Because I’m terrible and the plots won’t leave me alone, I’ve now got an idea based on this post about a demon who feasts on pain and suffering being a medical practitioner for the chronically and terminally ill and the patients fully loving it. And then my brain rot had to say “make it Steddie” because I’ve lost all control of my life.
—
cw: terminal illness, minor and major character death (with a happy ending tho)
But imagine it. Eddie is a demon, a low ranking one at that originally. He gets a job at a medical facility for the chronically/terminally ill. Over time at the happy and consensual feasting he really does become one of the strongest demons because he’s constantly fed to the brim and he even has human worshippers, not that they’re traditional worshippers.
No, his followers are little old senior citizens who slip him butterscotch candies and other sweets they’re not supposed to have, which technically count as offerings. They thank him for his work, because he does actually take care of their bodies as well and even listens to their life stories, which count as praise and worship. They love and are devoted to him and they bring in their friends and family who are suffering too and Eddie’s accidental cult grows.
One day, things change. A young man, an anomaly in his youth, is brought in by parents who no longer wish to be burdened by their disabled son. Steve just shrugs it off and moves in with a smile, seemingly fine with being abandoned by his parents because he dared to be anything other than perfectly healthy.
He puts around the facility in his terry cloth robe and slippers on some days, others he dresses up in polos and slacks or even jeans when he’s feeling more casual, and always with a smile on his face. He makes those around him smile and laugh too, and his cheeks get pinched and he’s slipped candies too and he listens to others’ stories and he seems happy and content.
But Eddie feeds on his pain and suffering all the same, knows that behind that smile is a young boy who was told he probably wouldn’t live to see 30, who listens to the older folks knowing he would never get to live a life like that. Eddie knows that sometimes Steve cries himself to sleep at night.
Over time, Eddie and Steve grow closer. Steve hadn’t believed that Eddie was a demon at first, had thought it all just a joke, until one night Mr. Wozniak was laying in his bed, and Steve hadn’t meant to overhear, but he was passing by and the door was cracked open.
“Will I go to Hell now?” Mr. Wozniak was asking, but he seems peaceful all the same, like the thought wasn’t the terrifying ordeal so many people thought it was.
“No, sweetheart,” Eddie was saying, but his voice sounds a little off, huskier, like…like brimstone sat in his throat. “I’ve never claimed your soul. It’s still your own. Go find Irena. She’s been waiting for you for too long.”
Irena, Steve knew from speaking with Mr. Wozniak, was his young wife who had died decades earlier.
“Will I get to see you again?”
Eddie’s long fingers reach out, his nails long and sharp, dark in a way that was not nail polish. He lightly and gently strokes the papery skin of Mr. Wozniak’s cheek. “You will be at peace. You will find the afterlife is so much more than this Good-vs-Evil rhetoric so popular in this plane of existence. Go in peace, my child, and should you wish it, perhaps one day we might meet again.”
Mr. Wozniak smiles at that, and he closes his eyes with a softly whispered, “Irena, I’m coming…”
A moment later, he was gone.
Steve watches as Eddie seems to grow smaller, appear more normal, and though he knows he should be terrified, he isn’t. Instead he continues on his way, letting the knowledge of more percolate in his brain, though by the next morning when news of Mr. Wozniak’s passing spreads and Eddie assures everyone that he passed away peacefully and in no pain, Steve knows Eddie speaks the truth and he realizes that nothing has changed. Eddie is still Eddie.
They continue to grow closer. He spends more time with Eddie, lets Eddie in fully on how much he hurts, and tells the demon that he wished things had been different and that they could have met under better circumstances.
Eddie tells him that he never enjoyed the taste of regret. It was far too bitter.
They fall in love, encouraged by their friends in the facility new and old, who don’t seem to care that he is a mortal with a short life expectancy and Eddie is an immortal demon lord. What is all that in the face of true love?
