#even without a memory in his brain he calls them ‘little one’ and is gentle like. he cares

[zeb-z]

Bad has so many reasons to be cautious, even paranoid, as anyone else on the island. From Federation nonsense to Dapper being kidnapped to the whole purgatory nonsense to whatever fuckass suit of armor “old friend” was setting up cameras in his house. But it compounds on his regular overly aware paranoid self to this state of hyper-paranoia. And as a demon who can and usually will lie, cheat, steal, and use sneaky underhanded tactics, he expects the craziest extent because he thinks of it, realizes it’s possible, and would use it himself. We saw this very obviously in purgatory - when he thought greens desperate last ditch effort to balance the scale was a super planned out tactic to tip the scale, so he did it first, all the hardcore base hunting, the spawn killing, there’s a reason every other tactic he used usually followed a main channel qsmp post with updated rules - all usually things he was surprised no one else thought of. But then this also piles onto the fact that he has to have things go his way, all the time, and that he’s argumentative as all get out, which led to the debate between him and Bagi yknow. Especially because he’s not just doing it for the sake of being right, he doesn’t think he’s paranoid, but that he’s exercising the right amount of caution.

So like. Listen dude. Yeah he’s got reasons to be paranoid. But his thought process around building vaults for separate cookie caches like they locked up the risus pills, only to scrap it because it’s not perfectly impenetrable, is extreme. His character has hardly been a leading example in someone who has reasonable reactions to things. And even when there isn’t his own children’s livelihoods potentially on the line, he has a need for control, and the most control he has is if he keeps the cookies in his inventory at all times. If he makes himself the sole point in which the others can get ones in a case of emergency, then he can control the variables. The problem is he’s unreliable about himself when he’s at his most rational and healthiest, and he’s far worse with the current memory and health issues he’s been mostly unaware of.

I dunno it’s like. There is never going to be a purely impenetrable base. And it’s not just a case of “Bagi just hasn’t lived through __ yet!”. Bad’s own logic about keeping the cookies on him at all times is flawed under his own logic, because Bagi is right - if someone has enough drive to break into separate secured cookie caches purely for the downfall of eggs, they more than certainly have enough drive to find a way to kill Bad and just take them from his inventory, or to just kill the eggs themselves. All it truly does is give Bad a sense of control, and soothe his paranoia.

#everyone let’s remember rurus’ tweet about bad NOT being in the blunt rotation. he would try to pluck cameras out of your eyes. and he will #make it seem like it’s the most reasonable thing to do in that moment #now this is more me complaining about shit I’ve been seeing on Twitter in the tags <3 love and peace but I’ve got beef #side note - to say the people who are commenting on qBad’s paranoia or this and that are all newcomers who just ‘weren’t there to experienc #-the dark times’ or ‘weren’t there for the egg deaths/nightmares’ like you are not immune to the way bbh can make something seem so #reasonable #he’s got his own reasons to be paranoid. and most everyone agreed that the base idea of a ‘cookie jar’ would need rethinking with security #but to say qBagi (or Jorge’s/other viewers) is shortsighted or naive. when qBad is THE definition of paranoia. of overreacting. like #qBad’s reaction extends from a mixture of care hyper paranoia and trauma response (which is half that hyper paranoia) #and he will pick and pick and pick until there’s nothing left to pick at #sometimes this is helpful. a lot of the time it’s not #and on the flip side it’s like y’all bad cares about the eggs to a ridiculous degree don’t be silly here okay. he does this because he care #even without a memory in his brain he calls them ‘little one’ and is gentle like. he cares #but at the same time this doesn’t always justify his nonsense. his thought processes. he’s Uber hyper paranoid and not easy to reason with #he’s selfish he can and will jump to extremes he’s overly controlling. and he’s the worlds most unreliable narrator #I’ve been saying this I’ll keep saying this he’s an unreliable narrator! this doesn’t make everything he says or thinks bullshit but you #cannot take what he says to himself how he justifies his actions etc etc in private at face value. unless he is making it EXPLICITLY CLEAR #he’s talking from a meta perspective as the creator of his character #you have to take his perspective with a grain of salt. because he will ‘I’m just a little guy and the world is out to get me’ his way outta #everything #there is a difference between reasonable caution from learned past experiences and overly anxious paranoid responses #idk I’m running out of steam sorry this is like a second post with the tags #and again I say this as a huge qBbh enjoyer lmao #mcyt #qsmp #q!bbh #q!bagi #z speaks

[ohtobeleah]

Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Seven: [Faucet Failure]

Summary: Jake makes his way back to you after finding out the truth. While under sedation to give your brain some rest, you remember the good times and the bad with your husband.

Warnings: Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil.

Word Count: 4.6K

Author Note: These chapters keep getting more and more heartbreaking. I can’t even deal. Why did you guys let me do this to y’all?

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

November 22nd

The dim glow of your TV was the only thing in the house that was giving your home any sort of light. The kids had all gone down well, both Lucy and Lennox had swimming practice after school which meant that they were down and out for the count before you even got from their beds back to the door. Sam was easy to get to sleep, he always had been. He was just a naturally sleepy kid. 

The gentle knock against your front door startled you, but didn’t shock you. You knew exactly who it was. It was the same guy who'd given you a tissue to dry your tears, the same guy who sat beside you and kept you company during one of your lowest moments. It was the guy that had turned an overly depressing core memory into one that showed a little humanity, sympathy and understanding. 

“Happy Birthday!” Jensen cooed as he stood at your door with a plastic bag full of Chinese takeout containers full to the very brim. “I didn't know what you liked so I think I got one of everything.” You stood at the threshold of your home just staring at the man who was on your doorstep, who’d insisted on buying you dinner. When you had informed him of your three children, Jensen said he’d have it delivered.

But he didn't specify who’d be delivering it…..

“I hope you weren't expecting a tip.” You smiled as you let Jensen into your home, the unimaginable amount of scattered children's shoes made it look like you were raising a family of caterpillars, but Jensen didn't mind the mess. He understood, his sister had two little girls around about the same age as Lucy and Lennox. 

“But I brought you cheesecake as well?” Jensen smiled back at you in the darkness of the dimly lit hallway. “Can’t have a birthday without cake.” 

“I don't even remember the last time someone brought me any form of cake.” You sighed as you politely took the cheesecake in its cake box. Jensen frowned in response as he watched you hit the light switch in the hallway that led to the kitchen. 

“Didn't your husband ever buy you a birthday cake?” He called out as he followed you deeper into your humble abode. It was a simple question that carried far too much weight than you were ready to truly unpack. You'd told Jensen in one of your many conversations since you first met about how you and Jake were separated due to circumstances that weren’t fair to either one of you. Jensen never pressed for more information than you were willing to give. 

“He used to.” You shrugged. “I can't remember the year he stopped, hell–I can't really even pinpoint when he stopped caring but eventually he did and soon enough my birthday just became another day.” It was hard to admit, but Jensen made opening up about your marital struggles easy, you never really confided in anyone about any of it. He had a non-biased opinion. “But I loved Jake, I still do, at the time I guess I didn't care that I was getting a fraction of what I deserved because a fraction of him was better than nothing at all.” The tears were there, they were ready to spill over your lower last line. But you never let them fall as Jensen sat down at your kitchen bench and opened up the bag of chinese food. “But it all got too much– or too little, I suppose.” 

“Have you told him about the cancer yet?” Jensen asked softly, he wasn't pressing, he was just asking. 

“I still dont think I’m going to–he probably wouldn't care, I mean he forgot my birthday.” Again you shrugged it off like it was no big deal. “I highly doubt he’d care about some cancer diagnosis.” 

“Are you sure he wouldn't care? Or have you just convinced yourself he wouldn't because it hurts less to believe he doesn't care than it does to believe he does?” When you answered Jensen's heart sank. He saw the tears in your eyes, the look of heartbreak that reflected from your very soul. The longingness in your expression. He saw right through the wall you tried so hard to protect yourself with. He saw it all. Which is why when your voice cracked and your support beams held together by caffeine and your need to keep a normal routine for your children in place, faltered, Jensen sighed. 

“It didn't take much convincing–”

“Y/n–”

“How was Chemo today?” You tried your best to change the subject as you grabbed some cutlery. The chair beside Jensen at your kitchen counter looked awfully comfortable. 

“Consider my follicles fried.” Jensen chuckled as you handed him a spoon. “Now don't change the subject, we’re talking about you and this husband of yours, who, I'm convinced, is a few screws short of a hardware store.” 

“Oh yeah? Why's that?” You weren't sure if you wanted to know, but what you did know was that Jake wasn’t here. He’d sent you a message earlier in the day but you were yet to respond. You felt that if you replied it would open a floodgate of vulnerability. But soon enough Jensens words had you in a freefall of wondering if it was truly over between you and Jake–

“Because I don't think anyone who's lucky enough to love you would ever put themselves in a position to lose you.” 

Or not. 

***~***~***~**~***~

“Look left for me?” Doctor Ignatii spoke as he shined his little pen light in your eyes. “And right?” You did as you were told although you just wanted to be left alone. “Count to five for me?” You almost rolled your eyes as Doctor Ignatii stepped away and walked closer to your feet. 

