and truthfulness either. Not once did he try to change his phone’s lock-screen passcode, nor did he try to conceal the identity of the woman who was texting him every night while you slept fitfully next to him. It was almost as if he wanted you to find out, like he wanted you to know so you could back off yourself.

But if there’s one thing Toji loves about you, it’s your unending faithfulness to your promises, to your marriage vows, and your willingness to endure anything he threw at you. You never checked his phone, you never brought up his affair, you never got angry with him. You just kept silent, simply content with giving and giving…and giving while he milked you dry by taking, and taking and taking, tearing you to pieces bit by bit without hearing a single complaint fall from your lips.

You were a devoted wife, through and through.

And it bored the hell out of him, on top of your recent mishaps, he was done. Done with everything, and done with you.

“Okay.”

Come morning, he takes everything he owns with him and promptly proposes to the girl he’s been seeing for the past year. Two weeks later, your divorce is received by the Tokyo Family Court and is summarily approved and finalized. From that moment on, you and Toji went on your separate ways never to look back, you were each other’s yesterdays, and the love that existed between the two of you was nullified in favor of acquaintanceship…or so you thought.

“Y/N, I’m home!” Toji calls into the house as he comes back from your neighborhood’s pharmacy. You look up from the book you were reading, smiling ever so slightly at your husband who seemed to have a wonderful sparkle in his eyes. “Hey, kid,” he kisses the top of your head when he reaches your wheelchair.

“You seem happy,” you remarked positively.

“Well, for one, they replenished their stocks today and I managed to get you your steroids and painkillers so you’ll be able to sleep easy tonight,” Toji smiles, taking out the items from the pharmacy’s paper bag. “And I got you this neat memory foam cushion for your wheelchair.” He fluffs it up as a form of demonstration before placing it behind your back.

When he sees you smile, a sense of relief washes over Toji. You reach towards him, and he pulls you into an embrace. “Thank you,” you said, pure sincerity dripping from your voice. “For everything you do.”

“Anything for you.” He suddenly moves back and reaches into the tote bag you lended him. “Oh, and wait, before I forget, I have another surprise.”

You laughed airily. “Another surprise? Now, you’re just spoiling me!”

He pulls out a piece of paper from the tote bag and he places it in your hands as your eyes quickly scan over the document. Your breath hitches in your throat when you realize what it is. Did Toji really—? You couldn’t believe it. “A marriage pre-registration,” you said in awe. You read it again just in case to make sure that this wasn’t a figment of your sick body’s imagination, that this was real, that Toji genuinely wants to make everything right again. Your fingers skim over your typewritten names. “It has our names…we’re really—“ You can’t even finish your sentence without bursting into happy tears. “Are we—?”

Toji nods, gazing into your eyes, and as emerald and (E/C) clash for what seems to be an eternity lost in one another, he plants a kiss to your temple, coming up to embrace you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We are. The Tokyo Family Court, as far as I know, will approve our remarriage once we file this. So, you have to get stronger, okay?” He’s begging you at this point, despite your rapidly deteriorating condition. “Strong enough to see me fix everything. Strong enough to be there on our second wedding, strong enough to say our vows again.”

Your hand comes up to stroke his cheek from behind, and he nuzzles into your neck at your tender touch.

“I will. I promise.”

But you never really get to say your vows. Not comprehensibly anyway.

“Babe, can you say that again?”

Toji crouches by your bedside as you look at him apologetically. You were causing him trouble and pain again which is the last thing that you want to give him especially when’s fought and worked so hard to care for you, to keep prolonging this borrowed time you’re on. “To-ji. Toji.” You gaze at him apprehensibly, not really believing you can do it without crumbling.

“Come on, babe, you can do it. Say my name, please…Toji. I’m Toji.”

“Toooji-“ you slurred sadly. At this point, your Multiple Sclerosis has reached its end stage and has taken…everything from you: your ability to walk, your ability to control your muscle spasms and other bodily functions…and now, coupled with an unexpected stroke, your ability to speak. And you and Toji know that time is almost up, with you having come to accept it, while your husband still held onto hope. Your fingers gently graze over his face as best as your spasms and tremors allow you, starting from his forehead to his eyes, his nose, his cheek and finally, his lips, as if you’re memorizing it one last time. “Lo-ove you-“

Toji sniffles, and your fingers instinctively catch his warm tears. “I love you,” he whispers brokenly. “I do. I love you.”

You feel yourself tearing up as you’re forced to watch your beloved cry. And the worst part? You can’t do a thing about it. “D-oon’t c-cry—‘m okaay. Promi-miise…e’everyything ‘ill be okaaay.”

“Y-yeah,” he chuckles, trying to crack a joke even as hope dwindles. “You’ve been nothing but a fucking champ this entire time, you know? I’m so proud of you. So…so…proud that you’re still here.” He strokes your hair as you tread between the realms of the conscious and the unconscious. “Do you wanna go out today? The weather’s shit though. You’ll probably catch your death out there.” At the mention of the word ‘death’, Toji stops, falling into an uncomfortable silence.

You smile weakly at him. “Tiiredd—“

“You’re no fun,” Toji gently flicks your nose and you scrunch it up in displeasure. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding back an entire waterfall of tears. He knows it’s today. It has to be. You woke up today without your usual ‘happy morning’ greeting, and you refused to drink anything, much less eat anything. “You tired? Any pain?”

You shake your head. You’re as comfortable as you can be for the first time in months. Hospice nurses say humans are built to live the same way they are built to die, no person in this world has ever had the uncanny privilege of being able to look up ‘How to die?’ on a quick Google search and actually find a Wikihow on the morbid subject matter, nor is there anyone else who can teach another how it’s done. It’s just something humans know how to do without a manual, deeply ingrained in the very fabric of human existence is the fear of death, the fear of what comes after, the fear of a nothingness that could follow after living such a vibrant life. Your life was short, barely spanning thirty years, but you lived well: you fell in love, you got hurt, but you fell together again. Now it all has to come to an end, Toji will just have to take care of the rest.

And you weren’t scared.

Or at least you can’t look scared, if you were to be more accurate, you have to look strong and ready to accept the cards you’ve been dealt with for Toji’s sake. When he feels your hand start to slacken, Toji intakes a sharp, shaky breath of sheer panic. “Not yet, Y/N. Please. Not yet.”

He climbs into bed with you, bringing you closer to this desperate man you call yours. There was no getting better anymore, there was no miracle he could hang onto, no deity he could beg for death to spare you, no pill bottle he could pray to. He knew that from the start. But what he witnessed these past months, you’ve been the braver one between the two of you, you knew how to make the most of the rhythm this cruel world gave you and you graciously took him along to dance to the last song of the evening with you.

“There’s still hope. Just keep your eyes open. Just keep them open.” He presses his lips to your forehead, his delusion getting the better of him. “We’ll just keep trying…you can’t leave. You have to stay. You have to.”

“Thaank yoou—“ you softly told your Toji, your voice shrinking in decibels as you become a little drowsy, sinking into the warmth of the requiem of a life well spent.

Toji listens to you, his lips pursed, intent on making this final act of love — a love that is strong enough to say goodbye — a memorable one. And should the afterlife exist, he wishes to send you off with a smile, with the reassurance that he’ll be alright even if that was far from happening.

“Toji.”

“I want you to be real. And I don’t care if we’ll live on borrowed time. Another extra second with you…is enough to last me my entire lifetime.”

[shiny-kaibernyte]

Arven Headcannons (Romantic)

No warnings: Just pure fluff

There are a few general headcannons in here and a couple of how i think him and Nemona's friendship would be. But its 90% fluff. I actually wrote WAYYYY more than what's in this post but i didn't think people would want to read an entire Essay. So here are a selection!

This man cannot bake for anything. Give him a grill and bread, he will give you a 5 star meal. Give him a whisk and a cake tray, he will burn the house down. So don’t expect a homemade cake on your birthday. Or at least don’t expect one from him.

He was Smitten with you the moment you agreed to help him on his Titan Quest. Reluctantly or joyfully, hearing you agreeing made him fall head over heels for you and he didn’t even know it. Maybe that's why he tried extra hard on those Sandwiches. 

Arven and Nemona used to fight over the best friend position, You’d usually have to stand in the middle of them to prevent their Pokémon battles from spilling into personal ones. Arven would later claim the Boyfriend card once Area Zero was dealt with, Nemona was very pleased to cement the best friend spot.

You are the only other person who's allowed to take Mabosstiff out on walks. You're his person, so you get the puppy. Nemona and Penny both tried, it resulted in Arven throwing a tomato at Nemona and Penny slowly backing out of the room. He did mourn the tomato though… he wanted that tomato.

Arven isn’t necessarily Protective, but he is observant. He will defend your honour and voice with every ounce of his being. But he also isn’t a violent person, that's what Pokémon battles are for. 

That being said, if something did happen to you, especially if you fell ill. He would go to hell and back to find some way of helping you. He already proved that much, just don’t bail on him if he needs you most.

Love Language: Gift Giving + Quality time.

If he can, he will SPOIL you. He never had someone love him the way you do. Show him the kindness and compassion that makes his heart sore. If he could give you the world. He’d hand you the Galaxy on a silver plate. But until he can find a Cosmo. A plushie will have to be done for now.

He is not a morning person at all. The only reason you will ever find him up before midday is for one of two reasons: A teacher told him off for being late and he’s only got 1 more warning before another suspension OR Mabosstiff dragged him out of bed by the ankle and forced him to go outside. There is no other reason.

Terrible at video games, absolutely horrendous. Dude can’t even play Minecraft without throwing the controller. Penny tried to teach him how to play Stardew Valley, he got angry at Pierre for the backpack price and hasn’t picked up the game again. Though he’s happy to watch you play and will hold down a button if you get tired. Never ask him to play though… unless you need to laugh, then ask. 

One time you tried to put a bow on Mabosstiff ‘s head. With no recollection how or why, it somehow ended up in Arven’s hair. You have now learnt Arven can rock a manbun and a sparkling pastel pink bow. 

When you first stayed the night, dude slept like a board. He did not move a single cell in his body. It wasn’t until you were resting your head on his chest that he actually moved. He has since loosened up, but it took a while for him to trust himself enough to even touch you when you slept. 

He cannot Flirt. You cannot tell me otherwise.

He bought you both onesies to wear on movie nights. Yes he has to have a Saturday movie night with you or he gets grumpy. 

Sometimes Arven will bring you lunch or make you breakfast so he knows you have eaten at least something during the day. Plus he also uses it as an excuse to see you smile but he will never say that to your face. Only Mabosstiff.

Dude is terrified of Cetitan. Ever since the "mountain incident" Cetitan is his greatest enemy. Arven tries to act tough and unafraid to impress you but, Grusha has and will continue to use this fear to his Advantage any time Nemona drags Arven to the Mountains. You totally didn’t make a deal with Grusha and Nemona, that isn’t something you did… Wink wink.

You don’t borrow his clothes, he donates them. There have been numerous occasions you have opened a drawer or wardrobe to find one of his numbers, jackets, vests, anything! Just something new of his somewhere for you to have. He will even buy different sizes if you prefer baggy shirts or snug shirts.

He remembers everything and yet nothing at the same time. You ask him what day it is, he’ll look at you like you just asked him to explain calculus to a class of year 1’s. Ask him your favourite movie!? Arven will go into excruciating detail about everything to the point you’d think he directed it. Nemona and Giacomo once held a quiz night on Arven just to test how much he did remember. Dude remembered nothing about anyone else, except birthdays… he’s good at that. But you dude could write your autobiography. 

Dude has zero fear of heights, once Miridon learnt how to fly, anytime Arven would join you, he’d always sit behind you so he could hold your waist. It’s been a little thing of his ever since Area Zero, he can’t not do it. Even if he’s the better driver; Dude will sit behind you as an excuse to just hold you.

Almost No PDA he is a private person. He does lean on you though or will stand behind you almost like a bodyguard. If he does touch you in public it's usually a reassuring hand on the shoulder, on the small of your back to guide you somewhere or your arm locked into his. He isn’t a hand holder, he usually is carrying something or needs his hands free so he does subtle stuff instead.

[salty-autistic-writer]

“Is he here?” Tommy asks, feeling strangely calm, considering his current circumstances. 

Eddie shakes his head, cursing and shivering while the helicopter makes a creaking noise, sways and sinks into the water just a little more. It rises to Eddie's midsection, darkening his clothes. “No. He’s at home. Baking and looking after Jee. He said they want to make a gingerbread house."

“Good,” Tommy mutters, his head lolling to the side. He’s tired. And so cold. The embrace of the water is freezing. At least that means it’s numbing the pain. Or maybe he’s not feeling as much pain as he did right after the crash because his body is about to shut down.

It’s better this way, he thinks. Evan shouldn’t have to see this. He shouldn’t have to feel the pressure to say something nice to Tommy in his last moments.

Eddie’s face is tense, his eyes filled with determination and his shaky breaths coming out as foggy clouds as he tries to get to whatever is pinning Tommy’s legs down and holding him in place. He’s talking to someone who is on the roof of the helicopter, someone who’s holding a flashlight and a rope that’s tied to Eddie so that they can pull him out when it gets too dangerous for him. It seems like there’s a lot of people out there.

Tommy really didn’t think they would try that hard. He didn’t even think there would be a rescue attempt. It was so dark and lonely when he crashed into the water, he thought he would simply drown like that. Alone in the dark. It’s nice to have some company instead.

“It’s okay, you know?” He tells Eddie, noticing how his words start to sound all slurred. He thinks he lost blood. It's been seeping into the water. “That’s how I want to die.”

No long battle. No illness. No waiting. Only this. The certainty that he did what he could to make sure the helicopter didn’t hurt anyone else while crashing. He almost made it to the beach. But the water is even better. No messy crash site with broken parts. No explosion. No fire. Just a floating wreckage, sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Clean. And final.

“You’re not going to die,” Eddie tells him sternly. “I am going to get your stupid dramatic ass out of here in time and we are going to patch you up so you make it to the hospital. And then you are going to survive.”

For what? Tommy wants to ask. Because these last few days, he’s been merely existing. 

He swallows. Everything tastes like blood and salt in his mouth. It's so cold. By now he's not even shivering anymore. His body is just stiff and numb. He can't imagine ever feeling warm again. “Can you … can you tell Ev -”

“No,” Eddie interrupts him, both his hands disappearing in the murky water and his jaw setting. “We are not doing this. Now take a deep breath for me. This is really going to hurt.”

And then Eddie push-pulls. And it does hurt. God, does it hurt. The pain tears through Tommy in one violent wave, white and blinding. It takes every coherent thought away. Tommy can hear himself scream. It’s a scary experience. Like he’s being pushed out of his own body for a moment, then forced back into it. Blood fills his mouth as he bites his own tongue and there are flashing lights in front of his eyes and he thinks he hears Eddie’s voice, but he can’t make out any words. His world is pain. It drowns him before the water can reach his mouth and nose.

The next moments are a blur of shadow and light. He’s pulled, pushed, lifted. There are too many hands on him. Too many voices above him. Too much pain burning his nerves. It seems to go on forever. Until the pain suddenly fades and numbness creeps in from all sides, sending him into darkness. Finally.

His last thought is that he should have sent that text message.

*

Beeping.

Tommy wakes up to a steady beeping, a dry throat and a white ceiling. Blinking into the sunlight, he tries to make sense of this new situation. He’s been floating in darkness. Now he’s in a bed. He’s alive. And he’s not alone. When he turns his head on the pillow, he sees someone he thought he would never see again. And it’s … too much.

The moment he knew his helicopter was about to go down, Tommy was ready to die. It wasn’t the first time he prepared himself for the end.

He is not ready to live. Not ready to face Evan. Not ready to understand what he sees in Evan’s eyes.

“You’re awake,” Evan says, standing up from the plastic chair in the corner that’s way too small for him and pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You ... God. Tommy."

Evan looks tired. His eyes are redrimmed, his hair tousled and his cheeks covered in a stubble.

Guilt makes Tommy’s throat feel tighter. He tries to say something, but Evan raises a hand.

“Don’t. Don’t say anything,” he says. “It’s okay. I … I want to be here, alright? If you don’t want me here, you can … you can tell me. It's fine.” He rubs his face with a shaky hand. 

I always want you with me, Tommy thinks. I'm just scared that being with me isn't what would make you happy. I want nothing more than for you to be happy.

“We weren’t … we weren’t always sure you would wake up, you know?” Evan says quietly. “You lost a lot of blood and you were bleeding internally. Also the cold ... They had to treat Eddie for hypothermia too. But at least you managed to crash the helicopter into the water. If it had been the cliffs ..."

He swallows heavily, shaking his head as if he is trying to push that thought, that image, away from him. “Anyway, I’m just happy you’re alive. And I, uh, I brought you some cake. It’s your favourite.” He smiles weakly. “That’s all I’ve been doing lately, you know? Baking. It’s been a distraction. Helped me to keep myself from calling you. Because I wanted to. All the time.”

Evan shakes his head and sighs. "It's probably pathetic. But what can I do? And I'm rambling again. Sorry."

Tommy feels tears in his eyes. “Evan …”

“It’s okay,” Evan tells him. “We don’t have to do this right now. You … You just woke up. You’re hurt. And on painkillers. So I’m not going to expect anything. We can … If you want to, we can talk later. Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head. Hesitates.

Tommy clears his throat. “Evan. My phone. Is it …”

“Oh. Yeah, I think it’s still working,” Evan says. “They have it in a bag. Together with your other stuff. Like the keys.”

“There’s … I wrote. I wrote a text. Didn’t send it. Think it was saved … as a draft,” Tommy says and every word pulls at his energy, draining him. “If you want to. You can read it.”

Evan’s eyes widen. “Thank you,” he breathes. “I will.”

Tommy hums. He can’t keep his eyes open anymore. Distantly, he hears Evan say that he’s going to call a nurse. And then he thinks he feels a hand running through his hair once. Just once. But maybe he just imagined that. He sinks into darkness once more.

For @tevanadvent2024 Day 6: „That’s how I want to die.“

(AO3 Link)

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Femboy Tenant x Landlord Reader (2)

Part 1

“This is your new life, my little landlord, now let me tell you about my rules!”

The sad thing about this situation is the betrayal for you

You’ve heard stories about squatters or terrible tenants that didn’t want to leave

But you were never aware you needed to worry about being abducted

And by this tenant no less

From your many other tenants who were bodybuilders, gang members, drug dealers

It was this one

The pretty femboy who was always late on rent

“What’s with that indignant look on your face? Mad you didn’t guess? That’s okay no one suspects just how much talent is behind my gorgeous face.”

You don’t know if you’d call a dedicated fanbase excuse me a cult a talent

Now in some foreign luxurious place, the only people surrounding you are Sora and the dedicated followers who have been commanded to keep you here

“Sora-sama is bestowing a gift upon you! Be grateful!”

“Sora-sama did say you would say these concerning things…but he was right your illness is severe.”

“No worries Sora-sama has taught us how to give your medication no worries! Now stand still!”

The medication you’re given ranges from alcohol, paralyzing serums, or aphrodisiacs depending on your behavior

Sora is very careful about where he’s affectionate with you 

He knows very well which of his loyal little followers will not mind, the ones that may even begin to worship you 

But he knows there are dangerous ones 

Jealous ones that are perfect for when he demands they commit certain crimes or ultimately sacrifices–when he gets to that point

It takes a while to go that deep

But a near attack from a jealous follower is enough to trigger it

Before this, he’d vaguely recall how he first cried to his followers about an especially creepy fan and hearing from police how little of their remains could identified 

Or how one of the fans got a little too forward making him actively cringe in front of his followers

That fan was never heard of or seen again

At the time his guilt was small but present

He didn’t kill those people…his fans did…besides they were the ones overstepping

It’s not that bad…right

But when you’re on the line that guilt dissipates

The tears he sheds when he caresses the bandage on your arm

Are ones of anger

He’s perfect, beautiful, kind, full of wisdom

So why was his love being tampered with 

The world should and would be at his feet

With you–safely–at his side

But he can’t do this without you being in danger

So he’ll let his tears show to the most loyal, the most violent, the most dutiful

“They hurt me by hurting my (Y/n)! Do you like this?”

“NO!” 

“Will you not protect me? Protect us?”

“Of course! “Will you kill for us?”

“YES!”

“Good. We’ll be waiting to see the results of your hunt. My beautiful little followers!”

“YES!”

It kind of takes him back when you do try to add some input

Not too long ago he remembers pleading with you about rent

Now it’s you pleading with him not to execute the unlucky group that tried to take your place

But just like you did with him he’s going to cruelly deny you 

Well maybe he can be persuaded if you let him participate in an activity you’ve forbidden of him

“I might be willing to let them off with a loss of one limb if you let me do that one thing!”

“....”

“Come on! Aren’t you a benevolent compassionate partner to their king? Won’t you convince me not to punish them with my wrath?”

“Okay but only one time!”

“Yay! Wait for me to get my lingerie!”

He flips often between being at your whim to controlling every aspect of your life

But he has you for an example

Back then you were the landlord who caught his heart and kept him in line

So isn’t it just perfect that he do the same

[nadvs]

push and pull (part two) (end)

pairing twin!rafe x female reader x twin!zach

summary life felt complicated enough when you started falling for zach. then you meet rafe. he’s the complete opposite of his twin brother, but he captures your attention just the same.

content warnings alcohol use, mental illness, mentions of parental abandonment

» intro post | part one

» masterlist

When Zach wakes up the next morning, he fully understands the term hangxiety.

His temples pound as he stares at his ceiling. At some point last night, he slipped from tipsy into drunk.

Thankfully, he didn’t get so wasted that he’s forgetting anything. But then again, that means every time he made an ass of himself is a memory etched into his brain.

He remembers welcoming his date. Having a decent time with her. Walking her downstairs. Her lips on his cheek when she kissed him goodbye. Feeling like something was missing, and then, that something wasn’t missing anymore when you came downstairs to let him in.

And he remembers looking over at you across the party. Wishing he was next to you. Feeling crappy for thinking about you while he was with another girl. Knowing he was idiot for thinking he could ignore his feelings for you and date someone else.

Talking to you in the elevator. Crap.

He buries his head into his pillow. Why did he blabber to you like that? His brother would kill him if he knew what he said. He probably already wants to kill him for loudly proclaiming how much he loves him in the hallway. Rafe’s not one for any sort of PDA.

Zach picks up his phone to text you: Trauma dumping to you was just a dream I had, right? Please tell me it didn’t actually happen.

You reply minutes later: you mean in the elevator? definitely a dream.

Despite his embarrassment, he smiles at his screen.

He replies: Sorry about that.

You send another text: it’s no problem. i’m guessing you have a pretty bad hangover.

He replies: Everything hurts.

You text back: make sure to hydrate and rest ok?

Zach smiles again. He can’t help but daydream about you coming over, taking care of him, cuddling him.

He’s worried about the consequences of things going wrong if he got into a relationship with you. But God, does he want you.

He replies: Ok :)

When he eventually leaves his bedroom, he sees Rafe lounging on the couch, still in his pajamas. Surprisingly, his brother actually tidied up.

It gives him hope that Rafe really is trying to improve himself. He’s had his fair share of meltdowns and Zach’s had a front row seat to all of them, watching his brother break down into tears, spiralling into his toxic, self-hating thoughts.

Once he calms down, every time, Rafe talks about how he knows he’s not a good person, that he wants to be better. But then, he sticks to his bad habits. He never gets the help he needs, even though Zach encourages him to.

Nonetheless, Zach never saw the bad in Rafe that he’s so adamant is there. At his worst, he can be violent, drunkenly throwing punches at parties, but Zach knows it’s a result of his emotional scars.

“Shit,” Rafe chuckles when he sees Zach. “You’re alive.”

“Barely.” Zach sinks onto the other side of the couch, closing his eyes as he tilts his head back. “You cleaned up for once.”

“Did you just say for once? I’m always cleaning up, asshole,” he mutters, making Zach laugh.

“I hope the neighbors don’t hate us,” Zach says. “The party got kinda loud last night.”

“This guy’s thinking about the neighbors,” Rafe says with a scoff. “The girl you were with looked like she was into you. Bet she would’ve stayed the night.”

“Maybe,” Zach says with a shrug, thinking back to his date.

Then, Rafe says he thinks you might be into him, too, considering he caught you staring. And Zach’s pulse picks up.

He loves and hates hearing that. Because if you really do like him back, it’s exciting, but that makes it even more crushing that he can’t pursue anything.

“Maybe,” Zach echoes.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Rafe laughs, thinking about how good you looked last night. “I’d jump on that if I had the chance.”

“But you don’t have the chance,” Zach murmurs. “If you love me, you won’t jump on any of my friends.”

Zach sits up and looks at his brother.

“By the way, you never said you love me back last night. I’m still waiting.”

“Yeah,” Rafe snorts. “You can keep waiting.”

────୨ৎ────

On Monday morning, you finally get a response from a student you found online who’s selling a used textbook you need.

You’d rather not go by yourself, so you text the group chat: i need to go to a stranger’s house to buy a textbook tonight. is anyone down to tag along so i’m not alone?

To your relief, Zach texts the group a minute later: I got you :)

That evening, you’re knocking on his front door. Instead of Zach, though, Rafe answers.

“Hi,” you say. “Is Zach around? He’s supposed to come with me to pick a textbook up.”

“Haven’t heard him since he got home,” he says, turning to look up the stairs. “I’ll get him.”

A minute later, Rafe comes down, keys jingling in his hand.

“He’s sleeping,” he says. “I can take you. I was about to go for a drive anyway.”

“Cool,” you say. “Thanks.”

You watch him lean over to slip on his sneakers, his frame broad and tall. It’s surprising that Zach, who’s usually reliable, forgot about your plans. And that Rafe, who you’ve come to known as hot and cold, is willing to help you.

He locks the door behind him before you make your way down the hallway together.

“He must be tired after practice,” you say, well aware of the team’s training schedule.

“Yeah, when he’s asleep, he’s out.”

You smirk to yourself, imagining Zach adorably bundled up in his bed. You already know he’s going to apologize profusely once he realizes he accidentally bailed on you.

“It’s only ten minutes away,” you tell Rafe. “I just wanted someone with me since it’s some random guy I don’t know selling it.”

“Zach didn’t offer to just buy a new one for you?” he asks.

“No,” you laugh, entering the elevator. “Why would he?”

Rafe doesn’t get Zach sometimes. It’s insane that he’s not into you, that he sleeps through plans with you, that he doesn’t offer to buy you something that probably only costs a few hundred dollars.

“Want me to?” Rafe asks. You have to laugh.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I already set all this up. Do you always offer to buy girls school supplies?”

He bites his tongue. If Zach wasn’t so adamant about m not being allowed to try to hook up with you, he’d flirt and say yes, he buys all kinds of things for beautiful girls.

“Not always,” he settles for.

The elevator doors open. You enter the parking garage and follow Rafe to his car, settling into the cushioned passenger seat. He starts the engine, then offers the cable hooked up his radio to you.

“Already know you have good taste,” Rafe says. You smile, plugging your phone in.

You’re Zach’s friend, but he figures you can be his friend, too. Because he wants to get to know what he can about you, to flatter you and joke with you and talk to you, even though the night won’t be ending with you in his bed. He has fun with you. He’ll take what he can get.

He backs out of his parking spot, putting his hand against the back of your headrest as he looks through the rear window. You gaze up at his profile, taking in just how handsome he is, how nice his cologne smells.