And then it happens, and Steve is the one lying in bed, knowing his time has come. He smiles up at Eddie and decides not to regret any of it, not wanting their final moments to be flavored with bitterness.
“Stevie,” Eddie whispers mournfully, and he’s beautiful. It’s not his full true form, but his eyes are a dark blood red, his teeth elongated into sharp fangs, and his pale skin veined with reds and blacks. Horns curl out from his curly hair.
“You said once that I get to be with my loved ones after this,” Steve says, still smiling, and he reaches up to cup Eddie’s jaw with a weakened hand. Eddie nods against him, and Steve wonders if all demons can cry, or if it’s just his. “Then take my soul, darling. It already belongs to you.”
Eddie flinches back, like Steve knew he would, because souls are not little things. Eddie had explained before, after everything, that he didn’t even actually deal in souls, that that wasn’t the sort of demon he was. Steve had asked if he could, on a technicality, and Eddie had paused because saying yes, any demon could, but souls were priceless. When you gave one up to a demon, you gave up everything. You would be theirs until the end of days. Eddie had said he wasn’t that sort of demon.
“Baby, no,” Eddie breathes now, shaking his head gently enough not to dislodge Steve’s hand. “You would be—”
“Yours,” Steve interrupts. “But I already am. You already own my heart. I now willingly give you my soul. All you have to do is accept it.”
And Eddie protests, at first, because Steve is giving him complete control over him for eternity. Steve gives it freely with open arms, and in the end, Eddie can do nothing but accept it. He tells Steve that he doesn’t know if demons have souls or not, but his belongs to Steve just as assuredly as his own heart does.
Steve’s final mortal breath is gifted into Eddie’s crimson mouth, full of peace and love and the understanding that this thing between them will always beat eternal.
It turns out that, whether it was still unknown if all demons had souls, Eddie was the sort that does.
And it also turns out that, when you’re gifted a demon lord’s soul, you become a demon too.
Eddie’s cult ends soon after, disbanded into non-existence. In its place, however, rises a new one that worships not just one demon caretaker, but two as Eddie is soon joined by another with floppy brown hair and sparkling brown eyes that for once smiles without hidden pain. They take care of their charges, gently coax them into eternal rest when it’s their time, and together prove that true love is forever.
579 notes
·
View notes
It's Tails first birthday with Sonic. Sonic estimates the kid is turning about 4, maybe 5 today. They're sitting at a little diner in some middle-of-nowhere town, partially because they don't have the funds for much more, but also because Tails only said he would like to go to a restaurant for his birthday.
It seemed like an odd choice for a kid, Sonic is pretty sure kids usually ask to go to things like amusement parks, or trampoline parks, or... Regular parks. He's not quite sure what kids like outside of parks, so maybe he's overthinking it.
Still, he asks Tails why he would want to go out to eat anyways. It seems like an odd choice for a rambunctious 4 (5?) year old.
"Oh." He mumbles, "Well I dunno what people do for birthdays, but one time I heard people back at the island talkin'bout going to dinner! I thought that's what people are s'posed to do, am I wrong?"
Sonic frowns for a moment, unsure of how to answer his question. It takes a little work to make the words he's looking for bubble up from his throat, still pretty unused to talking more than what's absolutely necessary.
"No, not really. You're-You are supposed to do what you want for your birthday. Whatever you want." Sonic's words drag in all the wrong places, and linger when he chokes on vowels. "Like, go to the park or.. something. Would you want to go to the park?"
Tails thinks for a moment and shakes his head.
"No, you don't play with me at the park, and I wanna spend my birthday with you, Sonic!"
Way to hit a hedgehog in his heart strings, huh? Normally when they're at a park there's other kids, so he lets them entertain themselves while he takes a nap on a nearby bench. He's not playing because he doesn't want to play, he's trying to encourage Tails to make friends. It seems, he may have screwed up somehow, not in any unfixable way though.
Sonic frowns, "If we go to the park I'm happy to play with you. Do you want to go?"