“One, two, three, four, five.” You slowly counted. “Do I get a gold star?” Doctor Ignatii didn’t take your foul attitude to heart, he dealt with people like you every day—over the years you tend to develop pretty thick skin. 

“Possibly, if you can wiggle your toes and touch your nose?” He asked through a smile as he began to feel your feet. “Wiggle please Mrs Seresin.” 

“This better not be my audition tape for the Madden Brothers Circus.” You didn’t mean to take your hostility out on the doctor who had saved your life, but there was a small part of you that wished he would have just let the blood clot do its damage. You did what you were told once more and wiggled your toes and touched your nose. “Look at me go.”

“Well—“ Doctor Ignatii chuckled to himself as he filled out your charts on his iPad. “You don’t seem to be showing any immediate deficits post surgery, I’d like to give your brain a chance to rest for another ten to twelve hours before we get you out of bed for a little bit of a walk.” You listened to what your doctor was saying as your mother came back into the room, you didn’t know it but Jake had just landed and was heading right over. 

“Does that mean I get more of these awesome drugs?” You asked playfully, your mother even swore you were flirting. Doctor Ignatii was very handsome with brown hair and dark skin. He smiled at your forwardness but nodded in response. He was also used to this. 

“We’ll give you another sedative to make sure you're able to rest, you’ll probably feel like you got hit by a bus when you wake up but it’ll give us a clearer indication if you’ll face any deficits going forward.” 

“You reckon breast cancer’s a deficit?” You couldn't stop thinking about the dream you had about Jake. it felt so real, like your own personal rolodex of memories was trying its best to show you the good times. For whatever reason that may be you had no idea, but, you really had to ground yourself in your own reality. Jake wasn't the Jake from your memories anymore, although you desperately wished he was. He was now the Jake who couldn't remember your birthday or to fill your Christmas stocking on Christmas. He was the guy who let you peel your own oranges after he’d done it for so many years. 

He was the guy who had fallen out of love with you. 

“I do, but your double mastectomy has been rescheduled for Christmas Eve. So what better way to wake up on Christmas morning knowing your chance of kicking cancer's ass just went up by thirty five percent?” It was your turn to smile at Doctor Ignatii as he ended the conversation about your cancer at that. “I’ll send in a nurse to admit the sedative, mum? She’ll be out for a minimum of ten hours while on the IV, you should take the time to get some rest too.” 

“Sure thing Doc.” Your mother answered as she watched him walk away. “Were you flirting with that man?” 

“No harm, he’s seen the inside of my brain, can’t get more intimate then that can you?” You were probably putting on a braver face then you felt but your mother could tell you were nervous about the sedative.. 

“I’ll stay with you for the entire time you're sleeping.” She cooed as she pushed your hair behind your hair. She noticed how stands fell almost with the gust of her fingertip. The chemo was killing your hair follicles. “You won’t be alone.” 

“Thanks.” Was all you said as Lydia came into your room ready to set your IV drop up. “I hope you’ve done this before, kid.” 

“Absolutely Mrs Seresin.” Lydia chuckled, she felt a lot better after a full eight hours of sleep. “I’ll just get this sorted and you’ll be good to go.” As Lydia set up your IV, you had just rough energy to send one message to a dear friend you thought should know about your current state. Your mother watched as you typed out a really quick message with one hand. 

You: “Had a stroke, in hospital, surgery rescheduled.” 

“Promise you’ll stay?” You asked your mum one more time as you saw her reading a text. A text from your ex husband telling her he was about twenty minutes away and running off the five hours of sleep he got before his world got flipped on its head. 

“You’re not going be alone sweetheart.” Your mother answered rather cryptically. As your eyelids grew heavier and heavier. “You’re not gonna be alone.” 

***~***~***~**~***~

“I'm here.” Jake had taken the next flight back to Rhode Island that he could, he didn't have time to waste when it came to getting back to you. He was tired, emotionally exhausted from everything he had learnt of your condition and dishevelled beyond belief. He was sure someone threw a dollar down at him while he was sitting on the floor at the airport next to a charging port. He looked so distressed and dishevelled that someone thought he was homeless. 

He kept that dollar though. 

“Okay, ask the main reception to point you in the direction of oncology and we’re in room 306.” Your mother replied over the phone, Jake had called her about fifteen minutes after you had been administered your sedative. 

Jake felt his heart in the back of his throat as he took the elevator up to the level the lady at the reception desk in the main lobby of the Rhode Island hospital had told him to go to. Oncology equals cancer, you had cancer, breast cancer, you had a stroke, strokes can kill you, cancer can kill you. 

Jake had thought about nothing else since he got on his flight, the idea that you were sick, that you were so sick you couldn't even tell him broke his heart more than you leaving him ever could. There was once a time where Jake thought you could tell him anything, that you were able to come to him with any problem you had or were facing. 

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when you stopped telling him things, or more importantly when he’d stopped listening. Jake couldn't help but to blame himself for feeling like he’d somewhat put you into this situation where you felt like you couldn't rely on him to step up when you needed him to. You were sick and you needed support, he was supposed to be that support, but instead you kept him in the dark like he didn't deserve to know you were ill. 

Maybe he didn't deserve to know, but either way Jake was walking towards room 306 where your mother had told him to go. He brought his duffel with him, Jake made no plans to leave your bedside for the duration of your stay. However long that may be, he was gonna be by your side. 

And the second he got to the threshold of your hospital room, Jake Seresin forgot what it was like to be able to breathe on his own accord. 

“Oh Honey.” He cooed as his bottom lip quivered, your Mother tried her best to remain a strong presence but at the sight of Jake crumbling under the weight of the idea he’d lose you twice over made her eyes water. “Oh my sweet girl.” 

***~***~***~**~***~

“Jake!” You shouted out throughout the house as Lucy and Lenny watched over baby Sam as they ate lunch in the living room.“Jake!” 

“What?” Jake called back to you from the back deck where he was busy doing absolutely nothing but enjoying a beer with his feet up and his sunglasses on. He just needed twenty minutes. Sam had been a handful today and ever since Jake got home he’d wanted nothing more than to use his body as a jungle gym. 

“The faucet in the ensuite won’t stop leaking, can you please tighten it before you get too comfortable.” You asked as politely as you could with a soft smile. 

“Sure, yeah I’ll put it on the list.” Jake shrugged your request off like it was nothing but another chore you were commanding him to do. When Jake didn’t budge, you crossed your arms over your chest and pressed the issue further. 

“It’s just that I’m trying to work on my new book and I can’t concentrate with the dripping.” You were in the middle of your latest project. A new book proposal your editors were waiting on. 

“I said I’d get to it Hon, just—why don’t you try writing somewhere else besides your desk? Or better yet, shut the ensuite door?” Jake couldn’t see the rage burning in your eyes when he told you to basically deal with it until he could be arsed to get up. 

“Jake please?” You begged, it wasn’t the first time you’d asked Jake to fix the leaky faucet but it would be the last. It was one the few final straws that broke your back before you decided enough was enough and you couldn’t stay in your marriage any longer. “I need you to do this one thing for me so I can work in peace.” 

“If it’s so important that it needs to be fixed right this second Hon just fix it yourself?” Jake argued back as he took a sip of his beer, it had been a long week for him and he needed a moment to relax. “You know how to fix a leak.” 

“I already tried!” You shouted back loud enough to finally have Jake taking his glasses off to look at you properly. “I’m trying to work, I’ve had the kids all week and I need to get these last few chapters done before next Friday and you go back to work on Monday.” You saw the look Jake gave you, one of annoyance and frustration, like you were some kind of parasite trying to ruin his day off to relax and enjoy some rest and rejuvenation before Monday rolled around again. 

“Honey if you let me sit here for twenty minutes I will fix the fucking leak for you.” He tried to hide his disdain but you could read it through the lines on his face. “I’m not sure why you can’t just write somewhere where you can’t fucking hear it but I’ll fix it the minute I’m done drinking my beer.” 

“Alright.” You pressed your lips together and tried not to let your anger boil over. “Alright I can live with that.”

“Hallelujah, she can live with compromise.” Jake sassed as he took another sip of his beer. You chose not to respond as you headed back inside the home you both shared with a feeling of under appreciated value looming over your head. What did Jake mean by compromise? You did so much and more for him, why was it such an issue that you’d asked him to fix a faucet. 

He never did get around to fixing it like he said he would. Twenty minutes turned to two hours, which turned to two days, months and eventually It was only when the both of you decided to sell the property when you said you were leaving, that he noticed the leak was never fixed. 

You never did finish that draft, the book that remained unpublished and half finished. You kept the google doc on your laptop and sometimes you thought about picking the project back up. But you never did, you never had time to, not while you were on the cusp of divorce and raising three children all on your own. 

“I uh—I fixed the faucet.” Jake sheepishly told you as he made his way into the kitchen to see you packing plates and bowls and cutlery into moving boxes. 

“The faucet I asked you to fix back in October?” You replied harshly while trying not to look at the man who forgot where you should have been on his priority list. “Glad I compromised on that one for this long.” You hissed, it had only been four days since you told Jake you were leaving, that you were moving back into your mothers place with the kids until you found somewhere to live. 