Rafe doesn’t know the song you put on, but he likes it. He turns forward in his seat, driving out of the garage.

You chat about your days and even though it’s small-talk, it doesn’t feel like it. There’s an ease with Rafe that you can’t really compare to with anyone else.

Still, he’s kind of intimidating, but you naturally want to keep challenging this way he makes you feel, cracking the wall he has up.

When you reach the house at the end of a dark street, Rafe parks in the driveway, turns his key and takes it out of ignition.

“You can wait here,” you offer.

“Nah,” he mumbles. He unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

With Rafe standing behind you as you knock on the front door, the feeling of him protecting you is intoxicating, making your heart pound harder.

The door swings open and you greet the man you’ve been messaging. He’s holding the textbook you need and when you offer him four twenties, he looks through the bills and shakes his head.

“We said $100,” he says.

“No,” you reply. “$80. You said $80 was good.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I have the texts to prove it,” you laugh in disbelief.

“Really, man?” Rafe mutters. “Just give her the book.”

“$100,” he repeats.

“Forget it,” Rafe says. He steps forward, roughly taking your money out of his hand and pulling you by the waist. “I’ll just get you a new one.”

“No, wait,” the guy calls. “$80’s fine.”

“Get fucked,” Rafe mutters. You follow him to the car, still mentally catching up to what just happened. “Trying to scam you over twenty dollars. What a joke.”

You settle in the car, feeling Rafe’s warm, big hand curl your fingers open so he can give you your money back.

He’s fuming, beyond pissed off that someone would try to trick you like that. He’s glad you didn’t come by yourself to have to deal with this idiot alone. And he’s not sure how Zach would’ve handled it.

“How much is a new book?” he asks.

“Like, $250,” you tell him.

“I got it covered, alright?” he says. “Give me your phone.”

You comply, still a little jarred but appreciating how quickly he swept in to help you. You watch him enter digits, call himself to get your number, then hang up.

He returns your phone and takes his out, taps on your number, and quickly opens up a bank app.

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

“It’s fine.”

Within a minute, he sends you $250. It’s bizarre how he’s acting like that much money is nothing. Like he’s giving you change he owes you.

Rafe exhales slowly, starting his car again, coming down from the daze. This happens a lot. It’s like he blacks out when he gives in to his impulses.

But what can he do? He has a weak spot for you and he hates the idea of someone doing you wrong, of him not helping you when he’s totally capable of it.

He scratches his forehead. Zach’s words resonate in his head, telling him he needs to cool down and think before he does things. Sometimes his temper flares with no warning.

He’s sure he came off way too intense. He doesn’t know how to apologize for it. Before he can speak, you do.

“Can you come with me every time I have to buy something?” you say lightheartedly. It eases some of the tension in his chest.

“Was that too much?” he says, tone low.

You smile to yourself. You wouldn’t call it too much. He seems like he’s an intense, passionate person. Beneath the surface, Rafe feels more than he lets on.

“You didn’t let a guy con me, then you bought me a $250 book,” you reply with a laugh. “Trust me, you’re good. Thank you.”

Your phone buzzes with a text from Zach as you back out of the driveway. Crap I’m so sorry. I don’t even remember falling asleep. Did you come over?

You reply: all good! i figured you were exhausted. rafe went with me.

“Guess who’s awake,” you say, the smile apparent in your tone. Rafe glances over at your profile as you text back.

He hates this about himself, the envy that pushes him to be sure that Zach is so much better than him. That every girl, if given the chance, would pick his brother over him.

“So, you were going to go for a drive?” you say, tucking your phone away. Because of his kind gestures tonight, you’re pretty sure that he likes hanging out with you. “Want company?”

Rafe taps his hand against the steering wheel. Even if this is just platonic, he doesn’t want you to leave his car.

“If I can pick the music,” he says.

“You said I had good taste.”

“Mine’s better.”

You laugh, and because he held your waist just a few minutes ago, you don’t feel apprehensive to touch him. You nudge his shoulder. He smirks.

An hour goes by like a minute. When Rafe and you part, your cheeks hurt from how much you’ve been smiling and laughing with him.

You talked together nonstop, touching on the most random subjects, finding similarities and differences. You have a deep crush on him. There’s no denying it.

When Rafe watches you step out of his car, he realizes that this isn’t just attraction like he’s used to. He feels like he knows you. And he likes you. It’s exciting and scary.

When Rafe makes it home, Zach is in the kitchen, the whole loft smelling like delicious food.

“You actually remembered how to get home?” Zach teases over the sound of ingredients sizzling in a pan.

“Lost track of time,” Rafe says. He settles on a barstool as Zach stands at the range, trying not to burn dinner.

Zach is glad his back is to his brother, because when Rafe tells him that he was with you that entire time, driving around and talking, his eyebrows furrow in anger and jealousy before he can subdue it.

“But before you lose your shit,” Rafe adds, “it was all friendly, okay?”

“Right,” Zach mumbles. He stares down at the pan, trying to breathe through his prickly frustration. He’s unbelievably mad at himself for falling asleep after practice.

You can do whatever you want, he knows that, but he feels that even though it’s just as a friend, you’re his, not Rafe’s. And his brother getting to spend time with you feels painfully unfair.

────୨ৎ────

The bright stadium lights pool over the deep green soccer field. It’s a cool evening, perfect for a match.

Cold seeps in through your jeans as you sit on the metal bench on the sideline. You have your phone at the ready to film the team as they rush the field for a home game.

You’ve grown to love your job. You found great friends, the TikTok account is earning more traction, and you’ve started to genuinely enjoy coming out to games and cheering on your school’s team.

It’s been almost a week since your night with Rafe. You haven’t seen him or Zach since. You welcome the distance. Liking them both is ridiculously confusing.

Minutes pass. The crowd is getting louder. The team still isn’t out on the field. Your dad runs a tight ship, so it’s weird that they’re late.

You head into the stadium tunnel towards the locker room, curiosity nagging you. A group of players are standing outside the door and you approach Chance.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Something’s up with Zach,” Chance tells you. Alarm rushes through you and you step into the locker room without a second thought.

Zach’s sitting on the bench by his locker, hunched over, surrounded by your dad, the team’s medic, and a few other players.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

Zach looks up at you. His eyes are sunken, his lips parted. And then, he loses consciousness.

When his eyelids flutter open, the brightness of the room is so painful that he has to squint.

“He’s up,” he hears. It’s you. He hasn’t heard your voice in a while. He misses it.

He slowly comes to, realizing he’s in a hospital bed. You’re sitting to his left. The team medic is standing at the end of the bed with a doctor. He’s hooked up to an IV.

“What happened?” he rasps.

“You’re dehydrated,” the medic explains, leaning over to hand a plastic cup of water to Zach. “You’re at Trinity Hospital. You’re okay. Drink.”

Zach weakly picks it up, downing the cool water, his throat feeling raw. He rolls his head to look at you again. He knows it’s wrong, but he’s relieved that you look so concerned for him. That you’re here.

The doctor introduces herself, then explains that Zach was unconscious for so long that she’d prefer to keep him overnight to monitor him.

The news makes everything in him twist with worry and frustration. He just wants to go home. He doesn’t want Rafe to spiral.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m alright, though?”

“I’m not worried,” the doctor replies. “I just want to be sure you’re in good shape before I send you home.”

Within a few minutes, the doctor leaves the room. Then, the medic encourages Zach to drink more fluids, calls the coach to update him, and asks if you want to head back together now that you’re sure Zach’s okay.

You politely decline. You’re too worried to leave him alone so fast. And shortly after, it’s just you two in the room, listening to the beeps of Zach’s pulse.

“Dehydrated?” you say playfully, but still worried. “What the hell, Cameron?”

“I know,” he says with a smile. He regrets going hard at the gym today. He’s sure that’s what did it. “Rookie move.”

“I specifically told you to hydrate like, two days ago.”

Zach’s laugh is boyish. He reaches for your hand and squeezes. You remind yourself it’s likely nothing more than a friendly gesture.

“That was hangover advice,” he says. His thumb strokes over the back of your hand.

“It was life advice, actually.” You inhale slowly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He lets go of your hand, remembering you can hear his pulse right now and not wanting to risk you witnessing it beat faster.

“It was way more than two days ago, by the way,” he says. He threads his fingers through his hair, suddenly self-conscious of how bad he must look right now. “Where’ve you been?”

You look down at your lap. You’ve been declining all the invitations to hang out in the group chat because the past few days have been so confusing.

Seeing Zach with another girl was painful, and then, you realized just how unimportant you felt to him when he slept through your plans, even though it was by mistake. You need time and space to stop liking him before you can hang out again.

“School’s been kicking my ass,” you lie.

“Do you need help?” he asks. He’d do anything to have you around again.

“Leave it to you to be in a hospital bed asking if you can help,” you mumble. Zach laughs. You try and fail not to fawn over his perfect smile.

“Did I faint in front of everybody?” he says, fixing his hair again.

“Not everybody,” you half-laugh. “But, seriously, everyone was really worried. We all care about you a lot.”

His heart warms. He may be in the hospital, but right now, he’s grateful for having people who care about him. It’s all he ever wanted.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Zach says softly. “And for staying.”

You nod. You were so worried that you told your dad you were going with the paramedics when they arrived, not even considering that you had work to do, that Zach was already taken care of.

“Of course,” you reply. “You said you don’t like being alone, remember? In that dream you had?”

Zach huffs a laugh and looks away, embarrassed as he thinks about that night in the elevator, but still appreciative.

“Did anyone call my brother?” he asks.

“I texted him that I’m with you at the hospital. He hasn’t replied yet.”

Zach nods and thanks you. He tries not to fixate on the fact that you have Rafe’s number. He looks at the clock hanging on the wall to see it’s late in the evening. He figures Rafe’s out with friends or with a girl, not paying attention to his phone.

He wishes he could just talk to him. With every second that passes, he worries more and more about Rafe’s reaction to him being here.

“I should’ve grabbed your phone from the locker room so you could talk to him directly,” you say regretfully. “But I told Chance to get your things for you after the game. Is there anyone else I should contact?”

Admittedly, you’re bracing yourself for him to mention the girl from the other night. Or any girl, really. But he only shakes his head no.

A nurse comes in to remind you that visiting hours are up soon. Zach sits up, visibly on edge, asking her when he can have visitors tomorrow. She tells him 9 a.m.

Knowing he won’t be able to see his brother in person tonight makes him anxious.

After the nurse leaves, Zach frantically asks if he can send a voice-note to Rafe on your phone. You open the conversation and hand your phone to Zach, noticing the nervous way he’s chewing on his lip.

“Hey,” he says into the speaker. “It’s nothing. I passed out from dehydration and I’m at Trinity and they’re keeping me overnight just to be sure I’m good, but the doctor’s not worried.”

His eyes flit to you and he swallows hard.

“This is nothing like the last time, okay? I know your mind’s gonna go there and this is not even close,” he continues. “You can come see me at nine tomorrow. And you better bring me food.”

Zach ends the recording, sends it, and gives you back your phone.

“Thanks,” he breathes. You nod, your eyebrows knitting in confusion and worry.

“Sure,” you say. “Is there anything I can do?”

Zach scratches the back of his neck.

“When he answers, please tell him that you saw for yourself that I’m okay,” he says. “He might be a little freaked out.”

You agree, not wanting to pry, and start to collect your things. There’s no television in the room and you feel bad that Zach’ll be left alone with nothing to entertain him. You want to help.

You tell him you’ll be right back, then rush downstairs at a vending machine you saw when you came in. After, you drop by the gift shop. It’s closed, the flowers and balloons locked up, but you’re still able to pick up a book sitting on a rack.

You leave behind more than enough cash for the book on the counter and go back to Zach’s room.

“Snacks,” you say breathlessly when you enter, dropping the bags of chips and candy and the paperback on the bed, “and a book. Hopefully, this’ll keep you entertained. And don’t tell my dad about the junk food. You know how he is about an athlete’s diet.”

Zach smiles at you, his eyes soft. With everything you’ve done tonight, you could simply be showing what a good friend you are, but what if you feel something for him, too?

The mention of his coach is reminder enough of why he doesn’t pursue this. It could get messy. But maybe he should be more like his brother. Taking risks. Allowing himself to do what he wants to do.

“I should go,” you sigh, looking at the clock. “Feel better, okay? We don’t stand a chance of winning without you.”

He laughs, his eyes lingering on you.

“Thanks,” Zach says. You turn to leave. He stops you with a gentle, “Hey.”

You stop, turning back to look at him. Zach takes you in, how good he feels when you’re around, how there’s still a little bit of worry written into your cute features.

He won’t tell you that he wants to you to be his girlfriend. Not like this, when he’s hooked up to monitors, stuck in a bed. He’ll do it when he’s out of here. He’ll do it when he can hold your face in his hands and tell you how much you mean to him.

“Seriously, thank you,” he tells you. “You’re amazing.” You smile at him again. If only he knew how much his words mean to you.

“You’re welcome,” you say.

You’re pacing through the parking lot when your phone buzzes. It’s Rafe calling you. You answer quickly. He says your name, his voice strained.

“I’m here. Is it too late to see him?”

“Yeah, visiting hours are over. I’m just leaving now,” you say, looking around the dark lot in case you can spot him. “But, honestly, he’s okay.”

“Does he…” Rafe pauses. “I think I see you.”

You approach each other under the starry sky, meeting by a line of parked cars.

His eyes are glossy. He’s been crying. No wonder Zach was so worried. He must have known the effect this would have on his brother. There’s more to this than you realize.

“Hi,” you say softly, ending the call. “It’s okay. He’s acting totally like himself.”

“He doesn’t have his phone?”

“No,” you say. “But I made sure someone’ll pick his stuff up for him.”

“What happened?”

“Before the game tonight, he was in the locker room and he looked really tired,” you explain. “He passed out, but he was already sitting and someone caught him, so he didn’t hit his head or anything. They have him on an IV and drinking lots of fluids.”

“Okay,” he mutters. “Fuck. I was at a bar and I wasn’t checking my phone… I got into a cab as fast as I could.”

“It’s okay,” you console him. “He’s good. He was more worried about you than himself.”

Rafe sighs, hands on his hips as he looks down and paces back and forth, hair hanging over his head. You can hear him panting.

“He was worried about me?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he say?” Rafe asks the question the same tense way he did the night of the party. He’s so closed off, clearly upset at the thought of you knowing anything he doesn’t want you to know.

“I heard the voice-note he sent you,” you admit, “and he said you might be freaked out, but he didn’t tell me anything else. I didn’t ask. It’s not my business.”

Rafe chews on his lip the same nervous way Zach does. For once, you see a similarity between them.

His breathing gets even shallower. He rests his hands on the rear window of the van parked next to him. His body curls forward. His skin is flushed.

You step a little closer, searching his face in the light of the lamps lining the parking lot. He’s distraught.

“Rafe,” you say quietly.

His stare is on the ground, his chest heaving now. Something bad has been triggered in him.

“Hey,” you say.

“You can go home now,” he mutters breathlessly.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” you say. You take a risk, placing a hand on his back, feeling it rise and fall quickly.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” you say evenly. “I get that this is scary, but I promise you, everything’s okay. Zach is okay.”

Rafe’s chest is tight. His veins are made of ice. He feels like punching something. He hates this familiar loss of control, this shock of the world crumbling around him with no warning.

Yet while he thought that he’d hate someone touching him like this, that he’d hate being so vulnerable, he actually feels a little better.

You continue to rub his back, sweetly and tenderly. The touches he shares with girls are never like this. They’re always superficial, fuelled by lust. But this feels like real, sincere care.

“You took a cab here?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he rasps.

“Did you talk to the driver?”

“What?”

“Did you?” you say. “What kind of car was it?”

It’s all in an effort to distract him, and while Rafe stammers his way through his answers about the driver and the car and the bar he was at, you notice his breathing start to even out.

Minutes later, his heart isn’t racing as fast. His chest isn’t as tight. He can think clearer.

He’s embarrassed, but relieved you were here to talk him down before he ran into the hospital and demanded to see his brother. He now realizes how bad that could’ve gone.

“I don’t…” he stammers. He doesn’t know how to say that this doesn’t happen all that often, that this is a piece of him he typically buries deep from everyone.

“What?”

“You probably think I’m crazy.” Saying the word out loud hurts more than he expected. It’s what he’s felt all his life, that something isn’t wired right in his brain.

“No. I get it,” you say. You shake your head. “I mean, I don’t know what happened, but… I’m guessing he was in the hospital for something before, right?”

Rafe meets your eyes, straightening.

“I get why you’re freaked out,” you say. “I would be, too. Memories can mess with us.”

The way you just calmed him down, the sympathy in your tone, the alcohol swimming in his system are what push him to actually be honest with someone for once in a long time.

“We almost lost him,” he admits. “A long time ago.”

Your face falls in sorrow, eyes searching his face. He looks down at the ground, too uncomfortable to meet your gaze again.

“I almost lost him,” Rafe mumbles, his voice thin. Because, really, he knows he would’ve felt the loss the hardest. His brother is the most important person in his life. Always has been.

And to lose him, someone so irreplaceable, someone he was with from the moment he was a living thing, would kill him. Zach’s right, even though he’s joking, that Rafe doesn’t tell him he loves him enough.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen,” Rafe says.

It was mere months after their mother abandoned them, saying she couldn’t stay with their father anymore, that she did everything she could do as a mom, that she was done.

It left a hole in Rafe that he feels every day. If Zach feels it, he does an incredible job hiding it.

He still doesn’t know what the final straw was. Why fourteen years of her sons’ lives was enough for her. How could a parent decide that they had enough of their kids forever?

She wasn’t the best mom, unpredictable and erratic, but he loved her. There had to be something wrong with her mind for her to act like that. To leave. Something that Rafe is sure skipped Zach and was passed on to him.

“That’s so young,” you say sadly.

“He was really sick for a while.” Rafe’s heart twists thinking about it.

How a freak case of pneumonia had Zach bedridden, his lungs fighting to keep breathing. How mad Rafe was at his brother, as if he did it on purpose. How sure he was that in some twisted way, his mother’s sudden abandonment triggered it.

He still regrets how he acted when Zach was discharged. He couldn’t talk to him for days. He was too angry for scaring him into thinking he was going to lose his best friend, his anchor.

“How long?” you ask.

“Weeks,” Rafe tells you. “And you know Zach. He kept telling everyone he was fine. Even as a kid, he didn’t want people to worry about him.”

“He is like that, isn’t he?” you say with a soft chuckle. Since you met Zach, you quickly learned he dismisses any notion of needing any sort of help. “But I promise, this isn’t one of those cases. I saw for myself. He’s good. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

Rafe nods quickly, finally looking at you.

“You’ll see him tomorrow,” you say with a small smile, sad but touched that he opened up to you like this. “Until then, just try to relax.”

Rafe loves the feeling of your hand on him. He can’t remember the last time he loved someone’s touch. If he ever even did.

He’s keeping his promise to Zach. He won’t hook up with you. Because he wants more than that. He wants to know you and for you to know him. He wants you to stay the night, every night. He wants you to be his.

And he needs to be sure you don’t feel anything for his brother.

“Are you and him…” He swallows hard. “Is there anything there?”

Your forehead crinkles in confusion. Zach had told you that his brother was his best friend. You’re sure he would’ve told him if he felt something for you.

If he has to ask, Zach must not talk about you much at all. You’re nothing but a friend to him. Although you do have feelings for him, you were right to be apprehensive from the start. He doesn’t like you like that.

“No,” you finally say.

Rafe nods. At least there’s no unrequited feelings on either side. He must have been reading into things, imagining you looking at his brother a certain way.

“You wanna grab some food?” Rafe asks impulsively.

You agree. Right now, there’s nothing else you’d rather do.

Rafe’s been on a handful of dates before, but sitting across from you at a quiet late-night diner, sobering up, getting to know you more and more makes him feel like he’s living in a dream.

He’s never felt this way about a girl before. Scared in a good way. Slowly, he opens up little by little, peeling back layers of the wall he’s been hiding behind for years.

He shares what happened with his mom. How Zach was the strong one, while Rafe acted out and made his life hell. You take in every word, seeing just how much guilt and shame and pain he carries around.

You open up, too, sharing things you don’t tell many people. He’s a good listener, and the eyes you thought didn’t have much hope behind them at first aren’t cold at all by the end of the night.

It’s one in the morning when you part ways. Rafe shares a cab with you, making sure you get dropped off first, watching you step through the front door.

Everything in him wants to invite you to his place, but things are going to be different with you. He won’t rush into numbing himself with sex like he always does, because he refuses to be numb or absent or checked out with you in any way.

────୨ৎ────

“What kind of grown man forgets to drink water?”

Zach looks up from his orange juice to see Rafe walking into his hospital room.

He chuckles, asking Rafe not to give him shit for this because you already did. The mention of your name makes Rafe’s heart feel lighter in this tense moment.

Because of how good it felt to be so open with you last night, expressing just how important Zach is to him, remembering everything they’d gone through together, Rafe doesn’t shy away from leaning over to hug his brother, who stiffens in his bed.

“Uh, good morning to you, too?” Zach laughs. “Is this a hug? What the hell? Who are you?”

“I love you, too,” Rafe mumbles, pulling back and holding up a paper bag of breakfast for him. “And I got you your food, princess.”

“You try eating hospital food,” Zach replies, taking the bag, feeling ravenous.

Rafe settles on the chair, remembering his brother at fourteen, picking apart at the food they served him with a look of disgust, yet telling the nurses ‘it’s good, thank you’ when they asked if he was enjoying his meal.

Rafe urged his dad to bring his brother home-cooked food almost every day of his hospital stay. It was one of the little ways he showed up for Zach, taking care of him instead of the other way around for once.

“What’d the doctor say?” Rafe asks. “Do you feel better?”

“She hasn’t come to see me yet, but I feel totally fine.” Zach digs into his breakfast. “How are you?”

Rafe looks down at his lap, sighing before he speaks.

“I freaked out,” Rafe admits. Zach stills. “She told me you said I would and you were right. But, man… she knew exactly what to do.”

“It happened when you were with her?” Zach knows what Rafe’s breakdowns look like. He has full-blown panic attacks. He’s nearly inconsolable. He wonders how jarring that must have been for you.

“Out in the parking lot,” he says. “It was just too much. All that shit came rushing back.”

Rafe shrugs, defeated. Sometimes, he’s able to give into the fact that he can do nothing but surrender to the chaos in his mind. He felt safe doing it in front of you last night. He felt safe every second he was with you.

“Are you okay now?” Zach asks. He notices the hint of a smile in Rafe’s face. A brightness he hasn’t seen in him in a long time.

“Yeah,” Rafe says. “I gotta ask you something, though.”

“What?”

“Does ‘off limits’ mean I can’t date her?”

“Date her?” Zach repeats, in disbelief. “You want to date her? Like, commit to her? You don’t commit to anyone.”

Rafe breathes a chuckle, pursing his lips.

“Well, now, I want to.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe looks like he got rid of a ten-ton weight that was sitting on his shoulders. He’s relaxed. He’s content. Zach can’t remember the last time he saw him like this.

Zach became hyperaware of other people’s emotions at a young age. When their parents would argue, he saw what it did to Rafe, who would shut down and lash out. Zach would distract his brother in every way he could.

Then their mom left and it became ten times harder to keep Rafe steady. But Zach did it and he never stopped trying. Because helping others, putting their feelings first, really does make Zach happy.

But right now, he feels really far from happy.

He looks down at his food. He had it all planned out. He’d get in his best clothes, find a nice place to take you, give you a whole speech about how he hasn’t stopped thinking about you for days and how happy you make him and how happy he could make you.

“She feels the same way? Did something happen between you?” Zach asks. His chest is a hole. A pit.

“Nothing happened,” Rafe says, scratching the back of his neck.

It was nearly impossible for Rafe not to give into the impulse to hold your hand in the booth you sat at together last night and tell you how pretty you are and how much fun he has with you.

But he really does want to be a better person. He wants to think before he acts. And that means checking in with Zach that he’s okay with this, considering how tense he is about Rafe getting involved with his friends.

“But I think she might like me, too,” Rafe says. “And I made sure she’s not into you. I guess I was just reading into stuff before.”

That’s the moment Zach’s heart breaks. He licks his lips, his stare low. So, you would’ve just rejected him.

“You really like her?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” Rafe says.

“Why?”

“Don’t make me be corny,” he groans.

Zach’s head is pounding. He wants to be mad at Rafe. But he had so many opportunities to tell him that he likes you, and he was too chicken to admit it. And now, his brother is falling for you. And he looks so happy doing it.

“You’re gonna have to be corny,” Zach says. “I need to be sure you’re not just messing around.”

Rafe sighs. It’s always Zach doing this, gushing over a girl, freaking out over if she hasn’t texted him back, getting all nervous before a date. Rafe used to tease him about it. He gets it now, though.

“You suck,” Rafe scoffs, tensing up. It’s hard for him to talk like this, but he forces the words out. “I don’t know. I like who I am when I’m around her. And it’s… when she’s in the room, everything’s better, you know?”

“Yeah,” Zach says. He knows. He feels the exact same way.

“Is that corny enough for you?” Rafe says with a scoff. “Are you cool with this or no?”

Zach chews his food slowly only to buy time before he has to speak again. He’s trying to act unbothered and it’s working, considering how in the clouds Rafe seems.

He has no idea that Zach is falling for you. Because he’s too busy doing it, too.

He meets his brother’s eyes. He takes a deep breath. And, because Rafe’s happiness has always been more important to him than his own, he gives him his blessing.

“Go for it,” Zach says. “And don’t hurt her.”

He’s never felt so bitter. He hates that he hopes you’ll have a change of heart. He hates that he feels like he’d treat you better. He hates all of this. But he stays silent.

────୨ৎ────

You’re having a late breakfast when Zach replies to your text asking to keep you updated.

Doctor cleared me. I’m home and I got my stuff from Chance. Thanks for everything.

His message is cold compared to how he usually texts. But maybe he’s just tired from the hospital stay.

You gaze out your window, thinking about everything that happened last night. Rafe isn’t as different from Zach as you first thought. Behind his hard exterior, he’s sensitive and gentle and so badly wants to be loved.

He confessed to feeling like something was missing in him since he can remember. The look in his eyes when you told him that to you, he seems perfectly whole, is one you won’t forget.

Being with him for hours was a wonderful haze. You didn’t want to part. He made you feel heard. It’s a joy that you’ve been lacking for a long time.

Minutes later, Rafe texts you asking if he can take you out to dinner tonight. You smile at your screen. You love how you don’t have to wonder about if he wants you.

The restaurant he drives you to is lavish and elegant. Rafe is unbelievably handsome across the table over the candlelight, his dark button-up making his eyes look all the more blue. Your stomach is full of butterflies, yet a sense of calm fills you when you’re with him.

You pick up where you left off, conversation flowing without any effort. He looks at you like you put the stars in the sky. You’re sure you look at him the same way.

When Rafe pulls the car up to your place, in an effort to keep you from leaving right away, he presses his palm against the back of your hand.

“Did you have a good time?” he asks, tone low, adorably nervous.

“Of course. Did you?”

Rafe chuckles at the question. Good doesn’t begin to cover it.

“You’re…” he begins.

“I’m what?” you laugh.