Tails shakes his head again, "I'm hungry."
Sonic laughs.
The diner staff are polite. They all have slow drawls that make it practically impossible for Sonic to actually listen to them, but by Gaia does he try. They just ask general questions; drinks, food, sauce, sides. Things like that. Sonic makes sure to mention Tails birthday as well, and the lady promises to come back with two free cupcakes.
The entire dinner flies by in no time at all. Tails does most of the talking, as usual, but Sonic tries harder to contribute to the conversations and ask engaging questions. Even when the fox starts going on and on about plane parts and upgrades that Sonic can't even begin to pronounce, let alone grasp what they do.
Soon enough, their dessert is out. Sonic has never been big on any types of sweets, so as soon as the happy birthday song the waiters sing is over he slides his cupcake to Tails side of the booth. It's more than worth it, even if he would've wanted the cupcake, because the kids eyes light up like Sonic has just handed him the stars.
"Are you gonna blow out your candle first?" Sonic chuckles, pointing at Tails own still sparking cupcake.
"Well duh!" He sasses, grinning.
"What're you gonna wish for?"
Again, Tails thinks, wrinkling his nose as if this is the most important question he's ever had to answer.
"It has t'be small." He says. "Just in case."
An eyebrow raise is shot Tails' way. "In case of what?"
"Well, the elders at the island always said wishin' comes at a price, that's why I was born with two tails y'see? So it can't be big, just in case, cuz I can't accidentally trade ya'up! You're more important to me than any wish ever!"
Before Sonic can respond, Tails has blown out his candle. The hedgehog's eyes are a little misty, and his nose is a little runny, unbeknownst to the little fox across from him. Never in Sonic's life has he had anyone be so.. so genuine to him. He's so beside himself with fondness he isn't quite sure what to do with it all, he feels so swollen with love he might explode.
Quietly, Sonic asks him what he wished for.
"Your long and pro-prosperous health! That means ya get to stay healthy for a long long time." Tails smiles but his face is deadly determined, as if he's truly trying to will his wish into existence by sheer force of will alone.
Sonic supposes he'll have to wish for the same thing on his birthday, just to make sure they're even.
Heyyyy y'all !! Should I probably wait until Tails actual birthday to post a birthday fic? Maybe. Do I care? Nope !! Come talk to me !! I don't bite I swear !!!
Sonic, in this fic for some reason: do you want to go to the park?
Tails: no I do not
Sonic: Have you ever gone to the park?
Tails: no I have not
Sonic: will you go to the park?
Tails: maybe...
Sonic: when will you go to the park?
Tails:
306 notes
·
View notes
The Touch of the Velvet Hand [Platonic Yandere L x Sibling Reader]
Title: The Touch of the Velvet Hand [Platonic Yandere L x Sibling Reader]
Synopsis: You sneak out at night with Matt. How long can that last, really?
Word count: 2700ish
notes: yandere, platonic yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, reader is L's younger adult sibling, brief tickling, captivity (reader can't leave Whammy's)
Happiness is a fragile thing. It can slip through your fingers if you aren’t careful. Or it can be wrenched away violently by someone else out of pettiness or jealousy or sheer resentment. Or it might just crumble on its own, incapable of bearing the load you put upon it.
The point being--happiness just doesn’t last.
You know this for a fact, and you’ve known it since you can remember. Since you and your brother L would spend nights in makeshift shelters, huddled together for warmth, sharing what scraps of food you were able to find.
Since you were whisked into the world of Whammy’s, where you’re still stuck, even as an adult, kept safe and very, very fucking bored behind its walls.
So yes, happiness, fleeting thing, had to be carved out wherever you could get it.
You’re not sure what will take away your current bout of happiness. You’re only sure that it’s temporary, which is why you’re indulging in it full-throttle, not holding back for a moment, because God only knows when you might feel like this again.
The first night that Matt showed up in your doorway, you eyed him warily.