“Honey—“ 

“Please don’t call me that.” You asked rather simply as Jake's heart broke before you. He was losing his wife, his kids and didn’t know how to fix what he’d unintentionally broken. 

“Don’t go, we can fix this, I don’t want you to go.” 

“Well unfortunately this isn’t about you Jake.” You tried to keep your voice down so that you wouldn’t alert the kids to your argument. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do it was fight in front of your children and subject them to that environment. “Tell me, it’s January right now isn’t it?”

“Yeah?” Jake wasn’t sure what you were getting at as he watched you pack the boxes of things you were taking with you. 

“When’s my birthday?” You asked like he should have known that answer off the top of his head, because he should have and he did. 

“Novem—oh fuck Y/n no hold on a minute.” Jake couldn’t find the words he wanted to say at that moment, how could he forget your birthday? He missed it entirely and you said not a single thing about it. 

“My stocking was the only one empty at Christmas, not a single present under the tree was mine, you know why that is? It’s because for four years I’ve brought my own damn presents and gotten my own fucking birthdays cake, you don’t give a shit about fixing a goddamn fosset so I can focus on work let alone the little things.” You hissed before you tried to calm yourself down and get back to packing. Jake just stood there speechless looking like he hadn’t slept a wink in days. He hadn’t, not since you told him you were done and that you needed a break. 

“I can fix this, please.” Jake was begging you to stay, he didn’t want to lose the one person who meant more to him than life itself. “Just don’t leave me.” 

“There isn’t enough room for me in your life Jake, and instead of being selfish and trying to change you I’d rather let you go to be yourself. People change.” You shrugged. Staying now would have killed you, Jake felt you slipping through his fingers in real time as he watched you wrap up the mugs you were taking in old newspaper. “I sure never thought the man I married would change into someone I don’t even know.” 

***~***~***~**~***~

Jake was at a loss for words when he stepped into your hospital room. The Christmas lights that shimmered around the room were a stark contrast to the plethora of machines that were scattered around your bedside.

“I thought since she’s sleeping the blinds should be shut.” Jake could just barely make out what your mother had told him as she rose to greet him with open arms. He couldn’t peel his eyes off you for even a second as the woman who had become his second mother took him in a warm loving embrace. “She’ll be out for a while sweetheart, they gave her a sedative to help her brain rest.” 

“How long?” Jake asked as he held your mother tight. 

“About ten—maybe twelve hours, she only just started the drip.” 

“Oh—okay, yeah no that.” Jake tried to hold himself together but the damn was breaking. “That’s probably for the b-bet—oh god.” Jake Seresin had never felt his entire body crumbled into someone the way he felt his body crumble into your mothers arms. 

“Oh my boy it’s alright, she’s alive, she’s gonna be okay.” Your mother tried her best to soothe Jake's cries but she knew it was coming from a place of love and undeniable sadness. “Here, sit down, I’ll go get you a coffee and something to eat.” 

Jake took a seat next to your bedside and immediately reached out for your hand. He knew you were under and wouldn’t know he was there but he still brought your palm up to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your hand. 

“Oh Honey I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” He sobbed quietly as your mother stood behind him. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know.” 

“She hasn’t told anyone but me Jake, not her friends or her brother.” It was hard to process the sight before him, the love of Jake's life surrounded by machines, hooked by cords and wires and monitors that told him although your eyes were closed you were in fact, alive. “I don’t think she wanted you to know because she’s just so scared despite how she might put on a brave face.” 

“Or she thought I wouldn’t care.” Jake mumbled as he reached out to make sure your hair was resting behind your ear, part of your head had been shaved from surgery, but Jake never expected the hair he tried to move back behind your ear to fall out at his touch. “Oh my god—“

“She’s been on oral chemotherapy since her biopsy came back cancerous, she needed you to take the kids so she could start more aggressive IV chemo.” 

“Her hair’s already falling out?” Jake had never felt this way before, so rendered powerless. He’d taken a life before and saved many, but watching you right now was the most powerless he’d ever felt. Jake caught the sight of your phone flashing with a new message with a name he didn't recognise. There was no time to ask you about the message he saw, but jake knew maybe, just maybe, you had lied when you told him there was no other guy. 

Jensen: “Oh shit, I'll swing by once I'm out of the woods.”

“Aggressive cancer needs aggressive treatment sweetheart.” Your mother leaned in to kiss the top of Jake's head. “I’ll be back, coffee and a sandwich will do you good.” 

“Thanks Maz.” Jake sighed as he kept your hand up near his mouth as he leaned his elbows on the side of your bed. “Oh Honey, Honey, Honey—what have we become?”

***~***~***~***~***~***

Your honeymoon was the most beautiful trip you’d ever gone on. Jake Seresin was very much a summer man. He loved when the sun was shining and the water was cool and the beers were as refreshing as they ever could be. 

The resort in Bali that the two of you were staying at for the entire two weeks was nothing but picturesque with stunningly gorgeous gardens and extraordinary architecture. The pool you were sitting on the edge of was just one of the many pools that you and Jake had yet to visit. He stood on the ledge of the rock waterfall and smiled ear to ear. 

“I’m not resuscitating you when you slip and hit your head!” You called out through a beaming smile. 

“Reckon I could clear a backflip?” Jake asked childishly as he climbed to the very top. His abs looked far too perfect to be real as he stood tall and flexed just for you, his wife. 

“Jake Seresin, don't you dare!” You warned as you looked over your sunglasses at your childish husband. He was everything any more, how you got so lucky you'd never understand. The two of you had decided on a small elopement style wedding that saw only a handful of your closest family members in attendance. The both of you saw no need for over the top extremities and thoughts of dollars spent on a single night. You thought why not use the money on a holiday getaway, your dream honeymoon. After Rodney had gone on his happiness never ends tangent, Jake wished the two of you had just gone down to town hall. 

“Live a little Mrs Seresin!” Jake shouted as he took the leap of faith and backflipped off the very top of the man made rock waterfall that cascaded down into the crystal clear pool. The two of you were the only guests in sight which you were so thankful for when Jake came belly flopping down into the water with a crisp slap. 

“Oh!” You cringed hard as your husband hit the water. “That's gotta hurt the ego buddy.” You giggled as you watched Jake swim under the water closer to the edge where you sat just relaxing in the smallest bikini known to mankind. “Jake?” You asked as he crept closer and closer under the water. Your eyes never left his swimming silhouette until he was jumping up right in front of you to rest his elbows on the edge of the pool right in front of you. 

“My execution was a little off.” He grinned as you leaned in to give him a kiss. Unbeknownst to you though as your lips pressed against your husbands, his hands snakes around your waist to quickly drag you into the water where Jake needed you to be. With him, forever. 

“JAKE!” You shouted as you fell into the pool. Jake couldn't contain his laughter. Thank god he remembered you knew how to swim. 

“Yes Honey?” He cooed as you resurfaced with a gasp. 

“You’re a child!” 

“Uh no–I'm not.” Jake made sure to correct you as he pulled you closer under the water. His hand explored your ass as he wrapped your legs around his waist and held you up against him. You could feel his hard on pressing against your core, it wouldn't take much at all for him to slip out of his trunks and into you if he wanted to. 

“But if you want I can show you how they're made?”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Tags: @blindedbythelightt @starset21 @tayl0rhuynh @mamachasesmayhem @marvelogic @itsmytimetoodream @maverick-wingman @kodzukenmaaa @eternalsams @seitmai @nota-professional @jessicab1991 @hardballoonlove @senawashere @lafrone @fanficfandomlove @withahappyrefrain @dizzybee03 @maisie-rebloging-blog @goldenseresinretriever @a-reader-and-a-writer @sunlightmurdock @shelbycillian @memoriesat30 @accioprocrastination @the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @athenabarnes @eternallyvenus @emma8895eb

#was it over? // jake seresin #tw: cancer #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin angst #top gun hangman #hangman top gun

[hamsterclaw]

Anywhere but here

You wake from a traumatic injury to find everything around you isn't the same.

Pairing: Jimin x F! reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Nurse Jimin, smut, angst

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: Swearing, sex, traumatic injury, hospitals, memory loss

When you wake, it’s like you’ve been reset to factory settings. You’re not a robot, but there was a you before, and now there’s a you after.

The accident cut your life into halves, and that’s the reality that you’ve been dealt. 

The people around you are nameless faces apart from your family. Your parents, your younger sister and a man you don’t know but he says he knows you.

You can’t imagine what it’s like for them to lose the woman that was the old you and pick up the new you, metalwork in your thigh and a scar along the back of your head that they gave you an uneven choppy haircut to fix.

You don’t have the headspace to try and remember the names of everyone else who cares for you.

There’s the slim woman with a ponytail and kind eyes who always smiles cheerfully when she greets you.

There’s the stern looking older woman who never smiles but has gentle hands.

And then there’s the young guy who looks like he belongs in a magazine who you find a little intimidating, to be honest.

The brain injury means you take longer to process, sometimes you know what you want to say but the words won’t come. It’s annoying but you’re assured it will get better.

More pressing is the frame on your leg from where you broke your femur in multiple places. It took you a while to get used to trying to get around on crutches without help, because there was no way you were going to ask the young guy to help you to the bathroom. 