He squeezes your hand gently, turning it so he can lace his fingers with yours. The contact is warm, his ring hard but smooth against your skin. Your heart pounds in your ears as he stares at you.

“Beautiful,” he says. “In every way.”

His tone is sincere and firm. He says it like it’s a fact.

“And I want to keep doing this,” he says. “Seeing you. If you want to keep seeing me, too.”

“I do,” you say. When he leans forward, his kiss is soft but hungry, making your mind spin.

Zach fakes a headache when Rafe gets home. All he needs to hear is that the date went well. He doesn’t want the details.

────୨ৎ────

You’re wrapped in Rafe’s arms, your back flush against his chest, as music and chatter float through the air around you.

You’re settled on his couch, talking with your friends as the party rages. Rafe’s still getting used to what it means to be a boyfriend, tense and quiet around your friends, but he’d get used to anything if it meant making you happy.

You’ve only been dating a few weeks, but he’s sure if this isn’t love, he’s damn close to it. Aside from his brother, you’re his best friend.

You smile when you feel Rafe’s lips press against the side of your neck. He’s ridiculously affectionate, touching you whenever he can, spoiling you, whispering sweet things to you all the time. He’s completely unguarded.

Zach’s in the kitchen, as far away from you as he physically can be. After the hospital, he hasn’t been himself at all. You can tell he’s trying to be, though, forcing smiles around you.

It makes no sense. He called you amazing that night. But, then, he pulled away. It’s like he’s mad at you for dating his brother, but he refuses to admit it.

You’ve asked him multiple times if things are good between you. He reassured you over and over that they are.

Maybe someone else would believe him, but after you pined for him for so long, you can read when he’s trying to hide that he’s upset. At parties, at casual get-togethers, even at work when you’re making content for the team, he’s absent-minded and disinterested.

And whatever’s wrong, he prefers to hold inside.

Nonetheless, while your feelings for Zach have faded, you genuinely hope he’s happy and that you can be friends with him again one day.

The next morning, you wake up in Rafe’s bed. His arm is around your waist, his breath warm against your back. He’s still snoozing when you slip out of bed to get water.

Zach’s sitting at the kitchen island, staring down at his coffee. It’s almost funny how just over three months ago, you were here for the first time, yearning for Zach to give you a hint that he liked you. Now, you’re falling for Rafe.

“Morning,” you say kindly.

Zach looks up from his coffee. His smile doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Hey.”

You open the fridge, the awful feeling he’s been giving you lately sitting heavy on your heart. He makes you feel unwelcome, which is something you never expected from him.

“Just getting some water,” you say, searching through the shelves. “He’s definitely gonna wake up with a headache.”

Zach tenses. You’re doing for Rafe what he daydreamed you doing for him. Sharing a bed with him, nursing his hangover, touching him and smiling at him and giving him what Zach would die for.

You look so pretty in the morning, your bedhead adorable, your pajamas complimenting your figure. Why won’t his heart just catch up with his mind? He keeps telling himself to get over you.

He notices that you have Rafe’s ring on your finger. He used to imagine you wearing his things. He’d love to see you in his team hoodie. But he never will.

In another world, you’re in this kitchen as his girlfriend, talking about last night’s party, sharing kisses and laughs. But not in this world.

“I never asked you,” you say, your back to him, “how was that book I got you?”

You hope it serves as a reminder for how much you did for him and how much you care about him. It hurts, the way he’s been keeping you at a distance.

Late at night, as your mind drifts away from you when you try to fall asleep, you’ve considered the possibility of Zach being upset because he’s jealous of Rafe and wants to be with you.

But Rafe told you he checked with Zach to make sure your relationship was okay with him and he even said he didn’t feel anything for you. Maybe Zach thinks you’re not good enough for his brother and he’s too nice to actually say it out loud.

“Good,” Zach says.

You grab two water bottles and close the fridge door. One word is all he’s willing to say to you.

You can’t do it again. You can’t ask him for the hundredth time if you did something wrong, just for him to say you didn’t and he’s sorry that he made you feel like you did.

You leave him alone in the kitchen, padding up the stairs. Zach looks down at his coffee again. His eyes are starting to burn with tears.

He wants to remind his brother that they agreed they wouldn’t let people overstay. And you being here for even one night feels like overstaying. He can’t have you and every time he’s reminded of that, it hurts.

He can’t stop thinking about that night in the elevator and wishing that instead of drunkenly rambling about his brother, he rambled about his feelings for you. At least then, everything would have been out in the open long before you really got to know Rafe.

The girl he met through the video messaged him last night, asking if he was up to hang out again. She’s cute and nice. But she’s not you. And it’d be wrong to pursue someone just to numb the pain of not having you.

That’s all he wants. You. And because he was such a coward, he’ll never have you. Maybe at some point, he had a chance. Maybe you would have grown feelings for him if he was honest with you.

But you seem happy. So does Rafe, who actually wants hold you and kiss you in public. He was never like that with any other girl.

Zach realizes that while he was always so sure he coped with everything that life hurled at them better than Rafe, he wasn’t paying attention to how destructive he is to himself. His martyrdom was never a virtue.

He’s too late. He self-sabotaged. He has nobody to blame for his aching loneliness but himself. That’s the most heartbreaking part of this whole thing.

Rafe’s hair is tousled, his smile lazy when you come back to bed.

“Thought you left me,” he murmurs tiredly into your hair, pulling you tight against his warm body. You smile, your cheek pressed against his chest, breathing in his comforting scent.

Rafe’s sure you can feel his pulse on your cheek. He feels like you own every beat of his heart.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” you tell him.

The tension from what happened downstairs leaves your system. You swallow down the tears that threatened to fall when you left the kitchen.

You plant a kiss on Rafe’s chest. You know where you’re wanted. And you’re happiest staying there.

(the end)

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[imtryingbuck]

Fifteen

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky comes from a well respected family, he falls in love with a girl who prefers the simple things in life. Follow their journey through the years.

Word count: 4,736

Warnings: fluff, angst, heavy use of pet names. Bucky and y/n argue and that’s a warning in itself. Brock rumlow, Bucky being a bad friend. Swearing. Bullying.

A/N: No description of reader other than she has curly hair.

Masterlist   Series Masterlist

Like every morning she waited outside for Bucky, Steve and Sam to arrive so they could all walk to school together. Y/n was so excited when she found out that she was going to be going to school with her two friends, though she was a year below them.

Sam was the boys’ friend first and when he was introduced to Y/n he instantly became her friend, throwing his arm around her he winked at her causing the girl to blush. Bucky wasn’t happy.

Sighing she checked her watch, the same one Bucky had brought her for her birthday last year, they was late.

She didn’t want to be in trouble for being late so she decided to head off on her own, as she pulled her bag further up her shoulder she kept her head down whilst walking the streets.

“Y/n! Y/n slow down!” Sam’s booming voice came from behind her.

“I can’t I’m going to be late!” She shouted back to him.

“H-hold on, Jesus woman you’re making me run today aren’t you?”

Feeling his arms wrap themselves around her waist she comes to a halt. “Where’s Ducky?”

“Ah he, never mind. Steve hurry up!”

“Sam where is he? Is he ill? Oh god he is isn’t he?”

“No Sugar he’s not, he’s just not walking with us this morning”

“Hey Y/n/n” Steve panted as he pulls his friend into a hug.

“Hi Stevie where’s Ducky?”

“With Dot”

“Dude!” Sam scolded.

“Wh-who’s Dot?”

“His girlfriend” Steve admits rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry”

“H-he has a girlfriend? Oh”

She couldn’t understand why her heart hurt at hearing that.

“If it makes you feel any better, me and Sam don’t like her”

“I want to go to school now”

Throughout her lessons she couldn’t find it in herself to concentrate, he had a girlfriend and didn’t tell her - why didn’t he tell her? Was she pretty? Did she know who she was? Was they going to be friends still?

“-Y/n!”

“Huh? Sorry Sir”

“Class is over…go”

“Right sorry Sir, see you tomorrow”

Shoving all her things into her school bag she heads down to wait outside the cafeteria for the boys to show. Like that morning she checks her watch and sighing, they’re late.

Her stomach growled and giving up waiting for them to show she heads into the cafeteria when she comes to a stop.

They were already there, sat at the table that was unofficially reserved for the four of them.

Her eyes watered at seeing a brunette sat in her place, next to her Ducky. She watched as he threw his arm around her and pulled her into him just like he always did to her. She watched as Sam and Steve laugh about something the girl said.

“Ow, I’m sorry” she stutters out after she’s pushed over.

“Move out of the way freak” Brock. The schools bully. Or as Y/n called him behind his back ‘Brock the rock’ no it wasn’t a compliment at his muscles but an insult, Brock rhymed with rock and rocks where dumb just like Brock.

“I-I’m sorry” she stutters as she tries to move out of the way.

“Aw you going to cry you little freak?” He says loudly catching everyone’s attention.

“N-no-“

“I think she is Brock” laughed Jack, another bully who followed Brock wherever he went.

“The little freak is going to cry!” Brock boomed causing her to flinch.

He takes it one step further by pushing her in to Jack who then shoves her away violently back to Brock, back and forth she was pushed between the two.

Y/n’s frantic eyes met Bucky’s who had been watching the whole thing along with everyone else. She nearly burst out crying when all he did was look down.

“Looks like your little boyfriend isn’t coming to the rescue this time freak” Brock whispers as he clutches her shirt tightly in his grip just before pushing her roughly onto the ground.

She waits until Brock and his lackeys leave before standing up, looking up towards the table she’s normally sat at with her friends her heart breaks when she sees the back of Bucky’s head and Steve and Sam looking down at their food.

Running out of the cafeteria she runs to the bathroom where she locks herself away until the loud shrill of the bell goes off.

Throughout the day she was glad she didn’t see any of the boys or Brock and Jack as she moved from one class to the next. Stuck in her own mind she couldn’t understand why neither one of her friends stuck up for her like they’ve done before whenever Brock was acting tough now that Tony had left school.

Were they my friends now? Why didn’t Bucky tell me he had a girlfriend? Why didn’t Steve and Sam stick up for me?

They were some of the many questions that swirled around her head as her last teacher Mr Levinson droned on.

When the bell rang throughout the school she took her time in packing her things, waiting for everyone to leave.

“Y/n?”

“Yes sir?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes sir, why?”

“Well you’re normally the first one out of the class” he chuckles.

“Oh. No everything’s okay sir” she smiled up at him as she brought the strap of her bag up her arm.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow remember you’ve got me for two periods”

“I know sir, I’ll see you tomorrow” waving bye to her favourite teacher she walks out of the class, slowly walking to the entrance. Like Mr Levinson said she was normally the first one out of class, and normally she was running through the halls to wait outside for the boys to arrive so they could head to the sweet shop on the corner of Main Street but today she was in no rush, no rush in seeing the spot she always waited at to being empty.

As she stepped out of the doors she felt stupid for hoping that they would have waited for her, they hadn’t.

As she walked past the sweet shop she heard Sam’s loud laughter filter through the gap in the door, her heart pounding loudly in her chest as she saw Sam, Steve and Bucky all laughing in the store, she swore her heart broke when she saw Bucky grab ahold of the brunettes hand from lunch and pulling her to place his lips to hers. Y/n brought her fingers to her lips softly touching them wondering how the girl in the store felt kissing Bucky.

Shaking her head and wiping her tears she walks off before any of them sees her.

“Hello angel-angel what’s wrong?” Howard asks when she walks in and straight pass him without saying hello or telling him how her day went, or better yet without her handing him her packet full to the brim of sweets so he could pick one - or if she was letting him feel cheeky two - out.

“Nothing dad I’m going to do my homework”

“Angel come here, or don’t I’ll just follow you” he mutters following her upstairs and into her room.

“Dad, please I just want to do my homework and go to sleep”

“Not until you tell me what’s happened? You’re not normally back yet, is Lloyds closed?”

“No. I-I just really need to get this homework done”

“Where’s the boys?”

“I-dad please”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on? You seem to forget angel I know you and I know something is wrong, so spill”

“Duc-Bucky has a girlfriend…”

“Oh…oh. I’m sorry angel”

“It’s okay, I just don’t have any friends anymore” she shrugs, looking at the photograph she had hanging up on her wall. Her, Bucky, Sam and Steve standing in front of the stall at the fair ground, Bucky’s arm wrapped around her waist as her hand was on his chest. All four of them smiling widely at the camera as Maria takes the photo.

“Of course you’ll still have friends angel, the boys will still be your friends”

“No they won’t. Steve and Sam were friends with Bucky before they were my friends”

“Bucky’s still you friend darling just because he has a girlfriend doesn’t mean shit-don’t tell your mother I just swore in front of you”

“I won’t” she giggles.

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

She hadn’t found the courage to tell her parents about the bullying or how bad it was, knowing how they would react she didn’t want to make it any worse than it already was.

“No dad everything’s okay I promise”

“Okay…well tomorrow is Friday and you know what that means don’t you? That’ll prove that the boys are still your friends”

Shortly after Howard leaves so she could start her homework. Not that she does it.

Friday, tomorrow is Friday. Every weekend her, Steve and Sam heads to Bucky’s house for a sleepover. Was she still invited? Was Bucky’s girlfriend going to be there?

Her head pounded and her eyes stung so she climbed into bed falling asleep as her stomach growled in hunger it only then occurred to her that she hadn’t ate anything since breakfast, it didn’t stop her from falling into a restless sleep.

The next morning she moved along with the motions. Getting dressed, brushing her hair and teeth, eating breakfast, she puts her shoes on pressing a kiss to her parents their cheeks she says her goodbyes.

She hesitates outside whether she should wait for the boys to show or not she finally forces her legs to move, she wasn’t going to be waiting on them. Not anymore.

“Oi freak!” Brock shouted as he walks across the road to where she was, she carried on walking keeping her head down.

“Freak don’t ignore him” Jack says.

She felt hands on her back before she was shoved down on to the ground scraping her hands and her knees. “W-what do you want?”

“Your lunch”

“No”

“What?” Don’t ask her Brock she’s just as shocked as you at her sticking up for herself.

“I said no, are you deaf?” Shut up shut up shut up her brain screams at her.

“Funny, don’t worry freak you’re going to regret this” Brock says before picking her bag up and throwing it over a fence.

Watching the pair walk off she stands up and looks down at her knees, great they’re bleeding. Opening the gate she walks over to the door and knocks, waiting patiently she waits for the owner to open up.

“Hello?”

“Hi Sir, my bag got thrown over your fence could I please get it?”

“Sure…”

“It’s over that fence” she points at the wooden fence that leads to the backyard she assumes.

“Oh, yeah sure hold on I’ll get the key” he walks back inside and returns quickly with the key “are you okay?”

“Yes Sir, are you?”

“I’m fine but I’m talking about your knees and hands, they’re bleeding”.

“Bullies Sir”

“Oh, nasty little parasites aren’t they?”

“Yes Sir” she giggles “thank you Sir” she says as he hands over her bag back to her.

“You’re welcome and hey listen don’t let them get to you okay? It will get better soon I can promise you that”

“H-how do you know?”

“I was bullied when I was at school but here I am owning a business that continues to grow even long after I’ve retired” he smiles softly.

“Wow, I-I don’t know why they pick on me I’ve never done anything wrong to them”

“Because they see the potential in you and they are scared because they haven’t gotten any so they spend their time and energy trying to bring you down”

“Oh, well I wish they would stop”

“They will you just have to wait them out”

“Thank you Sir, I best get going I’m…crap I’m late”

“Go go, and call me Stan”

“Y/n, bye Mr Stan”

“Well it’s actually Mr Lee but go your late” the older man chuckles.

“I’m going I’m going” she laughs waving at him.

Practically running to school she runs to her class “I’m sorry Miss” 

“It’s okay Y/n just make sure it doesn’t happen again”

“It won’t Miss I promise”

Ms Ford was an older teacher who taught maths whether it’s because of her age or because of how long she had been teaching for she simply didn’t care if you was late or not, as long as you didn’t cause any trouble then it was fine.

When the bell rang signalling for it to be lunch she slowly moved towards the bathroom so she could eat, on her way there she saw two of Brock’s friends walking towards her before she had a chance to do anything they grabbed her arms and dragged her backwards, leading her into the cafeteria.

No one blinks an eye or tries to help her out.

She’s shoved onto her knees in front of Brock, she shifts and in the corner of her eye she sees Bucky, Steve and Sam all staring.

“This little freak had the balls to talk back to me this morning and well I can’t let that happen” he told everyone. “Stand the freak up”

She’s roughly pulled up by her arms “did you all know that her dad killed her mom? Or that this little freak was in an orphanage?” He laughs.

“Shut up Brock” she says, mentally slapping herself for talking back.

“Ooh the freak speaks once again. Hey Bucky doesn’t this dog belong to you?” She’s spun around so she has no choice but to look at him, who once again just stares down.

“No? Not going to say anything? Wow some friend you are” Brock chuckles. “Hey guys want to see what she’s hiding under her shirt? My mom was a nurse who had to touch this freak”

Y/n’s eyes widen and she starts to struggle against the hold that the two boys had on her arms. “No no no Brock I’m sorry I’m sorry you don’t have to do this! I’m sorry”

Ignoring her pleads he just smirks at her “hold her steady boys”

“Brock stop!” Steve says shakily from the table.

“Shut up or your next. Stop struggling freak”

“Please s-stop! Please-D-Ducky help! No no no no no please no” she screams out as Brock rips her shirt off leaving her scarred back exposed to nearly the whole school.

“Disgusting isn’t it?” Brock laughs.

The murmurs and laughters are drowned out by the roaring of blood filling her ears, the moment she’s dropped to the ground she wraps her hands over her chest and runs out of the cafeteria and out of the school. Her vision was blurred as she ran faster than she’s ever ran before.

“Y/n-oh my lord, come here darling” an older voice says that she recognised from earlier.

“M-m-Mr Stan”

“I’m not going to hurt you, I’m going to put my coat around you okay?” As soon as the material was around her she collapsed into his arms.

“Darling le-let’s get you into the car and I’ll take you home okay?”

Everything moves in a blur, she doesn’t even realise that Mr Stan pulls up to her house or that he’s knocking on the door talking to her father or that her father comes rushing out of the house.

“Angel, angel come here”

“D-Dada” she cries clinging to him.

Howard lifts her out of the car and takes her into the house calling out for Maria who comes out of the kitchen. He takes her upstairs to her room where he lays her gently on the bed his heart breaking at the way she still clings on to him.

Leaving Maria to help Y/n get dressed and clean her injuries up he heads down the stairs to where Stan was still waiting.

“Come with me Stan” leading the older man into his office “what happened?”

“I met her this morning when she knocked on my door a bully had thrown her bag over my fence, we spoke a little before she left for school”

“A bully? Y/n’s being bullied?”

“So she says Sir”

“Howard, you know this Stan. Anyway carry on”

“Well I was driving home when she ran out into the road clutching…covering her chest. Her top half was naked. I got out and put my coat around her and brought her home”

“D-Did she say anything?”

“No, she just cried”

“Thank you for bringing her home Stan, here here’s some money” Howard pulls out a huge wad of money from the draw of his desk.

“Howard, I don’t want your money son. She’s a sweet girl who doesn’t deserve half of the shit she’s gone through”

“Yo-you know?”

“Well…yes. She was in the newspapers. Just make sure she’s okay for me, I’ll see myself out goodbye Howard”

“Y/n, angel please talk to us” Howard pleads as he sits next to Maria on Y/ns bed.

“I-it doesn’t matter”

“Of course it does sweetie, we need to deal with this” Maria speaks softly.

“I’m a freak! My back is disgusting. I-I should of died when my real dad tried to kill me”

Taken back by her confession Maria clutches her chest with shaky hands, Howard stutters trying to find the right words.

“A-Angel you don’t mean that”

“I do. I’m tired of being bullied, I’ve tried dad to make friends I have I swear but nobody wants to be friends with a freak. I don’t get why they call me names or steal my lunch or push me into things. I hate going to school. I hate Sam. I hate Steve. An-and I hate James. I hate my life, I wish I was dead” a shuddering breath leaves her lips as her whole body trembles.

She didn’t mean to tell them about the bullying or about how she hated her friends because even though they didn’t talk to her or stick up for her she didn’t hate them, they were her only friends.

She definitely didn’t mean to tell them how she wished she was dead.

“Y/n Stark you take that back!” Maria scolds.

“No! And let’s be honest mom the only reason you two adopted me was out of pity and because George probably asked you too just so James could keep me around” her voice raised and shook, mentally scolding herself for saying that because now she had to sit there and watch as the tears gathered in her mommas eyes.

“Is-is that what you really think?”

“It wasn’t pity that we felt when we adopted you Y/n, it was because I genuinely believed that you had a very special place in our family and I still believe that even after all these years. George never asked us to take you in.” Howard speaks.

“I-I-oh momma I’m so sorry! Dada I swear I didn’t mean it” she cries her eyes bouncing from one parent to the next.

“Angel, it’s okay. Oh sweetheart come here” Howard opens his arms waiting for his daughter to climb into them, rubbing his hand up and down her back not flinching or feeling disgusted when he feels the scars under her shirt.

“I’m sorry” she repeats over and over.

“Sweetheart we love you and just because you’re not biologically ours doesn’t make a difference, you are our daughter through and through” Maria says softly wiping the tears that fall onto her cheeks.

“I-I don’t want to go to school anymore momma please don’t make me go back”

“We’ll talk about it later okay? Get some sleep and we’ll talk about everything” Maria promises watching as she nods and climbs back into bed. 

A few hours later after Maria had managed to calm down Howard who was quite literally on a war path there was a knock on the door, Maria walked over to the door opening it she saw Sam and Steve standing there with sheepish looks on their faces.

“What are you two doing here?”

“W-we want to see Y/n, is-is she okay?”

“She is now. Where is James?”

“With Dot…”

“Charming. I don’t think Y/n will want to see you tonight, please leave”

“Miss Maria we’re really sorry, please tell Y/n that.”

“I will do. Goodbye boys”

Watching as the boys walk away with their tails in between their legs she shakes her head, she hates turning them away but when it comes to her daughter she’ll do everything to protect her, even if it’s from her friends.

The next day Y/n woke with a pounding headache, the memories of what she had said to her parents made her stomach hurt. She hated herself for making her mom cry, seeing the hurt flash in her parents eyes made her want to burst out crying.

She never wanted her parents to find out that she was being bullied afraid it made her look weak, made her look like she needed them to save her again. She wanted to be strong just like Tony, be the social butterfly just like her brother instead of being social outcast that she was. 

Y/n had tried to fit in she really did, she tried to be someone that she wasn’t. She found it hard to be around the other girls who were interested in make up, the latest fashion and boys, none of them things she cared about.

Okay maybe she was interested in boys she noticed them obviously, especially one in particular. Bucky.

But sadly that didn’t matter anymore, not now that he had a girlfriend.

Y/n preferred the simpler things that life had to offer, she never cared for all pretty dresses her mom would get her or all of the expensive things her dad would give her. She preferred getting mud all over her, climbing trees, talking to the animals she encountered. Her hair was always messy and nine out of ten times her hair would have leaves tangled in it. Her clothes would have grass stains on them from where she would either roll around in the grass or from where she would kneel down getting closer to the insects she came upon.

She never truly understood why the other kids called her a freak, maybe she was but that didn’t matter right? She had a heart and feelings and she was just the same as everyone else.

“Angel, James is here to see you” Howard knocks on her bedroom door pulling her out of her trance.

Might as well as get this over and done with.

“Let him in dad”

“I’m just downstairs if you need me angel”

“Okay”

She sits up so she’s leaning against the headboard, twisting her ring that her dad had gotten her when she had gotten an A on a test. She watches as the door handle goes down a little bit and the door comes open revealing her Ducky.

“Hi Bun-Y/n” he says shyly as he shuffles in to the room, his eyes roaming everywhere other than on her.

“Hi”

“H-how are you feeling?”

“You’re joking right?” She scoffs.

“I-I’m sorry about yesterday, I should of done something to stop Brock”

“But you didn’t and I was humiliated in front of the whole entire school.”

“I know. Y-you didn’t come to mine last night and when I found out that Sam and Steve was turned away by your mom I kind of gotten worried”

“You expected me to show up after none of you said anything to stop Brock? After you didn’t wait for me at lunch or how you and the boys went to Lloyds without me?”

Rubbing the back of his neck he shifted on the spot “well yeah, we’re friends Bu-Y/n”

“You can’t even say the name you gave me when you was seven. Why is that?”

“Dot doesn’t like it”

“Dot being your girlfriend?”

“Yeah…”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had one?”

“Be-because I didn’t want you to get jealous”

“You thought I would get jealous?”

“Well yeah, you are aren’t you?”

“Give me a second, just wait there” she says as she stands up on shaky legs, moving around him she heads downstairs to the living room where her parents sat “momma, dada can I please swear? I won’t do it again I promise”

“Of course princess” Howard grins before Maria could say anything.

She runs back upstairs and walks around Bucky who still stands there. “Are you fucking out of your mind? You honestly thought I was jealous? I would have been happy for you!”

“Did you just ask your parents if you could swear?” Bucky grins finding it amusing.

“Don’t grin at me Ducky, I swear to God I will hit you!”

“You can’t call me that anymore Y/n, Dot hates it especially after you called it me yesterday”

“Fuck Dot! I’ve been your friend since I was six years old Ducky! You want me to be different with you now that you have a girlfriend?”

“Bunny-shit Y/n. Please just stop calling me it okay it’s embarrassing, we’re to old now to keep calling each other them silly nicknames”

“I-we-what? Duc-“

“Y/n.”

“Fine. James are you really going to be choosing her someone you’ve been dating for all of five minutes over me? Someone you’ve know for years?”

“Yes.”

“W-what?”

“I’m choosing her over you.”

“A-are we no longer friends?”

“Will you grow up and stop acting like a freak?” He says instantly slamming his mouth shut, regret seeping into his veins when he sees her the pain flash across her eyes.

“What did you just call me?”

“I-I didn’t mean it-“

“What did you just call me James”

“Bun-“

“I’m not going to fucking ask again James!”

“A freak” he gulps.

“Fuck you. Get the fuck out of my house and out of my fucking life!”

“Bun-“

“You’re not allowed to call me that anymore, remember? Your bitch of a girlfriend won’t like it oh and we’re not fucking friends anymore! Now leave!”

“Don’t call Dot a-“

“She’s a bitch. A big fat stinking bitch! And guess what James, so are you.”

“Brock’s right, you are a freak. A freak with no friends. And guess what Y/n, I never wanted to be your friend I just felt sorry for you. Your father beat you and killed your mother so of course I felt sorry for you, did you really think I wanted to be friends with you? News flash I didn’t!” He shouts, once he calmed down from his outburst he struggles to breathe “Y/n I’m-I’m sor-“

“I hate you. If you don’t leave right now I’ll get my dad up here, I’m not joking James. Get out I hate you so much I can’t believe I actually thought I loved you. Now fuck off.”

“I-I’m sorry”

“Shove your sorry up your arse and fuck right off bye bye”

She turns her back on him and waiting until she heard him leave, she had always thought that he became her friend because he felt sorry for her but she didn’t want to believe it, now she knew the truth she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Hearing the front door shut she burst out crying, she fell to her knees clutching her chest. She felt her heart had been ripped out of her chest and stomped on a million times.