It was not the first time that one of your brother’s would-be successors came knocking at your door.
Although that was only a figure of speech, as it was more common to find them snooping or spying or for one of them to simply waltz into your bedroom like you weren’t your own person at all. That type of presumption was fine for your real brother, but for the rest? It made you curl up your lip and ignore them.
Matt is (maybe) different. Matt has never (that you’ve seen, at least) taken notes on you. He’s never leaned snarkily against your door frame and asked you questions punctuated by pops of bubblegum or left a doll that vaguely resembles you in your doorway as either a threat or an offering and you’re not sure which would be creepier.
And so, when he showed up in your doorway, you were wary, sure. But not ready to shut him out entirely. Unless he started prying into your life or revealed some sort of ulterior motive or asked you about (God forbid) your brother.
But all he did was gruffly say, “Heads up!” before tossing something at you. You caught it, barely, hands stinging from the slap of it.
It was a helmet.
“Huh?” You had asked, immediately feeling stupid, not for the first time within the confines of Whammy’s.
Matt had just smiled and shrugged.
“Got a new ride. You want to check it out with me?”
Maybe it was foolish to accept. Maybe he was trying to butter you up and find out some of L’s secrets. Maybe he was just bored and you were the perfect solution.
But you said yes, anyway, because you were absolutely bored and this was entirely new. You let him grab your wrist and pull you through the hallways, let him sneak you out--suppressing breathy giggles, your heart-rate raising--and onto the street where he guided you onto the back of his motorcycle and told you to hold on as tight as you could.
You’d never gone so fast in your life. You’d never smiled so much in your life, either.
Could anyone blame you for saying yes without question when he showed up soon after, too? For primping a little before he arrived, for wearing an outfit you thought might look cool? For feeling your heart flutter when he gave you a quick little wink and said you looked nice?
No, they couldn’t. And if they did, well. Fuck them. They weren’t stuck at an orphanage for geniuses with an internationally renowned brother that was always busy, gone, or both.
But most people couldn’t blame you, you were sure. Most people had common sense.
They couldn’t blame you for the breathless way you fell against your bed when he returned you home each night, cheeks ruddy from the wind, grin plastered on your face, either. Or the way that you dreamt about the nights to come, wondering if rides in the darkness, blurry lights passing you by, might turn into something more.
He’s taking you out tonight, too. He said so.
And it’s going to be a turning point, you just know it. Last night, Matt mentioned something about a diner--imagine that, going into a diner--he liked, and would you like to try it? Maybe you tripped a little too quickly over your yes but that’s to be expected. You hardly talk to anyone but your brother and he’s barely around, so where does that leave poor little you and your social skills?
It doesn’t matter, because your thoughts have turned to tonight and the diner. Will it be a greasy spoon, the kind you’ve seen in movies? Will the floor be checkered and will there be milkshakes and fries and burgers dripping ketchup? If there’s a jukebox, will Matt have coins to plunk inside? Will he let you pick the music? Will you dance? Will he press himself against you, this time chest to chest instead of your chest pressed against his back, and will you lean in and kiss you? Will he be warm, will you be warmer, will things go from there?
There’s so much to consider, thoughts racing, mind connecting the potential pathways of tonight.
You think about them all morning, all afternoon, and into the evening. You think about them while you’re taking a shower, taking extra care to rub on a scented lotion that you’ve rarely used before.
The thoughts race even as you’re flipping through your closet to find something that doesn’t look like a pair of comfortable pajamas. You settle for some tighter jeans and a close-cut gray sweater. The effect is cool, casual--interested but not desperate. Or so you hope.
The sky gets dark and that’s when you force yourself into bed, grabbing a book that you open but don’t actually read. When Matt comes, you can set it down slowly; it’ll keep you from leaping out of bed as soon as he leans against your door frame. Your eyes dart back and forth on the page, not reading the words but letting them rush over your brain like a waterfall while you wait, and wait.