You don’t think there’s anything left of your dignity but you’ve got some pride still.

You’re sitting awkwardly on your bed, listening to the man you don’t know but who seems to know you, trying to shift positions because your leg is singing a chorus of pain, when the young male nurse walks into the room wheeling a portable blood pressure monitor.

‘Time for some observations,’ he says, politely.

You take the opportunity to move into the chair and hold out your arm.

The nurse frowns a little. ‘Your blood pressure and heart rate are up. Are you in pain?’

‘A bit,’ you admit, an understatement. 

‘I’ll get you pain relief,’ he says.

It’s another fifteen minutes before he comes back with the meds, another fifteen minutes after that before you can draw a breath.

The man who you don’t know but you’re told you used to love is telling you about people you don’t know, and it’s not nearly distracting enough.

When he leaves you want to cry with relief.

The door to your room opens, the nurse walks in. He checks on the IV that’s running, you hold out your arm because that’s the routine.

As he disconnects the drip, he turns to you. 

‘There’s a call bell,’ he points out. ‘If you’re in pain don’t wait, just call and one of us will come.’

‘Thank you,’ you say. You’re wrung out, emotionally exhausted, physically stretched, and all you want to do is pull the covers over your head and be alone.

You’re never physically alone in hospital, there’s no fucking privacy, and somehow you feel lonely anyway.

***

The calendar on the wall orientates you to the day and month, and you’re not so bad that you can’t remember the year.

It’s your birthday today they say, another year older even though you’ve gone nothing but backwards since the accident.

Your family bring you cake, fluffy slippers, and love that makes you feel warm. The man, you know he’s called Taemin, that you were about to marry him, why do you think of him as ‘the man’ in your head?

He calls you sweetheart and you think he means it less and less every day.

Today he kisses you, lips on yours and you weren’t expecting it, weren’t ready.

He pulls away, a flicker in his eyes that looks like disappointment that you see before he can hide it.

You want to say that it’s not fair, that you can’t be expected to be the person you were before, but the words don’t come.

You stammer an apology, make it worse.

You only feel relief when he leaves.

Lately they’ve been letting you wheel yourself down to the restaurant, out to the front of the hospital. 

It’s tiring, but it’s nice to be out of your room. 

You press the call bell, and the male nurse comes in. 

He looks rushed, busy, but he’s already here so you might as well ask.

‘Can I borrow a wheelchair to go downstairs?’

He says, ‘yes, of course. It’ll take me a while because it’s quite busy at the moment, but I’ll try and bring one up when I can.’

You thank him and settle in by the window to wait.

The late afternoon sun turns into early dusk, and he doesn’t come back.

You’re getting ready to manoeuvre yourself back into bed when there’s a knock at your door.

It’s the male nurse, dressed in his street clothes instead of scrubs. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It got so busy, I completely forgot.’

You look at the wheelchair he’s handling.

‘Would you still like to go?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ you say. You’re worried you sound desperate but you’ve been cooped up in your room all day and you want to go out even if you don’t get to see daylight.

He helps you into the chair. The ID badge tucked under his jacket says ‘Jimin.’

You try to commit it to what remains of your memory. 

‘Jimin,’ you say, hoping that saying it will make it stick. 

‘Y/N,’ he replies, giving you a smile that makes his eyes scrunch up.

‘Were you on your way home?’ you ask.

‘Yeah,’ he says. 

‘Thank you for this,’ you say. You put your hand on his arm, and he moves it away so quickly it’s hard not to feel stung.

‘Sorry,’ you say, putting your hands in your lap.

He’s quiet as he pushes you to the lifts.

‘I can push myself,’ you tell him. ‘You should go home, it’s past your shift.’

‘I’m heading down anyway,’ he replies, very politely.

You sneak a glance at his profile as the lift descends. 

He’s pretty, even fourteen hours into a thirteen hour shift. His nose is straight, lips full, and his skin glows like it’s lit from within.

You catch a glance at yourself in the mirrored wall. Your uneven hair that you’re still growing out makes you grimace.

You look down at your lap quickly. 

‘Are you ok?’ he asks.

You force a smile. ‘I know the docs saved my life, but they ruined my hair,’ you say, trying to make a joke of it.

Jimin’s quiet again.

‘I was joking,’ you say, quickly. ‘I’m grateful for everything.’

Thankfully, the lift doors open.

‘Good night,’ you say, smiling at him.

He asks,’will you be ok?’

‘Yes,’ you say. Wild horses couldn’t drag any other answer from you.

He looks at you for a moment longer, then he nods and turns to leave.

***

Physical therapists are demons in disguise, you think disgruntledly to yourself as today’s therapist tries to encourage you to get out of the chair.

Your thigh is screaming in pain, you’re tired and dizzy and sweating from exertion.

As soon as the therapist leaves, you press your call bell and a nurse arrives.

It’s not someone you’ve met before, you know they’ve been short staffed lately.

His ID badge says Matsu. 

You ask for pain relief.

He says, firmly, ‘you shouldn’t ask for pain relief unless the pain is bad. The last thing you need is an opiate addiction.’

You’ve never been denied pain relief before.

You feel a wave of shame.

Is he right? Are you addicted? Does it matter?

The pain’s bad though, your stomach’s churning and clenching.

‘The pain is bad,’ you say, dignity be damned, pleading.

‘I’ll check on you in an hour and if you’re still in pain I can give you some then,’ he says.

He’s out the door before you can formulate a reply.

You sit very still, try to distract yourself. The pattern on the ceiling’s swirling, you’re concentrating so hard.

The door opens, the male nurse called Jimin comes in, and you bite your lip so hard you taste metal on your tongue.

He’s saying something, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

He comes closer, leans over you, voice firmer now. 

You can hear your name.

You gaze up into his face, and he looks so kind, and concerned, the tears start trickling down your face.

‘Please,’ you whisper. ‘I’m in pain.’

Jimin leaves and comes back, hangs an IV on the drip stand above your head, connects it up and opens the port.

The cold trickle through your veins makes you shiver but soon enough relief comes, so sweet and welcoming you start crying again.

You don’t know how much time has passed before you realise Jimin’s still in your room, typing notes into the computer. 

He says, ‘don’t let it get that bad next time.’

His voice is quiet, neutral, but you can’t help the flash of anger.

‘I asked for the painkillers, and the nurse told me to hold out as he didn’t want me to be addicted,’ you reply, sharp. 

You can hear the tone of your voice as it comes out, and you hate it. The thing that you resent most about the constant pain is the way it’s draining away your generosity, your indulgence, your humour. 

You can’t stand yourself.

Jimin, instead of snapping back, somehow manages to reply with a kindness that makes you feel even worse.

‘I’m sorry the nurse said that,’ he says, sounding regretful. ‘Please know you can ask for pain meds anytime.’

You’re still crying, indulging in your moment of self-pity, wallowing in it. 

God, you hate yourself.

The only thing you hate more is the pain.

***

You’re going for another trip out, you’ve started spending more time outside now that the weather’s better.

You’re waiting to be let out of the double doors to the ward when the nurse, Jimin, passes by.

‘There’s a hairdresser in the hospital,’ he tells you. ‘They’re open now, and they didn’t have any customers when I checked.’

You look at him, considering.

‘Since you said you didn’t like your hair,’ he adds.

You smile. ‘Thanks. I’ll check it out.’

You look at your reflection in the mirror of the elevator on the way down, and impulsively, decide to visit the hospital hairdresser.

It takes you a bit of back and forth to find it, you’re sweaty and frazzled by the time you press on the buzzer.

A woman with bright orange streaks in her hair answers. She gives you a once over, then smiles, kind.

‘You must be Y/N? Jimin said you might come.’

You’re surprised. ‘You know Jimin?’

‘Honey,’ she says, taking the handles of your wheelchair and pushing you in front of one of the mirrors, ‘everyone knows Jimin. He’s a sweetheart.’

‘He’s easy on the eyes too,’ agrees another woman, smirking. The tag on her chest says ‘Suzie’.

‘Jimim said those neurosurgeons did a number on your hair,’ the first woman says. She winks at you. ‘Lucky for you I’m an expert on cleaning up after them.’

You’re startled into a laugh. 

Her smile brightens. ‘You’re so pretty! And you’ll look even better when we’re done.’

An hour later, you find yourself in the lifts on the way back to your ward.

You can’t stop staring at yourself in the mirrors.

Is this what you used to look like? You’ve seen a few pictures of you. Taemin’s lockscreen is a picture of you and him on a beach, but you don’t think you look exactly the way you looked before. 

Rhonda, the hairdresser who greeted you at the door, had waved you away when you tried to pay her, saying all patients got their haircuts on the house.

You’re waiting to be let back into the ward when you hear a familiar voice.

It’s Jimin, smiling at you so broadly you blink a little at how pretty he looks.

‘You went! Your hair looks beautiful,’ he says.

You look at him searchingly but he seems perfectly sincere.

‘Thank you,’ you tell him. You give him a half-smile. ‘They like you a lot down there.’

Jimin laughs. ‘That’s because I let them do whatever they want to my hair.’