“Oh my sweet baby, it’s okay I’ve got you” Maria hold her daughter as she breaks down.

“M-Momma it hurts”

“I know it does sweetheart. Let it all out baby”

“I-I don’t want to be here anymore momma”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to go to a private school like you and dada said befo-before I went to school with them”

Maria looks over at Howard who stands at the doorway with his jaw clenched so tightly that Maria thought he was going to shatter his teeth.

“Are you sure angel?”

“Yes I’m sure dada, please I won’t ask for anything else ever again!”

“I’ll set it up angel”

Bucky had no idea that when he woke up that morning that he was going to lose his best friend but he only had himself to blame.

He had lost the most important person in his life all because he fucked up.

He had said the most vilest things to her which was not in any way true.

He had lost his Bunny.

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[geoviki]

Mo Guan Shan’s Big Feelings

Mo Guan Shan, resident tsundere of 19 Days, pretends to be tough and hard-hearted.  But he’s easily and frequently reduced to tears, as we soon realize.  In fact, he cries so often in the story that this post is pretty massive.

MGS cries as a child, of course.  He’s in a clinic in his mom’s arms when She Li first becomes obsessed with him (ch 294).

MGS has a bad dream about the day his dad told little Guan Shan he couldn’t come to the school’s robot fair (ch 392).

MGS cries in other dreams too.  Soon after meeting He Tian, he has a sensual dream of being comforted in He Tian’s arms after being bullied.  Look closely – there are little tears falling as He Tian assures him he’s the “most invincible badass.” (ch 250)

True to form, he cries in the Santa fantasy extra when his house is destroyed (ch 345).

MGS cries when he’s frustrated, like in this episode after the play when he can’t untie himself to pee (ch 359).

MGS is a weepy drunk as well.  After accidentally destroying Brother Qiu’s bike (ch 427), he drunkenly sobs in bed as he vows to somehow repay him. 

Later, while MGS is still drunk, He Tian slips and falls while carrying him, ripping Mo’s pants in front of He Cheng (ch 429).  MGS cries from embarrassment.

Unsurprisingly, MGS cries over his dad.  After He Tian unknowingly brings him to dinner at what is probably his father’s former restaurant, we see a young MGS in flashback crying in fear at the chaos around him.  Present-day MGS flees and He Tian finds him crying in the parking lot (ch 217)

One of the more moving chapters shows MGS breaking down as he visits his father in prison for the first time (ch 240).

MGS cries from sheer anger in several chapters.  The earliest is when He Tian forces an unwanted kiss on him as a misplayed joke (ch 174-175).  He Tian is taken aback by Mo’s strong, tearful reaction.  It’s probably the first time someone doesn’t try to placate He Tian when he’s being a jerk, and he begins to take MGS more seriously after this.

MGS tries to end his friendship with He Tian after the school play that indirectly causes him to lose his meager job.  He Tian doesn’t help matters by waving money at him as they quarrel.  MGS weeps with anger and says, “Standing with you makes me feel like a failure.”  (ch 364)

He cries in anger once more as he watches incredulously as She Li incinerates his backpack (ch 368).  (She Li seems to walk around carrying gasoline like it’s no big deal – what’s up with that?)

MGS cries when he’s worried.  When he digs frantically through the mudslide during their ill-fated mountain hike, he thinks He Tian has been buried alive.  When He Tian calls out, MGS throws his teary self into He Tian’s arms (ch 329).

MGS’s worry is clear when the last violent fight with She Li is finally over and He Tian has won (ch 408).  The battle was so fierce that by the end He Tian is crying too, and soon they’re embracing (I sense a pattern here!)

MGS often cries when his emotions overwhelm him.  Early on, after MGS is rescued from the fiasco of agreeing to take the blame for a serious crime, He Tian tells him, “Don’t try to shoulder everything yourself.” (ch 188).  MGS tears up at the thought that someone like He Tian has his back.

MGS ends up full-on sobbing in He Tian’s arms (again) when he finally admits why She Li has a hold over him: because of the homeless man who tried to kill him (ch 319).

In one of the most traumatic scenes (and a personal favorite), both guys shed a lot of tears when He Tian finds him after She Li has tortured and burned him (ch 369-370).  These chapters mark a turning point in their relationship from friends to more.

MGS is shown when he’s happy only once, and that memorable event will happen in their future: that Christmas night when He Tian returns and proposes with matching rings (ch 412).  Cue the waterworks!

Thanks to all of the translators who provide the English versions of the story!

[naffeclipse]

Warm Fangs

Naga!Sun x Reader. Sickness.

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As you sleep, the fever worsens. Chills hit you with a violent shudder. The heat from the sickness flees under the quaking cold. You moan softly, curling up tighter. A soft hiss shushes you but you can’t find anything warm, anything warm at all.

The smooth brush of scales loosens from around you. The outside cold slips away from your feverish skin but stays within.

“It hasn’t broken yet,” Moon murmurs distantly. Cold fingertips brush your hair, damp from sweat, away from your forehead. A whine leaves you. You hate how pathetic it sounds inside your head.

“Oh, no. I was afraid it might linger with our poor lily pad,” Sun lowers his voice but he’s not as quiet as his brother, holding a stage whisper more than an actual whisper. You might have smiled if you weren’t bothered by the mottled moonlight giving way to a blue-bright early morning sky. 

It doesn’t feel warm. The sun is supposed to reheat the earth and take away the frost filling your chest with a shivering revolt.

A few quiet exchanges slip away in your near unconsciousness. Gingerly, you become weightless, lifted into the air like a feather before pressed into other arms. Heat, raw and covering, finally touches your body. You breathe out a low sigh, eyelids fluttering to peek up at the source of the heat. The form softly sways as you’re carried away.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sun hums. He looks down at you, his spiky frills flaring around his head in golden hues before the shadow of the cave eclipses the morning sun. “Don’t move, my water lily, you’re still sick.”

“Hmm, I’m fine,” you half moan. Your eyes fall close again. A tender soreness soaks into every muscle, especially at your neck and your shoulders. The deep, deep ache that refuses to go away. 

You shudder with another chill. Sun clicks his tongue in concern, the forked end whipping with a snapping worry. 

“You amaze me, truly. Even in the throes of illness, you’re still so stubborn.” He laughs softly, endearing but in a way that almost makes you push yourself out of his steady arms. He doesn’t get to think you’re cute. Not right now, when you feel how sticky your body is and how weak your limbs dangle as he carries you deeper into the cave you’ve made a shelter within.

“Sun,” you softly groan.

“Save your strength to fight the fever, not me.” A soft peck of his scaly mouth touches your temple. You nearly dissolve under his doting command. “You need to rest and do as I say so you can feel better. I don’t like to see you like this.”

You, in a reflective, rebellious instinct, almost try to kick out your feet and find solid ground, but Sun lowers you to the cold, cave floor. You’re seized by another icy torrent of coldness. Hugging your arms, you quietly groan. A soft swell of tears teem over your eyelids. That’s from the sickness, you tell yourself. You’re not crying because Sun and his sweet warmth let you go.

“I’ll be gone for only a moment, lily pad. Hold on for me, okay?” he singsongs.

You want to snatch the heat that had held back the torturous chills. Lifting your heavy eyes, you scour the dimness of the cave, catching sight of Sun’s long body softly slipping over the stone towards the shelves that were chipped into the wall of the cavern. The rich yellow hues of his scales are bright even in the shadows of rocks. The markings along his waist and around his throat are scarlet and vibrant with warning of his venom. You watch the outline of Sun’s defined shoulders move, taking and gathering, collecting a pale pink blossom you can’t currently name.

Pressed against the wall in a sleepy bundle of his scales, Moon watches you, eyes half lidded but attentive. You didn’t hear him enter. His hands open and close, as if to reach for you. He holds back. You frown at his distance but recall his cool scales through the midnight fever, and drowsily, in fitful half-sleep, wait for Sun.

He returns with a skim over the floor. His presence washes over you with hope.

“Don’t cry, my water lily. I’m here,” Sun coaxes with gentle mirth. A crooked finger swipes the leaking liquid from your eyes.

“Not crying,” you grumble, voice croaking like a frog. “Not a water lily.”

“Oh, I’m going to have to disagree and blame your lack of sense on the sickness,” he chirps as if you were simply the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

You pry your eyelids open for a glare. You certainly are not a beautiful and grandiose flower. Not right now in your freezing weakness.

Moon’s hissing laughter echoes. It fills you with another short burst of irate energy that lasts for only the moment of his humor. Sun tuts and shoots Moon a look before gently cradling you. The golden naga guides you upright with a tender hand supporting your back. He rests your head on his shoulder, his underside a shiny, pale cream color, and the gentle heat of his body burns away the chills holding you down. 

He lifts up a small flower, pale pink and pom-pom like on the end of a slender, green stalk.

“Eat this. It’ll make you feel better,” he softly insists.

You eye the flower as if it were a venus flytrap, and you were a particularly weak fly.

“What is it?” you murmur.

“I’ve heard humans call it a sensitive plant, sometimes called touch-me-not. If you had told me you weren’t feeling well early, you could have had this sooner.” The chasiting does not evade your awareness. Sun lowers the plant closer, as if offering a rose instead of medicine. “It will help with your fever and chills.”

“Ugh,” you turn your head ahead. The thought of eating when you have no appetite rears an ugly head within you. “I don’t need it.”

“I disagree strongly, lilypad,” Sun crones in disapproval. “Once you eat it, you’ll start to feel better.”

The soft lift to his tone invades you. You want to squirm, keep turning away from the offered medical plant, but Sun’s warmth surrounds you entirely. Gently, his finger guides your cheek until you face him once more.

“Please, won’t you, for me?” His cornflower blue eyes hold you with his plea. From the corners of his wide mouth, the very tips of fangs glint, but you’re not afraid of his bite. He saved you with his venom, once.

You grimace and force your lips to part. Murmuring praises and coaxes alike in a soft, musical tone, Sun presses the flower head to your mouth until you bite it off, and chew laboriously. It tastes green and dry. He watches you, hawk-like, ensuring you masticate the soft, brittle like petals before swallowing against the vicious dryness of your throat. You gasp after gulping.

His smile grows like a sunbeam at sunrise.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.” He tenderly rubs his mouth against your forehead. “Thank you."

The heat of his affection battles the cold underneath your skin, and when you shiver, he holds you tighter. You fall deeper under his fondness.

"This will pass and you’ll be in tip-top shape again,” he says softly, brimming with heated hope.

Oh, Sun. You want to curse him. You want to tell him that he can’t talk like that, melting your insides and making you nothing but an ooey-gooey mess, but you can’t. You are swept away by his sweet tones. 

No one but Sun unbalances you and catches you in the same motion. He’s disarming. He's the only thing that feels right.

You slump against him in another full-body shudder. Softly humming, Sun begins rearranging your limp form, draping your legs across his deliciously warm tail as the dark end wraps your lower legs. The tightness of his coils used to frighten you before you realized how summery and soft he is. He tucks you gently against his arm, lying down to become your personal pillow.

You are so useless. It’s a miracle you haven’t faded away by now—a miracle of two nagas, no less.

“It’s also called humble flower,” he continues with a soft note. “Perhaps you could take that aspect from it as well, my water lily.”

You moan, unable to offer a rebuttal that you are no flower, but his gentle embrace covers you entirely. His chest thrums lightly with a heartbeat you’ve listened to before. A soft hum fills his throat. He continues pressing his mouth against your cheek, the crook of your neck, and the top of your head as if smothering the clammy effect attempting to surface on your body.

“Soon, you’ll rise and we can stroll through the jungle and find more flowers, more flowers like you, and you’ll feel better. Doesn’t that sound nice?” he chatters endlessly.

You can only snuggle deeper against his chest, against his warm, smooth scales, better than any patch of sunlight, and trust in him.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 28

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

As you come outside, your mom sits on the deck, under the umbrella with a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. You can hardly tell if she’s awake. You hug yourself as you come into the summer light and look around. There’s a bottle of sun lotion on the railing of the deck. 

You cross the wooden planks and grab the bottle. As you pop the cap, your mom mutters. You turn as you squirt some into your hand. You look at her. 

“Do you need some?” You ask. 

“What in the lord’s name are you wearing?” She snarls. 

“Um,” you look down, once more shocked by the sight of your own body. “A swim suit. I... I’ll put a shirt on.” 

“Hey, Hol,” Steve comes out in a pair of lilac coloured trunks, “what do you think? Got the kiddo a swimsuit so she can enjoy the pool.” 

“Oh, you did?” Your mom hums as she leans her face in her hand, “how nice.” 

“Too bad you can’t join us,” Steve approaches and stops between you and your mom’s chair. “Got myself some new shorts.” 

He turns to her as you’re left watching his back. His muscle is thick and you can see it tense with his movement. He’s tall and his shoulders are broad, his arms burly too. Age has only seemed to add to his strong form. 

“Those are nice,” your mom says without much conviction, “I got a suit somewhere but... the water makes me sick. It’s these damn meds.” 

“Yeah, but they keep you going,” Steve nears her and bends to kiss her forehead. “You can be our lifeguard, how about that? Been a while since I’ve been in the deep end.” 

“You’re so...” she pauses and measures her words, “silly.” 

“It’s a nice day,” he booms, “did you try the smoothie? I put some vitamin C in it, too. Should help you feel a bit better. Oh, kiddo,” he claps and turns to face you, “did you want a smoothie? I got fresh raspberries.” 

“Erm, no thanks, I’m good,” you affirm and back away, focusing on spreading the lotion up your arms. 

“Towels are down on the chairs,” he says, “Holly Berry,” he gives your mom a strange nickname, “you sure you don’t wanna move closer?” 

“I needa stay in the shade,” she fans herself and reaches for the bright orange smoothie, “that damn inhaler. I told the doctor take me off it--” 

“Now, he’s just doing his job--” 

“I know. Don’t gotta keep saying so,” she slams the cup down and you glance over as her hand shakes violently. She’s worked up. She sits back as she tries to still herself, only for the tremor to quake through her. 

“Right, well, chill out,” Steve shrugs and backs off, “we’ll go cool off in the water.” 

He turns to face you and nears, “can I get some of that?” 

You offer him the bottle then work at smearing the lotion along your collar bone and around the top of the suit. You bring your hands to your tummy, rubbing the oiliness into your skin as Steve takes the lotion. You notice his eyes linger on you for a moment. 

“Come on, gotta check the temperature,” he waves you down the steps. 

You follow as you continue to work the lotion into your skin. You still need to get your legs and face. You continue across the lawn to the pool and Steve dollops a health heap of lotion into one hand before giving back the bottle. He slaps his hand against his chest and rubs in the sunscreen, his fingertips pressing into his muscles as he works down to his softer tummy. 

You bend to your legs. You would’ve rather a one-piece just so you wouldn’t have to use as much. As you put a light layer on your face, Steve grabs the bottle from where you left it on the lounger.  

“Here, turn around,” he squirts out the lotion into his palm. “I’ll get your back, you get mine.” 

You can’t argue. Besides, you can barely look at him. You’d rather stare at the fence. 

You turn and drop your arms. He puts his hands over your shoulders, jolting you, kneading harder than you expect. You feel his breath fan over the back of your head and he traces his thumbs around your shoulder blade, catching on the tail of the tie behind your neck. For a moment, you think he might pull it free. 

He spreads his hands, dragging them down, working in the lotion around your hips and sides, sending shivers through you. A trickle of sweat rolls down your spine and you draw away. His fingertips trail along your lower back wistfully.  

“Here,” he snatches up the lotion and hands it to you, smiling. You nod and take it. 

He turns his back to you and you gulp. Oof. You don’t know what’s worse. Being touched or touching him. It all seems so... strange even if it’s completely innocent. You’re just helping him. He does have a lot of back. 

You squeeze out the cream and rub it between your hands, hovering them before his back before you make yourself touch him. You swipe your hands up and down and side to side, working around the lotion to full cover his back. He groans and twitches as you come along the back of his ribs. 

“Careful,” he turns his head to speak over his shoulder, “old college injury. Don’t think it ever really healed.” 

“Oh,” you ease up, “sorry.” 

“Nah, you can’t hurt me, sweetie,” he insists and leans into your touch. 

You finish up and retract, trying to absorb what’s left into your palms. The greasy sensation irritates you. He turns as you reach to fix the tie behind your neck, making sure it’s tight as it feels like the suit is slipping. He blinks and his eyes flick up and down. 

“Well, are you gonna dive in?” He asks. 

“Erm, uh, I can just use the ladder,” you say as you tiptoe around him to the edge. You look down into the crystalline water, “it looks cold.” 

“Got the heater going,” he says, “shouldn’t be too bad.” 

He stands beside you and extends his leg to dip a toe into it, “not bad at all.” 

“Mm, maybe in a few minutes,” you cross your arms again, “I’m not a great swimmer.” 

“Well, I can keep an eye on you,” he reaches to tickle along your upper arm, goose dumps rising across your skin. 

“Sure, uh,” you edge away from him and run your fingers along where he touched. His hands are always on you. At least that’s how it seems to you. “Just... gotta build up my nerve.” 

“Mm,” he backs up, “sure, well, there’s the diving board and... I guess you could just sunbathe.” 

“Yeah, mayb--” 

Before you can finish, you’re scooped off your feet. You cry out as Steve lifts you up and launches himself into the pool. He keeps you in his arms as he splashes into the water and you flail wildly. You’re swallowed up as the chlorine floods your mouth and nostrils and you choke beneath the surface. 

You writhe against him, his thick arms around you, and try to free yourself. The knot at the front of your bikini catches your pinkie and you struggle to untangle both your hand and your body at once. You finally come up above the water and gasp as Steve follows, laughing as he keeps his embrace loosely around you. 

“Sometimes you just need the extra push,” he beams, “isn’t it refreshing?” 

You push the water away from your face and cough. As you do, he goes quiet and you spit up behind your hand. You can only taste the chlorinated water as you hack. You look up at him as his hands slowly creep up your sides. His blue eyes are fixated on you but not on your face. 

You look down at your chest, the knot on the front of the suit barely clinging together as you spill out from the fabric. The top merely acts to frame your nudity and you sputter as you try to cover yourself and his hands continue to ascend. You back away from his grasp and turn away. 

“Sweetie, it’s fine, all good,” he assures you. 

“Why would you do that?” You sniffle. 

“It was only some fun. I didn’t know... I’m sorry. I didn’t know the suit didn’t fit right.” 

“It’s not the suit,” you stretch the wet fabric across your tits as best you can, keeping your back to him. “I said... I told you... I wanted to wait.” 

“Ah come on, what good is having a pool if you don’t go in it?” 

“It’s your pool,” you snap, your cheek on fire as the rest of you buzzes. You wade through the water with effort. “I never asked for it.” 

“Now sweetie, don’t be like that.” 

“Please,” you pull yourself up the later, the water slaking off you and threatening to drag down the top once more, “leave me alone.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, hooking your hands over your shoulders, and rush away from the pool. You glance up at your mother as you pass the deck, hooking around to the gate instead. She doesn’t react as her head lolls over the back of the chair and her feet are splayed wide. You should get her inside but you can’t stop. You’re too humiliated. 

You race through the gate, not bothering to close it behind you. You clammer around into your mother’s yard and storm up the steps, crashing through the front door. The tears spring the moment you break the threshold as it sets in. You can’t believe that happened. You can’t believe he saw it. You just... can’t. 

[ghosts-bandwagon]

Headcanon with TF141 & König with Fem! Reader who had amnesia after loss blood from battlefield and how would the mens react. Pls!

Oof ouchie owie my heart 😭 this is so mean I love it 😭😭😭😭 (I’m not crying YOU’RE crying)

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

When the nurse told him you suffered amnesia due to the severity of your injuries, he didn’t want to believe it. He refused. Even though they told him it could last a few minutes to several weeks or months, he didn’t want to believe it.

So he went to visit you, sat beside your bed, balaclava twisting nervously in his hands as he watched you sleep. He eventually dozed off, arms crossed over his chest, head resting back against the wall. He woke up to a soft prodding at his shoulder,

“Excuse me, are you the nurse?” You’d asked, throat hoarse and exhaustion evident.

“Who do you think I am?” He asked, his heart beat so hard in his throat, his stomach churning and heavy, he felt violently ill

“I… don’t know to be honest. I’m not sure why or how I got here.” Your voice was small and uncertain and fuck he wanted to cry. His eyes burned and his throat threatened to shut.

What should he do? Tell you what happened and risk further trauma? He’s the reason you were out here in the first place. What’s the right thing to do? What would you do in his position?

“Sir? I’m sorry, I’m just really thirsty. I’m sorry to bug you.”

“Don’t sweat it, here, have my water.” He uncapped his water bottle and got up to bring it to your lips, you took it from his hands before he could tip it back,

“I’ve got it, thank you.” You said with a weak chuckle. At least that’s still the same. He watched you drink your water, weighing his options in his head. If the roles were reversed, you’d be honest with him. Gentle, but firm. Even if it pained you, you’d tell him the truth.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?”

He was a both a coward and glutton for pain.

“You can call me Ghost, for now.”

He still wasn’t sure if he’d tell you about all the nights spent together, all the mornings you had breakfast in the mess hall together, your apartment that you shared, the tattoo he has under his collarbone of your callsign or the matching one you got of a skull on your hip. This could be his chance to spare you the pain of sticking around him any longer.

But he’s selfish, in that sense. He’s had you, he can’t lose you now.

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:

He’s devastated. He’s absolutely heartbroken, there’s no way this is happening. He’s convinced it’s not real. It’s a bad dream and he’ll wake up in your arms and it’ll be gone. How he wishes that was true.

He comes into your room, the nurses words echoing in his head, triggering his tinnitus, making him nauseous. His legs are horribly unsteady and his hands have never shook this hard. He feels like such a fool for being so fucking weak in front of you like this.

This isn’t about him, it’s about you. It’s all about you, it’s about setting things right with you, it’s about bringing you back to him. It’s all about you.

He sat beside your bed and waited for you to wake up, and when you did you smiled so wide when you looked at him, that he honestly believed the nurses were wrong

“This might be wildly inappropriate, but you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

God how he wished the nurses were wrong.

“Could say the same for you, love.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and stamped out the ache in his chest

“Love?” You blinked in confusion, “are you my- oh god, I’m sorry, I… I don’t remember.”

“It’s alright, the nurses said it could happen. You’ve been through a lot.”

“If I’m here then, yeah, seems like.” You chuckled dryly,

“I’m Johnny.” He held his hand out to yours, you took it and couldn’t help how soothing his palm felt against yours as you introduced yourself shyly.

He could be strong. For you. He’d do anything for you, whether you wound up remembering or not, it didn’t matter. He’d do anything.

John Price:

He’s shell shocked. Please god no. Not you. Please sweet fucking Christ, not you. He doesn’t go to see you right away, he sits in his office quietly. He’s sitting in the dark, replaying the events that led up to this over and over in his head like a fucked movie on loop.

He snaps. He’s flinging everything off his desk, it’s all flying to the floor, he’s screaming, crying, raging. The team hears it and they all run to his office, Ghost is the only one to successfully hold him back. He eventually gives up and starts sobbing. Perception be damned.

He’s clutching onto Simon like his life depends on it, Soap and Gaz quietly start picking stuff up off the floor,

“Come on, mate, she needs you. Clean up and go.” He’s not stupid. He’s seen you two, seen the way you are with one another. It’s the best kept secret of the 141.

“I know. Fuck, I know.”

He hesitantly walks to your room, his heart pounding a mile a minute, he hears you talking to the nurse and you sound a little hoarse but it also sounds like you’re drinking water. He waits until you’re done talking and walks in, he steps aside to let the nurse walk out and sits beside you,

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Not great but the pain meds help.” You laughed weakly, “and you must be?”

“John.”

“John…?”

“Just John.” He sighed, slowly taking one of your small hands in his, giving you every opportunity to withdraw, “Your John.”

He’s a patient man. He can wait.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick:

He’s in tears before the nurse even has a chance to walk away, Price has a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in an attempt to keep him grounded

“None of that, Gaz, just go see her. Somewhere in her heart, she’ll be happy to see you.” His words were reassuring and it helped give him the boost he needed to go and see you.

So he did, with an arm full of flowers, your favorite snack and candies, and fruits of course. He came in and set them down at the table quietly, watching you watch him as he did so. He took a deep shaky breath and pulled the chair up to the bed.

“Is that all for me?” You asked with a shy smile, even under the unflattering glow of the fluorescent lights above you, you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen,

“Yup. I thought if I’d brought you the things you like, it might help you recover your memory.” He swallowed his tears, swallowed the lump in the throat, he’d set it all aside because there’s work to be done.

“I take it you and I are quite close then?”

“As close as two people can get, without being related.”

“Hm. That makes me happy, you seem really sweet…?”

“Kyle. Or Gaz. But you’ve always called me by my name.”

His heart skipped a beat when you tried his name out, getting a feel for it on your tongue, and then you smiled softly at him.

It’ll be hard work but fuck you’re so worth it.

König:

He feels violently ill. He’s nauseous through and through, he’s in shock, he’s grieving, he’s mourning, he’s furious, he’s appalled, he’s miserable

It’s all playing over and over and over and over again, the exact moments that led up to this. You trusted him and let you down. He fucking let you down. He ruined it. He ruined the one good thing he had going for him in this shithole. It’s gone it’s all fucking gone. And it’s all his fault.

All of that was repeating in his head as he punched a hole in the tile in the bathrooms, it repeated when he’d try to sleep until you woke up, it repeated while he’d wait for you, it repeated until there was nothing but self-inflicted venom pumping in his system, circulating mercilessly

And then you woke up. He’d at least had the presence of mind to take his veil off so he wouldn’t startle you, but in his vitriol he forgot something,

“You’ve got a little something on your uh… all of that.” You sleepily laughed, pointing at your eyes,

“Ah yes, that’s intentional.”

“Why?” You blinked in confusion, weakly trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes,

“Helps keep me concealed when I wear this.” He lifted the veil in his hands for you to see,

“I imagine it’s hard to do with your size.”

“It can be but I’m quite determined.”

“You seem upset, I take it you and I are close and the nurses told you?”

He gently took your small hand in his, his eyes watering, lower lip starting to quiver,

“Oh schatz, you have no idea.” His voice shook and your heart broke for him, his accent brought you peace even if you couldn’t exactly remember why, you could still put the pieces together. You don’t know why, but you wanted to be strong for him,

“Then give me an idea.”

[nuumbie]

KARMA’S A DOG.

Prompt: You’re a prized worker at the IPC Marketing Department. You spend your days waiting for that flash of black.

Trigger Warning: Reader is mentally ill and a little shit head. Curse Words. General Violent Terms and Reader Gets Ragdolled. Boothill is NOT into you!!! He actually hates you! Guilt! Etc, etc… it’s just all hurt no comfort.

Author’s Note: Written to celebrate his trailer. Save a horse. Ride a cowboy. Contains spoilers regarding his character story.

He’s resting peacefully. This should still count as sleep. You pose the question in your head if you replace the pieces of something, how far until the thing is something else entirely. But he’s still alive. You find relish in that. There’s something in him that still lives.

He still has his head. Maybe, that’s all he has left of his old self. You wonder how the surgery must have gone. Of course you’ve met people who’ve changed themselves so drastically with robotics that you couldn’t recognize them after the surgeries. It’s a rebirth in ways. When you change so dramatically that you’re a different person by the end. His body’s 90% metal. 10% flesh. So, wouldn’t it be the cybernetics that win?

