#what would the deadly six be like...?

[juiceyobsessionist]

My first contribution to this fandom is this six page essay i wrote on gloxinias morality for ethics class.

More under the cut

Gloxinia of Repose is a character from the Netflix show The Seven Deadly Sins, and ultimately one of the more interesting characters within the show. Gloxinia’s morality is a warped and twisted version of consequentialism. Gloxinia serves as a minor antagonist through the series, though in the end he ends up as something akin to a ‘hero’. However, due to the nicheness of the show itself, some background information is vital to understanding Gloxinia’s complexly twisted morality.

The setting of The Seven Deadly Sins is a vaguely medieval time period, with a fantasy genre. Gloxinia is part of a gang labeled The Ten Commandments whose goal is to take over the land of Britannia. Opposing The Ten Commandments is a group called The Seven Deadly Sins.

It’s a rather simple ‘good versus evil’ fight, with The Ten Commandments generally having some twisted morality and a dislike for most of the other races.

However, Gloxinia was something of an odd character. He was not outright bloodthirsty. He was sadistic and childishly cruel, yes. He seemed to prioritize fun over actually doing his job properly, and was willing to put on a big performance rather than fighting with all his might. Most notably, Gloxinia had a particularly pessimistic view of the world and seemed to have some sort of grudge against humans. He even went so far as to call them a “Vial repugnant race”. To add to this, he also was shown to be rather lazy and self centered. The only person he was actively nice to was his friend Drole. Every other person who allied with the humans, he attempted to kill in the most fun way possible and was shown to get rather annoyed when people strayed from his little ‘game’.

Then, he did a quick switch up. He stopped being awful after he helped to kill his ex friend, Meliodas. All through the fight scene with Meliodas, Gloxinia could be seen actively feeling bad. This scene is extremely important, because it proves that Gloxinia is not sociopathic. He does have some sort of twisted morality behind him.

Then, after that, he switches and decides to help out The Seven Deadly Sins, giving Harlequin and Diane a large portion of his own power to do so. He discovers his dead sister was still alive, and ends up sacrificing himself in order to let The Sins escape from the demon Chandler, and to attempt to make up for all of his wrong doings. He ends up dying rather quickly, but he seems content with his choices, as he did die with a smile on his face.

Through all of this, he also has his friend Drole right by his side. The two even end up dying together. Drole and his sister were his favorite people, and Gloxinia was not ever shy in showing that. He would heal Drole with a very limited healing ability, and the loss of his sister incited a 3,000 year long mental breakdown. This mental breakdown is where his crueler persona developed, and it’s what caused Gloxinia to join The Ten Commandments to begin with.

Yet, despite his clear adoration for his friends, he did not extend the same kindness to Meliodas. He actively helped kill Meliodas, and while Gloxinia clearly felt bad for Meliodas that did not stop his horrible actions. So the question is: Why? Why was Gloxinia willing to pick and choose which of his friends he killed off? Why was he willing to heal Drole, and go on a warpath for his sister Gerheade, yet he could not even find it in himself to spare his other friend? They all seemed just as close from the few interactions we saw. So what on Earth made Gloxinia willing to pick and choose between his friends? Well, the answer is simple. Gloxinia is a consequentialist, and he believed killing Meliodas was for the greater good.

According to Russ Shafer, author of The Fundamentals of Ethics, fifth edition, “If you have a choice between two options and the first is less good than the second, then the first can’t possibly be right.” This is a good way to sum up the entire thought process of consequentialism. The whole moral theory is based upon doing whatever good possible (Shafer-Landau). It is about minimizing damage and picking the best option from the wreckage, even in a bad situation (Shafer-Landau).

However, consequentialism is not without its issues. It is a rather easy morality to sway if you have the wrong ideals. As put by Alvin I. Goldman, author of RELIABILISM, VERITISM, AND EPISTEMIC CONSEQUENTIALISM, “Consider Judith Thomson's (1976) example of a transplant surgeon who encounters a patient during a routine check-up and decides to chop him up, take his organs, and transplant them in five other patients, each in need of one of those organs. From a teleological point of view, this action is good, perhaps even right. Greater overall happiness will be promoted by this action than by simply attending to the original patient and letting those in need of organ transplants die (Goldman).” As Goldman puts it in this quotation, prioritizing the needs of the many is not always necessarily ethical.

Now, this relates to Gloxinia and his moralities quite easily. He felt Meliodas was a threat. Meliodas had been branded a traitor to the demon race and The Ten Commandments were supposed to kill Meliodas and free the rest of the demon race from the seal.

Gloxinia had always been the type to weigh his options carefully. To try and choose the least harmful path, or the path that did the most good, as consequentialists tend to do. It is important to note that after being betrayed by a group of humans, Gloxinia saw humans as evil at this point. This is absolutely integral to his character, and the choices he makes. He chooses to try and kill Meliodas, one of his oldest and only friends, because Meliodas sided with the humans.

To Gloxinia, killing off all of the evil humans who tried to kill his sister was a good thing. Humans were a disgusting race which he despised. It only made sense for him to try for genocide. Meliodas was an obstacle to him at that point, and Gloxinia, in the truest consequentialist fashion, chose to help kill Meliodas. Gloxinia was clearly not happy about it, indicating that this decision was not one chosen lightly. This was something that made him consider his own moralities, and ultimately choose to attempt to do something that felt less wrong to him. Which is where helping Harlequin and Diane came into play.

He ended up helping them figure out how to be more powerful, while also informing them on the events that led the demon race to be sealed to begin with, as well as the events that led him to ultimately become a Commandment.

It would be a crime to speak on all of this, and leave out the most important event of Gloxinia’s life. An event that he based his entire morality off of, and the one that led Gloxinia to being a Commandment. His sister's death.

This whole event happened because he trusted a group of humans. The humans ended up betraying him and cutting off his sister's legs, her eye, and half of her wings. One human defected from the group and tried to save Gerheade, but Gloxinia spotted the human holding what he assumed was her mangled corpse and murdered the human. Then, Gloxinia went on to continue killing humans. As many as he could find. Zeldris found him and offered to let him join The Ten Commandments.

This was the greatest showing of his consequentialist nature showing through. To Gloxinia, killing off humans was for the greater good. The action may not have been fun, but it was something that had to be done. Or the humans may go around doing the same to others. While Gloxinia certainly did have fun with it, he still was doing it willingly.

What Gloxinia experiences when he changes sides and decides to kill humans is actually referred to as moral disengagement. Which, according to Helet Botha, author of Existentialist Perspectives on the Problem and Prevention of Moral Disengagement is “ Moral disengagement was originally conceived of as a psychological process—a set of cognitive mechanisms—whereby an individual becomes capable of dissociating with their internal moral standards and thus behaving unethically without feeling distress (see also Newman et al., 2020) (Botha).” This is how Gloxinia was able to do such a quick switch from liking humans to hating them.

Some people may attempt to argue that his morality could possibly be psychological egoism. A good way to sum it up is by Di Carlo Emiliano, author of Antecedents of Deviant Behavior: Psychological and Non-Psychological Factors and Ethical Justifications, “According to the homo economicus assumption, the human being is a self-serving individual only interested in maximizing its utility function (Jensen & Meckling, 1976) (Carlo Emiliano).” In other words, humans are selfish. They put themselves first, for better or worse. And considering how Gloxinia attempts to commit genocide against humans due to his own trauma, it may certainly see that way.

There’s no denying that everything Gloxinia did was tinged with a bit of selfishness. He killed, he separated families. Broke apart entire generations all because he decided he hated something. His sister turned out to be alive after all, and he apparently just left her there. He certainly thought she was dead, but that does not change the fact that it was selfish. Not only that, but a lot of Gloxinia’s dialogue would lead you to believe that he truely and genuinely believes that all humans are selfish. And he absolutely does. Which is why he goes out and kills the humans he’s killed.

“Is it appropriate to sacrifice one person to save many?” Is the question asked by Yoshiyuki Takimoto, author of Verification of the Japanese Version of Greene’s Moral Dilemma Task’s Validity and Reliability. This question is a great example of consequentialism, and Gloxinia’s overall mortality. He is willing to sacrifice one person to save many. And in the end, he sacrificed himself to try and slow down the demon Chandler. He lost and died. It was his way of bringing good out of all of the bad he had caused. The ultimate sacrifice.

So, with all of this being said, it’s quite clear that Gloxinia of Repose from the Netflix show The Seven Deadly Sins had a consequentialist morality. He constantly weighed the pros and cons of his own actions, was deliberate in the way he approached things, and consistently did his best to try and bring true goodness. Even though it was a very flawed and scary stance to take- genocide just really isn’t the correct answer for most problems. He still took this stance with the idea that what he was doing was absolutely and entirely good. And in the end, in an attempt to make things right, he sacrificed his own life. He died for his morality, his viewpoints, and to protect the very friends he tried to kill.

Bibliography

Shafer-Landau, R. (n.d.). The Fundamentals of Ethics (5th ed.). Oxford University Press.

Goldman, A. I. (2015). RELIABILISM, VERITISM, AND EPISTEMIC CONSEQUENTIALISM. Episteme,

.10th Anniversary of Episteme, 12(2), 131-143.

https://doi.org/10.1017/epi.2015.25

Di, C. E. (2022). Antecedents of Deviant Behavior: Psychological and Non-Psychological Factors and Ethical Justifications. Employee Responsibilities and Rights Journal, 34(2), 169-191. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10672-021-09387-x

Di, C. E. (2022). Antecedents of Deviant Behavior: Psychological and Non-Psychological Factors and Ethical Justifications. Employee Responsibilities and Rights Journal, 34(2), 169-191. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10672-021-09387-x

Takimoto, Y., & Yasumura, A. (2023). Verification of the Japanese Version of Greene’s Moral Dilemma Task’s Validity and Reliability. Psych, 5(1), 224. https://doi.org/10.3390/psych5010017

[blujayonthewing]

SUPREMELY frustrating that we found something actually really cool and intriguing and plot relevant in tonight's session but I'm still so constantly preoccupied with whether the DM is going to 100% kill us with sheer poor game design that I barely have enough brainspace left over to even enjoy it

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Me when I notice a spider normally: awww, hi cutie

Me when there’s MOVEMENT RIGHT BESIDE MY HEAD ON MY PILLOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT: AAH! Jesus FUCKING Christ. When did you get there and why my pillow? *catching breath* *I gently shake them onto the floor* *i then have to pick up my laptop from where it slid off of my startled ass*

[jovalencia]

not to be dramatic but I literally feel like I’m going insane lol

[hanasnx]

“ I WAS MADE FOR LOVIN’ YOU ” — logan howlett.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader ノ age gap ノ established relationship ノ size difference ノ suggestive content ノ sexual content: naughty daydreams about pussy eating, nipple play, and groping; masturbation; voyeurism.

“I’m gonna take care of you.” Those six words—six—have defined your relationship with your husband, LOGAN HOWLETT. There’s a great protector in him, this compulsion to mentor and house within him that stretches far beyond his own needs. You fall within that range, and as soon as you met him you latched onto him. It didn’t take long at all before your imprint was reciprocated. Now he thinks of you first in everything he does.

He may not always look it, but you’re a factor in all his decisions. Settling down, nabbing a good job—one that didn’t ask for his background—was all to put you up in a house in the mountains. Far away from civilization, an ivory tower made up of wood he cut himself, surrounded by acres of nature. He’s always thought of himself a hair on the wild side, somehow you tame that down. It’s good, he tells himself, you and him.

It’s a partnership, and all he wants out of you is your safety. He likes you where he can keep an eye on you, make sure you stay out of trouble, make sure you’re comfortable.

You wish you could explain just why he thinks he has to protect you, why he married you, why he pays all the bills and expects nothing in return. You wish you could explain just why this relationship comprises all facets of a real marriage except for intimacy.

Logan won’t touch you. You’ll eat off each other’s utensils, fall asleep on his chest on the couch watching a movie—hell, he’ll reluctantly incline in your direction with a roll of his eyes to let you peck his cheek good-bye when he leaves for work. Yet, he won’t even kiss you. Even before he married you, there wasn’t so much as a grope or a stray look.

There’s home in Logan. You live to please him. You’ll cook him whatever he wants, keep the house he built for you clean as a whistle, you’ll spend all your free time with him, grab him his nightly beer and light his cigar so he stays content—but you’ve never even seen him naked. You doubt you ever will. Regardless, you stay, you can’t imagine leaving this life, leaving him.

It’s defied your expectations the fairy-tales of your childhood gave you. Your knight in shining armor rescued you, yet refuses to plant even true love’s kiss. When you’d matured, you’d fantasized about an insatiable husband that found you so irresistible he couldn’t keep his hands off you. Logan’s never looked at you that way, even though he calls you his wife without hesitation, married you without a second thought.

“Is it because I’m younger than you? I’m only in my early twenties. That’s not a big deal!” you’ve reasoned with him, but he still treats you like you’re naive. He must want passion, you’re sure of that. Why else are you young and beautiful if not to take advantage of it while you still can? Just once you’d like to see him yearn for you, to show lack of restraint, to come home one day so hungry for you that you don’t make it out of the kitchen.

Those claws… those deadly metal claws… you wish he’d use them in fantastical and deviant ways. Just one would glide through your nighty like sheet paper, bareing you to your husband—a sight for him only. You lie awake next to him at night, envisioning raunchy dreams of him proudly boasting the size difference between you two, demonstrating his sheer raw strength by overpowering you and taking what he wants from you. You’ve run your fingers delicately over his lips and the rough pad of his shaved chin, but you can’t imagine just how good it’d feel against your tit, swirling his hot tongue around your perked nipple while his callused digits pinch the other. You can pretend his head is ducking between your thighs, the sensation of his soft hair tickling your skin and tangling in your fingers as his masculine jaw scratches the fragile tissue of your pussy. As starved as you are, even discomfort like that is enough to make you moan into your palm, only to check over your shoulder to make sure you still hear your husband’s snoring.

You steel yourself at the noise, the low rumbling of his sleep cautions you to stay quiet but to proceed nonetheless. Your hand creeps down your neck, your chest, your stomach… You really should leave the room, but you’d risk waking him up for real at the sound of the door. Instead, you fuck yourself yet again, the soft rocking of the mattress as you hump your own hand filling the ears of your kindhearted husband—who’s been awake this whole time.

[artdcnaldson]

Been thinking about Patrick teaching Art how to masturbate

Patrick lowering himself down onto his stomach and between Art's legs on their pushed together beds, encouraging Art to continue despite his clear embarrassment.

Coaxing him into bringing his other hand down to his balls, only to end up doing it himself because the blonde's hands are shaking too much.

Once Art begins to get closer, so does Patrick. His hot breath fanning over Art's tip as he encourages him breathlessly.