He rakes a hand through his hair to illustrate, and you notice he’s got a new undercut beneath the blonde curtain of his hair.

‘Pretty,’ you say, admiring.

Jimin glances at you. ‘Just like you,’ he replies.

You laugh, because he can’t possibly be serious. ‘Please, in this old thing?’

You pluck at a fold in your hospital gown, and Jimin says, deadpan, ‘the green specks in the fabric really complement your eyes.’

You laugh again.

Jimin asks, ‘Need a push back to your room?’

‘Nah,’ you say. ‘I can do it.’

Jimin nods. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’

It’s only when you get back to your room that you realise that your conversation with Jimin, short as it was, is the first real conversation you’ve had in a long time.

***

Taemin’s looking at you very seriously, and a sudden flash of intuition tells you what he’s going to say before he says it.

‘I can’t do this anymore,’ he tells you.

You concentrate hard on the hand he’s put on top of yours. 

Was his touch ever familiar to you? All you feel is detached.

You search his face, the curve of his brow, the line of his jaw. He’s attractive even now, but did you ever really love him the way he said you did?

It’s only been a few months since the accident. 

Did he ever really love you if he’s this keen to move on without you?

The tears come as a surprise.

He looks alarmed now, as the wetness spills from your eyes, down your cheeks.

You know it’s unfair for you two to be in limbo like this, especially when you don’t think the old you is ever coming back.

It’s just the new you, the now and forever you left.

You assure him you’re fine, that it’s the right thing to do. 

He tells you he’ll pack up your things and deliver them to your parents’ house.

You tell him to throw everything away.

What use do you have for the trappings of a life you can’t remember?

It seems like hours before you gather yourself together enough to go back to your solitary room.

You put yourself to bed because you think you’ve had enough of today, and you can only hope tomorrow will be better.

***

It’s Halloween, and you’re amusing yourself with the thought that you don’t even need a costume this year to look frightening.

You’ve had another operation, your leg’s healing well enough that the surgeons have taken the frame off, leaving a collection of red scars and a leg you don’t trust without the external metalwork.

Without the scaffolding that held you upright for months.

Your hair’s grown out, the scar across the side and back of your head is covered but if you run your fingers along your scalp you can still feel it. 

The doctors tell you that you’ll be home before Christmas.

You refrain from telling them you can’t remember a home apart from this hospital bed.

Nobody likes a killjoy.

You glance up as someone knocks on your door.

It’s Jimin, a satin cape over his scrubs, plastic fangs peeking out between his lips.

‘Are you here for my blood?’ you ask.

It’s a joke you wouldn’t have been quick enough to make a month ago.

Jimin frowns at you. ‘Where’s your costume?’

You gesture to your leg. ‘I’m the Tin Man,’ you tell him.

‘You are pretty heartless,’ Jimin agrees.

You snort. ‘You’re a nurse, aren’t you supposed to be caring?’

Jimin says, ‘I do care. There’s going to be fireworks later, I got permission to take you to the park if you want.’

You can’t believe your ears. ‘The park? As in, out of the hospital? Do you mean the car park?’

Jimin smiles. ‘I mean the park next to the hospital. An actual park.’

‘When?’ you ask, guarded, not letting yourself get excited, worried he’s going to tell you it’s a joke.

‘I clock off at eight, I’ll take you then.’

You know how hard he works, you’ve been on this ward for months and you think he’s been here almost as much as you have. And you literally live here.

You want to ask why he’d spend his precious time off with you but god help you, you want to go to the park more.

You haven’t been off hospital grounds since you were admitted, a mangled mess of broken bone and blood.

Jimin’s looking at you. ‘If you don’t want to —-‘

‘I want to!’ you say, so quickly you startle both of you.

He’s still eyeing you carefully, so you say, ‘I just feel bad taking up your time off.’

‘It won’t be long. I don’t live far from the hospital anyway,’ Jimin says. 

He smiles, and he looks so kind you feel like crying. ‘So are we going?’

‘Yes,’ you tell him. ‘Yes I’d love to.’

***

You feel an unfamiliar fluttering of butterflies in your stomach as you wait by the entrance to your ward for Jimin to finish handing over his patients.

Jimin hurries up to you. He looks a little tired, but he smiles kindly at you. ‘Ready?’

He’s dressed in his street clothes, a plain t-shirt, a hoodie and jeans, and you catch yourself thinking how pretty he looks, even in casual clothes, tired after a long shift.

Shit.

Do you have a crush on him?

At least you don’t have to think about him having a crush on you, you think ruefully. All he’s seen of you are your dumb jokes which you can’t even blame on your brain injury, your hideously scarred leg and your terrible post neurosurgery haircut.

You think you’re good.

Jimin takes the handles of your wheelchair as you leave out the main entrance of the hospital.

‘Thanks for taking me out on your own time,’ you say, wishing you could see his face.

‘It’s not a problem at all,’ Jimin tells you. ‘Like I said, I live close.’

You feel lighter the further you get from the hospital, the fluttering in your stomach getting stronger. 

Is this what happiness feels like? Excitement? 

Jimin parks you by the side of the lake.

‘I’ve got some time off after this, anyway,’ he says.

‘Yeah? Going skiing?’

Jimin looks at you, bemused.

‘Sorry,’ you say, apologetic. 

Your injuries are from a skiing accident. At least that’s what you were told. You sure as hell can’t remember it.

You want to say something else, but you’re distracted by the sudden eruption of fireworks, over the lake. 

A starburst of metals burning in the sky.

You don’t realise you’re laughing until you notice the way Jimin’s looking at you.

His face gleams red and orange in the light reflected off the lake. 

He’s beautiful.

You stop, self-conscious. 

‘Don’t,’ Jimin says. ‘Don’t hide it on account of me, you look so happy.’

A shower of purple falls gently, and it’s so pretty you could cry.

You could keep watching forever.

‘I haven’t seen your fiance in a while,’ remarks Jimin.

Distracted, you say, ‘we broke up.’

Jimin looks at you sharply, you feel the need to explain.

‘He said he couldn’t do it anymore,’ you tell him. You shrug. ‘It’s ok. I know I’m different to how I was before.’

Jimin says, casual, ‘What a dick move.’

You’re startled into a laugh. ‘Isn’t it? But I don’t have any feelings for him either, not now anyway. It would have been a farce.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jimin says. ‘If you’re committed in health ——‘

‘I don’t know how committed we were,’ you say quietly. ‘I can’t remember a damn thing about us.’

You’re both quiet for a moment.

You ask, to break the silence, ‘what are you doing with your time off?’

‘I’m going travelling,’ Jimin says. He looks at you sideways. ‘I’m going to Tuscany with friends.’

You’re excited for him. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Tuscany,’ you say. ‘You’ll have to show me pictures when you get back.’

Jimin smiles. ‘Of course. But at the rate you’re healing you might not even be on the ward when I get back.’

You hadn’t even considered this. 

‘I’ll be gone three weeks,’ Jimin says, gently. 

‘Well, send me a postcard,’ you say, laughingly. ‘You know where I live.’

‘Deal,’ Jimin says, offering his hand. You shake, as the lights rain down around you, burning bright in the dark.

***

You’re struggling at physical therapy today, more so than usual. Your breathing’s heavier, and it feels like you’re fighting through mud. 

Your physical therapist, Mara, finally stops you, just as you’re about to ask for a break.

‘Are you feeling ok?’ she asks, concerned. 

‘I’m fine,’ you grit out. ‘I can do more.’

‘I think we should stop.’

You just have enough consciousness left to hear her calling for help as your vision goes dark.

The padded mat is cool under your cheek.

You hear rapid footsteps, voices, and then, nothing at all.

***

You lose two and a half days before they allow you to wake. 

First and most pressing, the tube in your throat that it hurts to swallow around, pushing air into your lungs. Breathing for you. 

The line in your neck, the stitches holding it in that itch, madly. 

You would scratch it but your hand’s tethered with the weight of a probe on your finger, another line in the back of it. 

The tube in your nose, hooked up to a pump. 

The catheter between your legs, attached to a bag hooked carelessly on the side of the bed. 

You’re in intensive care. 

When your breathing tube comes out, a cough and a splutter, you ask what happened. 

It turns out you had a wound infection that made you septic. You’d collapsed after a physical therapy session. 

If you hadn’t already lost half your life to the skiing accident, you’d mourn the loss of the last few days. As it is, all you can do is what you’ve been doing. 

Try to move on. 

Your muscles, painstakingly built up through months of physical therapy, have weakened even though you’ve only been asleep for two days and change. 

Breathing becomes an exercise in endurance that you’ll never take for granted again. 

The lines come out, one by one, and then, at the end of your first week, you’re finally line free, untethered again. 

Just your battered body for company. 

Sohee, the older nurse with gentle hands, coaxes you through your bad days. 

You think of Jimin, more than once, sunstreaked and golden in the fields of Tuscany. 

You hope that wherever he is, he’s having the time of his life. 

Your family, initially terrified by your deterioration, are now talking about where you’ll live when you get discharged. 

Trying to help you get over the setback from your sepsis. 

You’re trying not to let your discomfort show on your face as Matsu tries for the third time to draw blood from your abused veins. 