Despite everything. You don’t think so. Perhaps, that’s all that he needs. I think therefore I am. There’s no doubt he’s alive. Not to you, anyway. He’s brimming with human life. He’s more alive than you. Not in the same way where the question poses in your mind with other beings or creatures that change themselves so drastically. Boothill is obstinately simple.

You like that. He’s simple. The Hunt and those that follow it is straight forward. A single path. A single road. You like that you don’t have to read his intentions. You know what he wants and why.

Boothill. Galaxy Ranger. IPC Hunter. The Man who just tried to sneak into your office and put a bullet through your head like he has with many of your employees, those who’ve worked directly under you no less. You know. Most criminals don’t get this far. Not far at all past Pier Point. Oswaldo will have a riot.

If he knew he would. You’re not going to tell him.

Boothill is special.

The cowboy opens his eyes. Your personal grim reaper.

“I see you’re awake.” You smile in a loving way. If you can even manage that. People who can control their expressions make it seem so easy. Laying across his chest. You’ve opened up his core to play with his inner circuits. He must not like that though considering there’s a burning hatred in his eyes which threatens to scorch you. You glance up towards his face and sigh and ignoring the lingering, simmering, resentment. His body is heating up beneath your touch. So, maybe it resonates with his feelings, you wonder if his body steams. “We need to stop meeting like this. You’re going to make me think you’re obsessed with me.”

It’s the opposite way around. You know that. But the very idea that it isn’t causes him to lunge at you. The cowboy turns into nothing more than a blur, all the wires connected to the body collecting samples that took at least a good thirty minutes pulled from him. Some ripped from the walls, and in instants he’s on you.

“You dang—“ his hands make its way to your shoulders, you’re flipped without hesitation. his hands grasping you down, he lays on top of you. breath heavy. robots don’t breathe, though, so you try to think of another word as he catches himself and tries to make it so he’s the one on top. “— you again!?”

“I’ve been meaning to get my hands on you… you oughta’… you ANGEL!” He screeches. Music to your ears as he shakes you more like you’re more ragdoll than person. “AEONS, it’s so freaking annoying! You absolute delight! How did I lose to…”

“Thank you so much for the compliment.” You smile back. Probably the only one getting anything out of this arrangement. Pinned against the floor hand pressed tightly against your waist so you can’t struggle. He should’ve pressed it against your mouth. But it isn’t like you’re going to scream. You’re certain. Lots of women would love to be in this position you’re currently in. But it’s you. And this is far from some sweet, pure, little romantic story. You’re not delusional. You act like you are purely because it annoys him. It’s good for him to build up his rage, his discontentment because it keeps him on his toes. “I was just looking over your upgrades since the last time you invaded Pier Point. As for asking how I beat you~…”

“The electronic upgrade was not the best idea.” You smile. “If we can control your language… your body isn’t hard especially for a renowned genius like me. Have to talk to your doctor about that. You’re lucky I’m the one that found you. Where’s my thanks? If it was anyone else. They’d have torn you asunder.”

“Aeons of COURSE you Market-Phonies have something to annoy the DANGNATION out of me.” he grinds his teeth, looking around for his pistol. making a point about how dead he wants you. you can feel his grip loosen and tighten. he’s likely processing which one would get you to be quieter. “Where’d you put it? My gun. I’ve decided. I’m killing you now. Puttin’ ya out of your misery, sweet-face! You think this is rough? Think of a 9mm lead in your skull will be?”

“Cabinet.” You put on your best smile. “Is it for me?”

“Of course for you. Love you.” You didn’t take away his ability to say hate. So, he must have said something worse like an insult. You just know it’s bad because he says it in a way that’s so vitriolic it almost hurts. “You knew this was coming. I’m not going to miss my shot again. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

You did know it was coming. You wished he would get the one person above you first so you could witness your boss with his brains blown out, the outcries that an Emanator of Qlipoth killed. You could have gotten wine with Diamond and laughed about it and died happy knowing the world was washed clean forever of Oswaldo Schneider.

But you can’t be so lucky. You’ll have to wish him luck. If he actually manages to kill you that is. With how things are going? You’re not making it hard.

He grabs you by the neck so you can’t struggle away to call help. The iron hands encased over your neck like a shackle isn’t a bad feeling. You almost quote as such so he might grab you a little tighter. Sadly, it seems his finger is directly over your windpipe— making talking an impossibility. He really doesn’t want you to run. Not like you would. Dragging you as he goes towards the cabinet. He presses you against the wall one-handed.

Using his other hand to peruse through your belongings. Even if you struggled. You doubt you could make a dent against the material. You’ve always been more of a pen instead of a sword guy.

It seems he’s smarter than you thought. Since, he checks the bullets in the gun. Rather show-offishly, too. He clicks the trigger against your head and nothing comes out. He counts them out, too. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

You already knew that none of the shots would ring. But here’s a certain heart-pounding feeling even if you know it’s empty. He clutches the gun even tighter till it threatens to break between his metal appendages.

Obviously, you’ve cleaned them out. He glares at you. Of course you’re the one at fault. Of course you were smart enough to know the first thing he’d do when he woke up was try to kill you. Of course you wanted to see the look on his face when he got his gun back when he realized it was empty. “Don’t you have spares? You eat them, don’t you? Just shit them out.” You smile. It’s hard to talk with his hand on your throat.

The floor hits you. Hard.

Or maybe you hit the floor.

Either way. It hurts. Your head spins. But, you collect yourself. Maybe. Dizzy people often can’t tell they’re dizzy. “You going to kill me right? You don’t need a gun to do that. To make it painful. To get your little revenge.” You’re sputtering. Aeons. It be embarrassing if you didn’t say that. If you’re slurring. Though who are you to ask for a clean death? Innocent have died in uglier ways.

“I don’t get you.” Boothil’s boot presses against your chest and juts against your lungs— “make up your mind you wanna die or not? You’re seriously flip-flopping.”

You smile back at him from the floor. “I’d rather my employees not go down with me when you’ve got to escape. Jeremy just got a promotion. You won’t die here… will you space cowboy? So, you’ll have to make your way out.”

“Might as well limit the casualties.”

“You took everything from me.” Robots don’t stumble over their words. Robots are more precise. Everything about him is human. The way he’s so sentimental, emotional at your lap, while you can do nothing but watch. “What right do you have? You have way more blood on your hands than I do.”

“You’re not wrong.” you repeat, quietly. “It’s karma. It’s justice. I’m so happy you exist. So people like me get that just-dessert.”

“I could never ever dream of it. I could never do it with my own hands.” You smile remembering where you work. Your boss. The things you never had the confidence or strength to do yourself. “So I’m glad that you did. Thank you.”

He looks down at you.

He steps back.

You already know.

Too self-aware for your own good.

Maybe you should have shut up. You already know you’ve messed it all up. The way he looks at you is a look of disgust.

“Everyone here’s so fluffed up.” he grimaces. rubbing his shoe against the floor like he’s snuffing a cigarette out. so lowly. “Anyone the IPC touches get’s gosh-dang ruined.”

You know why he did. You ruined his life. You did. So, it was only fair he did the same in return—

Reaching out— before you realize it. “Hey, wait.”

“You’re not dragging me down with you! I want you to pay I’m not letting you off easy. When we meet again. I’ll have changed this place forever. And you’ll be forced to live with yourself…!”

He doesn’t even look back at you. You wish he did.

He lets you go and he runs out the door. You hear the sounds of loud screams. Shooting guns. It turns into a blur after a few seconds. They’re going to fail to apprehend him. You hope.

On the messy floor. Your lab a wreak. You’re sure. They’ll come here. They’ll question you.

And your life will continue as always.

You’ll lie. Jade can tell. But she won’t tell on you. You hope Oswaldo doesn’t notice. He’s the tricker. If he knew. He’d laugh.

“Fuck you, too.”

You put your hands over your eyes and you just ignore everything until someone comes and gets you. You’d use the word save. But, that’s what he was meant to do.

You’ll meet him again. You can wait. It’s all you ever do.

[tonyboneysblog]

HII Im the anon that requested the touya fic you can just call me the 🍊 anon if thats fine with you because ill probably be back a lot more 😭 your fics are SOO good can i request another touya fic, basically the same as last time what it was like being childhood friends with him? Ty!! 😁😁

SECRET SPOT: oneshot request!

parings: Touya Todoroki x reader

wordcount: 1.4K

notes: actually took forever because I forgot what kids do in their free time

warnings: none

summary: you find a cool spot you’d like to show Touya, shenanigans ensue.

You feel your lungs by start to burn as your run as quick as you can towards to best friends house.

You knock almost violently on the door when Rei Todoroki opens it.

“Miss L/N? Is everything okay?” She says with a worried tone.

You nod your head quickly before you say breathlessly, “I-i have something super cool to show Touya!”

Rei chuckles nervously at your excitement, “he’s in his room, I remember correctly.”

You mutter a quick thank you before booking it towards Touya’s room, only to find it empty.

Now you weren’t too concerned by the fact Touya wasn’t in his room like he was supposed to be, if he wasn’t holed up in his room then he’d be holed up at Sekoto peak over using his quirk in the name of ‘training’.

You shrug before making your way back to the front door, you weren’t planning on telling Rei that her son was up at the peak, he made you promise not to anyway.

Sekoto peak wasn’t the farthest away from the Todoroki household but by the time you got there at the summit you could feel your legs aching.

Now all that was left was to walk up it…

You could make out flashes of red as you hiked up the trail, few sparks of blue which was curious since Touya’s was red?

No point on dwelling on it.

You yell out his name, scaring him before running up to him excitedly.

“Y/N- you scared the hell out of me-“ he blabbers out.

You try to make your voice serious as you speak, “Touya- you absolutely need to follow me now, we’re going on adventure.”

Touya scoffs softly, “adventure? What are you- twelve?”

You stare at Touya after he choices his words, quietly as the seconds tick by.

He clears his throat, “ahem- sorry uhm, where are you trying to take me?” His voice is steady unlike yours, “can’t tell, it’s a surprise.”

“Then scram, I’m training right now Y/N.” He starts to walk off over to his little training corner with the log before you grab his wrist.

“Please Touya?” You beg with a pout on your face.

Touya try’s to tug his wrist away, “Nope, I don’t know what I’m getting myself into.” You groan before pulling him back, “Touya- don’t be a brat I’m trying to show you something cool!” You continue to plead.

“You trying to fight me now? I’ll win.” He says almost threateningly.

you tug again, “you built like a prepubescent chicken- look Touya please just do this for me?”

You and Touya enter an unspoken eye staring contest, Touya loses by looking away nervously and you could almost feel his skin heating up.

“Fine, take me to your stupid spot.” He says lowly, but it doesn’t have any venom behind it.

You celebrate silently in your head before dragging him down the mountain, then towards the woods near your own home.

Touya’s brows furrow, “are you planning on murdering me or something?” his voice could be described as a fake out between ‘I’m so scared!’ And pure sarcasm.

You shrug, “keep up the attitude and I just might.”

He laughs at that one.

You climb over smaller bushes and duck under branches before entering a thicker part of the woods, you got lost in it one time and your parents had called every emergency number they knew.

Touya still dogs on you for it til this day.

Whilst trekking throughout the woods your legs decided to make home with a near by rose bush that hooked into your skin painfully.

You yelp before trying to ease the small thorns out of your poor calf but Touya decides to help out for once.

“Don’t move.” His voice was stern when he said it but his face was filled with worry practically.

He grabs you calf then the vine and pulls the two apart gently, only to leave a small stinging sensation in the wounded area.

“Be glad it’s not bleeding.” He hops over the vines to join you, you kinda hopped his leg would get stuck too for karma but you’ll get revenge soon.

Revenge for everything you’ve done to get him to this cool spot, made your legs sore, made them injured- what’s next? A broken arm?!

You continue to walk throughout the forest, the ground below you getting wetter with each step. Then you could finally hear the faint noise of water rushing.

You walked out nearer towards it before hitting a drop off but luckily you had already scooped out the terrain. There was and edge that you could scoot by on if you held on good and if you fell you- probably- wouldn’t die!

Before you could get to it Touya grabs your hand, “that isn’t safe, find another way.” his brows furrow.

“This is the only way that I know, hold on and you’ll be fine-“ “Y/N I don’t want you getting hurt.” He cuts you off before you can rationalize with him.

“Touya I’ve done this before, I’m not gonna fall.” You smile while you say this but then Touya made it fade quickly with his next words.

“I’ve seen Bridge to Terabithia, don’t play with me Y/N.” His tone is serious but it almost sounds like he’s messing with you.

You mumble out a small fine then Touya smiles like he won, you don’t like that cockiness.

So you quickly run back and scoot the wall almost expertly, pieces of rock falling down below as you move.

Touya calls for your name but by the time you respond d your already on the other side, “see- I told you I’d be fine!” You smile cheekily.

Touya visibly relaxs before his face goes mean again, “you could’ve fallen.”

“Yet I didn’t?”

“I’ll push you down myself.”

You scoff, “thought you didn’t want me getting hurt?”

Touya groans as you start to skip off towards the rushing water, it’s a nice little spot but it has logs all around it like some parkour obby.

Touya watches as you walk over towards one, it’s over a larger area of water- hell it evens look deep.

“Touya, be careful here since it’s slippery.” you sound sweeter than usual, Touya notes.

Touya cautious steps onto the log with the water calmly drifting beneath him, truly it wasn’t hard to balance on it.

You step behind him following close, then you wind your arms back and push him into the water with all your strength. He hits the water with a loud splash, it only takes him a few seconds to resurface.

“Y/N- are you fucking crazy!?” He yells out, you could barely hear him from your own cackling.

You don’t even notice when he grabs your own ankle to drag you down with him.

You yelp before hitting the water, whilst falling you accidentally hit your back against the log.

When you plop back up from the water, coughing violently. You can hear Touya laughing at you, you splash water at him before he could continue.

“Psh- don’t be angry that I got you back!” He yells, his voice sounds light.

Like he’s having fun.

You and Touya continue to have a splashing fight before you raise your hands up, “okay- we’re still not there yet-“ he splashes you again.

“Touya!” He stops for a moment, listening to you.

“It’s a little up ahead, follow me.” You trek through the water, making your way past floating branches or jagged rocks.

Touya could faintly hear water falling, then he felt the water become much more shallow.

The two of you continued to walk throughout the shallow water before it starts to rush before your feet, once Touya look up the first thing he sees is a miniature waterfall.

You turn back to look at him, “isn’t it amazing Touya?” Your smile is bright.

He can’t help it when his faces starts to match yours, you just have that affect on him.

He watches you run up to the falls, collecting rocks or whatever you do.

He can’t help but think how glad he was that he stopped training, even for a moment.

He felt good, his heart felt warm.

you just have that affect on him.

EXTRA:

“Touya- why in the world are you soaking wet?!” Rei practically screams.

Touya stumbles over his words for a moment before speaking, “uhm- next question?”

“Were you out training again?!” Rei says her voice going softer.

“Uhm….next question?” Touya says whilst looking down.

He’s never going on adventure with you again.

[hellshire-harlot]

You’re Supposed to Bleed the First Time | New God!Albert Wesker x Goddess!Reader

They all lied, lied, lied

Why didn’t anyone tell me

Love is like

Being fucked with a knife

————

Reader is a young goddess in a pantheon. Never before has a mortal ascended to divinity.

Until him.

Also available on AO3 here.

Taglist: @gothghostiie @adrianrainesfangs @weskie @destinationtrekk @nomansgunssmoke

A pulsating wave of sickness, of agonizing fire shooting through your body, startles you from sleep. Barely conscious, you tumble out of bed and rush to your bathing room and heave violently into the toilet, your bile stained gold with Ichor. The fluid that is meant to remain in your veins.

As you finish throwing up and take a deep breath, you have your first concrete, conscious thought this morning. Young you may be for a goddess, you are not helpless, or stupid. Something is very, earth-shakingly wrong.

You look out the window, then, and realize it’s not even morning at all- only blackness greets you from outside, stars and moon shrouded in a blanket of clouds. Your Domain, your realm and home, is unnaturally still and twice as silent. Like the forest suddenly going mute before a tornado, the ominous atmosphere does nothing to soothe your nerves. You know you should get back to sleep- the other gods will surely chastise you if they see you with bags under your eyes -but you can’t. It’s like your body was jump-started, all cylinders firing at once, strung tight like a bow in dreadful anticipation of… something. You have no idea what the source of your sudden illness is, or why it’s now just gone. You don’t know why you’ve woken in the middle of the night. You don’t know why this dread, heavy like solid gold, pulls your body downwards. But you have no time to wonder, as your door bursts open.

You yelp in shock as a small group of other deities flood into your room, already attending to various tasks. One helps you to stand up and flushes the toilet, not even mentioning the godly blood you just expelled. One throws open your closet, while another raids your jewelry box like a burglar. Everything moves so fast around you, your head begins to spin.

“What’s going on?” You warble, unsure of anything. You’ve never seen the elder deities this frazzled, and it puts you on edge.

“It finally happened,” one goddess chokes out, face wan with terror as she helps you into a long white dress extracted from your closet, “Just now, the sickness, did you feel it?” Her hands shake as you step into the garment, tying the long sash around your waist while you try not to panic.

“No,” you breathe, your body suddenly feeling very cold. You think you know what she’s talking about, but you’re too terrified to believe it. “No. You’re wrong. Tell her, tell her she’s wrong,” you plead, beseeching another god who runs a brush quickly through your hair.

His face is grim. Pale. Afraid. Your heart sinks. “She’s not wrong, child. Albert Wesker has achieved his goal.”

Albert Wesker. A name you and all the other gods know all too well. Your eyes have been on him since the Arklay incident years ago, when he defied death and became inhuman. Immortal, like you. But not like you, because you are kind and your hands touch with softness, and Wesker is the most wicked man to walk the mortal world. He keeps his hands within gloves so that he doesn’t have to touch the lesser mortals, not even gracing them with the dignity of direct contact when he murders them. He twists everything he touches to fit his own needs. He turned a woman into a puppet.

You feel suddenly very lightheaded.

“What’re we going to do, then?” You ask, words clipped with panic while the gods in your room finish dressing you. You don’t resist them, frozen like a mannequin as they fix your hair and fasten a choker around your neck. You feel like the ground itself has vanished beneath you, leaving you adrift in the void, darker than the blackest night, the same obsidian Wesker covers himself in. The association makes you shudder with dread. “The man hates the divine, you’ve heard him say how much he wants us dead-“

Another god places his hands on your shoulders to calm you, and on instinct, your mouth closes. “He wanted the gods the world prays to dead,” he says, stern and steadfast, “Not us. There is a distinction. If we meet him on equal ground we may gain-“

“Gain what?” You interrupt, shoving him away, hysterical tears in your eyes as the procession begins guiding you out of your safe, dark home and into the terror of the unknown night. Not even the confines of your personal pocket of reality can protect you now. Is this how newborn humans feel, you wonder, taking in the Domain around you with new, frightened eyes, is this what it’s like to be ripped from the warmth of the womb? You suddenly understand why human babies cry when they’re born. You’re crying, too. “Wesker can’t be reasoned with, he goes against everything you’ve taught me! You can’t possibly expect him to honor any sort of agreement or bargain!” Your ranting goes mostly unnoticed as the other gods hustle you to the edge of your Domain. One goddess grips your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and the liquid warmth of divine teleportation envelops you.

You blink, and suddenly the warmth intensifies. You’re here.

The caldera of the volcano is scorching hot, writhing with molten lava and the residual energy of the horror that transpired here just moments ago. The rising sun does nothing to assuage your racing heart, furiously pounding in your chest like the dull beats of the helicopter currently flying away. You envy its passengers- Chris and Sheva, strong and brave; Jill, finally freed from her servitude; even the Captain flying the chopper. All of them are ignorant to the truth. They rest their weary heads, thinking that Wesker has been eliminated once and for all. How would they react, you wonder halfheartedly, if they knew their rockets had turned their nemesis into a deity?

It’s not their strength you envy; you are divine. Strength is something not in short supply. It is their blissful ignorance. You would give up every drop of Ichor in your body if it would save you from the looming consequences of their victory.

The rest of the pantheon, gods and goddesses alike, surround the mouth of Kijuju in a rough circle. Some stand just inches from the magma; it wouldn’t matter if you touched it. You are immortal, after all. But the seething presence of something lying in wait just below the surface makes you flutter back, gossamer dress billowing in the heated wind.

You cling to the hand of the goddess at your side, curling into her. She places herself slightly before you, as if to offer protection you both know she cannot provide. You look at her rounded face, eyes wary. “What happens now?” You ask, voice small and almost inaudible under the burbling of superheated rock.

She looks pained, turning away from your pleading gaze. “I don’t know,” she admits weakly, “None of us do. We can only wait now, little one.”

And wait you do. The anticipation hangs over the volcano, heavier even than the clouds of pyroclastic ash that threaten to stain your dress irreparably. You can’t tear your eyes away from the shifting magma. The liquid stone turning over and in on itself, flowing like water but a hundred thousand times more deadly, moves and dances in mesmerizing patterns. You are suddenly captivated by it. Though your body quakes with anxiety, your mind becomes clear and lucid.

It is these mesmerizing patterns, swirls and whorls of magma, that you blame for the sudden voice echoing in your head.

Come closer, it orders you, stern and masculine, leaving no room for argument. Your breath hitches, unsure of the voice’s origin but knowing that it doesn’t belong in your head. He doesn’t belong in your head, whoever he is. Come closer, now. I won’t ask again.

Against your better judgment, fear makes your bare feet shift. One foot in front of the other, you pull away from the goddess you once clung to. You are afraid of what lies beneath the lava, what lies lurking in your mind. And this is why you approach. Some of the gods notice you, but you can’t care, not with the strange voice overpowering your will with cold, all-encompassing dread. Good girl. You shudder, electric sparks of ice running up and down your spine despite the overwhelming heat. Stop. Kneel, right where you are. You overcome your paralysis just enough to defy him. A rumble of disapproval echoes in your skull, though you try to pretend it’s the volcano. It doesn’t work.

I don’t want to do that, you tell yourself, even mouthing the words to make them real. Maybe if you concentrate, you can resist the pull this entity has on you.

Of course you don’t, the voice sneers, uncaring of your terror. Your lip trembles. What you want is irrelevant right now. Kneel.

The flippant dismissal of your desires is familiar. The other gods are often quick to wave you off and shut you down, too busy or too distracted with their own activities to humor you, and being the youngest of the pantheon, you have precious little leeway to stand your ground. You take a hint of comfort in the familiarity of submission as you slowly fall to your knees against the igneous rock. “You talk to me just like the others do,” you whisper sorrowfully.

At that, the voice is unusually silent. You shift, uncomfortable on your knees. The magma before you burbles and you clench your hands into fists to calm yourself. Once again, the magnetic patterns of the lava captivate you, providing some refuge from your fear. The molten rock folding over and in on itself like rising dough is tantalizing to you, and on instinct, you reach out.

To touch it? To feel the heat scorching against your delicate hands? Even you don’t know why you do this. But you don’t have a chance to retract your hand, because another suddenly bursts from the magma and grabs onto your arm with bruising force.

A scream dies in your throat. The other gods are all watching now, rooted to their spots with anticipation and fear. A choked sound escapes you as you attempt to pull yourself away from the grasp, only to have it pull back. More of the arm emerges from the lava, revealing a shoulder. The second arm shoots out of the fire and finds purchase on the solid rock, only further aiding its owner’s climb to freedom. You try again to free yourself, a scream of confused terror echoing through the caldera, prompting some of the gods to rush to your aid. Hands wrap about your waist, pulling you away, but the stranger’s grasp is far too strong.

With five other gods helping to pull you back, and your own strength and that of the stranger, the task is accomplished. As he is exhumed from the magma, he lets go of you, and for a moment, you are frozen where you lay on the rocky ground.

Standing before you, clad in the same ebon leather that defines him so deeply, is Albert Wesker.

For that agonizing moment, you are held in place by his gaze alone. Though you’ve seen his eyes before, the stark identicality they bear to the lava he was just birthed from makes your heart drop. His pupils are perfect slits of vantablack, dilating ever so slightly as he looks you up and down. While the other gods scramble away, you remain a heartbeat longer. He looks upon you critically, assessing you from head to toe. His eyes rake over your body, your soot-stained dress, the collar hugging your heaving throat; they seem to linger just a little too long in some places. It stirs an odd, uncomfortable feeling in you, but you don’t know why. It’s something you’re used to, as some of the older gods look at you this way frequently. Like they’re hungry.

Wesker looks hungry, in this moment. For some reason it makes you want to cover your body with your arms, like your dress has been burned away entirely, all of you laid bare before him. The moment passes, the suffocating spell is broken, and you let out a horrified cry as you throw yourself backwards. The other gods, the ones who helped you pull him from the lava, catch you, shielding your body with their own. Between limbs, you peek out at the new, vicious god. His eyes have never left you, and they meet yours again easily, even through the forest of gods between you. You squeak like a frightened mouse, ducking your head and squeezing your eyes shut. You dart into the burrow of your mind, hoping that he cannot follow you there.

But you know it’s pointless. You know the voice in your head was his. His fiery eyes finally leave you and assess the pantheon that surrounds him, and his brow furrows. You can practically feel the disdain, the anger, radiating off of him. You hold your breath in anticipation as he begins to speak, his cold, seductive baritone reverberating through the volcanic dawn and into your bones.

“It seems I was correct after all,” he begins, a thin smile on his lips, “look at you- Cowering, backing away, terrified. Weak. The eldest of you, shying away while your youngest is in danger.” He’s referring to me, you realize with a start. You are the youngest god in this pantheon (though in terms of earthly years you eclipse the age of any living human easily, among the divine you are barely a stripling). He knows you are the most vulnerable being here. You don’t like that he knows this.

The shield of gods around you has somewhat dissipated; where once the barrier was three bodies thick, now only one layer of gods protects you from Wesker’s scorching presence. Finally, you have the strength to stand again, swaying like a willow. You feel completely adrift, tossed overboard and into the churning sea with no hope of rescue. The world spins around you like never before, but then again, never before have you been in such acute danger.

Finally, one of the eldest deities among you finds their voice. “We want no trouble from you,” they call, voice proud and courageous despite their obvious fear, “but what do you want from us?”

Wesker’s head snaps around to face the speaker, who doesn’t back down. His face twists into a furious grin, incredulous at the audacity to speak out against him so blatantly. “What do I want?” He echoes, a dark chuckle following. A surge of electric power crackles, invisible, through the air all around you, and it’s not coming from the ash cloud overhead. The other gods seem to notice it too, looking wary. Your entire being is quaking.

Wesker throws his arm in the direction of the gods shielding you from him. In the time it takes you to flinch and recover, five members of your pantheon are ensorcelled in shining black tendrils that rip into their bodies without mercy. In the time it takes you to scream, those five deities are dead. The Ichor spills over the basalt ground, splatters your face and your dress, warm and sticky and horrifying. The other gods scream too, backing away desperately as Wesker retracts the tentacles, and they return to his arm from whence they came.

You know this power of his, another of his twisted creations. Uroboros.