Art shooting thick ropes of cum, half of which lands on his best friend's tongue, dribbling down his chin

And Art cums a lot and Patrick only wants to help. Sucking Art's tip into his warm mouth, licking his slit as he swallows him down

-🕊

I started shaking and vibrating reading this my god

Art jerking off as fast as he can the few random times Patrick leaves their hotel room while they’re at tournaments. He’s really, like, clinical with it— he just wants to cum as fast as possible. There’s no exploration, no teasing. He spits in his palm the same way Patrick showed him and fucks into his fist until he cums.

Patrick went out expecting a blowjob, and winds up getting stood up after the girl gets cold feet, so he trudges back to his room, already pent up and buzzing under his skin. It’s just his luck he walks into the room to see Art propped against the headboard of his bed, fist blurry from how fast it’s moving.

“Jesus Christ, dude, you’re gonna give yourself a friction burn.” Art yelps in surprise, throws a pillow over his lap to cover himself up, like the damage wasn’t already done ten times over. Patrick doesn’t give a shit. He relishes in making Art blush and squirm. He throws himself onto the bed, between Art’s thighs, and grins up at the blond. “You still jerk off the exact same way after six years?”

Art’s face wrinkles. “How else could I do it?”

So many ways. So, so many ways. But Patrick tries to be casual about it. “Dunno… you don’t touch anything else?” He tries not to act interested, like the answer won't plague his every waking moment the second it passes his lips.

"Dude, I don't finger myself. 'm not a girl," Art says, but the whiny affectation it comes out with doesn't help.

And fuck, that wasn't even what Patrick was thinking, but knowing that Art's mind went there... fuck, it does something to him. Patrick tries his best to push that thought deep, deep into the recesses of his mind and brings a smarmy little grin to his lips. It helps to hide his desperate interest.

"Yeah, but what about here-" he flicks Art's nipple and the blond squirms, which, incidentally, makes him buck up against the pillow. His cheeks burn hot and he tries and fails to make his glare look deadly.

"No." Art snaps. "I told you, I'm not a girl."

"I'm trying to help, you know. For old time's sake, you dickhead." He's trying to do more than just help. Patrick was the fucking king of hidden intentions. Of leading Art to do something for his own benefit. "It can feel better."

Art swallows, nose twitching slightly. It reminds Patrick of a bunny being led into a snare. He's not entrapping Art, of course. If Art just... told Patrick to fuck off, he'd go. Of course he would. He'd find some other hot tennis player to suck his dick.

"It can?" Art's pretty eyes are earnest, his pupils swallowing up all that pretty blue. Patrick smiles like the cat who got the cream and tugs the pillow away. When it lands at the headboard, he tries to ignore the large wet spot on the case. He's so hard in his shorts he thinks he'll pass out.

"Yeah," Patrick says. He grabs Art's wrist and moves his hand back between his thighs, past the twitching length of his dick. He moves his fingers over Art's and guides him to squeeze, so he's cupping his balls. The way precum dribbles from his tip isn't lost on Patrick. "Feels good."

Not a question, just... the first thing that he could think of. But Art nods regardless, his hand shaky as he gives a small squeeze. Patrick's eyes train on the expanse of his throat as Art's head falls back.

"God—" Art pants. "That's... yeah—"

Fuck yeah it is. Patrick swallows— all but licks his lips with big hearts in his eyes like a cartoon character. "Do it again. While you jerk off."

Art gulps and Patrick tracks the bob of his adam's apple. The blond exhales shakily and takes his cock into his trembling hand, his grip lax and hesitant. His other hand just barely teases over his sac, making his balls twitch and draw up. Fuck, Art’s so pretty— shaved smooth everywhere, flushed pink and needy, slick with pre.

Patrick wants Art’s cock stuffed down his throat so badly that he’s dizzy with it. “Let me, you’re not doin’ it right—“ Patrick says, and he replaces Art’s hand with his own. The blond whines and bucks up into his fist, legs kicking out.

“Patrick—“ He groans, but he doesn’t move Patrick’s hand, doesn’t squirm out of reach. “Fuck, Pat—“

Patrick swallows, moves closer. Art’s knuckles practically skim his jaw each time his hand reaches the head of his cock. His hips buck like he’s seeking the warmth of Patrick’s mouth. God, he wants that.

“See? Feels good, huh?” Patrick goads. He gives another firm squeeze and Art sobs pathetically, little ah, ah, ahs punched out from his lungs. Art nods, his curls plastered against his forehead. All of his words escape in breathy whines— yeah, feels good, so fucking good, Pat, god, please, please please please don’t stop, need it, do it again, fuck—

Patrick feels Art’s balls draw up, knows he’s going to come before Art even has a chance to warn him, not that he’s particularly verbose about it. All he manages is a mumbled, “Nnngghh— coming, coming—“ and he’s shooting warm, thick ropes of cum.

Art comes a lot. He’s always known the blond makes a mess, but Patrick never dreamed he’d be on the recieving end of a fucking facial from good Christian boy Art Donaldson himself. He feels Art’s cum paint his face, practically glazing him. It drips into his open mouth and he moans without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut as art comes and comes and comes.

When he’s finally spent, Art sobs weakly, collapsing back against the pillows. Patrick opens his eyes, licks the taste of Art’s spend from his lips, and looks at how fucking messy his cock is, dripping with pearly white. Patrick leans forward and licks, the same way he’s teasingly licked Art’s face, or his hand when they’re messing around. A long, messy lave of his tongue that makes Art’s toes curl into the duvet, muscles twitching until Patrick finally relents.

“Fuck,” Art says, breathless, exhausted, satisfied. “That’s… that was… I’m not gay.”

Right. He runs his hand through the cooling cum on his chin and smears it across Art’s face until his whines in protest and kicks Patrick off. “It’s not gay,” Patrick assures him, wiping his face with that same fucking pillow from earlier. One of them would have to sleep on it, but they could use the flip side. “I was just teaching you again. Don’t worry about it.”

Art nods, trying to convince himself through sheer delusion. That it wasn’t gay, that he didn’t like it, that he doesn’t have feelings for Patrick that can’t be explained away as being best friends.

Patrick taught him again, the way he did before. Only this time, he taught Art that when he wants to come hard, all he has to do is think about dark curls and blue eyes and a smarmy fucking grin.

[natalievoncatte]

Kara had a guilty pleasure, one she didn’t share with anyone. It would have been awkward, and besides, everyone- friends, family, Lena; they all would have mocked her, relentlessly. It was the first of September and Kara was bracing herself for six months of the most exquisite torture.

She wasn’t expecting it on Lena’s desk.

When she walked into the office, the scent hit her. It tickled something in her brain and set her nerves alight, cascading shivers of excitement running down her limbs.

Kryptonians, you see, are not human. They are aliens, and react to things, to stimuli, in ways humans do not. The most obvious implication of this is Kryptonite, or rather the Kryptonite radiation it emits, which is unique to Kara’s lost homeworld and is deadly poisonous to her while being essentially harmless to humans without both significant and prolonged exposure.

There were, however, other things that Kara responded to differently. Certain flavors were too intense; some things her peers found pleasant were overwhelming or inexplicably bitter or otherwise unpalatable. Her enhanced hearing, even without her powers active, made her sensitive to noises that a human wouldn’t even notice. The list went on and on.

One thing in particular, though, was especially… stimulating to her. It got her motor going, as it were. Not like that, of course. Ironically it had the same effect on her that caffeine had on humans, even in small quantities.

There was something in pumpkin spice that excited Kara. Just not like that.

Okay, maybe a little like that. Even the scent of it made her feel things, and there was a steaming hot cup of it on Lena Luthor’s desk.

Kara had been summoned over some editorial matter of little consequence, probably an excuse to chat. When she stepped into her office, Kara stopped dead because Lena reached across her desk and picked up that cup and Kara was already having trouble.

Lena was… Lena. She was dressed in thigh high boots and black jeans and a tight, low cut green sweater that revealed a generous swell of cleavage that immediately drew Kara’s brazen eye. She caught herself looking and quickly put a stop to it, but Lena was looking right at her, smoldering green eyes peering at her over the rim of that damned coffee cup.

Great Rao, Lena was beautiful. Her hair was swept over one shoulder, baring the elegant column of her neck and her sharp jawline. Her visible ear carried multiple piercings dripping with diamonds and there was a faint pink tinge to her pale cheek. The red of her lipstick was almost violent and she positively smoldered. One might have thought she was dolled up for a photo shoot.

Kara was staring at those lips as she took a sip of coffee, leaving a faint white stain on the white cup.

Such a visual feast with the mere scent of the spices in her coffee was enough to weaken Kara’s knees and make her secretly fidget her toes inside her shoes. It was only a quick chat, a five minute conversation, but it was excruciating trying to get through it like this.

“Earth to Kara,” Lena sighed.

Kara blinked. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll go?”

“Where am I going?”

Lena rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Kara, you’re benched.”

“Wait, what?”

Lena huffed. “Look, it’s noble, going days without sleep while you live your double life, and we did agree that Supergirl duties will take precedence over your work here… but I can see you’re exhausted. I can’t order you to stop rescuing cats from trees and helping old ladies with their taxes, but I can order you to take the rest of the week off from working here. Which you are. Starting now.”

Actually, Lena probably could order her to stop doing things. Lena could probably order to do anything with the spicy tang in her nostrils and the quivering weakness in her limbs as heat gathered low in her belly. Kara was glad that she had just been ordered out.

“Oh,” Lena said, “and stop at Noonan’s on your way out. I hear the pumpkin spice lattes are your favorite and well,” she gave her cup a little shake.

Kara decided she would not stop at Noonan’s.

She stopped at Noonan’s. She got a PSL and a pumpkin spice bear claw and a dozen pumpkin spice donuts and consumed them all in the span of five minutes once she set foot inside her loft, after which she spent the next thirty in the shower thinking about Lena’s pillowy red lips and how kissable they were and her pale skin and how badly she wanted to mark it as hers and she sort of spent an hour in a pumpkin spice fueled fugue, and then passed out on her bed buck-ass naked.

Which was where she still was when the knock came at the door.

Her head shot up from the bed and she realized that it was movie night and she was hosting. She had no movies picked out, no snacks, and no clothes.

What she did have was super-speed, and this had a spread of frozen snacks ready to go in the oven, and a stack of blu-rays to be voted on, and pants. She needed pants and probably a bra and definitely a shirt. Humans were weird about their torsos. Fortunately Kryptonians were, too. Kara was rather lucky that she hadn’t landed on a planet that considered shirts obscene.

There were at least two like that, which isn’t a lot, but it was more than you’d think.

Kara opened the door and greeted Alex and Kelly, ushering them in. Brainy and Nia were next.

Lena showed up last, dressed in one of her peculiar movie night fits- a stylish leather jacket over honest to god fluffy pajamas, like a fashion plate going to a slumber party. Her hair was down and wavy and she looked soft and inviting and Kara wanted to snuggle her relentlessly and was very glad that the pumpkin spice was largely out of her system.

Largely.

Oh.

Lena lifted the two six packs she was carrying, giving Kara a suggestive arch of her eyebrow. Lena liked to bring gifts when Kara hosted, usually wine. Tonight she had twelve chilled bottles of… pumpkin spice beer.

Kara wanted to scream. Or possibly moan. Or possibly make Lena moan and maybe spank her a little.

Fuck!

“Hi-hi,” said Kara.

“Hi yourself,” said Lena. “Mind if I come in, or do you want to drink these right here?”

“C-come in,” said Kara.

“Eyyyyyy,” said Alex, as she saw the six packs. “The spice must flow!”

“The spice must flow,” Kelly repeated.

“Chai Hulud,” Nia said, in a faux-deep voice.

“I believe it is “Shai Hulud,” said Brainy.

“Sure, honey,” said Nia, patting his knee.

“You gonna hand those out?” said Alex.

“These are for our host,” said Lena. “Kara has plenty of spirits in her fridge.”

Alex busted out laughing, confusing the others.

Kara remained stone-faced.

Movie night then went on as normal. Everyone took seats, the first movie was voted on, snacks were enjoyed and beers were had. The pumpkin bottles sat in their cardboard holders in the fridge, untouched.

Until they got into the second movie, and Lena sauntered over from the kitchen carrying two bottles, and thrust one into Kara’s hands as she wedged herself in between Kara and Nia, casually tossing her legs over Kara’s lap.

Kara steadfastly did not look. She would not look. She would not look. Surely Lena was just making herself comfortable and private hadn’t noticed that the top couple of buttons on her pajama top had popped themselves and she was showing quite a generous amount of…

Kara looked away sharply. She had looked.

“Do the thing, darling,” said Lena.

“Do the thing! Do the thing! Do they thing!” Nia began to chant.

Sighing, Kara took her bottle and Lena’s, and popped the caps loose with a flock of her thumbs. Lena squealed in delight and Kara realized that actually drinking this concoction was an amazingly terrible idea.

Especially since Lena was basically in her lap now.

Kara tried not to drink, but the hint of that spicy scent from the beer was enough to make every nerve ending tingle and start a fire in her belly. She took a long pull on it and quickly realized she’d drained the bottle in one go.

Lena, grinning, stood up. Kara watched every sway of her hips as she marched to the kitchen, bent to grab another bottle from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and sashayed back to shamelessly plop right in Kara’s lap and offer her the new bottle.

The little display has gotten at least Alex’s attention, and she looked somehow at once horrified and amused and whispered to Kelly, who snorted.

Nia picked up on it next, after Kara had downed her fourth one of the cured pumpkin brews and her brain was sloshing around in sweet cinnamony goodness.

She was running into a considerable problem. Lena was curled up in her lap, draped across her in fact, a soft weight that was driving her absolute insane even as the scent of Lena’s… of Lena mingled with the spices singing in her veins. She forgot the movie. She forgot the existence of everything but Lena, and barely noticed when Alex announced,

“Guys, it’s late. I think we better head out so that Kara and Lena can clean up.”

“Perhaps we should help,” Brainy suggested.

“Nah, let’s go,” said Nia, who then muttered, “seriously Querl we need to go.”

Kara blinked and watched them all pile out, Alex shooting Lena a knowing look before rolling her eyes and closing the door.

Two seconds after the door closed, Lena twisted languidly in Kara’s lap, and was now no longer sitting in her lap but straddling her.

Kryptonians, you see, are not human. They are aliens, and react to things, to stimuli, in ways humans do not. They also have anatomical structures that humans do not, something that was was currently causing Kara to blush furiously, because Lena was well… sitting on it.

“I can explain,” Kara squeaked.

The look Lena gave her would have been devastating, pumpkin spice or no pumpkin spice. Lena’s face filled her vision as Lena placed her hands on Kara’s sides and rolled her hips, dragging a groan out of her.

“Is that explanation going to include a hands on demonstration?” said Lena. “I may need a few rounds before I fully understand.”

Kara swallowed hard. “You mean… you w-want to…”

“Kara,” Lena sighed. “How is someone who’s been flirting with me for five years so bad at flirting?”

Kara stared at her.