He buries the needle, deep, and you bite your lip at the throbbing that results. 

The door opens, and you look up, grateful for the distraction. 

It’s Jimin. 

He’s tanned, and glowing with good health, and he stands out like an angel in these four walls that have been your home for months.  

‘Jimin!’ you say, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. 

‘Y/N,’ he says, with such warmth there’s a glow in your chest. 

You flinch as Matsu moves the needle in your arm, and Jimin’s face darkens. 

‘Hey, Matsu, I can take over.’ 

The tone of his voice brooks no argument. 

Matsu nods, and Jimin takes his tray from his as he leaves. 

‘I had a little jaunt to the ICU whilst you were gone,’ you say, lightly. ‘It’s not as nice as Tuscany, but it was a change of scenery at least.’ 

Jimin smiles. ‘I heard. I’m glad to see you’re still in one piece.’ 

His hand is warm on your arm as he prepares to draw blood. 

‘They did a number on my veins,’ you say. 

Jimin hums. ‘I know,’ he tells you. He’s gentle, thumb pressing on your skin as he searches for a vein. 

‘There goes my life of being a junkie,’ you say dramatically. ‘I wouldn’t be able to find a place to shoot up.’ 

Jimin says. ‘Tuscany was lovely. You should go someday.’ 

‘Yeah?’ you ask, interested. ‘Tell me more. Where did you stay? What did you do?’ 

You feel the prick as Jimin draws blood, and he says, quietly. ‘I’m in, you can relax, ok? I’ll be done in a minute.’ 

You close your eyes as Jimin tells you about the vineyard where he and his friends stayed. His voice is low, melodic, and he distracts you so well you barely realise when he’s done. 

He places a plaster on your hand, thumb smoothing the edges. 

His touch calms you in a way you haven’t felt in weeks. 

You turn to him. ‘Thanks Jimin.’ 

‘I’ve been doing this for years,’ he says. 

‘Not just for this,’ you say, gesturing to the plaster. ‘Thanks for the company.’ 

‘Apparently you like it so much you got septic so you’d still be here when I got back,’ Jimin says, grinning at you, easy. 

You laugh. ‘One day, when I get out of here, I’m going to make you breakfast, and the best coffee you’ve ever had.’ 

Jimin snorts. ‘Can you even cook?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you admit. 

You both laugh. 

‘Well, I look forward to it anyway,’ Jimin says. He gets up, holding up the vial he’s just drawn from you. ‘I should get this labelled up and sent off.’ 

You’re still smiling long after he’s left the room. 

***

It’s Christmas day. 

Your family are visiting, they’ve even brought in turkey, your favourite roast potatoes which you used to love, and you haven’t had such a good day in a long time. 

You’re still in your Christmas pyjamas, looking out the window after they left, when there’s a knock on your door. 

Jimin steps in, slightly bemused at the collection of food and presents you’ve been bequeathed. 

‘I know you don’t know who you were before, but you’re very loved,’ he observes. 

You’re oddly touched. 

‘They left me a tonne of food, have you eaten?’ you ask. 

Jimin smiles. ‘I’ve been eating all day, all the staff working today have brought in things for Christmas lunch.’ 

He pauses. ‘And dinner.’ 

He laughs. ‘We’re all set until the end of the year, I think.’ 

‘Dessert?’ you offer. ‘It’s my mum’s sticky toffee pudding, I won’t be able to finish it.’ 

Jimin considers the container you show him. ‘I can heat it up and we can share it?’ 

‘Deal.’ 

Jimin disappears with your container and comes back with two bowls and two spoons. 

You eye the tiny gummy snowman candy he’s placed on top of your helping. 

Jimin sees your expression, laughs. ‘They’re good. Sohee gave me a whole bag of them.’ 

He perches next to your window, and you eat in silence. 

‘There’s a big tree in the main hospital, do you want to go and visit it after this?’ Jimin asks. 

You nod. ‘Also, I got you a present.’ 

You rummage in your pile of presents for the gold box your sister helped you get. 

Jimin accepts, looking shyly at you. ‘You shouldn’t have got me anything,’ he says. 

‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect special treatment,’ you tease. ‘I know you save the best treats for Mrs Kim in room 12 anyway.’ 

Jimin laughs. ‘May I?’ 

He unwraps the box, and a moment later is staring at the gold Christmas bauble ensconced in delicate tissue paper.

He runs his thumb over the design etched in the glass. ‘The tree of love,’ he says. 

You smile. ‘When you came back after your holiday, you looked so happy and recharged, and I thought this would remind you of it.’ 

Jimin smiles back at you so bright and pretty he’s blinding. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’ 

He puts it carefully back in the box. ‘The tree I was going to show you isn’t as beautiful as this, but shall we go now, anyway?’ 

‘Sure.’

You grab your crutches. 

‘I can get a wheelchair if you want –’ Jimin offers. 

‘It’s my Christmas present to myself,’ you tell him. ‘I’m not going to use a wheelchair again.’ 

Jimin looks at you for a long moment. 

When he opens his mouth, his words aren’t what you expected. 

‘I guess I could carry you, if the worst happened,’ he says lightly.

You roll your eyes. ‘Lead the way, Park, I’m fine on my crutches.’ 

Two lifts and a walk across the link corridor later, you find yourself standing in front of the giant Douglas fir in the front foyer of the hospital. 

It’s huge, at least 20 feet tall, and covered in blues and silvers. 

You sigh. ‘It smells so good.’ 

You catch Jimin looking at you. 

‘It reminded me of you when I saw it,’ he says. 

‘Does it also have a bad leg?’ you ask, teasing. 

‘I used to go hiking with my family, every weekend,’ Jimin tells you. He’s looking up, away from you, at the star on the top of the tree. ‘This tree reminds me of that.’ 

He turns to you. ‘My dad used to do a bit of woodworking, and his favourite type of wood was Douglas fir. You can paint it easily so it can be any colour you want, and at its core it’s light and strong. Look after it, and it lasts a lifetime.’ 

You’re trying to think about how this relates to you when Jimin says, ‘You’re rebuilding your life, painting yourself different, but you’re the same person at your core. You’re one of the strongest people I know.’ 

You don’t realise you’re crying until he reaches out, gently, to wipe your cheek. 

‘Do you believe in fate?’ Jimin asks. 

‘I don’t know what I believe in now,’ you say, honestly. 

‘I never did,’ Jimin says. ‘I wanted to leave nursing for a long time. I actually put in my notice last year.’ 

You’re surprised to hear it. From what you’ve seen, Jimin loves his job. He’s damned good at it. 

‘I was on one of my last shifts when you were brought in,’ Jimin says. He’s looking at you now, an expression on his face that makes your heart skip several beats. 

‘Seeing you pick up the pieces after you had something so devastating happen to you —-’ he breaks off, throat working as he swallows. 

‘It made me realise how much I love my job,’ he says. ‘I think I was meant to do this. I’m good at it.’ 

‘You’re great at it,’ you say, earnest. 

Jimin reaches out and puts his hand over where yours is braced over your crutch. 

‘Here’s to next Christmas, when all this is behind you,’ he says. 

You don’t know what to say, so you grasp his hand. ‘Merry Christmas, Jimin.’ 

‘Merry Christmas, Y/N.’ 

You stand there, hand in hand, admiring the sparkly tree, enjoying the relative lull in activity in the normally crowded hospital foyer this Christmas night, until your legs start to give out, and then Jimin walks you back to your room. 

***

You’re in your room, just back from physical therapy, when Sohee walks in. ‘We need your help,’ she says, brisk. 

You look up, curious. 

‘It’s Jimin’s birthday, and the tradition here is that if you work here and it’s your birthday, you get slimed.’ 

You’re incredulous. You can’t imagine anyone would ever dare to slime Sohee, with her perfectly starched uniforms and her stern demeanor. 

‘Park manages to evade us every year, but this year, he has a weakness,’ Sohee continues. 

She looks right at you. ‘You.’ 

You splutter. ‘Me? How am I Jimin’s weakness?’ 

‘He likes you,’ Sohee says, matter of fact. ‘He’d never act on it, not whilst you’re in his care, but he likes you, and this year, Park Jimin’s going to get what’s coming to him.’ 

‘What’s in it for me?’ you ask, nonchalant. 

‘I’ll get the catering staff to give you an extra helping on Sunday roast day,’ says Sohee, like she’d been expecting you to ask exactly that.

‘I don’t want to hurt Jimin,’ you say. 

Sohee rolls her eyes. ‘No one wants to hurt Jimin. But he’s the quickest out of all of us, and he’s slimed us all over the years, and no one can catch him.’ 

‘Come on,’ Sohee wheedles. ‘You’ll be discharged next week anyway.’ 

You sigh. ‘What do I have to do?’ 

***

You shift nervously in your chair as you wait for Jimin to respond to the call bell Sohee activated before she left. 

He knocks on your door and enters, a smile already on his face. ‘Are you ok, Y/N?’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ you start. 

Jimin’s two steps away when the door bursts open, and Sohee, Matsu and the other nurse, Alice, rush in. 

Jimin looks at them, then you, and steps in front of you quickly. ‘Ok, ok, you can slime me,’ he says, hands out. ‘Just don’t get anything on Y/N.’ 