Haloed by the glow of the lava behind him, Wesker looks even more imposing, divinity defined. One of the murdered gods lays, strewn in a contorted position, barely a foot from you, her lifeless eyes staring straight through your own. The very same goddess who held your hand minutes ago. A being who, like all the others, had stood among the divine for time immemorial, killed in an instant by a vicious usurper.

I’m going to die here, you realize with a cold, heavy heart. I’m going to die and Wesker is going to kill me. You desperately want to pretend this is all some sort of nightmare but you know better. The infernal glare of Wesker’s eyes is too potent to be an illusion. His voice, deep and filled with rage, is too loud and too real to be anything but the truth. “What I want is to understand why exactly beings as weak as these-” he shouts, cruelly kicking at one of the dead gods and sending the body rolling several yards from the sheer force of it, “deserve to call themselves divine. Because from where I’m standing, you bleed and die just as easily as any human.

“In fact,” he continues, turning back to you and grinning with sharp teeth and hellfire eyes, “what’s stopping me from killing the rest of you pathetic creatures?” Terrified cries erupt all around you, one of them your own. Wesker tilts his head as he stares down your trembling form, as if daring you to speak up. But it is not you that cries out next.

“No,” shrieks another of the most aged deities, eyes wild and frantic, “Gods cannot fight amongst themselves, the mortal world will be torn apart! You must leave us be!”

The blonde man barks out a laugh. “I don’t recall saying I cared about the mortal world. Were none of you paying attention when I explained this to Chris?”

Another goddess finds her voice. “Whatever it is you want from us, we’ll give it to you! We will not fight you!” Though some of the others look at her incredulously, the consensus is that she speaks true for all of you. Even you find yourself agreeing. Whatever it takes to keep Wesker from slaughtering you on the spot, you will gladly do or give.

“Whatever I want, hmm?” Wesker hums, smiling in cold satisfaction. You almost miss the shades he always wore; at least then you wouldn’t have to suffer the inferno of his gaze. “Fine.

“You, little goddess. Come here.” He addresses you directly. His gloved finger curls in a beckoning motion, and once again his tone lets you know he won’t be asking you twice. But you won’t obey him. You can’t. He can’t be asking what you think he’s asking-

You blink, and before you can so much as shake your head, suddenly he stands directly over you. Your subsequent scream is cut off by a gloved hand gripping your choker and dragging you up until your face is inches from his. Your pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks, your heart pounding like a fleeing rabbit. Everything in you is begging you to get away, but you cannot. Wesker’s grip is steadfast as he appraises you. With the ash and Ichor across your face, staining your once-pristine dress, and desperation blatant in your every cell, you must look a mess. He doesn’t look angry at your infraction, rather mildly irritated.

“I’m sure this is new to you, so I’ll be lenient this once. Disobey me again and I won’t hesitate to discipline you. Do you understand me?” Wesker murmurs to you, hot breath caressing the soft flesh of your ear. His eyes do not leave your face for a moment as he speaks. It’s terrifying, to see such obviously-inhuman features on a man, and yet…

And yet, some part of you stirs. A part you know very little about. Your belly begins to grow warm. It’s confusing and a little frightening, because you’ve never been in this much danger, but for some reason, the heat feels good. You whine, unable to make sense of yourself, trembling before Wesker’s fiery eyes. “Wh- what are you doing?” You stammer softly, referring both to his intentions and the spell he’s seemingly cast on you.

His responding smile is cold and cruel, drinking in your terror and uncertainty with avaricious zeal. “What do you think I’m doing, dearheart?” he retorts, a sound deep and dark in his chest and it resonates in your marrow (the heat in your belly only deepens, drops to your crotch, makes your cheeks flush and warm). The term of endearment makes you feel utterly unsafe, but at the same time, sends sparks racing down your spine. You shudder with unknown, unwanted sensation. You want to run, to get far away from the man pressing you against himself, but there is nowhere you could go. “You’re going to be still and silent for me until I say otherwise. Let your better do the talking.” The anger, terror, and frustration coil within you, and all you can do is weakly nod your head.

The resulting rumble of satisfaction, dark and deep, has you swooning. “Good girl.”

Between the speed with which he maneuvers you to press firmly against his side and the coiling serpent of unknown emotion making its home in your being, your head has begun to spin. His hand moves from your choker to keep you held to his hip, pressing into the divot of your waist with such force you wonder if it will leave a bruise behind, a brand of Wesker’s cruelty. Nothing makes sense. What is wrong with me, you ask yourself, what’s happening to my body?

Frustrated and confused, betrayed and conflicted, your eyes shine with unshed tears. In so little time, your world has been completely upended. Wesker raises his voice once again to address the other, cowering gods, and the increased volume combined with his vitriolic tone makes you flinch and whimper. Inadvertently, you wind up curling further into his hold, which tightens as if to keep you this close. “This goddess belongs to me. Give her to me, and I’ll spare the rest of you. That is my only offer; I’d suggest taking it.”

The outcry of the other gods at this is expected. You’re their youngest, the most precious among them- you know they’ll protect you, as they always have. Against Wesker’s command, you wiggle in his grip, anxious to get away from him, if only to stop the infuriating heat in your core. He seems to be the one causing it- is that one of his powers? You wonder silently. Whatever it is, the growing warmth and unnatural need within you is alien, and you want it to stop.

While you continue to squirm, Wesker’s hold only tightens, making you hiss in pain. It hurts, the bruising force with which he restrains you, but you have to get away from him. He has to be the one causing this reaction in your body. But the pain is more unbearable than the heat, and you have no choice but to cease your struggles. You go still in his hold, and blessedly, his grip loosens to a far more comfortable pressure. The satisfied hum he gives you at your capitulation only makes the heat worse- so it is him!

Focused on something other than pain, you’re able to listen in on the deliberation of the gods. It’s an unpleasant surprise- you’d expected this to be no difficult decision, that they’d refuse Wesker instantly. Evidently, you’re wrong. “We can’t,” one deity insists, “she’s the most vulnerable among us, you know what he’ll do to her. How can we in good conscience sacrifice her, or any of us?” You pray the final movement is in your favor.

“What choice do we have?” Hisses another, far older god, crossing his arms, “He’ll kill all of us if we refuse, including her! We have to prioritize the greater good!”

“What use is the greater good if we lose more of our own to perpetuate it?” Yet another speaks up, “He’s already taken five of us, plus the countless mortals! It’s our duty to protect her!”

On and on the argument continues, but the heated tone dies down. They seem to be reaching an agreement, and your mouth goes dry as you see that it isn’t the one you want. “He won’t keep his word,” one goddess reminds the group, stern face pained and angry.

“Of course not,” dismisses an elder god easily, “but her sacrifice will buy us time to make a plan. This is what we must do.”

You expect to feel angry. You expect to feel rage the likes of which you didn’t think possible, sadness, bitter fury, betrayal at this condemnation of you at the hands of those you love. But instead you only feel hollow. Every interaction you’ve had with one of the other gods plays through your head, stained cold and bleak with the knowledge that when push came to shove, it took them less than five minutes to trade your life for theirs. Five minutes of debate, and not particularly intense debate at that, is all you are worth to them, when they once looked you in the eyes and told you that the wonders of the universe were yours by birthright.

Was all of it a lie? Did none of them ever love you? You think you wouldn’t be so wounded if they had been truthful about how little you meant to them. Maybe then you would have seen this coming. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel like your heart has been ripped from your chest.

You’re unsure of what exactly to express, how to react to this. The gods look at you, their scapegoat, their sacrificial lamb, and you see in their eyes your own judgment of death. “No,” you choke out, and you just now realize you’re crying. Your throat feels tight and hot and your vision grows watery. “You can’t do this to me! You swore you’d protect me, you promised! You promised!” You’re shouting, hysterics making your body quake even with Wesker’s steadfast grip on you. The man you’ve just been handed to tightens his hold just a bit, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You refuse to walk to the gallows without a fight. “I was your daughter,” you continue, great heaving sobs ripping from your throat as you see that some of the gods look upon you with sympathy, with pity, and yet make no move to save you. Their apologetic stares only make you more angry; how dare they look at you that way when they’re complicit in this madness all the same? “You were my family!”

The eldest of the gods surrounding the caldera furrows his brow. “Gods have no family,” he says, only stone-cold firmness to be found in his eyes, and then turns to address Wesker with the same grim tone, “She is yours. We expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Your final cry of no peters off into a desperate sob, though it has no time to echo throughout the volcano, as your body is engulfed once more in the liquid, warm sensation of teleportation. But unlike the natural, seamless transition of the one that brought you to Kijuju, this feels like a violation, hot and uncomfortable, the magic sticking to your skin unpleasantly and itching as if you’ve been burned. Like Wesker forcibly displaced your being. In a way, you realize, he did- you subconsciously resisted his pull, but your power is nothing compared to his.

Why me, you wonder mournfully, why not anyone else? You are his opposite in every regard- in human years, you’re older than him by more than a century, yet by human standards he’s far older than you both in mind and body. The other gods often called you radiant, pure, full of light and soft warmth, though in hindsight you wonder if they meant a single syllable.

Wesker has killed more humans than possibly anyone else ever has, and has done the unthinkable; a human becoming divine, spilling divine blood. Every touch he gives you is harsh, unyielding, and cruel. He is a void into which you have no choice but to fall. Maybe, you think, that’s why he chose you over any of the others, deities far older, more beautiful, more powerful than you.

In any case, escape is not a possibility. If you have any hope of a quick death, resistance will snuff it instantly. Not that you could resist, not in this state. You feel lightheaded, lopsided, like you’d faint if not for the girding support of Wesker’s grip. Gone now are the high walls of the volcano, replaced by a vast, ominous sanctum. The transition gives you pause, and your wailing ceases for a moment as you take in this strange new place. Wesker, too, looks curiously at the location he has dragged you to, obviously unaware of where exactly he is.

It’s his Domain, and like all Domains, it is a reflection of its master. Wesker’s section of reality fits him perfectly, you admit; it is grandiose, elegant, sinister, and yet fascinatingly complex. Supporting the high, vaulted ceiling are a series of carved onyx pillars, sprouting from the ebony floor and engraved with intricate depictions of serpents coiling into themselves. It is a room far too grand for any one man. But Wesker is not just any one man, and once the shock wears off, he seems to realize how befitting a Domain he has been granted.

Suddenly, the man turns to you, expression stern. “What is this place? Tell me, little Endling.” As ever, it is not a request, but a demand, one your sense of self-preservation forces you to oblige.

Somehow, you force your throat to produce a weak, hoarse response. “Y-your Domain,” you answer, trembling under his gaze, “your- your home.” You can’t provide more than that, your remaining courage finally exhausted. Please don’t ask something else, please don’t ask something else, please don’t ask something else-

Wesker hums, satisfied with your timid response. “A Domain, hm?” He muses aloud, “I can work with this.” Your entire body sags with relief at his acceptance, this tiny sliver of mercy, though dread begins to creep in as you ask what exactly that ‘work’ is. Your lip wobbles, and you hold your tongue while fighting back tears. Speaking would do nothing for you now, except maybe anger him.

When he begins walking again, you stumble, and he doesn’t waste a moment before a mass of Uroboros coils around you, pulling you back to him. The slimy, unnatural sensation is horrific, and you bite your lip until you taste your own Ichor. This time, he pulls you fully into his arms, bracing them against your upper thighs and pressing your body into his shoulder and torso. He is warm, feverish, even, and the radiating heat has you instinctively curling into him. The position, as oddly uncomfortable as it is, gives you the little blessing of being able to hide your face from him, one you make full use of. Silent tears travel from the edges of your eyes down to the tip of your nose, falling to the polished floor below with each staccato breath you take. A disconnection between your mind and your body sinks its claws into you, dulling the sharp edge of your sorrow into something of an unpleasant ache.

You pass from the entry sanctum into a more reasonably-sized room, with a floor made of dark basalt and walls with inset shelves holding opaque, geometric bottles of who-knows-what. You finally gain the strength to look around again, letting out a soft gasp as you take in the mist-filled chamber Wesker has carried you to. It’s a bathing room, lit with floating candle-flames that hover around a large, rectangular tub connected to the far wall. The sound of gently-running water soothes your frightened mind, an aperture above the tub filling it with steaming water while decorative aqueducts carry runoff back into the walls, rills traveling through niches carved into the tub.

Wesker huffs, a simple sound that nonetheless has you shrinking back into yourself with a startled peep. Once he’s done taking in the room, he lowers you to the ground, allowing you to finally put distance between yourself and him. Immediately, you stumble backwards until your legs collide with the tub, bracing your hands against it so that you don’t fall in. Your eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, flicker up to meet his, glowing with disappointment. They pulse with magmatic fire, absolutely inhuman but beautiful in a way that you cannot describe.

Breaking the short moment of silence, he gives you an order. “Strip.”

Purely on impulse, your hands dart across your bust, clinging to the soiled fabric of your dress. Your Ichor runs cold at the thought of taking it off. “…What?” You murmur dumbly, unsure if you’ve even heard him correctly.

A blur across your vision, and he stands inches away from you, just like before in the caldera. Another frightened noise escapes you as he boxes you in between the tub and his own immovable body. “Take. Your clothes. Off,” he repeats, voice lowered and patience obviously running thin. You tremble, arms clinging tighter to yourself, attempting to turn your head away to escape his burning gaze. A firm, gloved hand grips your chin with bruising force, dragging you back to face him. He leans in, his face close enough that his breath warms your nose. “Or do I have to tear them off you?”

Your response is immediate and frantic. You shake your head, a choked no leaving your mouth, and your leaden arms fumble with the dress keeping you hidden from his prying eyes. After barely a second that feels like a year, you manage to yank the dirtied white fabric over your head. As you pull it off, you undo the clasp on your choker, removing it from your neck and bundling it with your dress. You can’t help but hold the bunched-up fabric tightly to your body, though, keeping your breasts hidden, at the same time as your thighs press together to hide your crotch from his view. You’ve never been naked in front of another before. It feels dirty, vulnerable, and tense, and you understand now why the other gods always insisted upon you wearing clothes and keeping your chest & crotch hidden. How can anyone enjoy this?

At your shyness, Wesker tuts, taking hold of the dress and pulling it from your unresisting arms. “Ah ah, none of that,” he chides, “you can’t hide from me, little one. I’ve already seen you at your lowest. Let me see my prize.” You’re unsure what exactly he means, but you’re too shaky to ask and for some reason the way he speaks makes you want to sob. You allow him to toss away your filthy dress and you force your arms to rest at your sides, quaking in place as you feel him taking you in. Again, he hums, a long and pleased sound deep in his chest, and it makes you shudder in something that definitely isn’t fear. “There we are,” he croons, “oh, you’re filthy, pet. In the water, now.”

Without waiting to ensure your obedience, the man turns on his heel and gives you space, presumably to enter the bath. Though the rising wisps of steam entice you, you’re far too on edge to risk submerging yourself in his presence. But he’s correct; your face is splattered in ash, Ichor and dirt from the caldera. The Ichor, particularly, makes you sick. The knowledge that the proof of the weakness of the gods, of your own weakness, paints your face is enough to have you cupping the warm water in your hands. You raise your dripping hands to your face, rinsing away the day’s violent events. The sight of the luciferant golden Ichor blossoming as it drips into the tub, exploring outside the veins of its former host, makes you swallow. Though it is gone from your flesh, the echo it left will never truly fade.

Against your better judgment, you look over your shoulder, watching as Wesker shucks off his long coat and gloves, tossing them aside as he did your own raiment. He doesn’t spare you a glance, only striding to one of the shelves in the wall and picking up a couple of containers. When he turns to walk towards you and notices your staring (and your being outside the water), he says nothing of it, only placing the containers on the flat rim of the tub and bracing his hands on either side of you, pressing against you, his own crotch flush with the small of your back. You shudder.

His closeness, his aura, his persistent and greedy gaze- whatever it is about him that is making your body react this way, you need him to stop. It’s too much, too unknown, and the tension curling in your belly is too scary for you to stay silent any longer. “Please, stop.” The words leave you in a shaky whisper, and even that has you bracing for a punishment for speaking out of turn. But when nothing happens and you look behind you, you find only Wesker looking at you in what you could only describe as confusion.

“Stop what?” He echoes, almost seeming genuine, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, little Endling.”

Your frustration finally shows on your face, and you glare up at him, pouting in despair. “My body,” you plead, “whatever you’re doing to me, I- I can’t take it, please…”

One of his sculpted eyebrows raises. “Your body?” he trails off, taking hold of your chin with forefinger and thumb to force you to look him in the face. You wither beneath his studious eyes, the way he gazes right into your soul, burning through everything else until he reaches your very marrow and feasts upon it. “Hmm. Tell me, dearheart, what am I doing to your body?”

The inquisitive question throws you off. You assumed he would know, that he would have some inkling of his divine powers over others despite his recent apotheosis. Your tongue darts out to wet your trembling lips, and you don’t miss the hungry way he takes it in. But maybe if you say the words aloud, it will break the spell. It’s worth a try, so you summon your self awareness and beg it to tell you what’s happening. “…Feels hot,” you finally say, shivering as you unveil even more of yourself to the man that will undo you entirely, “and tight. I’ve never felt it before. My Ichor feels like- like I’m sprinting.”

Wesker nods thoughtfully, never once taking his eyes off your heated face. He hums, and you can feel it resonate within you from where you are pressed to him. “What else?” He prompts, “do you feel nervous? Anticipatory, perhaps?”

Somehow, he’s describing exactly what it feels like. Your stomach drops out, a heavy, hot stone weighing it down in your body until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. You nod. “Y-yes. But it feels almost… good.”

At your final admission, Wesker’s lips curl into a warm, satisfied smirk. His pupils dilate, expanding into black holes that threaten to drown you in their vantablack depths. He tilts your chin to the side, leans in closer just to hear your breath hitch. “I think I know what you’re feeling, little one,” he murmurs, dark and deep, and it only makes the burning in you that much more intense and hungry, “It’s called arousal. And I’m not doing anything. It’s all you.”

Arousal. You finally have a word for this hot, insatiable feeling curling in your core. But contrary to your hopes, the arousal doesn’t fade. The knowledge that Wesker is not directly responsible for this curling, scorching serpent in your belly makes you even more mortified. You feel shameful, disgusting. Your hands tremble. Part of you is thankful that he continues, sparing you the need to force your tongue to break the silence. “You’re a strange little thing, aren’t you, dearheart?” His gaze is softer now, almost pitying. He is no longer disappointed in you, now merely inquisitive. “Tell me, how much did the gods teach you about this?”

The feeling of his bare hand groping the apex between your legs, fingers resting atop the soft, velveteen flesh of the little slit lying there, has you freezing. All at once, your thoughts come to a screeching halt beyond the sensation of his deft fingertips idly kneading the meat of your pelvis. The arousal intensifies, and you finally pinpoint where the heat is strongest. It’s there, in the unassuming flesh of your crotch, pulsing and pleading for something you cannot name. It’s the same place your heart and stomach drop to whenever Wesker’s voice drops to that particular dulcet octave. His touch feels at once wrong, like a violation of the highest order, and so unfathomably right. Never before has another touched your crotch in this way- you have, for grooming and cleaning, of course, but you’re fairly certain none of the other gods have ever even seen it. And yet the intoxicating warmth of his palm against the vulnerable flesh has you melting, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, the answer slides from your tongue without meaning to. “N-nothing,” you keen, resisting the subconscious urge to grind your crotch into Wesker’s wicked hand, “They only told- told me that it’s bad, to touch here. But why-“ you pause to hitch in a breath as his pointer finger slowly passes along the folds of your slit, making you shudder “why does it feel- feel-“

“Good?” Wesker finishes for you, humming knowingly as his finger pets over the delicate flesh. Somehow, he knows what he’s doing to you, what this hot arousal in your core truly means. You need to know, you need to understand why your body is doing this, why something supposedly bad has your mind melting in pleasure.

“Yes,” you moan, the word stretching as his finger presses deeper, gliding through the slick folds of flesh. Why would the other gods keep you from exploring this part of yourself? You realize, in this heated moment, that their motivations must have been selfish- they’ve already demonstrated how little they truly cared for you. Why would this be any different?

Wesker groans, a soft, low sound deep in his core that intensifies the pulsing in your own. “I didn’t anticipate you to be so innocent,” he says, his hand’s movements never pausing, “you really don’t know anything, do you, little Endling? Do you even know what this part of you is called?”

You can only shake your head. In your mind, and in your studies, it has only been obliquely referred to. It’s your crotch, your pelvic area, the place where urine (and Ichor, roughly once every two months) comes from. That’s all it’s ever been to you, and nothing more. But the way Wesker speaks of it, like it’s some grand, delicious secret he’s about to let you in on, makes you desperate to know. Desperate for him to tell you what this soft flesh, wet and pulsing with pleasure and desire, truly is.

His deep chuckle, satisfied and anticipatory, only makes the soft skin of your slit pulse further. “Oh, you’re too delicious, pet. This,” he grips the meat of your crotch again, making you let out a sound of painful need, “is a cunt. Your cunt. Plenty of humans have one, too. And it’s probably my favorite part of human anatomy.”

Cunt. Another new word, short and simple to describe what has been hidden from you. Hearing Wesker speak, hearing him praise your cunt so highly, makes it swell with warmth. Everything he’s doing feels entirely too good, dare you say even sinful. Part of you wants him to stop, but another part, one much larger and more convincing, hungers to know more. You are bare before him, vulnerable and weak. He could kill you with no effort. But the thought of his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he devours you with his eyes, only makes your arousal worse.

So lost are you in the moment and the overwhelming sensations racing across your skin that you don’t notice the uncanny sensation of him teleporting the both of you out of the bathing room. Sleek, cool fabric meets your bare back as he lays you down horizontally, and you realize you’re on a bed. His bed. The silk underneath you is a relief to your feverish skin and you arch into it, basking in the sensory delight of both the sheets and Wesker’s hand still groping your cunt. His fingers work through the soaked folds, exploring you until they find one particularly sensitive spot.

You jolt as two fingertips massage that very spot, rubbing it back and forth, sending shockwaves of pleasure across your body. Your legs spasm uncontrollably in time with his ministrations, and thankfully you don’t have to ask him what exactly this new part of you is, because he beats you to it. “And this is your clit. Feel that, dear? Like a little button beneath my fingers?” He gathers the swollen bud between thumb and forefinger and pinches just so, but even that relatively gentle touch is enough to have your mind whiting out with undiluted pleasure. He takes your ensuing silent scream as an answer. “Another favorite of mine. With just a bit of attention to such a small bit of tissue, your body becomes putty in my hands. So pliant, just how I like my playthings.” While one finger remains to fondle your clit, two dart down and begin pressing into you, finding the same hole the Ichor spills from every two months and delving inside it.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. It’s sublime, blissful agony and agonizing bliss. You need more, but just those two fingers, barely inserted, fill you and stretch your cunt to an uncomfortable degree. You want it deeper, though you don’t know why, but what if your little body breaks under his? What if you can’t satisfy his curiosity, and he discards you like he did with the other gods?

Self-preservation becomes the new catalyst to your need, knowing that if Wesker is angered, it could spell your end. And besides- your hole pulsing around his fingers as they slowly inch deeper within you, clenching on them while he plays with your clit, is too delicious of a feeling to lose. You try to buck your hips up, try to take more of him into you, but he retracts with a chuckle. “Look at you. I bet you don’t even know what you’re so desperate for, what your body needs. But I’m not a heartless man, pet. I know what you need. All you have to do is answer one more question for me.

“Can you do that? Hm?” His enthralling voice, dripping with confidence and seduction, is the single most addictive thing you know of. You’re so caught up in the heated glamor he has you in that you nearly miss the words themselves. But you’re not entirely lost, not yet, and you manage to frantically nod your head. Whatever he wants from you, you’ll do, a mixture of fear for your survival and desperation to ride this mounting pleasure for as long as you can driving your obedience. You manage to hiss out a verbal response, to which he chuckles, satisfied. “So eager for something you can’t even name. Now, tell me- did the gods ever teach you about how humans reproduce?”

That shakes some clarity back into your muddled mind, and your eyes fly open, body going somewhat stiff atop the gossamer sheets. “What?” You breathe, taken aback. It’s not something you know much of, to be honest- you’ve heard it referred to as lovemaking, but the other gods always obscured the details to you. The end result, however, you’re familiar with; the bloody visual of a mother pushing a baby from her shattered body haunted you for countless nights after you saw it. Why on earth would Wesker summon that sobering memory to your mind now, in the throes of pleasure, with his fingers still digging slowly but surely into your cunt? “I- Is that what you…? I don’t understand,” you stammer, backing up across the plane of the soft bed.

The feeling of Wesker’s delicious touch leaving your core as you move away from him is agonizing, and the pleasure that once bloomed in your cunt now begins to wilt. You shrink under his infernal eyes, watching his brow furrow infinitesimally. He moves as well, coming closer as you move away, matching your motions. His fingers are shiny, glistening with the shimmering slickness of your cunt. He looks down at them briefly before bringing them to his mouth and allowing his deft, long tongue to clean away the remnants of you. He lets out a shuddering, pleased groan at the taste, and you find yourself unable to look away as he devours your slickness until his fingers are clean. When he looks back to you, his pale face is smattered with a relatively faint (but noticeable) blush.

“Your body craves what all other mortal bodies do, little Endling. Don’t deny it. I can sate that hunger if you just submit.” His temptations are ever more powerful against your weakened resolve, but you hold fast, bringing your legs closer to yourself. You simply can’t fathom it. Wesker wants to reproduce with you? To make love with you? It’s impossible, it has to be. The man is incapable of love (even as you form the thought you know it’s false. You’ve seen the way he’s looked at other mortals before, you’ve seen the unmistakable desire in his eyes when he gazed upon Chris). To think he wants that from you, to teach you how humans reproduce in the most personal possible way, makes you shudder in disbelief. Eventually, your back hits the wall, and you can flee from him no further. He returns to his place over your smaller body, bathing you in his shadow, forcing you to breathe him in.

But you can’t. Whatever he means to do, you can’t. “I- I’m not ready,” you plead, eyes wild, “I can’t, we can’t! Gods don’t- we don’t-“ you can hardly bring itself to say it, your face feeling aflame with humiliation. Gods do not reproduce, you and the others all simply are. You fell from the stars exactly as you are now, physically speaking. You are not born, and you do not die.

Or, at least, you didn’t.

But with his apotheosis, Wesker has shaken everything you thought you knew about godhood. He did not fall from the heavens, he clawed himself from the molten earth. He murdered gods, something you presumed impossible. He was born, and he made gods die. So what, you wonder frightfully, is really true about divinity? What does it mean? Can you truly produce an infant in your belly the same way mortal women can?

Do you even have a choice in finding out?

Wesker’s murmur, face inches from yours, snaps you from your racing thoughts. “Gods don’t what?”

Your eyes dart away, unable to maintain contact with his as you finish your sentence. Your voice is barely a whisper, tongue hesitant. “We don’t… make love…” saying the words aloud, you feel almost dirty. Guilty. Silently, you yearn for the blind pleasure he offered just moments ago.

To your surprise, Wesker begins to laugh. It sounds both warm and cold, both endeared and cruel. He looks at you with a condescending glint in his burning eyes, smiling, baring his inhuman teeth. “Oh, my precious little Endling,” he sighs, chest still shaking with laughter, “Is that what you think this is? I’m not going to ‘make love’ to you.” His words should bring you relief, but his merciless eyes and the fingers prodding once more at the entrance to your cunt only make you more nervous. “I’m going to fuck you. And you will learn everything that was kept from you.”