“Just, um, to clarify, you’re flirting with me, right?”

“I’m sitting in your lap unbuttoning my top, darling. I believe that qualifies.”

“You’re what?”

Lena grinned and swept her fingers down her chest, popping the rest of the buttons in sequence. The pajama top suddenly hung lose, baring the lush inner curves of her breasts while obscuring the rest of her in an agonizing promise.

Kara, finally, after years of this, took the hint and had Lena relieved of her fuzzy pajamas by the time they hit the bed.

The next morning, or rather next afternoon when Lena woke up, Kara looked over at her. Her eyes had just opened and she was grinning ear to ear.

“Lena?” said Kara.

“Yes? Before we go again I’m going to need a protein shake and some supplements.”

Kara felt her ears burning as her cheeks heated.

“Did you know about the pumpkin spice thing?”

“Pumpkin spice thing?” said Lena.

“Alex told you, right?”

Lena pursed her lips.

“Nope.”

“Cat Grant?”

“No, although I did ask her and she said you, and I quote, ‘creamed your khakis’ in front of her one time.”

“Then who?”

Lena grinned.

“I went to Clark to ask him the right way to go about seeking your attentions. Lois overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently you two share the same weaknesses.”

“My only weakness is you, baby.”

“Oh, it’s baby now, is it?”

“Yup,” said Kara.

[onlymexsarah]

Burning Flames II || Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!reader Summary: Since you became High Fae there were only two things that scared you: your deadly power and your attraction toward the male you should hate most after Tamlin, Eris Vanserra. Warnings: mention of war, death and my english A/n: I'm so happy that your are liking this story! There will be more chapters, but I still have to decide how many. If you want to keep up with the story and want to get added to the taglist just ask! Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

The war was a mess. The smell of blood and death was making Eris sick. He was fighting with both his sword and his power, determined to end every Hybern's soldier that ended in front of him.

His brothers were fighting as well around him, his father too, thank the cauldron. Eris ddn't know what he would have done if his father refused to fight for Prythian. Probably his plan to become the new High Lord of the Autumn Court would have seen light sooner than expected.

It was foolish to hope that maybe his father would find his end here in battle, but still it was one more motivation to stay alive and fight until the end.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, something inside his chest stirred. He wondered for a moment if a soldier had managed to slice him in the ribs, but when he looked down he saw that no blade had come close to his chest.

It felt like a string was attached to his ribs, and it urged him to run toward the forest at his right. Eris grunted as he started to make his way throught the battlefield, following the invisible string that was now yelling at him to move faster.

A sense of terror fell over him as he crept closer, as he started to be afraid to know what, or who, laid at the end of that string.

He knew it before he heard you.

"Elain, run!" your voice pierced throught the forest like a fallen star in a clouded sky. He had dreamed of that voice longer than he liked to admit.

His quick eyes scanned around him, searching for any trace of you. Suddenly the smell of burned flesh hit his nose and his legs moved on their own. He had never run this faster in his life. He knew where you were, and he knew you were fighting. Alone.

As soon as he arrived he saw burning flames blinding his eyes for a moment. Then, among them, he saw you, without any armor and with what he recognized as an Illyrian blade at your side, untouched. Around you there were six Hybern's soldiers, sneering at you.

"The King want her alive!" one of them said as you tried to aim at them with your fire. "knock her off!"

It had happened so fast that Eris was still running before he could stop it. A soldier run around you and sliced your leg with his blade. Your yell of pain cracked something inside Eris as he saw your flames going out all at once while you fell on the ground.

Faebane.

Eris saw red. Two soldiers had their hands on your arms, twisting them behind your back. As soon as he was close enough his fire errupted all around him, burning completely the four Hybern's soldiers that circled you while he took his blade in his hand and looked at the two who were still holding you.

"I suggest you to leave her." Eris' voice was as cold as death. He barely register that your head snapped up and watched him surprised.

One of the soldiers snickered and held your arm thighter behind you, making you hiss in pain. "Your father should have bowed to our king when he had the chance."

"Your king should have never came here." was Eris' response before he launched himself at them. Two soldiers were no match for someone with his battles experience. He could have ended them quickly, but he inteded to make them suffer for what they were trying to do.

He took away their swords with little effort, then he gripped their neck with both his hands and watched as they screamed while his fire burned them from the inside out.

When the burned bodies of the soldiers fell down lifeless he took a moment to enjoy what he had done, and then a grunt behind him made him turn on his heels. There you were, trying to use your sword to stand up on your good leg while the other fell useless at your side.

"Let me help." Eris said towering you and offering you his hand. He saw how your eyes stared at his hand for a moment, as if deciding if spit on it or take it. "Don't worry, I won't bite you while there is still a war I need to win out there."

His ironic voice made your eyes snap in his and...cauldron boils him. As you finally decided to take his hand and let him help you to stand up Eris felt like someone punched him in the gut. He was short of breath, his sight darkened all around him until the only thing he could see was you, and only the Mother knew how beautiful you were.

Your hair had been tied in a long braid behind your head, leaving your face in full display for him to admire. Your flushed cheeks, your brown, warm eyes behind which he knew hid a deadly, beautiful power.

Mate.

You were his mate, and he was yours.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

Every inch of his body yelled at him those words. He could feel his soul twisting and jumping, finally relieved to have found their other one.

Eris hadn't realized how long he had stared at you because at some point you took your hand away from his abruptly, the same hand you had seemed to lingered in his for a bit too long, and scoffed. "Don't you have a war to win?"

His brain needed a second to function normally again. You were watching him cautiously, and he realized that the bond hadn't snapped for you. No, it had snapped for him because you were in danger, but the bond had no reason to snap for you.

A feel of protectiveness grew inside him as he watched your bloody leg while you ripped a piece of your cloak and wrapped it around your injury.

"Unfortunately, I can't let a lady in distress walk alone in the middle of a battlefield." he said taking back control of himself and using his casual, mocking voice.

You looked at him with the same defiancing eyes that had him almost kneel when you had watched his father like that during the High Lords meeting.

"I'm not a lad-" your voice stopped abrutply as your eyes widened, looking around you.

"What's wrong?" he murmure quietly, a hand ready on his sword trying to sense any threat.

You just slowly looked around one more time, one of your hand closed thightly over your chest, holding your cloak close as if you were suddenly cold. "The cauldron is here." you said slowly as Eris watched you carefully. "He is watching. He is..." your eyes widened again, snapping toward a direction deeper in the forest. "Nesta!"

And then you run.

***

You ran like your life depended on it. Your eyes were completely watered, you weren't sure if it was from the pain in the leg or the dreadly sensation that the Cauldron made you feel for your sister. You barely saw what was in fron of you, some branches hit your face, some roots made you almost fall.

When you reached your sister your blood froze. The King of Hybern was standing in front of Nesta, Cassian was laying behind her with his wings broken and legs shuttered. They were fighting, but you saw that Nesta was only buying time.

You would not stand there and watch her die. You took a step toward them, ready to yell at the King and bring his attention on you, but suddenly a big hand covered you mouth, pushing you back against someone's chest.

You tried to break free from his grip but he was stronger and pushed you to the ground until you were both kneeling behind a bush.

"It's me, calm down." as the male whispered in your ear you recognized Eris' voice. His other arm was firmly around your waist, keeping you against his chest as he was kneeling right behind you.

For a moment you were confused. Why had Eris followed you? The King of Hybern was right in front of you, the smartest choice would have been to run and go back to the battlefiel with his soldier, so why was he there?

You tried to break free again from his hand on your mouth, but he only pressed it tighter. "What do you think you are doing?" He whispered almost angryly. "You are without power. You can't defeat him."

You brought both your hands on his and pulled it away from your mouth to be able to speak. "He is going to kill my sister." you whispered firmly, turning your head slightly toward him. You had to rose your eyes to met his, and he was already looking at you with an intensity you had never seen. "Let. Me. Go."

"No." Eris sneered almost angrier that you had suggested it. "I won't let you get yourself killed."

"Why do you care?" You almost said out loud, angry at him and looking back at your sister. "My sister needs-"

The words died in your throat as your eyes had shifted on Nesta again and lying few feet behind the King you saw a body. A human, male body. Dead. Lifeless.

Your father.

A pained cry escaped your mouth as Eris quickly blocked it with his hand again. Your hands grabbed his wrist, but not to take away his hand, but to hold it tighter.

Your father's neck was angled at an unnatural angle; his glassy eyes open, staring in front of him. Your father was dead.

Eris hold you tighter against his body as you realized you were shivering with sobs. Had he recognized the body? Had he made the connection? You didn't care, because he held you nevertless.

As you gribbed his wrist as your life depened on it you started to feel something grow inside you. Rage. Anger. Hatred. All of them directed to the King of Hybern who was now standing in front of Nesta and Cassian, both on the ground holding to each other, ready to die.

And you couldn't accept that.

You bite Eris' hand. His surprised and distraction enough for you to stand up and running away from him, toward the king. You were ready with your sword in your hand to kill him, but someone appeared from the shadows behind the King and stabbed a black blade in his throat.

Elain.

"Don't you touch my sister." Elain hissed in the King's ear as he fell on his knees.

You met Nesta's eyes, and with a silent nod you both put your hands on the hilt of the blade and twisted it in the King's neck.

When you turned around to search for Eris, he was already gone.

***

Feyre called the meeting in your old house, and you had prepared everything in just two days. The chairs, the benches, the pillows and everything else that could allow people to sit or stand comfortably through a meeting that surely would last many hours.

To your surprise Beron was the first to arrive. He didn't acknowledge you or Feyre, but he came; that was the important thing. And with him he brought Eris.

You had not seen him since the battle, and somehow you had felt a little disappointed. You had expected...what? That he would seek you out after the battle? He surely had more important things to do, and the farest away you stayed from him the better.

He had saved your life, sure, but it didn't change the type of person he was. The type of person that had made the Night Court hate him for five centuries.

As soon as he entered you had tried to keep your breathing normal. Eris had a brutal slice down his cheek and neck, full of bruises all over his face that made you understand he had went back fighting when he had disappeared.

Worry run through your blood as you saw in what state he was, but you told yourself you were tired, that your father death had brought you to worry for everyone else. You had tired yourself until blankness those days to help the injured, to keep your mind busy, because everytime you stopped doing something the tears came back.

And now, seeing Eris like that made you wondered why he hadn't gone to see a healer. The slice looked back, and a primal sensation grew inside you, needing to help him to heal.

As Nesta showed them where they would sit you tried to push away all those thoughts, telling yourself that you were just confused by the war. But as father and son sat down on their chairs, Eris looked briefly toward you, as he had alwayd known where you were standing, and something flickered in his eyes, Something you couldn't decifer.

You found yourself lost for a moment in those deep green eyes, but as Mor's figure entered your peripheral view you adverted your eyes, focusing on the next people that enetered the house, giving them a warm smile and gesturing them to their seats.

When the meeting started you stood at Feyra's right, while Nesta stood at her left. Elain had decided to stay away from unwanted attention, but as the only humans who had ever been Made, the three of you stood at the center, rappresenting the perfect middle between High Fae and humans.

People shared their stories, humand and Fae alike. They shared their lives, Feyre told hers, and you had to close your eyes to not cry in front of everyone for what she had been throught. Your little sister, alone in the Fae world had died, and you had risked to lose her forever had it not been for Rhysand and the other High Lords.

You clenched your hands tight in front of you. You would not tell your story. Not yet. Not to everyone. Every choice had been taken away from you since a long time, and even if it sounded extremely selfish, your first choice would be to keep your story for yourself.

The stories you heard were all about the same. Loss and deaths. Loss and deaths in all form and ways. All of the stories might start differently, but they all ended the same. With this war. With someone dead.

And for a moment your eyes fell on Eris again, who was listening carefully every story. You could have easily been part of that stories of death. Your sister might have had to tell the story of how you had died if it hadn't been for him. He had chosen to not let it happen. You couldn't understand why, but he still had. And even if he was a horrible person, you owed him.

His eyes never met yours during the entire night, and something inside you told you he was doing it on purpose. He was avoiding your gaze.

As the meeting come to an end you felt the physical need to talk to him, and it terrified you. You had met him just twice, and talked to him once. It didn't make sense that you wanted to talk to him, but you told yourself it was because he had saved your life. Yes, that was it.

As soon as the people left the house you put the hood of your cloak on your head and followed silently, never loosing sight of the redhead few rows in front of you. You needed to find him away from his father and his brothers, or it would have been extremely awkward.

But one you were alone with him what would you do? Thank him? Ask him why he saved you? Telling him you were extremely confused because the Inner Circle always pictured him as an arrogant, selfish asshole while he had no esitated to save you and stop you from getting killed from the King of Hybern?

Fuck it, you had lost him. You had a vague idea of where the Autumn Court's camp was, but you didn't dare to walk too close to it knowing damn well that their High Lord didn't like you at all.

"Tell me, is it hard for you to stay out of trouble or you find it funny?" a deep voice said behind you making you jump. You turned around and saw Eris hid in the shadows of two tents. "You made a fool of my father at the High Lords meeting, you should stay away from his soldiers."

You took a step closer to him and lowered the hood from your head as you rose your chin looking at him cautiously. "I was looking for you."

Eris didn't hide the surprise on his face. "Why?"

Yeah, why? Your eyes fell on the ugly scar on his face. "You saved my life." You said quietly. "Let me repay the debt by curing you."

He rose an eyebrow, looking at you suspiciously. "Didn't your watch dogs warn you about what a bad guy I am?"

You rolled your eyes and let a bright flame appeared on your hand as you walked closer to him. "I can handle myself, thanks for your concern." You saw him tensing as you stepped closer and you let a sigh. "If I wanted to kill you I wouldn't do it in the middle of a war camp."

Eris' eyes locked in your with an annoyed look. "And, pray tell, how can you cure what other healers couldn't?"

You ignored how his deep voice sent shivers down ypur spine, telling yourself it was for the cold air. "My fire has healing properties. I don't think there is something that my cauldron's gift can't cure." You gestured with a finger to turn his head to one side.

"Have you ever done it before?" he asked uncertain.

You took a deep sigh feeling your patience running out. "Are you always so difficult with people who want to help you?"

"Only if they are pretty." he grinned with a wink.

A sudden need to slap him grew inside you, with something else that you carefully ignored. "Last chance to turn your head or I'll let that ugly scar leave a mark on your face for the rest of your life."

His grin grew wider but, thank the cauldron, he turned his face to one side and shut his mouth. You brought the little flame that glow in your left hand close to his scar while with your other hand grabbed his chin gently. "It won't hurt, just tickle."

He tensed under your touch, and you wondered if in five hundred years someone, beside his mother, had ever showed him kindness. You mentally slapped yourself. Those were dangerous thoughts. From the stories you had heard Eris had never showed kindness himself, so why someone should be kind to him? You were only fufilling a debt, nothing more.