Jimin stands perfectly still as Sohee and Matsu unceremoniously dump buckets of green and purple slime over his head. 

You don’t miss how the slime makes his scrubs top mould to his torso. 

Jimin turns, slips, and you reach out to stop him from falling. 

You lose your balance and Jimin, trying to stop you from falling, slides to put his body under yours as you end up in a heap on the floor. 

Jimin’s looking at you, concern in his eyes. ‘Are you ok?’ 

He looks so ridiculous, covered in green and purple slime, that you can’t help but laugh. 

A moment later, he’s laughing too. 

‘I’m sorry,’ you tell him. 

He’s still smiling. ‘I can’t believe you helped them,’ he complains. He shifts a little, and suddenly you’re very aware of the hardness of his torso under you, how his thighs strain against his scrubs bottoms. 

‘I’ll leave you kids to clean up,’ Sohee says, not unkindly, ushering Matsu and Alice out of your room. ‘Happy birthday Jiminie!’ 

Jimin helps you get up. ‘Be careful, it’s slippery,’ he says, holding your arm. 

You’ve never been this close to him before. 

He wipes his hand on his thigh, then brushes a streak of slime off your cheek. ‘I’ll get cleaned up, then I’ll come back and clean the room, ok? Can you get cleaned up on your own?’ 

You nod. His hand is still against your cheek. 

You’re thinking about what Sohee said about Jimin liking you. Is she right? 

Jimin pulls his hand away, and you mourn the loss of his warmth. 

‘See you in a bit,’ he tells you. 

***

You take one last look back at the room you’ve spent the last few months in whilst you’ve been recovering from your injury. 

You came in, in pieces, and now you’re walking out, changed in ways you can’t even fathom. 

Your dad and mum are in the car with your things, you’ll be staying with them for a while until you learn to live independently again. 

You’ve said your thank you’s and goodbyes. To Sohee, who made good on her promise to get the catering staff to give you extra roast potatoes on Sunday. To Matsu, who you’ve seen grow in compassion since the initial days when he wouldn’t give you pain meds. To Mrs Kim who was constantly saying how much you reminded her of her daughter. 

To Jimin, who dropped by after his shift yesterday and gave you his number. He’d told you to call him and it’d seemed like he meant it. 

You close the door behind you and see Jimin, rushing down the corridor. 

‘I was worried I’d missed you,’ he says. 

‘You’re not even at work today,’ you remind him. 

‘I live close. Besides, I couldn’t not say goodbye on your last day.’ 

Jimin smiles. ‘Ready to face the big bad world again?’ 

You smile back. ‘All my monsters are in there,’ you say, gesturing to the empty room behind you. 

‘We should meet up,’ Jimin says. ‘You owe me a breakfast and the best coffee I’ve ever had.’ 

‘We can meet up,’ you say. ‘Anywhere but here.’ 

You reach out, and enclose him in a hug. 

‘I’ll see you soon, ok?’ 

He holds you a moment longer, then lets go. 

‘Yeah.’ 

You walk down to the ward doors, press the button to let yourself out. 

You give Jimin one last wave, and then, you’re out. 

***

You’re watching TV with your parents after dinner, when the news comes on. 

‘Hey, that’s your hospital,’ you dad says. 

You watch, interest piqued as the newscaster reports on upcoming nursing strikes. 

‘They should strike,’ you say. ‘They’re underpaid and underappreciated.’ 

Later, in your room, you’re looking at the number Jimin saved on your phone. 

It’s been two weeks since you left the hospital, and you’ve not got in touch with him. 

It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him, but you’re worried about what things will be like, now that you’re out of the hospital. 

You think of the news report you saw, and you make a decision. 

***

It’s the first time you’ve really been out since you left the hospital. You’ve been with your mum to the store, round the corner to the park, but you haven’t made any longer trips than that. 

Your leg’s completely healed, you don’t even need crutches anymore, but some days there’s still an ache deep in your bones. 

You get headaches but they’re nowhere near as bad as they were. 

You hear the chanting, the sound of a hundred conversations, as you walk over to where there’s a crowd gathered, picketing in support of the nursing strike. 

Every face is unfamiliar, and you’re starting to wonder if it was wise to come and support the strikes when you see him. 

He’s dressed casually like the other times you’ve seen him in off-duty clothes, his hair styled back, holding a placard that says, ‘Safe staffing saves lives’. 

Like he senses your eyes on him, he turns, and your eyes meet. 

In an instant, he’s making his way through the crowd, to you. 

He stops a step in front of you. 

‘Is it really you?’ he asks. 

You smile.

Jimin wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer as a group of people push past. 

‘What are you doing here?’ he scolds. ‘You shouldn’t be in a crowd like this —’ 

You put your hand against his cheek, and he stills. 

He moves his head, closer, so close your lips touch. 

You’ve wanted this for so long, and this new version of you takes what she wants. 

You kiss. 

Jimin makes a soft noise, deep in his throat, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your head as your lips meet again. 

By the time you come up for air, you feel flushed, giddy, your heart pounding a million miles a minute in your chest. 

Jimin presses another soft kiss on your cheek before he pulls away. 

‘I’m so glad you came,’ he says. 

***

Jimin’s shucking his shirt over his head in the quiet of his bedroom, only the moonlight to show you the beauty of his form. 

He gathers you back into his arms like he couldn’t stand even that short time apart without touching you. You don’t think he’s stopped touching you at all since you met him at the picket line. 

You’re not complaining. 

Jimin pulls you closer so your lips meet again. His lips are soft, full, pressing against yours firmly. 

He doesn’t shy away, so you don’t either. 

He tugs your top over your head, litters your breasts with kisses, tugs the cups of your bra down so he can get better access. 

He laves your nipples with his tongue, like he enjoys the sounds you make as he sucks on your flesh. 

You can feel his hardness against your centre as he strokes his tongue and hands over your skin. 

You reach down to touch him, and Jimin grunts as you curl your fingers around his cock.

‘We don’t have to—’ 

‘I want it,’ you tell him, lips against his skin, hand on his ass. 

‘I want to give it to you,’ Jimin groans. ‘Fuck, are you sure?’ 

You’ve never been surer of anything in your life. 

Jimin rolls a condom onto himself, hissing a little. He positions himself above you, and you move to make room for him between your thighs. 

He nudges in a little, gentle as he’s always been with you, and the stretch is so good you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips. 

Jimin presses his face to yours. ‘Tell me to stop if —’

‘Don’t stop,’ you say. ‘Don’t you dare stop.’ 

Jimin seals his lips to yours as he drives the rest of himself into you. He stops when he’s all the way in, stills. 

He lifts his head to look at your face. ‘Are you – is this ok?’ 

You smile, breathlessly. ‘Can’t you tell, Jimin?’ 

Jimin groans as you clench around him. 

‘You’re so wet. Fuck —’ 

He moves, and your eyes close with the pleasure of it. 

‘Fuck, Jimin —’ 

He moves again, and you cry out as he rocks his hips against yours. 

It’s overwhelming, the weight of him against you, the way his skin gleams with sweat in the moonlight, the soft whines he makes on every thrust. The feel of him inside you. 

It’s his voice that eventually tips you over the edge. ‘You’re so pretty,’ he vows against your ear. ‘I can’t believe you’re here —’ 

You cry his name as you come, and he keeps going, seeking his own release now, gentle even when he’s taut with need. 

He kisses you again, grinds hard, deep, and then he’s holding you like he doesn’t want to ever let you go. 

***

You can hear Jimin moving in his bedroom, and sure enough, he emerges, shirtless, hair mussed from your fingers through it. 

You admire the beautiful lines of his cut torso as he walks towards you. 

‘Who knew you were packing all this under those blue scrubs?’ you ask, teasing. 

Jimin smiles, pulls you into a hug. ‘What are you doing in my kitchen?’ 

‘Making you breakfast,’ you tell him. ‘A promise is a promise.’ 

Jimin leans down to kiss your neck, and you shiver at the touch of his lips. 

‘Later,’ he tells you. ‘I’ll make us breakfast later. Come back to bed.’ 

He grasps your hand, and you follow him back to his bedroom. 

You have no idea where this is going, but you figure this is a hell of a good start to the rest of your life. 

©hamsterclaw 2023

#park jimin fic #park jimin imagine #jimin smut #jimin fanfic #bts smut

[bucca2]

Shrike pt. 2 - always a well dressed fraud who wouldn’t spare the rod

König x high school sweetheart reader

3rd person, König's perspective, she/her pronouns for reader, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander

4.2k words

tw: child abuse, spousal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence (mostly König’s imagination and violence in the field as a soldier, König’s dad dies pretty gruesomely), car crash

spätzchen = cute/little sparrow. Google Translate will say that means “spit”, but I trust a German reddit user a lot more than I trust Google.

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The first time König ever imagined killing someone, he was seven.

He remembers it clearly, one of the earliest memories he has. His father had asked him to hold the hammer as he was installing a shelf, and in a rare moment of childhood whimsy, he was pretending the ball-peen hammer was a little airplane. He was absorbed, making little puttering and vroom noises, absentmindedly waving the hammer around before—

“Fuck!” König drops the hammer at the sharp noise of swearing. He’d accidentally swung it right into his father’s leg.