Another new word. Your vocabulary becomes more complete, more vulgar, by the moment in his presence. Cunt. Clit. Fuck. The last one sounds like the opposite of lovemaking- it sounds brutal, cruel, and wicked. Like a gnarled bramble bush compared to a flowering lilac. Part of you wonders, frightfully, if the analogy is a little too spot on, and you’ll feel the pain of those brambles as he fucks you.

A breathless noise escapes you as Wesker once more coaxes two fingers into your clenching cunt, your body eagerly welcoming him back. That coiling pleasure begins to build once more, dulling the edges of your terrified musings. His face ducks down, buries itself in your neck, and he takes a shuddering breath, drinking in your scent as he deftly thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out. “See? It feels good, doesn’t it? You want more,” He whispers, a heated promise against the shell of your ear, amplifying your growing pleasure. Your body sings at his words, reacting just as it did back in the caldera, cunt clenching and drawing him further in. You don’t know just what it is about his voice that has such an effect on you. All you know is the pleasure pulses, heavy and warm, every time he murmurs in that dark baritone.

Your mind is not gone just yet. You’re fraying at the seams, but you haven’t completely unraveled. You grit your teeth against the building, burning pleasure inside you and force your eyes open. His mouth is latching onto your skin, nipping the delicate flesh with his canines until Ichor is drawn and then lapping it up like a starving man. You can’t help but cry out at each attack, keening against his mouth as he presses his lips to the now-bruised skin, treating the wound with smothering kisses. You feel so helpless, a slave to your body’s alien desires, unprepared for the onslaught Wesker forces upon you. Not for the first time today, you lament the other gods and their lack of transparency. What reason could they have to leave me this vulnerable?

You force yourself to put aside your anger and fear for the moment. Biting back a moan as Wesker attacks a particular spot at your neck, you attempt to speak up. “Are-“ as if he’d timed it, the man laves his tongue over the weeping flesh of your collar, forcing you to taper off into a desperate, pathetic noise halfway. He chuckles, deep rumbling laughter that reminds you of how much he enjoys pulling you apart, piece by piece. It carries the sinister promise of more to come, and so you attempt to continue. “You- are you going to- to hurt me?” You’re terrified of what the answer may be. What he’s doing right now feels good, yes, but will it always feel good? Is the night doomed to end with you curled in on yourself in agony, or spread out on Wesker’s bed while he drowns your mind in euphoria? You’re almost as scared of the answer as you are of the question itself. But the words have already left your mouth, so you brace for the response, whatever it may be.

Wesker hums neutrally, a sound that answers none of your questions and only serves to make you more nervous. His body, pressed firmly over yours, prevents you from shrinking away. After a moment of contemplation, he finally speaks. “Not intentionally,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of your ear (an unexpected action that makes your breath hitch and your heart flutter), “It will hurt, of course. Not unbearably, and not for long. But it will.” Languidly, he scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you open with an expert ease that tells you he’s done this before. You don’t know whether the knowledge that he has experience in this area makes you feel humiliated, or relieved. He may not keep his word, obviously, but all that matters to you is that you aren’t doomed to a night of pain. As long as you are pliant and obedient, you will survive. You suppose that’s the best you could have hoped for. “You’re thinking awfully loud, little one,” he clicks his tongue, tapping your forehead somewhat roughly with his free hand, “stop it. There’s nothing of use to either of us in that sweet little head of yours.”

You whine, your face growing hot and eyes growing teary at his degradation. It settles unpleasantly in your belly, but against all odds, the humiliation mingles with the arousal he fills you with. The two sensations, equal and opposite, suddenly clash and become one, something unspeakable and stronger than both on their own. Involuntarily, you clench hard around him, drawing a strangled breath from Wesker and a strained cry from you. Your traitorous tongue, perhaps hoping to cut off whatever belittling he intends on next, takes the opportunity to make itself useful. “I was- I was scared,” you admit weakly, wincing in pain as a third finger joins the two already inside, and pleasure claws its way up your body, “I thought you’d- you would hurt me, or- or kill me.” After that, you purse your lips shut with a humiliated whine to keep yourself from digging your grave any further. But the damage has been done, and another condescending laugh rolls over you like thunder from his chest.

“Poor, dumb little thing,” Wesker coos, and your eyes fly open at the insult, tears overflowing, “for all you know I am hurting you. You don’t even know what it is I’m doing, just that it feels good. Isn’t that right?” He leans in closer, his reptilian eyes burning you with their mocking glare. It’s true, though- aside from the words he’s given to name these sensations, you have no idea what he’s doing. It is one thing to read the word ‘dog’ in a dictionary, and another thing to see the creature apart from its name, and yet another entirely to understand that the word and beast are one and the same. You may have the words to name his actions, but you don’t have the context to understand or comprehend them, and it frightens you to the core.

Said core is currently being violated, three deft fingers pressing deeper and deeper into your cunt, rubbing against a particularly spongy and sensitive spot just behind your clit that makes your brain short circuit. Wesker continues to strike down your ego, each wicked word chipping away at your mind. “That’s all you are, dear. A dumb little Endling, daring to call herself a god. Innocent, precious. And all. Fucking. Mine.” Each hissed word is punctuated by a deep thrust of his fingers against that spot inside you, and you’re only just now noticing but the pleasure is in your lungs and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, and you writhe against him, grinding your clit on the heel of his hand as his heated gaze melts your resolve completely-

Suddenly, an unspeakable ecstasy crashes through your body. More potent than anything he’s done so far, it ricochets across your soul until you can barely see. You’ve never experienced something like this, this profound euphoria ripping through your veins like floodwater after a typhoon. All you can do is arch your back up into Wesker’s waiting embrace with a loud, lewd moan, your head pressing back into the soft bed beneath. It’s so intense that it’s almost frightening, but as the aftershocks wash through you, you find that all the tension you’d previously harbored is completely gone. Whatever just happened, whatever Wesker just did to you, it’s left you utterly boneless. You sob in between gasps for air, barely registering Wesker’s satisfied chuckle above you. His voice drops to a delicious whisper that only enhances the dregs of ecstasy flowing across your body.

“And just like that, there you go.” His breath is warm, soothing, against your face, and the incomprehensible urge to kiss him makes itself known to you. His lips have already graced your neck, your ear, and felt so good, you know they’d feel utterly sublime on your own. Kissing is something you’re familiar with, though you’ve never done it yourself- the other gods did it sometimes, and you’ve seen humans clash lips more times than you can count. You always wanted to try it, and if you are to die at Wesker’s hand, you suppose this is your last chance. But his pleased smile, the crow’s feet it gives his eyes, has you too enthralled to act on that urge. “You’re going to cum many more times for me, pet. That is what your body craves. That’s what I’m going to do to you, what I’m going to give you. And you will beg for more.” You’re struck by the realization that either he knows what his voice (like ebony silk and thick, rich wine) is doing to you, or he simply enjoys hearing himself speak. Whichever is the truth, you don’t care. You can’t care, not with the way each word drags you further into the decadent oblivion he offers.

The hand that wasn’t buried in your cunt rubs soothing warmth into your side, up and down, relishing in the softness of your skin and the layers of plushness beneath. Your chest heaves, diaphragm rising and falling as you attempt to come down from the height of cumming. Your eyes, hazy and wet, blink slowly in response to Wesker’s voice. His lips, thin and smooth, are so utterly enticing. Against your will, you voice your innermost thoughts. “I want to kiss you,” you breathe softly, barely a whisper on the heated air. But, of course, he hears it very well.

He raises a sculpted brow and tilts his head. “Is that so? How bold of you, pet. Ask properly, and I’ll consider it.” In response, you whine in frustration, left wanting and needy for his affections. How are you supposed to know what asking him properly even means?

“Please,” you beg, fixing him with your best doe eyes, “please let me kiss you, I- I’ve never-“

A finger, still coated in the evidence of your release, drives itself into your open mouth, cutting you off. You nearly choke on it, face heating up even more at the taste of yourself, and you nearly bite him in your confusion. “Try again,” Wesker orders sternly, “address me correctly.”

A charm of resistance, buried deep within, awakens at his cruelty, and you respond in kind. Your teeth come down onto his finger, though not enough to hurt; merely a warning that you can bite harder if you choose. You glare up at him, indignant at being denied what you know you’ve earned, what you deserve. He’s taken you prisoner, unraveled your entire world, and covered you in the blood of your fellow deities. The least you’re owed is one small request. Denial is an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation. Very rarely were you ever refused a request, especially if it was for lessons or material comforts. The other gods were always eager to shower you in beautiful gifts and teach you the secrets of divinity. The few times you were shot down in your requests stung, making you angry and indignant. Once, you even threw something in your frustration.

Here and now, though, the denial feels even worse. You feel like you’ll die if he doesn’t at least give you this one thing. It’s never been so profound, this yearning in your core. You want to grab him by the hair and pull him down, force your lips onto his and take what you’re owed, but you push that thought away. If I did that, you remind yourself, I would be no better than him.

Despite the gentleness of your bite, Wesker’s temper flares, and he bares his sharp teeth down at you. “Spoilt little slut,” he growls, a dangerous edge to his tone. You hope the anger in your expression hides your burgeoning terror, but in all likelihood, it doesn’t do much. You can’t help but whine lowly in the back of your throat, and your jaw drops open in an attempt to appease him. Immediately, he pulls his finger away and his hand lays a cruel slap to your cheek. It’s not as harsh as you expected, and the site of the blow merely tingles instead of burning. A warning, just like your bite. Still, it makes you yelp, and you try to cradle your cheek with your palm, only for Wesker to pin both your wrists beside your head. His hands dwarf yours, a terrifying reminder of the difference in power between you. His pupils are dilated, eclipsing his irises in vantablack, belying just how much he’s enjoying this. You don’t know whether to be flattered, terrified, or enraged, and so you settle for a healthy mix of the three.

“You want me so badly, hm? Fine. I’ll indulge just this once,” Wesker sneers, and you barely have time to register his words in your brain before his mouth comes crashing down onto yours and he’s ripping the breath right out of your lungs. It’s utterly unlike any kiss you’ve ever witnessed, any kiss you’ve ever fantasized about having. It’s cruel, all teeth and tongue, as he forces his way into your mouth and claims it as his own. And yet, his lips are still as soft as you pictured, though it’s hard to focus on them when he laves his tongue across every inch of your mouth and presses your own tongue down flat into submission.

The sensations are overwhelming, and more than a little frightening. But still, you’ve gotten what you asked for, what you begged for. You try, hesitantly, to return the kiss, whining into his mouth when he forces his weight down onto you, keeping you prone and still. He groans, a deep-throated sound that makes you swoon, but the pleasure of his voice is ripped from you when he sinks his sharp teeth into your tender lip. You cry out in pain, attempting to pull away, but his hold on you is steadfast. He full-on moans as he tastes your Ichor, sucking at the bite with vicious purpose. Pain, like denial, is an unfamiliar sensation, and you don’t know how to cope other than through the tears that stream down your temples.

Finally, blessedly, he pulls away, leaving a long thread of Ichor-stained saliva connecting the two of you. He nips at it, cutting it out of the air, and you flinch at the close snap of his fangs. Face flushed, his tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth to lick up a trace of your Ichor, savoring the taste. His eyes never leave your shuddering form, and you hate the deep, sharp pang of arousal that echoes through you. His hand grips your chin, forcing your attention to him. “That’s enough. Now apologize.”

His grasp loosens, just a little, but it’s enough for you to find your voice. “‘M sorry, I’m sorry,” you croak desperately, “Please, I- I only wanted-“

“What you want is irrelevant, Endling,” he reminds you coldly, hips thrusting slightly against yours as he hisses the epithet, and you feel something firm and warm rub against your cunt, something that has your mouth going dry for a reason you can’t name. You squeeze your eyes shut, allowing more tears to fall, wishing desperately that this is all simply a nightmare that you’ll wake from any minute. “You. Belong. To me,” he says, free hand punctuating each pause with a light slap to your cheek, drawing pathetic whines from the base of your throat, “You will take what I give you and nothing more, am I understood?”

Once again, Wesker’s hand loosens around your jaw, allowing you to speak. “Yes,” you rush out, pleading for his cruelty to end, “yes, I- I understand, I’m so sorry, I-“

“Master.”

“Wh- What…?” You whisper dumbly, caught off guard by his interruption.

“Call me Master,” he orders, leaving no room for argument.

A dull, heavy stone of despair roots in your chest. He’s never going to let me go, you realize with a lull of sorrow, not even after he’s fucked me. Though he only became a God a short while ago, his power far outclasses your own. It will be many years before you’ll be able to escape him, if ever. You’re no longer a goddess; you’re his prisoner. With no other option, you close your eyes against the fresh wave of tears that threaten to escape. You inhale a shaky, weak breath. “…Yes, Master.” And suddenly you hate yourself far more than you hate Wesker, because as you say the word aloud, the pulsating pleasure in your core only deepens.

Your self-hatred thickens even further at the way you keen under his response. “Good girl.”

You can’t bear to open your eyes. But you nearly do when you register Wesker’s wicked tongue lapping against your cheek, languidly licking up your tears before moving to your other cheek and doing the same. It feels strange, unnatural, and almost pleasant. It leaves a tacky, uncomfortable trail of his saliva on your face, but the warmth of the non-violent touch is too addictive. One moment, he is cruel and unyielding, the next he touches you with such deliberate tenderness that your heart flutters like a swarm of butterflies. And somehow, neither sensation makes your body recoil; your cunt only aches with need, regardless of if Wesker is caressing your face or slapping it. But at least the (relative) softness is easier to allow yourself to enjoy.

His hand has left your face, though the phantom memory of his grip haunts the tender skin. “You’re not ready yet,” Wesker murmurs to himself, appraising your hapless body underneath him. The same hand that slapped you now gently tilts your head from side to side, and you force your eyes open to see him studying the mess he’s made of you. “Normally, I would prepare you with my mouth. But you already had my mouth, didn’t you?” You ignore the rhetorical question in favor of opening your mouth to ask him what exactly he’s preparing you for, but he cuts you off before you can start. “So instead, you’ll have this.”

From his wrist, coiling around his hand, come the tendrils of Uroboros. The very same horrible creation that allowed him to slaughter five of your fellow gods right in front of you. You don’t have time to protest the idea of those things going anywhere near you, as one thick tendril darts down to your cunt and pushes inside without preamble. The stretch is difficult to bear, plenty thicker than his fingers, but Wesker gives you no time to adjust. The tentacle is slippery, coated in a thin layer of something you don’t even want to imagine, allowing it to slide into your cunt with relative ease. A choked cry escapes your throat, and on instinct, your hands press to his chest in an attempt to push him off you. Wesker clicks his tongue condescendingly, shaking his head as another set of tendrils slither across your arms and force them down to the bed. “Behave,” he orders as the Uroboros pins your hands to either side of your head, keeping you pressed down firmly. Helpless against him.

As much as you remind yourself how vile, how terrible, the thing inside you is, you can’t prevent your body from reacting to it. Each languid thrust pushes the rounded tip of the appendage a little deeper into your cunt, its smooth surface caressing your inner walls and sending waves of pleasure through you. Already, you feel the sublime ecstasy of before mounting deep inside, your peak fast approaching. The dregs of the last time you came still haven’t left your bloodstream, and the thought of even more rushing through you makes you uneasy. It’s too much, too fast, but with your hands pinned and body helpless, you can’t do anything to stop it from creeping closer.

“No,” you blurt, gasping for air against the serpent of euphoria constricting your lungs, “it’s- it’s too much, too much, I can’t- I can’t cum again, please-“ you hesitate before saying the dreaded word but if you don’t, you know things will only get worse “-M-Master, Master please, I can’t, please stop!” Your wide eyes stare up at him, while his are fixated on the tendril pounding further into your cunt with each passing second.

He doesn’t look at your face when he responds, humming in satisfaction. “Yes, you can,” he tells you casually, flexing his wrist and making the tendrils pulse, both squeezing your wrists and whiting out your vision with pleasure, “Go on. Cum for me, my little Endling.”

And with a resounding sob of pleasure, you do, a stray tendril flicking over your clit finishing you off. It burns, like the sun itself is caressing you, but even through the agony of overstimulation it feels so supremely good. A piece of your soul bursts, leaving you writhing in your living binds, hips bucking in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Self-loathing buries itself in your core just as the tendril retracts, allowing you to release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Euphoria washes through you, drowning you in liquor and honey until all you can breathe is sin. And it is sinful, this- you know for certain if any of the other gods could see you now, they’d call you vile, a useless creature, a broken thing. You try to rationalize it, try to remind yourself that the word of the other gods means nothing to you anymore, but it’s easier said than done. You’ve had your whole life to live under their thumbs, and only a few hours to adjust to their abandonment. It may take time for you to accept that they never cared for you, but until then, you can’t help but envision their disappointment as your soul pulses with the aftershocks of pleasure.

The Uroboros is slow to retract from you, familiarizing itself with every inch of your cunt. It drags against your sensitive inner flesh, taking an agonizingly long time to finally pop out completely. You let out a shuddering sigh of relief, hole clenching down on nothing and wrists finally free. You wipe the tears from your bleary eyes, gazing up at the divine man whose body presses yours to the bed.

Wesker watches the slick tendrils of Uroboros slide back into place, concealed within his flesh, before his eyes flicker back to you. The aggression is gone, and you feel a bit of your fear fall away. He chuckles softly, taking in the ruined expression on your face. “Look at you, dearheart,” he coos, hand cupping your cheek in mock tenderness, “what a dumb little mess you are. I think you’re more than ready.”

You wrap your arms around yourself in a makeshift hug, desperate for any scrap of comfort to cling to. Your entire body feels sapped, broken, like Wesker has drained everything you have from you. You’re shaking, trembling softly with fear and the remains of your climax. “Ready for what?” You whisper, voice choked, “what more are you going to do to me?”

He closes his burning eyes as he removes his shirt, his belt, and finally his sleek pants. The more of himself he bares to you, the more your mouth goes dry.

Wesker reminds you of the many statues placed around the Domains of the other gods, of the paintings of baroque heroes in the nude. His torso is finely carved as if from marble, muscles rippling with untold strength just beneath the skin. You can’t take your eyes off his arms once they are revealed to you- the same hands that murdered millions, including gods, have brought you to mind-shattering ecstasy, and will do so again. He pauses in his disrobing, noticing your rapt attention, and a slow smile comes to his face.

“Enjoying the view?” He hums, pupils blown wide with lust as he surrounds you with himself. You are. The sight of him makes your mouth water and your cunt leak with desire.

But you’ll die before you admit it, and so you bite out a retort. “Answer the question,” you demand, shrinking into the bed away from him.

“I already told you, pet. I’m going to fuck you. Now you tell me- do you know what this is?” The question, hissed through gritted teeth, is punctuated with a harsh thrust of his hips against your own. That tantalizing hardness in his pants throbs against you, and your mouth goes dry. It feels like a dark promise, like the executioner letting you caress the edge of the axe doomed to separate your neck from your body. Somehow, twin ropes of dread and excitement spindle their way up your spine. You shake your head, tongue useless and limp. You don’t know what that thing is that he conceals, but you’re terrified of it, and of what it represents. Your unmaking at Wesker’s hands.

He laughs darkly at your innocence, lowering his body until you can feel the warmth he radiates just above you. “I didn’t think so. This is how I’m going to fuck you, dearheart. Now watch.”

Slowly, teasingly, he pulls away his pants, revealing his strong, bare legs- and a long length of flesh standing at attention just between them. The sight of it makes your throat close up, and your stomach drops out as you realize he intends to put that thing inside of you. Your eyes meet his, beseeching him to see reason. “That won’t fit,” you rush out, closing your legs to hide your cunt from him, “whatever that is, it won’t fit inside me, you- you can’t-!”

Wesker merely laughs, shaking his head, condescension radiating from him. “Keep telling yourself that, little Endling. Now, relax your body for me- it will hurt less.” He looms over you like a predator cornering his prey. And you lay before him, helpless, a doe left to bleed out and gasp her last breath around sharp teeth in her throat. You try to follow his advice, you do, but it’s far easier said than done. Despite your best efforts your body continues to tense and tremble, little whimpers escaping your parted lips.

He takes notice of your failed efforts to lay limp, it seems, because he sighs. His hand, so much larger than yours, takes your wrist and brings it to the thing he intends to force into you. You gasp at the sudden contact, but it’s such a new, foreign sensation- warm, velvety, and firm in your palm. He pulses in your grasp and lets out a hitched breath at your touch. “That’s it,” he groans, clearly pleasured, and lowers his head to rest in the crook of your neck, “familiarize yourself with my cock. Worship it. Worship me.” Wesker’s breath is hot against your throat, and everything begins to blur into a haze of intoxicating sensation.

You move your hand carefully around his cock, clumsy and unsure of yourself, but certain that such a sensitive part of him could be very easily hurt. Briefly, the thought of taking advantage of that arises, but you push it away. Attacking him, especially like this, would only make things worse. And besides, knowing that you hold his most delicate component in your hand, bringing him the same pleasure he soaked you in, makes your heart flutter. The flared head calls to you, a bead of opaque liquid forming atop it, and you carefully rub a fingertip against the smooth skin. The resulting moan, baritone and delicious, makes your cunt pulse in turn. His pleasure, you realize, is as addictive and terrifying as your own.

Your hand falters in its movements as you feel Wesker’s mouth against your heated skin again. This time, his touch is deviously soft, sensual. He laves his tongue over the sensitive parts of your neck, presses hot kisses to your sternum, tastes your flesh with deliberate tenderness. He hums in satisfaction at your taste, making you squeeze your thighs together, chasing any hint of pleasure. “You taste divine, my dear, has anyone told you? Maybe if you’re good, I’ll sample your cunt directly. Mmm, I can only imagine how delicious it is.” His murmurs are seared into your tender skin, praise that makes your soul feel full and needy for more. With each kiss, each warm press of his body against yours and each buck of his hips into your hand, you fall further and further into submission. Your body begins to relax, tension sapped from your bones and distilled into pure serenity. You try to remind yourself of the pain he brings, the ways he has hurt you, but it seems so trivial in comparison to the hazy almost-bliss he lets you fall into. Lazily, you move your hand up and down across his cock, gentle strokes that make him hum long and low in the base of his throat.

Suddenly, he pulls away from your heated skin. “Stop,” he orders, and on instinct, you do. You pull your hand away, cradling it to your chest like he burned it. “I’d much rather cum inside you. Now breathe deeply, little Endling. In and out.”

Your traitorous body, relaxed and warm beneath him, is all too eager for him to enter you. Wesker moves slowly, surely, aligning the tip of his cock with your fluttering hole. You whine as he taps it against the sensitive flesh, hips twitching in want. Anticipatory nerves flare through you, but your desperation for pleasure wins out over them. To brace yourself for him, you grip the sheets beneath you in tight, trembling fists and take a deep breath.

Your exhalation is cut short, morphing into a strangled gasp as Wesker’s cock pushes its way into you in one smooth thrust.

In perfect synergy, pain and euphoria fill your body like two streams confluencing into a pond. Your core sings at being filled, stuffed to the brim and then some- but at what cost? Wesker lets out a choked moan as he sheathes himself fully in your heat, pressing his hips flush to yours. As he does, you feel something within your cunt stretch, and then snap. It’s a sensation that overpowers everything else with cold terror, as more sharp agony tears through you, radiating from your cunt.

Something must be wrong, something must be broken. You attempt to pull yourself together, to push away from the man on top of you, but his weight is too much. He snarls at your apparent refusal, a hand around your throat forcing you to lay back down. “Be still,” he orders, gritting his teeth against the pleasure your fluttering walls inflict, “don’t make me discipline you again.”

Helpless beneath him, you can only let the excruciating pain wash over you in fiery waves, clenching down around Wesker’s cock as you heave. He remains still, thankfully, allowing you to adjust to the sensation; a small shard of mercy you take gladly. After a few moments (stretched by the pain into lifetimes), the discomfort becomes familiar, and something in you changes. Lodged deep inside you, his cock prods against your innermost flesh, taunting your wanton core. You need more from him, you realize as the pain becomes bearable, you need him to move.

No sooner do you think that than Wesker decides to move, languidly pulling out and smoothly thrusting in again. The fluid movement punches the air from you again, and you let out a choked moan as something eases his reentry. Peeking down, a stream of gold catches your eye, radiant and bright against his hips. Ichor.

You are split in two, now. One half of you feels sick, just like you did when you first woke up to his apotheosis, horrified by the knowledge that he’s drawn your Ichor, and from such a delicate place. And the other half somehow curls in desire as your lifeblood lubricates his cock, allowing him to spear you even more easily. Every act of violence only draws you closer to him and the forbidden euphoria he brings. A long, drawn-out oh escapes you, choked with hiccuping cries as pleasure is punched into you. Evidently, your turmoil shows on your tear-streaked face, because between smooth, experienced thrusts, Wesker leans down so that he’s nearly kissing you again.

“Stop. Thinking,” he orders, punctuating each word with a particularly-deep thrust of his hips. His cock slams into that spongy spot just behind your clit, flooding your nervous system with pleasure, so much so that you barely register that he’s spoken. You let out a pitiful cry, a moan like an animal, and he laughs in cruel pleasure at the mess he’s made of you. “That’s it. Think about this instead, hm?” He hisses, sending a tendril of Uroboros down to assault your throbbing clit, “You know why I call you an Endling? Go on, answer your Master.”

The question comes out of left field and you can’t do much but let out a confused whine in response. You shake your head fervently, unsure if you trust yourself to do anything but moan out a stream of Please and Wesker and any number of incomprehensible sounds. But he has other ideas. “You have a tongue. Use it,” he demands, petering off into a deep moan as he humps your helpless body.

After much effort, and at the threatening way Wesker’s hips suddenly slow down, you force your mouth to work. “N-no, I don’t- please -I don’t know why,” you keen, tacking on a weak Master at the end in response to the expectant look he gives you. It’s somewhat a lie- you can hedge a bet. But you don’t want to entertain the thought until you have to. It makes you sick just considering it.

Your worst fears are confirmed when his lips curl into a wicked grin, full of malice and bloodlust. “It’s because I’m going to slaughter them- every last one,” he promises, his eyes burning, “until only you and I remain.” His vow made, the dark god once again forces his mouth down onto yours, swallowing your cry of horrified ecstasy.

He’s much gentler this time, and you sob into the kiss as he passionately entwines his tongue with yours. You throw yourself into the decadent sensations, desperate to ignore the terrible fate he’s condemned the ones you once called family to. Most of all, you’re desperate to ignore the vicious, angry part of you that can’t wait for their demise. Maybe they deserve it, that part screeches like a mournful eagle, maybe they should all burn for abandoning me. That dark part of you is unfamiliar and horrifying, and you weep harder against it and the pleasure Wesker fills you with.

The two sensations- euphoria and horror -should be completely antithetical, completely separate. But somehow, they entwine like his tongue with yours, like two snakes wrapped around a Caduceus. The intensity doubles as the emotions mix, battling for dominance in your mind and your body. Ultimately, inevitably, it’s pleasure that wins, and you abandon any fear in the face of that all-consuming heat.