And ah, there’s the sound of someone’s knuckles gently knocking and pushing open your door--you don’t even look up, you just set the book down sweetly as you please and stand, smoothing out a wrinkle in your sweater before you look up and…
It’s not Matt in the doorway at all.
It’s L. Standing there, arms folded, resting against the door frame like his sudden appearance didn’t make your stomach drop through the floor.
“Oh.” The word forms slowly. It feels like there’s peanut butter in your mouth and the words don’t want to get out. “Um. Hey. Is… something wrong? I thought you were working on a case.”
L blinks.
“I am.” He looks you up and down; or rather, he looks at your distinct lack of pajamas and your carefully styled appearance. “Where were you going?”
You shift on your feet. The look that you were coolly proud of ten minutes ago suddenly feels like it’s a traitor.
“Just uh, you know. To bed.”
He smiles, and your nerves tingle.
“In boots?” Your toes flex inside your brown boots, carefully chosen to go with your jeans. L shuts your bedroom door behind him. “Who took you out?”
Your stomach squirms and you press your lips together. The silence is heavy and droning.
“I can check the cameras,” he says easily, “but I’d rather you just tell me.”
You’re a little kid again, caught stealing L’s notebooks and shoving them under your pillow so he had to pay attention to you. And even if he knew exactly where you stashed them, he’d rather make you tell him and admit your guilt than do it himself.
“Matt,” you whisper. The heat in your cheeks builds. “It’s not a big deal. We were just riding around.” But it is a big deal, you think. And you wanted more from it.
L hums. “What a strange thing to do, since you’re not allowed to leave at night. Especially if I don’t know about it.”
A scoff forces its way through your throat. “I’m not allowed to leave during the day, either.” Your lips quirk. “I’m not a child. You can’t keep me in here all the time.”
Your brother only stares at you and he doesn’t even need to say “Yes, I can” because you know he’s thinking it. And you know it’s true, too.
It’s not fair, the way he makes you feel like you’re having a tantrum when you’re simply asserting your right to some basic freedoms.
The injustice of it all slithers down your arms, building in your fists as you clench them tightly at your sides. “I’m sick of being here all the time. It’s like I’m in a fucking… ant farm! Or a doll house!”
Without an invitation, L pulls out your desk chair and takes a seat. He leans forward and you find yourself standing up straighter, refusing the implicit invitation to get on his level.
“So. What would you like to do?” He asks. The softness in his voice is a contrast against your own rising anger, the unbearable tightness of your throat.
“I don’t know,” you say, half-spitting. “Go outside.” Thoughts of a vague future rush through you like the wind past Matt’s motorcycle. “Get an apartment, live on my own.”
L nods. “How would you pay your rent?”
Your lip quirks. “I’d get a job.”
He nods again, and his eyes half-close, like he’s genuinely thinking about your responses.
“I see. What kind of job?”
You swallow, throat tight, and shift your legs. The boots aren’t terribly comfortable, are they? “I-I don’t know.” You cross your arms. “A waitress or something--something like that.”
L leans back and rests his elbow on your desk, watching you with his chin in his hand.
“You couldn’t afford rent on a waitress’s wages.” He glances down at your legs and feet, already tired from standing for a little while. “And you know that you can’t be on your feet all day.” Something in your chest stings and you back up, unwittingly resting your backside against the bed and sitting down.
“I’ll go to college and be something else, then,” you whisper. “I’ll get paid more money.”
L only looks at you and tilts his head a little. “You can get a college education here, if that’s what you want.”
“No!” Your fists clench against your blanket. “It’s not the same. You know it’s not. I’d be able to make friends. And meet new people and do things and not be stuck in the same place every fucking day.”
You’ve never made concrete plans for such a future, but the vague notions of it, the idea of meeting people in a coffee shop and having inside jokes and making plans to get drinks after work, all picked up from movies and books, have stuck like taffy in your head.