Standing so close he towered you with little effort, and you almost had to go on your tip toes to reach his cheek. For a moment you wondered how many people had stood so close to the heir of Autumn and didn't get hurt, but you pushed those thoughts away.

Your flames dances around his scar for few seconds before it started to heal in front of your eyes. As soon as it was healed completely you took a quick step back, putting distance between your bodies.

"Done." you said clearing your throat.

He touched his healed skin with his fingers silently before bringing his eyes on you. "Thank you." he gave you a nod.

You nodded back politely as your mind started to gather all the reasons why you should leave and forget about him as soon as possible. The list was extremely long. "Good night, Eris."

You put your hood back on and turned on your heels, ready to leave when his voice stopped you. "My tent is at the east side of our camp. I sleep there with my soldiers and they have a strict order to not hurt anyone." You looked over your shoulder, confused by his words. "If you ever need something, come there. You'll be safe."

You didn't hide the confusion on your face, but gave him a nod and thanked him quickly before walking away in the dark.

Eris was dangerous; his encinting green eyes were dangerous; his silky voice was dangerous; his whole body was dangerous, and not because it was lethal on a battlefield, but because it made you forget every horrible action he had ever did. Only by looking at him you had almost dreamed things that would never be possible, and it terrified you.

For the next days you never placed foot again near the Autumn's camp, and Eris never sought you out.

tag: @adventure-awaits13

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

I haven’t written for the cod fandom yet so all the 141 might be terribly out of character. In fact I haven’t written for a while. I appreciate all the people that still read my work and continue to support me. I hope you’re all doing well :)

Poly!141 x reader

Masterlist -> Here (will be made later :))

Warnings: 18+, mature themes, descriptions of torture, injuries and mistreatment, etc

Summary: After escaping from your last mission that had gone terribly wrong, your stumble through the woods leads you to a log cabin.

It was snowing. Fucking snowing.

Any belief in a deity had been long since crushed after the last few months. Well you thought it had been months. Your captors (a small but deadly terrorist group) had failed to provide you with your own calendar and clock. Much like how they had failed to provide you with new clothes to replace your own, that had been ripped and torn and become tattered to the eye.

It was stolen clothes you now wore as you made your escape. Trudging slowly through the already six inch snow, your thoughts trailed to the fresh snow adding to the existing six inches. The size 12 pair of boots were rubbing at your heels with increasing vigour. Leading you to contemplate if bruised skin could blister or not. The guard you’d killed as part of your escape had been good for one thing. Or three things actually. The ill-fitting boots, a loose pair of combat trousers and long sleeved compression shirt.

As you made your way through the terrain you felt a cold chill steadily working it’s way up your trouser leg. Slowly, spreading across the flesh, affecting any skin that wasn’t in direct contact with the trouser material. It made you wish you’d waited for a guard more similar to your stature. While the compression shirt was better than nothing, it was still thin. The flimsy seeming material now doing little to ward off the cold.

Maybe the sudden awareness of the less than ideal weather conditions wasn’t down to your stolen clothes, but the sudden loss of adrenaline. How long had you been running now? Well trudging desperately through the snow, making your way further and further into the thick forrest and fauna.

It was hard to try and map where you’d been, what direction you’d walked in and where you’d come from. It was all white. Every tree looked the same. Every incline became and decline and you’d become disoriented.

Months of abuse, of torture, ofpain. All ignored for a few short hours as you willed your aching body forward. Through trees and snow and stone. Through anything that would put you at a greater distance from them, from Miasma.

They hadn’t transported you. At least you were mostly sure. When you blacked out, you woke in the same dingy cell, on the same dingy floor. Only covered in more bruises or cuts. So you hoped you were where this all started. In Slovenia.

You’d done solo missions before. It was easier that way. One man in, one man out. No one to turn on you or leak information. With Gunner in your ear, nothing ever went wrong. Until it did.

Your objective was to gather intel. To stay under the radar before formulating the next attack. While sneaking around you’d learned just how large their operation was. In turn you’d also learned just how large their base was.

The small outpost hid underground levels. That became clear after your covert operation was blown and you were dragged down to the very heart of the multi-storey building.

Each day (if that’s what you could call them) gave you no indication of the time of day or how much time had passed. They made sure of that. In fact it was the first time in months you’d seen the light of day.

The light that you noticed was now fading apparently, as you looked desperately up into the sky. Grey clouds had rolled in, covering the majority of the sky. The sun was still peaking out from the dense overcast that was rolling further forward. Soon the sky would be covered and the snow fall would quicken.

A few miles back you were struck that no one from Miasma had followed you. You’d expected armed guards to be shooting at you and angry dogs to be tearing at your ankles. Yet you’d had no chase.

Maybe they knew you would get nowhere in the climate. That you’d be weakened by the terrain and from the violence you’d endured. They were right of course. But you didn’t let it stop you.

Even now as you’d gone further, you still felt the burning desire to survive. Granted it dwindled under the ache of your body and the never ending valley of white before you. But you wanted to live. You wanted your revenge.

The final rays of the sun had been clouded and the snow started to pick up. At least your footprints would be covered under the fresh snow. Not that it mattered if all your footprints lead to was a frozen corpse.

Flexing your fingers, you found yourself wishing for gloves. Your toes were long past numb and every injury you’d endured felt like it was waking up. Old cuts that had turned to scars felt fresh, bruises that had yellowed felt like they’d returned to their starting purple colour. Your felt heavy. You felt dense. You felt tired.

Your desire to drive on had dwindled now. The once raging fire was now only a candle. A candle that was down to its wick. The wax around it long since melted and now it was to its edge. Trying to burn the glue that chained it in place. The image made you crave warmth even more.

Was this it?

All the work you’d put in over the years. From a child you had trained for a mission you didn’t fully understand. A mission that belonged to someone else, to Gunner. He’d turned you into a soldier, his perfect soldier.

Is this how his perfect soldier died?

No it wasn’t.

So despite your blue fingers, numb toes and foggy mind, you push on. Just a little further, you tell yourself. Past these trees, past this stream, past more trees.

Your doubts evaporate when you come upon a clearing. You find a decent space boarded by snow dusted trees from all sides. They stand tall, seemingly acting as natural walls to protect those inside. The grass is covered in undisturbed snow. It’s thick and white and makes you smile.

None of it matter though because sitting in the middle of it all if your salvation.

A log cabin.

You consider the sight to be a mirage. Created from and low blood sugar, dehydration and desperation. But you trudge on, almost to a stumble speed, as you reach for the door handle.

It’s unlocked.

Despite any moral compass telling you that breaking and entering or trespassing is wrong, you ignore it. You’re hurt, aching and this is a last resort.

You close the thick wooden door behind you. Taking note of the copious locks it has. When you move inside the cabin you find that no one’s home. As quietly as you can on stiff legs, you sneak around the house. Trying to wake up the instincts you’d been trained on.

Enter a room, check your surroundings, check again. Don’t assume anywhere is empty. Threats could be hiding around any corner.

So for each room of the ground floor you do just that. Open door, check the rooms, move on. From your searching you’ve found a large living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a toilet some sort of office/drawing room. The decor gives you no clue as to who’s house you’ve invaded. There are no pictures of people, no personal possessions. It feels surreal. And wrong.

To start with you go back to the living room. Using the large fireplace, stockpile of logs and matches, you start a fire.

Again, better sense would tell you to avoid such an action. To avoid alerting anyone of your presence here. But you decide to put sense aside in a bid for survival. If you didn’t get warm soon you were sure you’d be frozen soon.

Next you go to the kitchen. You rifle through the cupboard in an attempt to find something edible. To your surprise you find the place to be well stocked. Even going as far as having fresh milk in the fridge. The sight confuses you. Send alarm bells ringing in your ears.

There are products in the fridge that are in date. Fresh products. Yet no one is home. It doesn’t make sense.

As you empty a can of soup into a pan you realise, it doesn’t need to. You’re happy to play stupid and see this as all some sort of blessing, some miracle.

While the soup cooks you fill a glass with clean, cold water. Relishing in the taste of something fresh. When you’ve downed the first glass you refill it again. This time with an intention to make it last longer.

After the first spoonful you find that you like vegetable soup very much. Almost burning your mouth as you devour it in a few minutes. Immediately it feels as though you’ve been recharged. The warmth from the fire has spread throughout the ground floor, your fingers have warmed around the bowl of soup and your body no longer feels related to a glacier.

The sky only darkens as you sit by the fire. Basking in the warmth and taking a moment to rest for the first time in months. You don’t imagine ever leaving your spot on the floor. But the promise of a bed upstairs has you moving your legs in that direction.

Before your ascent to the second floor, you strip your clothes and hang them on a drying rack you found to the side of the fire. Now left in the nude.

Upstairs you find multiple bedrooms. All almost identical, except for one at the end of the hall. You assume this is the Cabin’s master bedroom as it’s slightly larger than the others. Inside there’s a wardrobe full of clothes, a full length mirror, a TV, some sort of game station, and of course the larger than most bed.

In the mirror you catch sight of yourself. The cuts of course stand out first. From the slight turn you can muster in your neck, you can see large welts and thin cuts, bruises and scrapes, all littering the previously plain skin. From the front and behind, your legs look like a Jackson Pollock original piece.

Capturing various purple and blues surrounded by smaller splodges of green and brown. With the occasional black blob or two to really contrast the overall tone of the piece.

As a child you had a strange infatuation with your bruises. Likening them to a sticker or badge of achievement. They were easy to come by during training. A strange part of you liked the way they looked on your skin. They acted as a log book of the hits you’d taken, the falls you’d taken, any sort of impacts you’d had. They made you feel strong, maybe even proud too.

Staring into the mirror at your body again, it all seems worthless. You knew you were strong before. You didn’t need months as a prisoner to prove it.

You take a few steps forward to properly look at your face. Who stares back must be a stranger. You haven’t let your eyebrows be this out of shape since you were thirteen. You didn’t have that scar above under your chin before. Your eyes were always so bright and vivid. Not lifeless or hollow or so lost.

With newfound energy you take yourself to the nearest bathroom. That just so happens to be the en-suite in the bedroom. It doesn’t surprise you. Nothing about this abandoned, well stocked cabin does anymore.

Instead you shower in one of the nicest bathrooms you’ve been to in a long time.

At first the water has you freezing. Not due to the temperature but because of the fire it lights on your back. Every scrape, every cut, every burn now being cleaned. The cleanse sets your body alight. In a way you feel the heat is helping you to heal. Granted, all you have to show for it is a mixture of blood and grime, floating slowly down the drain. But it’s more than that.

It’s the last few months being scrubbed off your skin. Your wounds and ailments being shown that this is the end. They can heal in peace. You can heal in peace.

So you take your time. Using any products you can find; shampoos, conditioners, body wash, face wash. You’ve acquired a new razor, fresh from the packet. It’s amazing what a difference shaving your legs and various other places can do to your mood. You’ve always preferred removing the body hair. Afterwards the feeling of smooth legs under a thick duvet made all the work worth it.

The final step, bar drying yourself, was brushing tour yellowing and plaque ridden teeth. The minty taste in your mouth feels unfamiliar but it welcomed nonetheless. Wiping your tongue across the now almost pearly-whites you’re happy with how smooth they feel.

Now showered, shaved and dried, you make you way into the bedroom. Finding the wardrobe and drawers to be filled wit strictly masculine clothes. You pick out a pair of boxers and one of the large white t-shirts to sleep in. The shirt dwarfs you in size, looking more like a dress. Not one that you would wear outside though. Not with the black boxers showering through the material, or your hardened nipples making an appearance.

With your towel back in the bathroom and the lights off, you crawl into bed. Letting out the loudest sigh your sore throat could muster. Then quickly falling asleep on the linen.

It was snowing. In fact it was a fucking blizzard.

A barrage of white, dagger-like snowflakes pelted against the four men. The lack of light and the dense haze of the storm made it impossible to see where they were going. They were all thankful for the less than modern compass. Hidden away at the bottom of Jonny’s bag. When he acquired it was unknown. But the four were grateful nonetheless that the Scott had the dated equipment in is kit.

After their week long training they were ready to fall asleep on the nearest surface. The blizzard they now faced was an unexpected one. Nothing on Price’s radar Gad alerted them to such a storm.

They’d just finished their survival training in the mountains when the first snowflake formed. During the rest of their descent it had only worsened.

As the snow around them thickened they trudged on. Becoming more aware of the weight of their kit, ache of their muscles and chill in their bones. These men were tired, hungry and cold.

After more miles and more words of encouragement from Price, Gaz was sure they were close to the safe house now.

Laswell had been kind enough to let them use the safe house after a particularly gruelling training exercise. It would be the closest thing to a holiday the 141 would get this year. Before the worst of the storm it had the Scotsman joking that he would build a snowman outside. An idea quickly shot down by Ghost in the interest of remaining vigilant to an enemies surrounding the house.

While snowmen were out of the question, snowballs were not. Something Ghost found out, twice, in the back of the head. Turning to see an innocent looking Gaz and Soap.

“You’ll regret that when we’re back on base and you two are on shit duty” the balaclava wearing Brit grumbles.

Soap sighs dramatically, “Oh come on Lt. Dinnae be like that, it was only a joke”.

The threat prompts Kyle to add, “It was all Soaps idea, think he should get shit duties on his own.”

Soap gasps feigning offence, “You bleeding clipe, don’t come knocking on my door when you want someone to warm your bed tonight.”

The comment causes the younger man’s face to heat up and laughs to come from the others.

“That if we get there in this blizzard” the captain quips. Trying to keep morale, but refusing to ignore the sinking feeling that they’ve missed the safe house completely.

“How far now?” Gaz asks, determined not to start pestering like an insolent child. Yet equally determined to have a proper meal and get out of his cold clothes.

“Two klicks north, then we should be there.” Soap tells him, loud enough for the others to hear in the now whipping winds.

“It was two klicks north last time someone asked Soap, are you sure you’re reading that right lad?” Price finds himself asking. Despite his rank, his military expertise and all his training agains the elements, it doesn’t make him immune to the cold. Immune to looking forward to sitting by a fire with a cup of tea in his hands.

Laswell wasn’t one to be stingy with safe house stock. From previous safe houses he’d been to that she had set up, they’d been a home away from home. Proper bedrooms, running water, stocked shelves. Price found himself ready to welcome anything that had four walls, a roof and could shelter him and his men from the storm.

“Two klicks north Captain, I’m sure”. Jonny confirms.

Sure enough, through the dense curtain of blizzard, light emerges. A gentle glow against the black nights sky. The closer they get, the clearer the house becomes.

A log cabin.

A big one at that. The sight is inviting enough to bring a smile to the men’s faces.

“Laswell’s outdone herself this time, fuckin yaldy” soap practically exclaims. Pushing forward to the front of the pack, in an effort to get in first.

“Hold it Jonny,” Simons voice is quiet through the mask, but harsh enough that the others can hear.

Ghost points to the chimney, “someone’s here”.