As Wesker steals every breath you take, smothering your mouth and punching the air from your body with each deliberate thrust, your impending climax only grows in scope. Between kisses, you cry out to him in desperation. “Please,” you sob, “please, Master, I want- I want it, I want to- to cum, please make me cum-“ you trail off into a scream of pleasure as the tendril fondles your clit just right, sending you hurtling closer to the edge. He chuckles in response, devouring your submission with eager hunger, drowning you in himself.

With each heated press of his lips to yours, all your thoughts cease to exist. With each moment you spend being lavished and ravished, you drift further and further into the depths of submission from which there is no return. But then again, what do you have to return to? The answer, of course, is nothing. The gods cast you aside, gave you to Wesker like a war prize, and ignored your pleas for mercy. You have no place among them. For better or for worse, your new life begins here. With Wesker.

It’s with this reluctant conclusion that the stars align. Pulling just a hair’s breadth away from your kiss-swollen lips, his voice is like liquid fire. “Then scream my name, little Endling.”

And you do. By your own name and by the names of every god who abandoned you, you do. It feels like true apotheosis, like you’re only now being truly born and everything before was merely a hollow imitation. On instinct, you wrap your legs around Wesker’s waist, pushing him further into you and keeping him locked deep inside your core. He seems to have no complaints, giving a glorious moan into your mouth as his cock twitches and his thrusts begin to halt. His hips stutter, his voice even breaks, and he refuses to pull away. Between the eden of his touch and the ambrosial afterglow of your orgasm, you squirm in confusion as you feel something fill you from the inside. His cock pulsates, shooting a warm liquid deep into your cunt, and it feels strange but at the same time so profoundly right. Like this is merely how it’s meant to be.

For a while, everything is still. There are no sounds except your racing heart and your shared panting. As the tide of pleasure draws back, you start to feel a bitter self-loathing creep in. You try to cling to the warmth of before, but that crawling thought of what have I done what have I done what have I done coils around you like a snake. Your breathing picks up and you feel you’re about to cry again.

Seemingly, Wesker notices your deteriorating state, pulling away languidly from your body and looking upon you with sated eyes. His breathing is still deep, still winded from finding his release in you. “Perfect. My little plaything, broken and bred, all for me. You and I will start a new era of divinity; our bloodline will reign supreme.”

Your voice is wet when you speak up. Your vision is misty. “Our- our bloodline?” You croak, hiccuping as you try to hold back the tears.

His gaze softens, as does his voice, as he takes in your wrecked body. “Yes. You’ll bear my children. That’s what this-“ he gives one lazy thrust, forcing his spend deeper inside and making you yelp “-is for.” He watches your lip tremble for a moment and sighs softly, a sort of pity on his face. “Go on, little one. Cry if you need to.”

You don’t know what it is about him giving you permission that sets you off, but it does, and you do. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out a weak sob, which only grows louder at the endeared chuckle Wesker makes at the sight of you. You feel utterly wretched, like the pleasure of before has taken a terrible price in return. Against your better judgment, you wrap your arms around your captor and pull him closer, desperate for any sort of comfort, even if it comes from him. Mercifully, he obliges, one broad palm cradling the back of your skull and allowing the embrace. You shudder, weeping softly but no less forcefully in your exhaustion. All the while, his softening cock remains lodged within you, keeping his seed safely inside. You want to go home. You want to travel back in time to before this day, to before Wesker was even born, when you were happy and pampered and accepted among the pantheon. You wonder if you’ll ever even see your Domain again, with its comforting familiarity and soft light, and the thought of never sleeping in your own bed again makes you wail into Wesker’s warm chest.

Blessedly, he offers no platitudes- no false notions of everything being alright. He merely allows you to find solace in his arms and cry yourself out. You don’t know how long it takes you to calm down, but by the time that hot metal ball in your throat has dissipated, your eyes are dry. Once your cries have finally abated, Wesker gathers you further into his arms and gradually slips his cock out of you, an awkward sensation that makes you cringe. Your lips part to ask what he’s doing, but a tendril of Uroboros presses softly against them. “Hush, pet. I’m going to clean you up.” That’s all the warning you get before that same syrupy feeling of teleportation overtakes you, and suddenly, you’re both in the bathing room again.

The sensation of hot water on your tender skin is unexpected, and you seize up in caution until you realize he teleported the two of you directly into the tub, your head the only part of your body not submerged. After getting your bearings, you let out a deep sigh, relaxing into Wesker’s hold. The heat of the water feels utterly heavenly, seeping into your bones and chasing away the awful drop you just experienced. He, too, relaxes, letting out a deep groan of relief as the bath soothes his body. You can’t bring yourself to move even a little. He has ripped away all your strength and left you boneless, pliant. He encounters no resistance as he sits you up in his lap and begins slowly washing your hair.

The peaceful, pregnant silence is broken only by the gentle sound of flowing water. Occasionally, Wesker will extend an arm, and Uroboros will retrieve a container from the far shelves for him. You say nothing as he massages some kind of shampoo into your hair, his fingers pressing against your scalp. As he cups his hands to wash away the soap, he sighs. “There’s something on your mind, isn’t there,” he murmurs, brushing your locks with his fingers, “You can ask whatever questions you want- but I might not answer them.”

Slowly, you blink, emerging from the warm pool of beeswax your mind was within. You don’t turn. Your voice is soft, sated, and sleepy. “You’re really going to kill them?” You whisper, almost terrified of the answer.

You can almost hear the soft smile on his face. “I am. Do you object to that, dearheart?”

Your silence, choked and shameful, is his answer. You don’t object. Or, more accurately, you can’t. You are too broken down to deny that vengeful little part of yourself any further. You grow teary-eyed again at the realization that even if you could, it wouldn’t make any difference. You are, as always, powerless in the face of divinity far superior to you.

Wesker senses your inner despair, pulling you back into his chest. His body radiates a comforting warmth, pulsating into your own. “Hush. No more tears, now,” he says, hands rising from the water to wipe away your sorrow. Even this banal touch is electrifying upon your delicate skin. He leans forward to whisper in your ear, lips caressing the shell. “If you behave,” he promises, “I’ll teach you everything they neglected to. I’ll give you the answers you need.”

It’s a promise you’ll hold him to. You want the words to explain to yourself what he’s doing to you. You want to know how to articulate the agony (and the ecstasy) of this day. If he can give you that much… well. The thought of captivity doesn’t sit well with you, but in the end, have you not just traded one cage for another? At least, with him, you can see the bars for what they are. At least, with Wesker, you know where you stand.

As you fade, exhausted, into sleep, you take comfort in knowing this much for certain: there is one good thing that separates your captor from the gods you once called family. With the way he holds you to his chest and reminds you that you are his, you know that he would rip the earth asunder to ensure you stay with him.

It’s enough to almost make you smile as you close your eyes.

[gremlin-girly]

Flufftober Day 11

@flufftober

Prompt(s): Ingredients, potions, spells

Pairing: sick!Loki x gn!reader

Tags/warnings: Loki (he's a warning), descriptions of cold/flu symptoms, gn!reader, feverish confessions (but it's sweet I promise), mutual pining

Summary: Loki gets sick and reader takes care of him :)

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: I thought of this when I was sick myself haha. Most of these remedies are what I use when I'm ill and they work a treat. And for a special treat for you dear reader, here's the Roasted Garlic and Potato Recipe I use (minus the nutritional yeast - and I use single cream not vegan).

Also, don't know why I keep writing stuff that's mostly 2k? Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment because I realise towards the end that I'm not writing a novel? Who knows. Enjoy! - Love, Grem x Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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It started with sniffles.

You’d raised your eyebrows at Loki when he sniffed softly, but frequently, the warning signs of the impending flu clear to only you. Somehow, the irony of a frost giant having a cold wasn’t lost on you either.

“Are you feeling alright?” You asked when Thor was out of earshot. If one thing would put Loki on edge it would be his adoring brother fretting over him.

Loki sniffed again and cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

His usually smooth voice was gravelly and hoarse, another sign that he was most definitely not fine. You frown softly. You don’t want to push him; you’d gradually worked up a friendly bond with the God of Mischief, at least you thought you had, and you didn’t want to blow it all up. Still, your eyes rake over Loki’s face worriedly, noting the redness around his nose and the missing mischievious glimmer in Loki’s bleary eyes.

Loki narrows his eyes at you, sensing your worry and prickling with defiance. “What?”

“Nothing.” You squeak, snapping your head back to the papers you’d been reading. Maybe this was how ill he’d get he was a god after all. Yet you had a nagging feeling that it would get worse.

Shuffling your papers together, mind made up, you begin to rise to your feet. You can feel Loki’s gaze on you as you pack your bag and try to ignore it, trying to hurry as much as possible.

“I need to run some errands,” you tell him hoisting your bag onto your shoulder. You look over and give him a gentle smile. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

Loki huffs in response, clearly believing that he wouldn’t need a mere mortal’s help for anything. You head to the door, waving at Loki before you step through the threshold. Once you’re out of sight, you walk at a breakneck pace to the nearest convince store to do some last minute shopping for the incoming storm you predict.

The following morning, Loki can’t breathe.

His sniffles became worse and  no amount of healing spells made a dent. The headache he thought was Thor, turned out to be a real headache and worst of all, he was hot all over. The burning sensation rolled over him in waves, leaving him sweaty and uncomfortable. He could barely sleep with the stuffy humidity of his body and he thought he may die. We’re frost giants meant to be so hot?

Loki could barely keep his eyes open. He hadn’t felt this ill since he was a child. His heart constricted as he remembered his mother, Freya, fussing over him and caring for him in a pathetic snotty state as a child. She made sure he was cared for, spoiled and well-fed. Tears stung at his eyes in the dark room and he cursed softly, the pain in his sinuses worsening as the threat of tears triggered a new onslaught of snot to build painfully in the bridge of his nose.

The door to his room creeper open, golden light spilling in making him squint angrily. Was it not enough that he was sick with a human affliction, but to be assaulted with bright lights too? But then your head peeked in, and Loki’s breathing hitched – causing him to cough violently into his covers.

“Loki? You okay?” you ask, knowing it’s a stupid question. “Can I come in?”

“I’m fine,” He croaks, turning onto his side. God’s, how embarassing. “Just a bit under the weather.”

You enter his room, tentatively stepping towards the bed and kneeling before him. Loki barely registers your presence, his green eyes looking up at you and struggling to stay open. Any other time he would have equipped about you finally knowing your place before a god, but he’s too tired, too sick, to care. His eyes flutter and he sighs with content when he feels a cool palm press on his sweaty forehead. He leans meekly into your palm and looks up into your worried fface.Your palm is soft and soothes his aching body better than any of the healing spells he’d tried.

And Its probably the fever, but you look ethereal. Loki smiles at you, a dazed smile, but a smile nonetheless. No sneer, no smirk, a genuine smile.   

“You’re burning up,” you say, voice laced with concern. You ignore they way your heart skips as he smiles at you, brushing it away as delirium. You go to move your hand, but Loki’s face follows, chasing the cool calm your palm offers. You sigh a little. Your gut feeling had been right; he is worse. You were glad to have gone to the store to get the ingredients for remedies you knew would help ease the symptoms and speed up recovery.   “Stay here, I won’t be long.”

Loki humphs, which turns into a wracking cough. You hastily remove yourself and head to the common area of the tower. You’d already prepared food the night before so setting up a large tray with an assortment foods was quick.  You pulled out your pre-made bowl of roasted garlic and potato soup and stuff it into the microwave whilst the kettle boils, slicing rounds of lemon, orange and ginger and adding them to a large mug  with honey.  You breathe in the aromatics smells of citrus and garlic melded together, wondering if Loki would heal quicker because he’s a god, or if he'd be defeated by the common cold.

When the microwave dings, interrupting your thoughts, you remove the bowl of soup giving it a quick stir before setting it on the tray with the  rest of the cold-beating snacks you’d bought the day before. You look down at the tray with a sheepish smile. Maybe you had gone overboard; cold and flu tablets, a box of tissues,  homemade soup, bread, honey-and-lemon drink.... and you had isotonic drinks to help with fluid retention.

Yeah.

You had gone overboard.

You carry the tray precariously back to Loki’s room. Pushing the door with your foot, you re-enter the dark room.

“I’m back.” You say into the darkness, waiting for your eyes to adjust. You place the tray beside his bed, and turn on his bedside lamp.

“Hng?”

“Here, let me help you sit up.” Loki meekly swats you away, but he’s too weak to prop himself up without assistance, and begrudgingly concedes to allow you to help him. Your arms wrap around is chest, slotting under his shoulder to help shimmy him upwards before fluffing a pillow behind his head. Loki is frowning slightly, and if you weren’t so concerned about his health, you’d notice he was blushing.

“I’ve brought you some food. You need to eat before you take any medicine.” You give him a soft smile. “And I brought tissues.”

“Hmph.” Loki huffs, glancing to the tray you’d set down. His chest tightens when he sees everything you’ve brought. You must have planned this. Maybe you cursed him somehow?

“Did you... put a spell on me?:

“What? No. Loki you know I can’t use magic.” You chuckle at the absurdity of his question and pick up the bowl of soup. On autopilot you scoop some onto the spoon and guide it to his lips. Loki leans forward slightly, eyeing you suspiciously, but opens his mouth to accept your offering. He can’t taste anything, but as soon as the creamy texture hits his tongue his stomach growls. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was.  He weakly reaches for the bowl and spoon, which you gladly hand to him, and forces himself to eat slowly. Loki hums with delight as he eats , the warm soup soothing his throat and filling his stomach. Whatever you had made was making him feel better already. He wished he could taste it and was overcome with that same fluttery feeling his his chest whenever you were around.

His cedar green eyes rise over the spoon to meet yours and in a quiet voice he mumbles, “Thank you.”

You give him another smile. “No problem. Happy to help.”

The feeling in Loki’s chest increased, tightening almost uncomfortably. Your presence had already helped with the fever, now the hunger. You were slowly but surely making him better just by being near him. Being your silly, idiotic, caring, kind human self.

“You don’t have to.” He thickly after another spoonful. His eyes are downcast, almost ashamed. He hadn’t made it easy to be befriended by you, but you had been patient with him and accepted him as part of the team without so much as a second thought. Over time, Loki had developed a liking to you and he hated that. Feelings for a human? No. Not Loki. He just favoured you above the rest. With your beautiful smile you always gave him and the way your eyes twinkled when he’d get one over on Tony or Thor, even if you were reprimanding him or shaking your head. And of course, the way you made an effort to speak with him everyday; even if it was a quick hello. Treating him with a kindness that no one else offered.

“I know. I want to.” You say firmly. “I can leave you be, obviously, but you just need to call me and I’ll get you what you need.”

You push some of his unruly hair out of his face whilst he eats and his eyes flutter closed briefly. Your heart warms at the sight. You were infatuated with the God who was a black cat personified. Handsome wasn’t even a befitting word for Loki but it was the best you could come up with at short notice. His eyes were so green you wondered if emeralds would be jealous of the hue and you always found yourself enraptured by them. Too bad you were just a human.

Loki considers your words carefully, a wave of heat creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the fever. Selfishly, he didn’t want you to leave. In fact, he wanted you to stay so badly it made his stomach churn with excitement but he was a god  and the whole thing was supposed to be beneath him-

“Please stay.” Loki whispers, ignoring pestering thoughts. He’d worry about consequences later, as usual. He was too tired to argue. You only nod in response, but your body sings with happiness.

Once Loki has finished eating you clear away the bowl and hand him two flu tablets and the mug of citrusy goodness. Loki’s large hands envelop the mug entirely whilst he sips, humming again at the soothing feeling that you and your food bring him.

“What is this potion?” He asks, sinking further back into his pillows.

“it’s lemon and honey, with ginger and orange.” You lean back onto your palms, watching him like a hawk. “It’s hardly a potion.”

Loki humphs quietly, not quite believing you, but continues to drink it. It’s not long before he’s drifting to sleep, the fullness of eating and the comfort you bring quelling the sickness that wracks his body. You gently pry the half drunk mug from his hands. Loki can barely keep his head up, leaning onto your shoulder as his eyelids fighting to stay open but his sleepy sighs are winning the battle.

He hums quietly and murmurs something you can’t quite make out. When you ask him to repeat himself he obliged, but remains ever so haughty about the fact you didn’t hear his incoherent mumblings.

“I said,” He huffs. “You are my favourite.”

“Favourite?” You chuckle. “Is it hard to be your favourite?”

Loki frowns slightly and cuddles closer. You smell nice and you’re warm. Enrapturingly so.

“Yes – but you. You. You’re different.”

“Oh?” for a moment you feel smug, until he continues.

“Infuriating.”

“Oh.” You roll your eyes to yourself. That one was on you.

“Captivating.” Loki’ tone is wistful, teetering on feverishly dream-like, but you perk up nonetheless. “Beautiful.”

“Oh...”

You look down at his form lying against your shoulder. He looks so different now, vulnerable, a cocoon of his usual self and it makes your heart melt. You were sweet on him and the feverish confessions were making your heart do somersaults.

“Make me feel so... nice and fuzzy,” he huffs out gently, slumping more and more against you. “You’ve cursed me.”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle a flustered giggle. Your cheeks are bright and so hot that you worry you may catch Loki’s cold. You wish you could record this moment; knowing that Loki would deny, deny, deny ever saying these things when he was better.

“To feel... fuzzy?” you try not to snicker but it’s too cute.

“Yes.” Loki hisses, turning his face against your collar bone. His skin his warm and sweaty and worry prickles at you again.

“You’re clammy,” You comment, going to move to grab the head towel. However, Loki’s arm wraps around you, holding you loosely but stopping you from moving away. “Loki?”

“Stay.” His voice is so quiet you barely hear it. The soft plea making your resolve break instantly. “You make it better. You make me better. Please don’t leave me.”

“Of course I'll stay. For as long as you need me.” You say gently and you hunker down next to Loki, wrapping him in your arms. You move hair from his face and his green eyes flicker to you briefly with a small sniffle.

“Do you swear it?” He murmurs.

“I swear it.” You murmur back without hesitation. Content with your answer, Loki pulls you closer and cuddles into you. You murmur sweet nothings to him as he drifts to sleep in your arms.

You stay with Loki until his sickness passes. Unwavering in your promise to him and as he recovers, his feelings for you grow tenfold.

So when you inevitably get ill, Loki remains by your side, just as you had for him. Once you’re both recovered, you’re inseparable.

[friendsoup]

Hi!! I love your writing and i saw request open though i not sure if you write for medicine pocket. If you do, could you medicine pocket and dikke separately with a usually shy and quiet gn reader that have a secret crush on them and indirectly confess by complaining while in the middle of the battle how reader think medi and dikke are prettier than reader and how amazing they are etc because reader accidentally inhale digger's bubble that cause reader drunk? I sorry if this is confusing but digger bubble seem to cause people high or drunk like so i think that be funny senerio

Sober Thoughts...

Recipe: Romantic confession, Drunk!Reader, Reader x Medicine Pocket, Reader x Dikke, GN! Reader, Lots of bullying Digger..., Reader uses they/them pronouns, tsundere Medicine Pocket..... WC: 1,610 Chef's Note: I'm still learning to write Medicine Pocket, so hopefully this wasn't too bad... Reader acts more like a drunk person in the Dikke version than in the Medicine Pocket version. I hope this is what you wanted, anon!!

The fight was getting boring. You, Digger, and Medicine Pocket were on the front lines this time, mercilessly smashing the critters that threatened the group. To be honest, you felt a bit of pity towards the creatures, an odd twinge of guilt twisting your stomach as you pummeled them without any trouble. It was simply too easy.

But you couldn’t afford to slow down on them. Medicine Pocket was here, and you wanted to impress them. Badly. You could feel their eyes on you from where they stood, boring into the back of your neck. They always seemed to stare so intensely at you, in a way that made your face go warm and your heart beat faster. You had a crush on them, though you’d never say it aloud. You were content with their stares and battling at their side. “I think that’s the last of them!” You called back to your team. You turned your head away from your foes to look at the group, confident that you’d won. It was right then, however, Digger had decided to blow one of his bubbles, which hit you right in the face. “Gah! Sorry! Wasn’t aimin’ for ya, dude!” Digger put his hands in the air, eyes wide with guilt. “You fucking idiot!” You heard Medicine Pocket squeal. “Don’t you ever look at what you’re doing!” They hissed, breaking formation to make their way to you. “Whatever. Let a real doctor make sure they aren’t poisoned, or anything.” “Sorry…” Digger muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “They shouldn’t be poisoned or anything. They’ll just be a bit loopy.” He attempts to defend. Medicine Pocket shoots him a look that makes him shut right up.

“Here, look at me.” Medicine Pocket tells you. You simply can’t, staring holes into your shoes. Your face feels warm with all the attention that’s on you, your chest feeling fuzzy as the bubble’s effects begin kicking in. “[Name]...” Pocket Medicine coos, lifting up your chin with their gloved hand. “I told you to look at me.”

Their yellow eyes stare into yours, and all at once you feel violently ill. They wear that same intense stare, like they’re studying you, picking you apart from the outside in. You tremble underneath their gaze, your knees feeling suddenly very weak.

“Gaaahhh, I can’t take it anymore!” You whine, lifting your head from their grasp. Medicine Pocket takes a step back, blinking in surprise, while you shake your head wildly. “I can’t take it! How are you so pretty?!”

“I’m…” Medicine Pocket’s eyebrows furrow, a quizzical look spreading on their face. 

“Your eyes are like jewels!” You cry, dragging your hand through your hair. “Your face is so stupidly beautiful, it’s driving me insane!” You feel tears bubbling at the ends of your eyes. “Digger.” Medicine Pocket snaps, looking at the hippie. Digger hides behind his hands, as if attempting to disappear. “Explain this.” Digger attempts a smile, though he’s too worried for it to be genuine. “Some people get emotional when they’re drunk! They’re probably just saying whatever’s on their mind!” Medicine Pocket’s glare intensifies, as Digger shrinks back. “That’s stupid.” They exclaim. “Why would they think I’m-” “And smart too!” You shout. “Every time you talk, it makes me feel so dumb! I can barely understand you! How can someone be so brilliant?!” Medicine Pocket giggles at that. “Well, you’re right. I am very smart.” “And so skilled in battle!” You continue. “True!” They smile. “And so damn easy to fall in love with!” “That’s- Ah?!” Medicine Pocket’s face goes red, their expression paused in shock. “Is this a confession?” They ask, unsure how to react. “Every night I’m awake, thinking about how much I love you! Every time you look at me, I feel like someone’s setting me on fire! I want you more than anything! It’s so stupid! Why do you have to be so damn lovable?! You’re driving me insane, Pocket!” “How is that my fault, dumbass?!” Medicine Pocket asks, hiding their face behind their hand. “H-Hey!” Digger began, walking in between the two of you. “Let’s all take a deep breath! I think the most important thing is getting our friend here home safe. Look, Medicine Pocket, if you don’t want to deal with this right now, I’ll take them back to the suitcase…” “And have a asshole like you fuck this up even more?!” Medicine Pocket snaps. “No way! I’m taking them to the suitcase. I’m not letting you ruin anything else.” Grabbing your hand, Medicine Pocket begins to pull you away. “We’re going, asshole. Come on, dumbass.” They hiss, beginning to walk. Your face burns at the touch, even if it’s through cloth. Once you’re far enough away from Digger, Medicine Pocket begins to speak again.

“I guess… Your stupid face is pretty cute too.” They mutter.

...Are Drunk Words

Dikke wasn’t used to these types of teams. When you were put on board, she was fairly okay with it. Sure, you were a bit shy and soft spoken, but you at least knew how to fight. However, when Digger was placed alongside her… She had a few complaints for the Timekeeper. Complaints that she’d never hear, as knights aren’t supposed to complain, but she was annoyed all the same. At least she could take the front of the battle, and not have to worry about the two of you getting into trouble. She could block the attacks coming your way, and keep an eye on the enemy while Digger made his sorry attempt at an attack spell.

She was confident that the battle had just been won when… “Oh crap! Sorry!” Digger exclaimed. Dikke turned her head to see what the fool had done now, when her eyes fell upon you, swaying in place. Instantly anger filled her chest, as she shot daggers at Digger, who was already trying to shy away. “What did you do.” She demanded, spitting straight venom at the man. “I didn’t mean to, I swear! I was just blowin’ a bubble, when they came out in front of me! Honest!” Digger explained, waving his hands wildly. “Enough.” Dikke growled. “Speak, you.” She shot a look at you, concern beginning to form on her face. “Ough, always so commanding…” You shot back, holding up a finger to point at her. “Youu… You gotta take a load off!” You told her, offering a smile. “Relax every once in a while, it won’t kill you!” “A knight does not relax.” Dikke argued, pulling a face. She’d seen this type of behavior before. From knights and peasants at rowdy pubs. She’d always hated those scenes, too loud and too dangerous. To see you wearing their behavior was uncomfortable. “Waaahhh… Dikke! If you frown like that, your pretty face is going to get wrinkles!” You blurt, crossing your arms. “It’s not good for your skin to look all mad like that!” Dikke’s face went red, her eyes looking anywhere but at you. “We… We have to fight. We can’t sit here and discuss aging.” “Fight, fight, fight, that’s all you wanna do!” You whine. “Can’t we just have fun? Just the two of us?” You ask, batting your eyelashes at the worried Dikke. “What are you talking about?” Dikke asked, glancing from the enemy to you. There was so much going on at the moment, she didn’t know who to focus on. As much as she wanted to comfort you, there was still a fight going on. “We’ll talk about this later.” She decides, brandishing her sword and turning to attack. “Noooo!” You cry. “Don’t leave me!” You stomp your feet like a toddler, feelings bubbling up inside you. 

Dikke almost pulls back, when the creature slashes at her. Without thinking, she strikes back, pulling her sword through the critter. Black ooze gushes out of it, as it’s body falls into two perfectly halved pieces. “Woaaah!” You exclaim, clapping your hands. “Dikke, you’re so fierce! It’s amazing! You’re so beautiful when you fight!” What was going on?! You were just condemning her for fighting seconds ago, and now you were complimenting her fierceness?! Dikke’s heart rate was beginning to rise, her face heating with embarrassment. It felt strange to have a fan.

“H-Hey, [Name], chill out! I think you’re making Dikke angry…” Digger whispered into your ear. Nothing could be further from the truth, but the intense face Dikke was making was beginning to worry him. He didn’t want you to be caught in her crossfire. “Huh?!” You exclaimed. “I’m… making Dikke angry?!” Your eyes began to water, tears quickly falling down your face. “But, I only want to make her happy!” Digger took a step back, confused with the sudden shift in your behavior. Dikke’s eyes met him again and narrowed, making his heart leap to his throat. “[Name].” Dikke commanded, taking your cheek with an armored hand. “Cease your crying. You did not upset me.” You sniffle. “So, you liked that I called you beautiful?” Dikke jumps again, caught off guard by such a bold question. “I… I suppose it was… acceptable…” You jumped onto her, wrapping your hands around the knight and pulling her into a hug. “Yay! I’m so glad!” You cheered. “I love you, I love you!”

Dikke’s face made a deeper shade of red as she lifted you off your feet, holding you bridal style. “You cannot fight like this.” She decided, beginning to walk towards the direction of the suitcase. “I’’ll get you home safely.”

“Woah, woah, wait!” Digger shouted out behind her. “What am I supposed to do with the rest of these monsters?!”

“Fight them.” Dikke said with a sneer. “Or perish.”