L waits a few moments before he speaks up. It makes you hate how sensible he seems. “You’re kept in the same place because it’s safer. It’s my job to take care of you, isn’t it?”
That’s when your voice cracks, and when the tears finally threaten to make an appearance. “But you’re not the one taking care of me, are you? You’re barely here.” Hot tears prick at your eyes and fall too easily, and you hate them and hate yourself for being so pent-up, so emotional. So weak.
And just like that, the stand-off, pitiful as it was, is finished and L is up and over, sitting down on your bed and pulling you close to him. Familiar scent, familiar softness. Familiar hands. How many years has he held you like this? When you had nightmares. When you wanted mom and dad and they were dead. When you were scared of being at Whammy’s, scared of the people there, scared of the fact that you were only there because of who your brother was. And everyone knew it, too.
“I take care of you even when I’m not here,” he says softly.
You scoff, tears choking your throat.
His grip on you tightens.
“I mean it. I can’t protect you if there are too many unknown factors at play. Staying here is the best way to reduce them. I can’t be with you as often as you like, but that can’t be helped.” He relents enough for you to pull away, to show him the tears on your face, that he dutifully wipes with his knuckles, even as he adds a bit of mirth to his voice. “You were stuck with a genius brother, I’m afraid.”
When your lips tremble, he sighs.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. And this is the safest option.”
It’s too hard to hate him and hate your life for too long. Resentment and bitterness aren’t fleeting, but they’re awful companions.
You smile, just a little, through your sniffles. “Oh, like you haven’t hurt me before, L.”
He pulls one of his arms from around your back just so he can flick you on the forehead. “Beating you at wrestling is vastly different than putting your life at risk.”
You wipe at your nose, brushing away a hint of snot and some of the heaviness in your chest. “You only beat me because I was little.” You sniff. “I could take you now.”
His eyebrows quirk up, and your chest flutters a little--this was a feeling you remembered from when you were younger, a feeling that became harder to come by as the years went on. Sibling silliness. Joking. Fun. “Could you?” He asks, tone rising in a way that eased the tightness in your throat.
You meet his raised eyebrows with a determined look. And there is that moment between you, a moment when you are anticipating each other’s moves. But before you can wrap your arms around his shoulder and attempt a tackle, he moves--much faster than most would give him credit for, given his general lackadaisical vibe--and there are two thumbs digging into your sides.
It’s a horribly ticklish sensation, just bordering on painful, as he digs his thumbs underneath your ribs.
“You’re a fucking--cheater!” You manage between short laughs as he begins to twist his thumbs. Thankfully, your arms are free, and you grab one of your pillows and whack him in the head until he stops and gets off your bed.
You’re catching your breath as he kneels down. You don’t know what he’s doing at first until he’s got your leg in his grip, and begins to slide off your boots. You bite the inside of your cheek, but stay limp as he pulls them off, one at a time, and sets them on the side of the bed.
You half-expect him to go into your dresser and pull out pajamas, but instead he eyes the pillow you set next to you and straightens up.
“Give up on your pillow assault so soon?” He asks, a smile on his lips. He raises his hands and moves his fingers. “Or should I keep going?”
You pout, and cling to one of your pillows. “Fine.” Your grip tightens and your feet feel lighter without your boots on. “I give up. Cheater.”
He snorts, and walks back to lean against the wall next to your door. There’s that heavy silence again, but now you know exactly how the rest of the night will go and it hurts more.
“You’re not going out with Matt again.” It’s not a question. Not a bargain. Just a simple fact.
Your chest hurts and hugging the pillow doesn’t help, but you do it anyway. You should have known this was coming--happiness never stays, and all that. Nothing you said or did was going to change L’s mind on this or make your nights with Matt last longer than they did.
“Will you tell him?” You sound like a mouse. You feel like one, too, under your brother’s stare, on this bed, in this room, in this house.
He smiles.
“Sure.”
It’s a small mercy. If L didn’t love you, you’re sure he wouldn’t give it.
485 notes
·
View notes