Sure enough as the others look up, they too see the plumes of smoke, gently rising from the brick chimney.

“Another team captain?” Gaz finds himself asking, while reaching for the know hidden in his thigh holster.

Price finds himself doing the same, “No, we’re the only ones in the country.”

The tension in the air is thick, rivals the thick snow pelting down on them. The four of them stand motionless, a short distance from the front door. Covered head to toe in winter gear, a layer of the snowstorm attached to anything it can stick to.

“Right, there’s only one door. I’ll lead. We’ll secure the ground floor first. Stay silent, we do this quietly.” Price commands. The men nod, moving to grasp their various knives. Following their captain as he moves to the front of the cabin.

With an almost inaudible creek, Price turns the handle of the door. Pushing the oak forward, grateful that it seems to glide over the wooden floors. Allowing him and his men to breach the property without alerting its inhabitants.

Price enters the living room first, signalling for the others to spread out and search the rest of the floor. He does indeed find a crackling fire, yet no one man’s it. The warmth is welcomed, but for the time being he ignores any desire to sit near it and warm himself.

His attention moves to the drying rack set up beside the fire. Upon further inspection of the items he finds combat trousers, a compression t shirt and a pair of large boots, size 12 he gathers from the label on the tongue. The clothes are still damp to the touch, leading him to infer that the intruder arrived a short time ago.

The badge on the arm of the shirt catches his eye. He rips it off the Velcro and examines it up close. An unknown insignia, contractor perhaps? Some new found terrorist group? Price doesn’t know. It’s not one he’s come across before.

Simon searches the kitchen. The space is a decent size, dark too. He blends into the shadows as he checks the space for any sign of life. He finds a empty soup can on one of the worktops. Turning to the sink he notices a single glass and pan siting there.

Once finished in his search he creeps back to the living room. Finding his captain there, along with a stoic looking soap and serious looking Gaz.

Price raises his hand to Simon, showcasing the fabric insignia to him. With cold eyes Ghost runs over the stitchwork. Mind running through the possible groups it could be associated with.

“Any ideas?” Price asks in a hushed voice.

Ghosts silence is a loud enough answer for the group. No

“Whoever they are haven’t been here long. Their clothes are still damp. Large boots, size 12.” Price goes through the details he’s uncovered.

“Men’s?” Gaz asks.

“Most likely”.

“There’s a pan in the kitchen. They’ve had soup. Only one glass.” Ghost reels off.

“We don’t know who we’re dealing with, could be anyone. Stay vigilant. Be prepared for a fight. I’ll take the lead upstairs. Shout if you find anything.” Price commands.

The team follow him single file up the stairs. Weapons at the ready as the sneak up the steps. Footsteps light on the wooden floor.

Price takes the first door, Gaz the second, Ghost the third and Soap the last door at the end of the hallway.

While three of the 141 find their rooms to be empty, Soap stops in the doorway. After almost silently twisting the door handle and letting it slide open, he stands in silence. What he didn’t expect to find was a girl sleep in the master bed, a pretty girl to be exact.

The Scotsman finds himself lost for words. He expected to have to fight someone of his stature. Maybe larger. He expected to walk away with a bruise or two. He feels lost on what to do. Should he wake her? Should he leave her?

Meanwhile the others have gathered in the hallway. Sharing a concerned glance at their teammate.

“What is it soap?” Ghost asked quietly.

“It’s a lass. A bonnie lass at that.” He tells them. Wonder in his tone as he stares at the sleeping girl. Watching as her chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Completely unaware of the four men that have entered the house.

The men collectively frown, walking further to investigate themselves. Sure enough, after they pass the threshold of the master bedroom, they too stand frozen. A girl. Not a man, or group of men. A girl, sleeping in their bed, in their log cabin.

Completely unaware.

[after-witch]

Eight Deadly Mistakes [Yandere Alastor x Reader]

Title: Eight Deadly Mistakes [Yandere Alastor x Reader]

Synopsis: You've made a lot of mistakes in Hell, but this one has to be the worst.

Birthday fic for @absolute-flaming-trash who is absolutely awesome!

word count: 1899ish

notes: yandere, abuse, obsessive behavior, humiliation, I'm joining the 'alastor yanks reader by a chain' club

Hell was full of mistakes, and you figured that yours amounted to a sizable chunk--particularly since meeting Alastor. Of the countless mistakes within that particular bucket, there were at least seven distinct mistakes that led you to this very moment. 

One. It was a mistake to thank Alastor for holding the door open for you, the day you entered some run-down market in search of a book. Your voice had been surprised and sweet and ever-so-thankful.

Two. It was a mistake to let him strike up a conversation with you a few minutes later, and not pay attention to the horrified looks that even the most hardened patrons in the shop gave you.

Three. It was a mistake, later on, to think he was your friend; to believe that the shared meals, the late night discussions about music and books and little topics you’d forgotten you enjoyed, were a sign of pleasant companionship. 

Four. It was a mistake to sell your soul to Alastor, after his honeyed offers of protection from the seedier elements of Hell, his casual assurance that your friendship would go unaltered. 

Five. It was a mistake to move into the Hotel when Alastor asked, and not think there was some ulterior motive behind it all. 

Six. It was a mistake to think Alastor was actually kind, just because he was helping Charlie with her hotel, and seemingly protected those within it. 

Seven. It was a mistake to, on this day, ask Alastor if he would give your soul back, now that you’d decided to aim for heaven. Because you were friends, and he cared about you, and therefore, he should want what’s best for you--which is to get (you pardon yourself the phrase) the hell out of Hell. 

Every one of these seven mistakes--the last, you must admit, being the most significant--led you to here. 

To you, trembling on the floor, the tangy copper of blood in your mouth from where your teeth rattled against the end of your tongue when Alastor’s palpable anger made your knees literally buckle. 

“I… I don’t understand,” you spit out, voice trembling as much as your body. “I thought--I thought you…” The words don’t need to be spoken for Alastor to know them.

I thought you liked me, I thought you were my friend, I thought you would be happy to do it.

“You thought what, exactly, my dear?” 

A low electric current buzzed in the air, making the lights flicker once, twice, and again before he continued.

“That I would simply let you go?” He laughed, but there was nothing pleasant about the sound. It was full of mockery and something else, something metal and cold. 

Your stomach squirmed awfully. It was not a feeling you’d ever experienced around Alastor, despite some other’s trepidation around him. He’d never given you a reason to feel that way.

Until today.

Until you asked Alastor to let your soul go, and the room seemed to fizz with electrical interference that left the lights sparking and 

Your eyes went wide. And your brain, stupid thing that it was, pieced things together that you had been all too naively eager to ignore until now. 

The stories of Alastor’s past that you’d heard in snatches and dismissed as jealous fantasy, probably all deriving from Vox and his ilk. The way people who knew Alastor from before his sabbatical tended to steer as clear of him as possible. 

Or how Alastor always insisted you try the things he liked--clothes he left in your room (even before you told him where you lived, before the Hotel); music he insisted you’d admire more than your current collection of alt-rock CDs; foods that were tastier, he said, than your favorites. 

“I didn’t think--” The words stuck to your mouth until you forced them out. “I didn’t think you’d be mad that I wanted to get better, repent and--and get out of here.”

Alastor, despite his smile, did not look impressed.

You didn’t have time to flinch as he swung his microphone down and out, pressing it against your throat.

“Don’t act surprised now. After all,” The microphone dug into the flesh of your neck, lifting your chin until you were looking at him through blurs of oncoming tears. He continued, voice softer, missing most of its usual radio sound. “You made me like this.” 

You wanted to shake your head, but the microphone kept you only capable of looking up and straight at him. His smile made you sick. 

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, voice light, but not quite naive anymore; you didn’t fully believe the words now, and your voice wavered. 

Even if you didn’t mean to do anything to draw the attention of the radio demon, that didn’t mean Alastor wasn’t clearly--wasn’t clearly… affected by you. In some way that you didn’t understand; moreover, you didn’t want to understand it. 

What you thought had been a surprising friendship made in the bowels of hell was something else entirely, and you hated the newfound knowledge. 

Whatever it was that Alastor actually felt for you, it was dark and awful, like sprinkles of mold you find underneath the bathroom sink. Damp and rotting and unwanted. 

“You,” he said, pressing the microphone harder into your throat for emphasis, “have been quite the busy bee when it comes to me, my dear.” He sighed in a way you’d heard him do a hundred times before. But now it feels wrong; sticky, oozing. “I’d never given much thought to… certain endeavors before you. And now I find myself distracted.”

His neck turned again, cracking, and a song began to play from somewhere. 

“Distracted?” You asked, feeling sicker and sicker. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered, dragging out the word. “Quite unlike me, if I must admit it. And yet there’s something about you that’s been making me…”

He didn’t finish. The song got louder, mingling in with the ambience of the room. It was almost soft and wistful, except for the lyrics that made your skin feel cold, repeating on a loop.

And you’re mine… mine… mine…

“And you thought…” His voice continued, each word punctuated by an awful radio crackle that made goosebumps blossom up your arms. “That you would get to simply leave me after all I’ve put into you?”

All he’s put into you.

The dresses, the food, the guidance on what to listen to and how to dance; who to talk to and who to avoid. Advice from a friend, you thought. Advice from someone stronger and maybe smarter.

“Well,” he said, almost cheery now, pulling the microphone away from your sore and probably bruising throat. “I trust you’ve learned your lesson and we can avoid this…” A crackle, short and low. “Unpleasantness in the future.”

You should have said that yes, you learned your lesson; yes, you won’t ask again. But you didn’t. Instead you swallowed hard, feeling the ache from where his microphone pressed in, and added an eighth mistake to your list.

“We can avoid it if you release me from my contract--if you give me back my soul.” 

“Well,” he repeated. And this time, his voice was muffled by a brief, shrieking radio frequency. “Perhaps a reminder is in order.”

The reminder came with cold metal choking your throat; a vivid green chain led straight from your imprisoned neck to Alastor’s hand. 

One trembling hand came up to feel the collar. It was real. It was there. And the chain, too, was solid and unbreakable. 

It was a shocking sight. 

You’d seen the chains of other owned souls before. Angel’s, in particular, when you’d accidentally witnessed an argument between him and Valentino. But there had never been a singular thought given to the fact that you, too, must have had chains. Alastor never showed them to you and until now, had never seen fit to remind you about your lack of freedom.

Until today.

Your surprise and fear made you stupid, and you tried to yank yourself away from him; he held fast to the chain and began to wind it around his hand, forcing you to look upwards, speaking all the while.

“You are never to ask me to release your contract again. And you are certainly never to even entertain the silly notion of leaving me, now or in the future. Do you understand?”

An awful, slimy feeling overtook your gut. He owned you, and he had owned you for some time. You just had been closing your eyes to that reality.

A reality that was now choking you.

“Well?”

You nodded. You didn’t think you could speak, not now. Not to him. 

But it wasn’t good enough. He yanked on the chain, choking you. 

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

“Yes.” The word was spoken through gritted teeth. It tasted like tears. 

“Yes what?”  The grin on his smile widened deceptively as he yanked against the chain, jerking your head upward. It hurt inside and out. 

It was so unfair, that your heart could hurt like this, even after you were dead. 

“Yes, sir.”

That should have been the end of it. He should have let go of the chain and let you slink off in fear and shame, off to sob in your bedroom over the sudden turn of events. 

Instead, he leaned down, and for a moment, his eyes glowed in a painful flash. 

“You can do better than that, my dear, can’t you, to the person that owns your very soul?” 

His hand wrapped around the chain, shortening it even further as he leaned in so close you could smell the rot around him. But it didn’t matter that you wanted to pull away from it, because he held you--literally, held the chains that kept you bound to him. Forever. 

Yes, he owned your soul. He owned you.

“Yes, boss?” you murmured, copying what Husker sometimes said; you were unable to look at him anymore as humiliated, hot tears spilled down your cheeks. 

In an instant, the chain was gone, and you fell to the ground with a clumsy thud. Your chin hit the hard floor before you could brace yourself with your hands. 

“Wonderful,” he said, praising, almost cooing. His neck cracked to the side and you imagined his bones shifting in impossible ways to achieve it. “I suppose I should remind you who you belong to when you get out of sorts like this, my dear.” His smile widened. “A healthy reminder now and then is good for the soul!” 

He laughed. Whether he thought it was a joke or not was unclear. 

“Although, I hope I won’t have to remind you too soon. I do so enjoy your company more when you’re not being…” He waved his hand in the air, glancing up at the ceiling for effect. “Stubborn.” His eyes darted to you, accompanied by the faint sound of a radio hum. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” you breathed out without hesitation, unable to stop shaking from your position on the floor.

“Good girl,” he said, patting the air above your head. You watched his footsteps until he paused at the threshold of the door. You heard his neck snap as he turned it back around--you didn’t dare look up to see. 

“Don’t forget to tidy up before dinner.  I’ve left a dress in your bedroom that I’m sure will look lovely on you.”

[mrsparrasblog]

Barracks Baby

Summary: After sleeping with four of your fellow teammates, you need to navigate through pregnancy and finding out who the Baby Daddy is

You should have listened to your mother, was all you thought when you looked at that bloody positive stick in your hand. Your mother always said, "Don’t whore around; you’re going to end up pregnant and unwed. Keep your virginity until marriage," blah blah blah.

What your mom didn’t tell you were the effects of living on a military base. You wouldn’t call yourself a barracks bunny—you only slept with four guys; there must be more to it for earning that title. And who could judge you? Everyone would if they could. These four men were everything every other man lacked on earth. No one could make you cum as many times as John could, no one could make you feel so stupid like Simon could, no one was as pretty and nice as Kyle—fucking him in any other position than missionary would be a crime against humanity—and no one had as much stamina as Johnny; he could go for at least six rounds, shove a protein bar between your pouty lips, and go four more.

You weren’t sure what to do. That was a lie—you always wanted kids, just not like this, not in this situation, without knowing who the baby daddy is, being employed by the military, and best of all, being broke. Of course, you could call your best friend Conny; she would always support you with the baby, but even she couldn’t help you break the news to the boys.

Your mother would probably kill you—no, she wouldn’t, but she would tell you all about eating liver sprinkled with fish oil, quitting your job, and getting into a relationship with that loser Mark you once dated. He would still take you after being knocked up, but how could you return to that after having these four guys?

You needed to tell them; you knew it. There was no other way around this situation. Maybe one of them would step up. You were sure if it was Price's baby, he would support you mentally and financially, though your military career would be destroyed. Simon would be a different story; he hated kids—or at least that’s what you thought. He never wanted them, never anything more than a fling. Johnny would be the safest choice; he would take care of you, step up, marry you, and make you a cute housewife in the Highlands. No more working sounded good right now to you. Kyle was a wildcard; he would support you—he was a good guy—but he never spoke about kids. He could either love them or hate them.

You stood up; it was enough time sitting on the toilet and overthinking. You walked outside, gripping the stick tightly and holding it against your stomach, trying to hide it from the rookies walking past you. They had too much fun; if you were with Simon right now, you’d make them run laps for smiling. Rookies aren’t there to be happy; they are there to suffer. Fuck, you’re going to be a terrible mom, you thought. You treated rookies badly, you forgot to feed your hamster once, and you’re only good at shooting and fucking—what will you teach this kid? The anxiety inside of you only grew bigger with every passing second.

You reached the meeting room, sat down, and sighed as you took out your phone, scrolling until you found the Group chat 141 + Hot Stuff. You remembered how Johnny changed it after you joined and how the Lt. threw a fit over it.

You: Important things to discuss, please come to the meeting room, now.

Daddy <3: Everything okay?

Emo Boy: Affirmative

Pretty Boy: Can I finish the set?

Bubbles: It’s 7 am, I’m not coming

You: NOW

With that, everyone agreed. You weren’t sure how to break the news. "Hey, I’m pregnant; it might be any one of you. Surprise, Daddy!" wasn’t a good idea. Leaving the pregnancy test out on the table as if it were a loaded gun wasn’t a good idea either. Well, you had to admit it was like a round of Russian roulette, just more deadly.

Simon was the first to join. He looked at you as if he knew but kept his mouth shut. After a few minutes, everyone was sitting at the table, looking at you in confusion. You never called a meeting; it would be uncalled for as a Sergeant anyway.

"Why are we here, Bonnie?" Soap destroyed the silence you had hidden yourself in.

You could talk now, explain it, or say anything to make it sound better, but all you could say was a miserable, "I’m pregnant."

Shocked expressions would be an understatement. John tugged on his beard, Johnny lost the color from his face, Kyle looked as if he were a teenager caught past curfew, and Simon’s expression was unreadable to you.

"I’m not sure who the father is among you four," the second bomb went off.

"How could that happen?" was all Johnny said.

"Yes, how could that happen," you spat out sarcastically.

"Babe, please let me cum inside, need you raw." "Let Daddy breed you, Sweetheart, need you all full for me." "The condom broke again, Bonnie." "I’ll pull out, love." Yes, how could that have happened?

"I’m out of this shit," Ghost’s words cut deeper than a knife as he stood up and left without another word. By your luck, he was probably the Dad.

"My mother is going to kill me."

"You’re 28, Gaz, no one’s going to kill you. You’re not a bloody teenager anymore."Price spoke in a stern voice.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

"I’ll give you financial support if it is mine or if you want to get rid of it," when you thought Ghost's words hurt, then Price killed you. He made you on the edge of breaking down—correction, you broke down. The tears in your eyes already streamed down your cheeks; damn hormones. Price looked at you in guilt. He wanted to speak up, but Johnny went first.

"That’s fucking great news, Bonnie. If it’s mine, oh God, I always wanted a wee bairn. Think of him looking like me, or getting twins—the MacTavish genes are pretty strong. We’re getting a wee lad, probably a 10-pounder like me."

Ten pounds—that’s a whole ass turkey. You didn’t even get the chance to excuse yourself before you ran outside, throwing up again. "Fuck, what did I get myself into?"

[voxslays]

Apple of My Eye

Featuring >>> Lucifer x Reader; In which, an attempt to kill baby Charlie goes south. Resulting in a soporific curse placed upon the reader.

Part Two Part Three

Unfortunate. That’s what it was. It had only been a couple thousand years since both you and Lucifer were cast down from heaven into the abyss of darkness you now called home. It had taken at least a hundred years to get used to your surroundings—the new plants, animals, and completely different species (Imps and Hellhounds)—and of course the six other deadly sins. Satan and Mammon seemed to immediately dislike the two of you, despite the fact that they never could have existed without you. However, you and Bee got along well—sharing a love for food. And despite your unfortunate circumstances, you adapted rather quickly for hell’s standard, Lucifer starting to build his kingdom and family.

You had only tied the knot around fifty years ago (which is like 2ish years for immortal beings), deciding that you wanted to spend the rest of eternity together. Hell was no longer and endless nightmare pit—it was thriving—much to the dismay of the angels above you. And recently, a few humans (which were now called sinners) had fallen into your lands. Soon, there were a few hundred of them, along with the couple hundred thousand Imps and Hellhounds that lived there too.

Heaven was not pleased. They were already coming up with plans on how to stop you and Lucifer from ever growing stronger than them. When the announcement of a royal baby on the way, Lucifer was sent a letter by his twin brother Micheal. The letter was a warning. Yet, you and Lucifer carelessly discarded it. A mistake neither of you would realize until it was too late.

The day Charlie was born was the best day of your lives. She was a beautiful baby girl, who looked exactly like her father. Yellow eyes with red pupils, pale white skin, rosy red cheeks, and of course, the signature blonde Morningstar curls. You were so happy. Unfortunately, that happiness wouldn’t last long. Within minutes of Charlie’s birth, the seraphim, Sera, arrived at the palace.

The seraphim, led by Micheal himself, stormed into the palace, their golden wings glinting menacingly under the dim hellish light. Micheal's eyes landed on the newborn Charlie, wrapped in a blanket in your arms. “We couldn't allow this to happen," Micheal said coldly, his angelic face contorting with disgust. "The antichrist, born in Hell, under the rule of the fallen Morningstar…" Great, he was being cryptic as usual.

Lucifer gently lets go of your hand and steps forward. “Micheal, please.” Micheal raises his angelic sword, blocking Lucifer's path. "You've broken nearly every heavenly law, brother. Your actions have consequences." The other seraphim fan out, surrounding your family. Yet, Lucifer refuses to back down. “I refuse to give you my daughter.” He says, his red horns quickly growing out of his head as he enters his demon form. All you can do is watch in horror as you hug your new daughter closer.

Micheal's expression hardens. "Lucifer, you leave us no choice." He signals to the other seraphim. In response, they draw their swords, their golden wings spreading out menacingly as they surround your bed. Suddenly, Micheal blasts some kind of curse—you can’t tell what kind—aimed directly at Charlie. You weren’t going to let this angelic bastard hurt your only daughter, so you did the only thing you could think of. You close your eyes as you turn and shield the infant with your body.

Your scream echoes through the Morningstar palace as the divine curse strikes you instead. “NO!” Lucifer screams, running to your unconscious body. Micheal watches, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Consider this a warning…" He says, before creating a portal and stepping back into the pearly gates of heaven. Lucifer takes Charlie in one arm and gently tries to shake you awake, but it’s no use. You won’t wake.

A couple of hours later, you open your eyes to a crying Lucifer, covering his face, and a sleeping Charlie in his lap. “Luci..?” You groan, grabbing your now aching forehead. "You're awake," Lucifer says, relief filling his voice, but his face is still contorted with anger and unshed tears. "You took the curse for Charlie…" He trails off, his voice breaking as he realizes the gravity of the situation. “How could I not?”

Lucifer pauses for a moment. Whether he likes it or not, he would’ve done the same thing, you both know it. "You could’ve died." Your husband mutters, sniffling as he wipes his face. “We could’ve lost you.” He carefully checks your arms, your neck, trying to find where the curse hit you. “I’m sorry.” You gently wipe his tears with your thumb. He nuzzles against your hand, setting Charlie down in her cradle. "Damn it, why did you have to be so selfless?" He sniffles, his arms wrapping around your waist possessively. "Micheal’s curse…" Lucifer swallows hard. “Do you feel different?”

“Just tired.” You yawn. His expression softens with worry, though there's still a hint of anger in his voice "Don't fall back asleep yet, ducky.” He gives you a sweet smile. “I’ll call the Royal doctors to examine you properly. That curse…it's divine magic. It could have lasting effects." You yawn again. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” You gently squeeze his hand as you drift off again. "No, no more sleeping." His voice carries an urgent edge as he gently shakes your shoulders "Please, my love…" Charlie stirs in her cradle, sensing the tension. "Look at me…stay awake…" But you don’t. You drift off into your dreams, leaving a very worried Lucifer behind.

[viasdreams]

Nightwalker ཐི❤︎ཋྀ ~ chugged a thing of toilet bowl cleaner

you stared intently at the bottle of everclear as you, sloppily, attempted to pour another shot for you and hyuck. three shots in and you were starting to really regret your choice of vodka. you thought that maybe it would be strong enough to get hyuck drunk, but apparently, 95% abv means nothing to vampires.

"why do you keep taking these with me if they don't do shit?" you asked as you handed him his shot.

"because i'd feel bad if you had to endure this poison yourself" hyuck chucked from across the bed.

the space between you felt as expansive as a canyon, the distance seeming to only grow with each shot.

"wait that's so sweet of you," you smiled at him, raising your shot to cheers him.

he hmmed in acknowledgment, bringing the glass to his lips and shooting the shot with ease. meanwhile, you gagged into your chaser. (which was water because, as hyuck put it, you don't really go to the grocery store to buy drinks when your food comes from the cashier)

as the night continued, so did the shots. six shots in and the car crashes were starting to hurt your head.

"hyuckie can we please turn this off, i feel like one of the victims right now" you slurred out.

"shit, yeah of course," he ran his hands across the sheets for the remote, eventually figuring out that he had been sitting on it.

"do you want more water? or i could doordash you some food?"

you slowly shook your head, closing your eyes.

"no, i think i just need to lie down"

"yeah do whatever you need, i have more blankets in the-"

his sentence was cut off as you crawled over to him, laying your head in his lap. maybe everclear actually was a good choice because you never would have done that if you were sober.

"um yn?" hyuck awkwardly mumbled.

"hmm?" you peeked open one eye, looking up at him.

"the pillow is over there" he gestured to the headboard.

thankfully, the vodka didn't fully cloud your judgment and you were able to clock the nervousness in his tone.

"oh sorry hyuck, i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." you started to sit up when you felt two hands push you back down.

confused you looked at him to gauge what was happening, but he refused to meet your gaze, looking at the ceiling.

"no it's ok you can," he slowly brought his eyes to your, "you can stay there."

a smile spread across your face as you relaxed into him.

the two of you stayed like this for a while, hyuck gently playing with your hair as you lay. just as he was about to lay down too, you quickly sat up with a gasp.

"HOLY SHIT!" you exclaimed, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking.

"what? what happened?" hyuck questioned you, his voice coated in concern.

"SUCK MY BLOOD!"

"w-" he stared at you, very much taken aback, "what?"

"SUCK MY BLOOD HYUCKIE!" you shook him with more vigor.

hyuck grabbed your hands, bringing them in front of you to keep you still.

"why are you asking me to do that yn?"

"the alcohol in my blood hyuck! it will get you crunk!" now shaking his hands in excitement.

when laying in hyuck's lap, the fact that he couldn't be drunk with you consumed your thoughts. you wanted him to experience what you were feeling, and that's when it dawned on you.

"yn im not going to hurt you like that just to get a little tipsy. plus i don't even know if it works like that."

"then let's try." you pulled your shirt to the side exposing your neck fully.

hyuck could feel two things, his fangs coming in, and the intense hunger bubbling in his stomach. it had been a bit since he had eaten, and that combined with the fact that you're the one offering him blood, created a deadly combo for him.

"i don't want to hurt you though," despite his words, he slowly leaned towards you. "what if i take too much?"

"i know you won't, i trust you hyuckie," and despite your words, you scrunched your eyes shut, scared to be awake while this was happening.

your sent overtook his senses, drawing him in.

you could feel his breath getting closer, his hands cupping your face.

you attempted to tilt your head to the side to give him better access, but he held you in place.

both of you knew that your heart was racing. you did your best to calm yourself but to no avail.

"just breathe okay?" he whispered onto your skin.

"o-"

before you could finish, you felt hyuck's lips on yours.

the kiss was soft, you could feel him trying not to press his fangs against you. he didn't move, just held his lips against yours, waiting for you to react.

you, rather clumsily, pushed back against him. his lips were cold and you desperately wanted to warm them up.

however, he pulled back before you could, laughing as he brought his forehead to yours.

"why did you do that?" you asked, the reality of what just happened hitting you.

"i told you, i don't drink human blood." he leaned back onto his palms, shrugging. "i appreciate the offer though, ill have to ask the guys if drinking drunk people's blood works. if so, i might give a chicken a bloody mark because hyuckie needs a drink."

"but why did you stop kissing me?" you asked, half because you really wanted him to do it again, and half because you were scared he thought you were a bad kisser.

he glanced over at the half-drained handle of everclear, "i don't think right now is the best time to be doing that."

"but," you protested.

"i'll kiss you again in the morning when you're sober yeah? i want to make sure you actually remember it."

you could feel your cheeks heat up. why was he so smooth? this was not the same loser (said lovingly) from the bookstore, not that you were complaining.

"yeah okay."

he patted your thigh and headed to the door. "im going to sleep on the couch. the bathroom is down the hall to the left, if you don't make it to the toilet, please puke on jaemin's stuff. wake me up if you need anything."

"hyuck wait!" you practically yelled at him as he left the room.

"what's up?"

"goodnight."

you could barely make out his smile in the dark.

"goodnight yn."

you in fact, did not make it to the toilet. now you were walking aimlessly through the hallway, looking for anything to clean off the vomit-coated hairbrush you were holding, which you really hoped belonged to jaemin.

"yn?"

you jumped, almost dropping the hairbrush.

"is that my hairbrush?"

thank god you puked on the right one.

"oh hey jaemin, why are you up so early?" you tried to direct the attention away from the brush.

"im just going for a run, you don't look this good at 418 years old by sitting on your bum." he shook his butt a little at that last part.

"bum?"

"i spent some time in england, picked it up."

"cool, well i dont want to keep you from your run, so bye." you picked up the brush and rushed back to the bathroom.

"yn wait, can i say something?" his tone reeked of remorse.

against your better judgment, you agreed. after what hyuck told you, weren't the biggest fan of jaemin but you did puke on his stuff. the least you could do was hear him out.

he took in an excessively long breath.

"look, im really sorry. im sorry for lying to you, for hurting you, and for just being an asshole. i have a lot of issues i'm dealing with right now, but i shouldn't have brought you into that. i was so focused on getting your blood for hyuck, that i forgot to think of you. you didn't deserve that. i'm really sorry."

he said all of that in one breath, making it extremely hard to keep up with his words.

"wait jaemin, you were getting my blood for hyuck?"

"yeah he asked me to help curve his cravings for your blood, but nothing was working so i started taking from you."

"so he was drinking my blood? when you took my blood, he was the one drinking it?"

jaemin gave you a confused expression.

"yeah? did he not tell you that?"

he did not.

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[helluvathings]

Satan and the Nature of the Deadly Sins

First note: Viv has confirmed that Satan is lying.

But I do have thoughts on where the lie here is, and what's being said or implied about the Sins. Because even accounting for the falsehood, I actually think this does strongly hint that the Sins aren't angels, and have been part of Hell from the start: presumably created when Eve ate the apple and humans gained free will, leading to sin, implicitly leading to "the Sins."

Note, Satan talks about an endless dark, "long before" Lucifer fell. He's making himself out to be a primordial entity that preexisted Lucifer and Hell's current system by a substantial margin. As if way, way back when, Satan was "in charge." If the Hazbin creation story is accurate, Hell existed without Lucifer for the duration of time it took him to be banished. We don't know how long this was, but presumably it wasn't that much time.

We also have Ozzie saying he knew Mammon "from the start of Hell." I've seen people theorize that this can fit the fallen angel theory, and he's referring to how they all met when Lucifer rebelled, but there's been so little indication that there was a big rebellion in heaven previously—as opposed to Lucifer getting kicked out for the sole act of the apple/trying to institute change as an individual—that there doesn't seem to be much evidence for additional angels having been punished. (In Hazbin, Sera warns Emily she might end up like Lucifer, citing him as an individual). It'd also be an awkward way to phrase it (something like "from before our Fall" would work better in that case). Ozzie's words in 2x07 imply, I'd argue, a common origin point, and that he and Mammon began at the same time in the same place. Which fits the Hazbin story (Eve -> apple -> free will -> sin/Hell -> Sins). It even matches with Bee saying Satan is like a brother. Common origin, but not technically related.

In which case, there possibly was endless darkness like Satan mentioned. But also, likely not much to rule, or much time for Satan to do so before Lucifer fell, when Lilith took over and structured Hell into what it is today. Given there would've been confusion and a lack of order, it likely would've been chaotic and undeveloped (Lilith being the as-of-now-canonical reason things shaped up). Satan, implied as the strongest, maybe would've scrounged up a semblance of power, but a) not for long, and b) not over anything substantial. Hence, this look from Ozzie and Bee:

But what really stands out to me is the way Satan refers to Lucifer, and the way Lucifer is separated out from the other Sins on the whole. Calling him "the golden angel" and referring to "his fall" as a distinct event separate from Satan himself does make it seem like Lucifer was something foreign that came crashing in. Note how Lucifer still looks like his angelic self. Notably, the very distinctive angel's wings none of the other Sins possess. Being a fallen angel is a massive part of his character, his motivations, his actions and beliefs. It dyes every part of who he is. On the door to the courtroom, Lucifer's angelic wings and nature are dominant in his symbol's design, and he's placed above the other Sins, whose designs revolve around their sin, or prominent physical features.

It could be argued that the others got over the Fall better, or were different classes of angels (so look different after being punished). But it's a factor that's so absent from their backstory or characterization that it'd almost undermine Lucifer's struggle to have something that colors his whole existence be totally irrelevant to the other fallen angels. I get the impression more so that Lucifer's angelic nature actually stands out, and might be one reason he feels so isolated, especially after his divorce. If he had six people who'd gone through the same trauma, he'd have something. If he's instead forced to brush elbows with and work alongside six demons that symbolize his ultimate failure, and who resulted directly from his actions with the apple, that's more complicated. Again, Satan calling him "the golden angel" makes it see like he's separating angels as something other. And "the angel's fall" is another separation. Satan lying about that part doesn't serve much purpose; if anything, if he was a fallen angel too, he could assert himself as the one who stepped up while Lucifer crashed and burned.

Instead, Satan attempts to distinguish himself from Lucifer in this entirely different way, by framing himself as something far, far more deeply rooted in Hell, older and better. It's not just an 'I'm the strongest' bluff, but there's an attempt to establish himself as the one who's always been here. And I'm thinking, when Viv says Lucifer has always been "first," she means in terms of hierarchy. Where it leaves room for the Sins to have been created as part of Hell, but Satan's lie comes from asserting the "a long time" and that he'd ever been in charge. It feels more natural to assume that Satan is doubling down and exaggerating his past authority, but not lying about his origin.

Final note: it is canon that Lucifer inadvertently created Hell, and was thrown into the pit he created. Also, confirmed that Ozzie has known Mammon since the "start of Hell." While there's a chance Ozzie is using hyperbole: it's framed like Hell was, in some form, around at least a short time before Lucifer showed up. And that Ozzie and Mammon were present. Unless there are wordplay shenanigans involved, discounting Satan's words to the extent it butts against that established timeline is probably throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

Summing it up: I've seen a few reactions to Viv's post about Satan implying that it doesn't make sense with previous lore or that things aren't adding up, but I think that view overestimates how much of what Satan is saying is actually false. He's bullshitting being a primordial god-like power for sure, which fits Ozzie and Bee rolling their eyes. I think if he was lying about the whole creation story altogether, they'd have been less 'shut up, wtf,' and more visibly confused. Of course future episodes could disprove all of this, but my impression is that the way Satan referred to Lucifer and his presence in Hell actually solidifies that he (and the others) aren't fallen angels, and his "for a long time before" thing being untrue is actually a mark in favor of the Hazbin creation story being at least mostly canonical (since it wasn't a long time; he probably had like two weeks to try flexing), as opposed to proof against it.

Also maybe sets up Satan having a quiet rivalry with Lucifer or at least pushing his authority? I think it might be very relevant that Satan goes the route of I've always been here when he's trying to set himself above and apart, and that he points out Lucifer falling in as an outsider. That might just be speculation, but that framing feels intentional.

[the-ancient-dragons]

Welcome to my new (old) series called Overcomplicating the Pyrrhain Tribes (part 1 of 7!)

I have many more Overcomplicated designs to come (and I eventually want to move on to full bodies and action doodles!)

I started it sometime in January or Febuary, as I was applying to a digital creature program, when I was inspired to try and use real animal anatomy on the canon WoF tribes.

Do they need it? No!! Tui and Joy Ang have some of the coolest dragon designs and they don't need to be changed. I was simply inspired to practice anatomy and wanted to see what I could come up with. Plus, I've always drawn the dragons in Ang's style and wanted to see what I could come up with on my own.

Details and explanation below.

Otherwise, next Friday is the SeaWing!!! See you then!

Now, why are there two SkyWings and why do they not look the same? Because the second one, the one with the yellow horns, is actually the first one I drew. I didn't know what style I would be using and it was not well thought out. The first, the really pretty shiny one, is actually the seventh one I drew, when I had a clear idea.

This SkyWing is inspired by birds of prey (eagles specifically) found in the deadly eye and sharp beak. It isn't a real bird beak but I found that I really like the shape and style of an avian beak on reptiles, and the SkyWing had it originally. It looks better than the first version anyway. It's also got some vague monitor lizard and komodo dragon aspects in it, with the face scales (and especially around the eyes), but my favourite bit is the horns. I didn't document what species I used but I want to say it was a mountain goat (for obvious reasons). One neat feature about the horns is that each segment represents one year on top of the seven from the original horn. So seven years plus six segments means this particular SkyWing is thirteen years old. Just a silly headcanon on top of this headcanon design. Finally, the neck scales look less like fish scales and more like snake scales (using a snake for reference). I always loved those and wanted MORE of them. Plus it fits with their underbelly.

[angelicyoongie]

lovesick (X)

— pairing: yandere ot7 x (f) reader — word count: 4.8k — warnings: yandere, stalking, obsessive behaviour, spanking as punishment, minor injuries, other content that may be triggering. — summary: You dreamed of the day you would get your very own soulmark. Though, you didn’t expect to wake up to a searing hurt in your arm, the phantom pain of your shoulder being dislocated and your forearm fractured. As if dealing with the worst possible soulmark ever wasn’t bad enough, you also have to come to terms with the fact that you’re being stalked. When the letters and gifts you receive begin to escalate and the police offers no help, you have no other option than to figure out who’s behind it yourself – and hopefully before it’s too late.

Previous – Next

You wake up to the sound of gravel crunching under Namjoon's shoes.

Your face is tucked against his chest, breathing in the scent of the crisp night air that lingers on his coat. It takes you a moment to reorient yourself, for the last tendrils of unconsciousness to slip away.

It all comes crashing down over you like a cold bucket of water as reality sets in; he's taking you back to the cabin.

It'll be as if the last hours never happened, as if you never stepped foot outside the sturdy wooden structure. You're going back to them – except, perhaps it won't be the same men that you left that you'll have to face once you step back inside. The soulmates you ran away from were terrible and selfish but they were never cruel. After your failed escape attempt, however, you no longer know if that still rings true. If that's something you can count on. 

Your body locks up at the thought of the monsters waiting for you down the road, muscles spasming with the need to move despite the utter exhaustion weighing you down.

Namjoon tightens his grip around your middle as you grow stiff, arms locking you securely against his body.

"You're awake," He notes, the usual honey in his voice gone. "It's for the best. We can deal with everything much quicker this way."

The fearful whine that shoots up your throat gets trapped behind your teeth, your lips too numb for the noise to pass through them. It takes great effort for you to move your head over, turning just enough that you're able to pick up on your surroundings. Namjoon must have parked just down the bend from the cabin, his steady steps already closing in on the dark silhouette looming between the trees in the distance. 

Your heart feels like it's trying to beat itself out of your chest as you pick up on muffled yells, shivers racing down your frozen spine as you make out six distinct voices. The soft light emanating from the cabin sends ferocious shadows dancing across the ground, their movements erratic and violent.

It gets harder to breathe the closer you get, your chest refusing to move as Namjoon steps up on the small patio in front of the entrance. Blood rushing in your ears, you try to make yourself as small as possible in his arms as he reaches out for the handle, wishing you could just melt away into nothing. Anything would've been better than this.

The cabin goes deadly still as Namjoon pushes the door open. 

Your vision blurs as you're brought into the heat, your eyes stinging as you attempt to blink some moisture back into them. You can barely make out the six fuzzy figures scattered around the room, their bodies stock still as if they're frozen in time. The chilly wind that blows into the cabin is nothing compared to the sight that greets you as your eyes adjust – the six men in front of you looking everything from angry to icy to hurt. A few of them even have the gall to glare at you with something akin to betrayal; like you were only stringing them along for your amusement and not your survival. 

It leaves you trembling with fear, the knowledge that no matter what you do, nothing will make them understand that they're the ones in the wrong. That they're the selfish ones.

Namjoon takes another step forward, chest rising with a small sigh as he readjusts you in his grip. Perhaps he regrets bringing you back now that he can see the state the others are in, their hair and clothes rumpled, the furniture in the common room strewn about like a hurricane has torn through it.

You glance back up at his face in time to see him set his jaw, his voice tight as he says, "We're back." 

The door that slams shut behind him jerks the cabin back into motion, the noise that was sucked out before suddenly rolling over the room like a crashing wave. You screw your eyes shut as their yells blend into each other, feet thundering across the room as they stumble over themselves to reach you. 

"What were you thinking?!" You flinch as Taehyung's voice booms across the cabin. You can't discern if it's anger or concern that's got him so agitated, so loud, and that scares you. 

"Calm down, Taehyung. I know you were worried but this isn't the way to show it," Yoongi hisses. 

His voice drifts closer, a little softer, as he addresses you, "You're lucky Namjoon found you, Y/n. You're already chilled to the bone." 

"Never scare me like that again, angel," Seokjin sounds wobbly as he pats over your hair, hushing the choked noise you make at the contact. 

Your eyes flutter open against your will at the low, irritated snort that travels through the room.

Jimin stands with his arms crossed over his chest by the couch, scowling as the two oldest keep fretting over you. "Don't tell me you already forgot why you were so distraught in the first place, hyungs? Y/n ran away. She was just playing with us with whole time – she doesn't love us." 

Seokjin's fingers still in your hair, the warm touch of his hand slowly receding as he takes a step back. He throws a hard glance over his shoulder, mouth pinched in annoyance, "Jimin, did I not tell you to shut up for the rest of the night?" 

Jimin grits his teeth at Seokjin's tone, turning his head to stare blankly at the wall. 

"He's right though," Hoseok says, hand brushing over Jimin's shoulder as he steps closer. "Y/n tricked us. She betrayed the trust we gave her and we can't let that slide without any consequences." 

"What are you suggesting?" Namjoon leans back on his heels, fingers digging into your thigh.

"She deserves a punishment," Hoseok blankly states, eyebrows cocked as he stares you down, "Don't you agree, Y/n?" 

"N-no," You weakly shake your head.

The tsk you get from Hoseok in return makes you recoil, the fear in your body so tangible you can taste it on the tip of your tongue. 

"I think you're right, Hobi." 

A small, betrayed gasp leaves your lips as you hear Yoongi's careful drawl. His agreement stings more than expected, somehow you had deluded yourself into thinking that Yoongi wasn't as bad as the other men in the room; that he and Jungkook actually seemed to care a little for you and not just your soulmate connection.

Jungkook still hasn't moved from where he's sat in one of the big ratty armchairs near the couches. His doe eyes are shiny with tears when you meet them across the room. Jungkook starts curling in on himself the longer you look, shame pulling at his features as he ducks his head.

"Fine," Namjoon says, "But nothing too bad." 

"Of course not. I don't actually want to hurt sunshine, she just needs to learn a lesson," Hoseok scoffs.

The men around you share a look, a silent conversation passing between them. You have no idea what they're thinking but it frightens you to know that this must have been something they have already discussed, that they've already decided on a punishment should you ever disobey them. 

"Who–?" Seokjin trails off, biting his lip nervously between his teeth.

"I'll do it," Taehyung sounds chastised, his voice meek as he adds, "I should do it." 

He takes a seat in the middle of the couch, dragging his hands over his jeans as he gives Namjoon a nod to show that he's ready. 

"W-what, no!" You uselessly tug at Namjoon's coat as he strides across the room, your frozen limbs making it impossible to fight back as you're carefully manhandled across Taehyung's lap.

Fingers wrap around your ankles, keeping your legs glued against the couch as you futilely try to push yourself up with shaking arms. Another hand is pressed against the small of your back, rendering your movement useless. No matter how much you try to squirm, you're simply too exhausted and cold to shake them off.

It takes you a second to recognize the position you're in, disgust curling in your stomach as it hits you that you're about to be spanked. 

"I'm not a c-child," You bite through clattering teeth, fingernails digging into threadbare cushions. 

"No? You sure act like one," Hoseok scowls. "Big girls wouldn't run off like you did." 

You jerk as Taehyung's hand settles on the back of your thigh. You turn your head back to look at him as the others crowd around the couch, voice breaking as you whisper, "Please don't." 

Taehyung doesn't meet your eye. His gaze is trained resolutely on his hand, his expression pinched. The corner of his mouth is downturned as he moves his hand from your thigh to your butt, his long fingers easily spanning over one cheek.

You let out a shuddering breath at the unwanted touch, pressing your forehead to the couch to hide away from the six burning pairs of eyes that surround you. Taehyung's fingers flex against the material of your trousers as he murmurs something under his breath, the feeling so weirdly intimate it makes your eyes cloud over, hot tears trailing down your temple. 

"It's just ten, babe. We could do a lot worse," He comments gruffly. 

There's no preamble before Taehyung raises his hand and delivers the first hit, the harsh smack echoing through the room. You bite your tongue, choking down the strangled cry that tries to rush up your throat.

You feel the imprint of his fingers burn on your cheek, the sudden pain so consuming you barely register how someone else hisses out a low curse.

It's only when Taehyung is on the third hit that you feel how he jolts as his hand makes contact; how it takes him a moment to collect himself before he delivers the next one. The fifth smack brings a weird sense of clarity to you, Yoongi's irritated cough finally making you realize that you're all feeling Taehyung's slaps. Your soulbond is connected through pain so the hurt that blooms with every hit doesn't just affect you – it has an impact on them as well.

The somber atmosphere in the room isn't just because they're disciplining you for running away; they're also punishing themselves for letting it happen. 

You let out a harsh breath at the next smack. Despite the numbness in your limbs, you can feel how horrible your butt is stinging, the alternating hits doing little to lessen the pain a new one brings. It becomes harder and harder to think with each hit, your mind slowly falling apart under the excruciating combination of fear, exhaustion and pain. 

The final smack seems to linger in the room and the silence that follows feels so thick you might crumble under it. 

Your right-hand aches as Taehyung uses his to lightly rub over your smarting ass, his breathing shaky as he tries to soothe the bruises that are no doubt already starting to form. 

"Hyung," Taehyung rasps.

The hands pressing on your back and ankles disappear in an instant. Taehyung springs away as Namjoon lifts you, moving your body into Seokjin's waiting arms. You try to blink away the tears clinging to your lashes as Seokjin leans you back against his chest, taking some of the pressure off your backside as you're maneuvered to lay on your side. 

"You're absolutely freezing, angel," He tuts. He motions for Yoongi to grab him a nearby blanket, quickly tucking you in. The warmth that wraps around you is a small comfort, but it's not nearly enough to quell the shivers that are still rattling through your body.

"Let's do this quick, she needs to warm up." 

You swallow thickly as Namjoon kneels by your feet, gently pulling your socks off. They're so cold you struggle to move your toes. 

It's not until a rush of warm air hits your exposed skin that you realize you're hurt. Your soles are aching something fierce and you catch a glimpse of blood on the socks Namjoon throws down beside him. 

"Darling," Namjoon furrows his brows as he looks at the torn skin, tongue poking into his cheek in disappointment. "Why did you do this to yourself?" 

He shakes his head as if you're going to answer him. Heaving out a heavy sigh, Namjoon wordlessly accepts a small basin of warm water and a cloth from Hoseok, wetting and wringing the material out before he brings it to your feet. 

You let out a wounded hiss as he makes contact, your foot involuntarily jerking away from the water that stings your open cuts. The quick movement causes you to drag your sole against the couch and it only causes you more hurt, a sharp pain shooting up your leg.

"Fuck," You whimper, body shaking against Seokjin's as Namjoon quickly reaches out to grab your foot, holding it securely over the side of the couch. You can feel Seokjin's leg twitch as the pain moves through the soulbond, the others grimacing as they feel it too.

"Angel, please be careful," Seokjin admonishes as he tucks his head over your shoulder, holding you in a tight hug as he rests his cheek against yours. 

You shudder as Namjoon once again brings the cloth back to your skin, wincing as he meticulously and carefully cleans up all the dried blood and dirt clinging to your wounds. Namjoon's voice is perturbed as he moves on to your other foot, holding it with a firm grip as he says, "This is why we were holding you down during your punishment, darling, so you wouldn't hurt yourself more by moving around. We don't enjoy doing any of this." 

You choose not to voice your disbelief. Judging by the sour look Jimin sports as he stares you down, you're sure it's written all over your face regardless. 

Namjoon hands off the dirty water and cloth to Yoongi, switching it out with an antiseptic cream that he starts dabbing on your cuts. 

Seokjin's warm breath hits the corner of your mouth as he cautiously asks, "What made you come back, Joon? You weren't supposed to return until tomorrow." 

The bandage that's being wrapped around your left foot pauses, Namjoon tilting his head as he mulls over what to respond.

"I think it was that pull you've talked about before. I just suddenly felt like I had to go back to the cabin, that I was needed here," He lets out a low snort, humorless. "I guess whatever feeling it was, was correct." 

"Interesting," Yoongi muses. He leans against Jungkook's chair, absentmindedly patting the youngest's hair. Jungkook leans into the comforting touch, face still marred with shame as he chances a glance over at you in Seokjin's arms. 

You stare blankly down at Namjoon's hands as he finishes up one bandage and moves on to the next, his words echoing in your head. Did the soulbond somehow call him back? If it knew you were trying to put distance between yourself and your soulmates, can it work against you to keep you from separating from them?

You don't want to believe that it can affect you that much. But if it is true, does that mean your own soul is betraying you – that it'll do whatever it takes to keep you close to these monsters who don't actually care about you, as long as it'll keep the bond strong? 

"It's definitely too strange to just be a coincidence," Hoseok purses his lips.

The sweater you picked out this morning suddenly feels too heavy on your shoulders. Was it just by chance that you picked out one that belongs to Namjoon, or is there something else to it? Can you even trust yourself anymore? 

You barely register as Namjoon finishes wrapping up your foot, the blanket being pulled away from your body as Seokjin lets go of your waist. Your chest is tight and your vision spotty as you're handed off to Yoongi, too many awful thoughts and feelings all vying for your attention at once. 

You feel yourself being carried again, the lights going from soft to bright, but it's like everything is underwater, muffled and out of reach. Yoongi's blurry face is suddenly in front of yours and it takes you once, twice, to focus on what he's saying; for the words to make any sense. "–can you do it yourself?" 

Yoongi sighs as you stare blankly back at him. He brushes a finger down your trembling jaw, wincing at how cold your skin feels. "Y/n, you really need to warm up. I'm going to place a stool for you inside the shower so that you can rest and we can keep your feet outside of it and dry. I know you'd rather not have me undress you, but are you able to do that yourself?" 

"Yes," You croak, disgust rippling across your body as you think of Yoongi undressing you, of any of them seeing you so vulnerable. 

"Okay," Yoongi says, unconvinced. You bite your lip harshly as you're placed down on the closed toilet seat, the pressure awful on your bruised ass. 

Yoongi steps over to turn the shower on for you, the old pipes rattling as water starts spewing out of them. He keeps his hand under the spray until he deems the temperature good enough. His expression is sorry yet firm as steps back, nodding to the door as he explains, "I can't leave the room but I'll keep my back turned to you the entire time. You're too weak to be left on your own right now. I won't turn around until you tell me it's okay. I promise." 

"Do you want help to get over to the stool once you're undressed?" Yoongi eyes your bandaged feet, eyebrows drawn tight with worry.

"No," You whisper.

The toilet is only a few steps away from the shower but even just that feels like miles with a body so tired and battered. Still, you're willing to push yourself until you collapse if it means none of them will touch you like that. 

"Just let me know if you need help, love," Yoongi sighs as he walks over to the door, facing it head-on like promised.

Getting undressed is a battle but it's one you refuse to lose. You keep your eyes locked on Yoongi's back as you pull off layer after layer, the steady steam rising in the bathroom only making your shivers worse. You refuse to strip down further than your underwear, the pieces offering you some modesty in a situation that just feels so mortifying. 

You pull yourself up on your feet with a yelp, legs shaking with pain as you slowly hobble over to the shower. You're not sure how you manage to maneuver yourself down on the stool but you do, and the relief of warm water cascading down your frozen body is so great you can't hold back the sob that rips out of your throat. 

Yoongi's back tenses as he hears the broken noise, his hands gripping the doorframe to keep himself in place. He never turns his head, choosing instead to rest it against the door, taking deep and measured breaths as he listens to your choked cries and whimpers.

The warmth slowly returning to your limbs is downright awful. The cold clinging to your skin refuses to bulge at first, and when it finally does slip, it feels like pins and needles being hammered into your flesh as the water rains down on you. The shivers slowly ebb away the longer you sit in the shower, your dry calves and feet prickling with the weird temperature difference.

You lose track of time as the heat gently returns to your body, face swollen and puffy as the last of your hopelessness trickles out through your eyes. 

You're exhausted and everything hurts. It's like your mind and body has been fractured into a thousand pieces, all of them poking and pricking you no matter what muscle you flex or what direction your thoughts try to stray.

You just want to sleep, to forget, for a little while. 

Yoongi straightens up as the water is turned off. His voice is hoarse, much like he's been crying himself when he asks, "Are you done, Y/n? Are you still cold?" 

You take a deep, shaking breath, filling your lungs with as much bravery as you can muster. "'m done." 

"Wrap yourself up in the towel by the shower, love. Let me know when you're covered, yeah? I'll open the door and grab the clothes Jungkook left for you." 

You do as Yoongi asks, watching as he opens the door just enough to snatch the clothes waiting for him outside. He walks backward towards the shower, still somewhat respectful of your privacy as he leaves them on the toilet. "Take the time you need to get dressed. I'll wait by the door until you're ready." 

Your mind is hazy and drifting as you attempt to dry yourself off, exhaustion weighing your lashes down. Slipping your wet underwear off under your towel in exchange for Jungkook's clothes isn't an easy feat, pain still flaring up your feet as you're forced to put pressure on them. Still, it's a small consolation that Yoongi doesn't attempt to help you until you raise your voice and say that you're done.

Yoongi sweeps you up into his arms before you can even blink, strong arms holding you close to his chest. He swallows hard as he glances down at you, voice unbearably soft as he says, "I really am sorry, Y/n." 

He, much like Namjoon, knows he won't be getting an answer. Yoongi steps out of the bathroom with measured steps, making sure not to move you around too much. The cabin is dark and quiet as he carries you down the hallway, the others nowhere to be seen.

"It's been a long day for all of us," Yoongi mutters as if he senses your confusion. 

Your fingers find Yoongi's shirt as he steps closer to your room, shock hitting you like a lightning bolt as you see the state of it. The door is broken off its hinges, halfway torn off the frame. The desk you pushed against it is flush with the wall and the rest of your room looks absolutely trashed. Furniture has been flipped over as if they were looking for you under it; your belongings scattered everywhere. The brute force they must have used to get into the room makes you realize just how badly this return, this punishment, could have gone for you. 

The moment passes as Yoongi walks further down the hall, but the sick feeling in your stomach lingers. 

He nudges one of the ajar doors with his foot, stepping into the room as it opens. The bedroom is bathed in soft light, the pillows on the bed fluffed and the covers already drawn aside. Yoongi carefully places you down on the mattress before he tucks you in, his expression troubled as he watches how you wince and grimace as you try to get comfortable. 

"This is Seokjin hyung's room," Yoongi explains, "He'll be staying with you tonight. We ... we're going to be taking turns watching over you." 

"Thank you for the introduction, Yoongi-chi," Seokjin's smile is a little strained as he enters the room, a glass of water clutched in his hand. He places it down on the table next to you, patting Yoongi's back before he takes a seat in the plush chair that faces the bed. 

"You can go rest now." 

"Alright," Yoongi nods. He meets your gaze for a split second, mumbling out a gentle goodnight before he turns on his heel and leaves.

Seokjin lets out a small sigh as the door clicks shut. "I should've given him a talking to for not drying your hair properly but I'm sure you're tired, angel. Damp hair must be the least of your worries right now, huh?" He shakes his head.

You pull the covers up to your chin, eyes alert despite how your lids keep attempting to fall shut every other second. There's not an ounce of trust for them in your body but it's so terribly difficult to stay awake when you want to do nothing but sleep. 

"I'm sure you saw the state of your old room," Seokjin winces, "You'll be spending one night with each of us on rotation. You might not wish to have us so close all the time but you shattered the trust we had in you, Y/n."

He folds his hands in his lap with a frown, staring down at his slightly crooked fingers as he says, "You can use the bathroom alone as long as one of us is right outside of the door, but aside from that, we're going to have to watch your every step. We won't allow you to hurt yourself again. I'm sorry it had to come to this but, well, it was the best thing we could settle on." 

You close your eyes to avoid the sad look Seokjin gives you, your chest constricting with fury. If they're trying to guilt trip you, it's not working. You can't believe they're trying to frame all of this as them simply looking out for you when in reality, they're robbing you of any agency you have. 

As you take deep breaths to quell the anger bubbling in your stomach, you feel yourself growing heavier and heavier, your body sinking into the mattress below. You want to be angry, you want to fight, but what's the use? You won't get another chance at escaping the cabin and your own soul clings to the soulbond, refusing to let you weaken your connection to them. 

You fist the sheets, sniffling as darkness begins to drag you under. If the universe wants you here, wants you to stay with them, maybe.. maybe it's time you give up and accept it. 

You wake up, drowsy, to the sound of something clattering. It takes you a second to realize that it's coming from you – your teeth rattling in your mouth from the cold that has seeped into the room while you slept. Everything is dark aside from the pale moonlight shining through the window on the other side of the room, your breath fogging up the air in front of you as you breathe.

You gingerly flip over on your other side, pulling the sheets as tight to your body as they can go, but it doesn't help fend the cold off. It's no wonder this cabin is abandoned during most of the year, not if it's reliant on the fireplace in the common room to heat up the entire place. 

After what feels like an eternity of shivering, you hear Seokjin's raspy voice calling out in the quiet room. "Angel? Are you cold?" 

Fabric rustles as he shifts in the chair. You hold yourself as still as possible as footsteps pad across the wooden floors, Seokjin's darkened silhouette coming into view. He hesitates by the side of the bed for a second, just enough for your teeth to start clattering again before he makes up his mind and climbs in. The mattress dips as Seokjin's weight settles upon it, the man in front of you scooting down until he's facing you in the dark. 

A rush of cold air hits your body as he raises the sheets to shimmy under them, an arm curling around your waist before you can even think to open your mouth. Seokjin presses himself flush against your body, mindful of your injuries as he tucks your face into his neck. 

"I'm still upset with you, angel, and I know you're upset with me, but you need my body heat if you want to sleep." 

Seokjin is very warm. 

You inch closer without even meaning to, your sleepy brain desperate for the heat that radiates off him. Seokjin lets out a small gasp as your cold nose skims against his throat, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you close.

Sleep slowly begins to weigh down your eyelids again as you soak up Seokjin's warmth, your body relaxing so deeply it feels like your bones have been turned to mush. The last thing you remember is Seokjin nuzzling his face into your hair, lips pressing against it in a soft kiss that makes your heart flutter.

Perhaps, if you had been a little more awake, you would've realized it wasn't fear that made it skip a beat.

a/n: you can read ch 11 of lovesick early by clicking here!

it only took ten months but we're back baby!! how are we feeling about what happened in this chapter? namjoon bringing her back, the boys' reaction and her "punishment", her private moment with yoongi and seokjin ... lots of things happened so i would love to hear what you're thinking!!

see you in the next chapter and remember to wish jimin a happy b-day!! 💖