“You stupid little pest—can’t you hold a goddamn hammer without hitting me with it?” He withers underneath the older man’s glare.

His father picks up the hammer and crouches down, pointing the hammer threateningly in his son’s face. “I should take a swing at you right now to teach you a lesson.”

His mother runs into the room, alerted by the shouting. “Is everything alright?”

“Would I be yelling if nothing were the matter?” His father sneers. “Our son’s a dimwit. Can’t hold a hammer without smashing me in the shin with it.”

“He’s still just a boy,” König’s mother says, placing a soothing hand on her son’s head and swiftly moving to block him from his father. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“We’ve been too soft on him, that’s what it is.” His mother swallows hard, and an instinctual, almost primal panic rises in him.

“It was an accident, I’m sure,” she says, trying to calm the temper of the monster in front of her. “Alexander, you’ll say you’re sorry, won’t you?”

“Don’t speak for him! He’ll never become a man like that. Why are you always getting in my fucking way?” He wants to leave. He wants to grab his mother’s hand and run, because the increasing venom in his father’s voice surely cannot mean anything good.

“I didn’t mean—” It happens so quickly that König barely understands what’s just happened, but suddenly his mother is on the floor, and his father is looming over him like an evil spectre.

“Next time, you’ll be the one I’m knocking flat,” he threatens. He stalks out of the room, throwing the hammer onto the floor with a loud thump that echoes the pounding of König’s heart.

“Mama?” He quickly shuffles over to his mother.

“I’m alright, spätzchen,” she says, wincing as she sits up. “We’ll just have to be more careful when we play around with heavy tools, yes?” Her hand is gentle as it smooths over his hair.

“Yes, mama,” he whispers.

That night, he lays awake in bed, staring at the water spot on his ceiling. But instead of imagining sheep, he imagines splatterings of blood. Covering the walls and floor, reaching even the ceiling, as he smashes his father in the face with the hammer over and over again. Until König can no longer see his venomous expression. Until his father can never hurt Mama again.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

“So…should I call you ‘your majesty’ now?” she asks, nudging him playfully. (The way she used to, but if he thinks about the tingles it sent through him back then his brain will fill with static.)

He lets out a huff that’s sort of a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Most of the people I work with don’t speak German, so König is like a name to them. I don’t tell people my name.”

“Hmm…I like the sound of my king,” she muses.

He’s so glad she can’t see him blushing. He feels like a high schooler all over again.

“Is that why you wear the hood?”

“Hmm?”

“Because you don’t want people to know your identity?”

“In the field, yes. It would be dangerous otherwise. I do a lot of work with terrorist cells.”

“Isn’t it frightening to do that kind of work? Having to come face-to-face with people like that?”

“I have met some frightening people.” He watches as she turns and meets his gaze, reveling in the heat that spreads across her cheeks. “But they also met me.”

She stares at him with an admiration that steals his breath away. It’s a bit new for him. He’s spent a long time nurturing a persona that makes people look at him in either fear or disgust. Or not look at him at all.

“You’re different,” she muses. “You’re so…confident.”

“Arrogant, you mean?” He chuckles as she visibly panics. “I’m good at what I do, rosethorn.”

“There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten good at,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Talking. Looking at me when you speak.”

“I think everybody gets better at that as they grow up.”

“I got worse at it. It’s just a lot. I look at people and start thinking about everything that could go wrong, or all the ways I could upset them.”

She describes a sensation as familiar to him as the flutter of his hood around his face. It’s never really gone away, no matter how competent and cocky he gets. What is new to him is her feeling that way.

He hates seeing her like this. She startles. She flinches. She feels smaller: not physically, but her presence has shrunk. He wants to wring the neck of whoever has made her into this timid creature.

“The mask scared me when I first saw it at the checkpoint. But I don’t mind it now if that makes sense? It makes me feel more at ease.”

“You may be the only person who feels that way. I don’t exactly look very cuddly.”

That draws a laugh out of her, albeit a small one. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound.

“That’s because when someone doesn’t know what your face looks like, it frightens them. It doesn’t bother me.”

“You know what I look like, though.”

“As a teenager. I don’t know what you look like as a man.”

“Not much different. Maybe a more chiselled jaw.”

She snorts. “Are you going to show me?”

“You might not like what you see.”

“You said you didn’t look much different.”

“As a younger man, no. I…have a lot of scars now. It’s not nice to look at.”

He thinks about their last meeting a lot. For a few years he just couldn’t stop tormenting himself with the memory. He had spent all that time scared of his own feelings, petrified of saying or doing anything about it. And when he had finally worked up the nerve to stop being a fucking coward, all he did was hold her hand. Their last day together, and that was as much as he could muster.

He's thinking about it now as she slides her hand over his, just the way he did all those years ago. She’s thinking about it too, by the look in her eye as she squeezes his hand.

“I wouldn’t mind. But I won’t force you to take it off. Not until you’re ready.”

She waited for him to become comfortable enough then, and she would still wait for him now, he realizes. All his worries about not being able to pick back up where they last ended vanish—that she would be afraid of him. That she would be closed off, or that it would feel irreparably different between them. But being with her feels as natural as the press of his knife’s hilt in his palm.

He hasn’t lost his chance. And this time, he will not lose her again.

Blood. Viscera. The clean slice of a blade as it splits open a throat. The light dying in a felled enemy’s eyes. For most soldiers, these are repulsive aspects of the job. The worst, but most inescapable part. The dirty work.

For König, they’re the highlight of the job.

As a child, he could never punch back, never return an insult, never fight. If he got in any trouble, there would be a greater hell to pay back home. After a while, he became numb to whatever punishment his father sought for his crimes. It was his mother’s reaction he could never stand—her sadness. Her disappointment. Her worry.

So he sat and stewed. The bullies who called him names and mocked his silence were powerless before him in his mind. He imagined crushing the bones in their hands under his foot, caving their heads in with a rock, stabbing them over and over again with a serrated knife that tore their guts out and severed their tendons.

König had special plans for his father that grew more elaborate with every fresh abuse the man inflicted on him. First, he would break the man’s legs. Then, he’d shatter each of the fingers with a hammer. He’d begin the main event by kicking him in the stomach, kneeing him in the junk and hearing him howl in pain. Then he would bring out a knife—it changed over the years from a kitchen knife, to various switchblades, to the trusty field knife he keeps on him at all times now. He’d start by outlining the lips his father used to shout and swear and degrade, then moving along his cheek to his temple, dancing the blade all along the edges of his face before peeling the skin away—

He had a brief flash of fear on his first true deployment. Imagining intense violence is much different than experiencing it firsthand. Stories of recruits vomiting, fainting, losing their minds and needing to be restrained in the middle of a firefight haunted him as he stood in front of a door, moments before kicking it down.

His first kill was like a revelation. Watching the man fall to the ground, a gaping hole in his forehead, his gun still smoking from the shot. It was as satisfying as it had always felt in his imagination. His first takedown with a knife was even better—the brief struggle, the spray of blood, the slow jerking before limpness made his enemy into a corpse. König knows his way around guns, for sure, but knives were different. Graceful, soundless, elegant.

Hands-on.

He’s not some mindless serial killer, of course. The kill is only half the fun. The vicious satisfaction of justice is what really does it for him. He flourishes taking down human trafficking cells, ending the lives of vile animals who take and use and destroy. In every woman he rescues, he sees his mother, bound to a terrible life. In every child, he sees himself, helpless in the face of unimaginable cruelty.

In every kill, he sees his rosethorn, felling a bully in one blow. That one image, like a painting framed in the museum of his mind, fuels his every move, provides his purpose. She becomes his guiding star, haloed in light and bathed in the blood of unworthy men. Every trafficker, every terrorist, every drug kingpin taken down is his tribute to her, impaled upon the hedgerow thorns as evidence of his devotion.

That’s why it’s so devastating to return home and find her gone. He had wanted to come back as someone he was proud of being around her. Someone tall and strong, someone actually worthy of holding her hand. But she’s not here, and her parents are nervous, hesitant to tell him anything about her. Of course, he thinks with bitterness as he wishes them well and turns to leave. What was he to their daughter, anyway? Just some snivelling boy she went to school with.

That bitterness grows like a seed in him as he makes his way home. His mother’s out, which means his father is in a nasty mood. Like he always is when there’s nobody around to wait on him hand and foot. He’s standing in the kitchen waiting for König when he returns home from visiting Thorn’s parents.

“Where the fuck have you been? Just got back and already running out on us.” Being an asshole comes as naturally as breathing to this man. König doesn’t dignify him with a response to his inquiry.

Not that his father cared to know, anyway. “I need to get to Ben’s house. You’re driving me.”

König resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ben is his father’s gambling buddy. He’s probably keen to know how his latest bet panned out. Just another entry on the long list of his dirtbag sperm donor’s unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“Drive yourself.”

“I didn’t teach you to drive for you to disrespect me like this. You’re going to drive me.”

He went through a phase when he was a fresh recruit of constantly defying his father. Now that he was too big, too skilled to be hit, he didn’t have to listen to the old bastard, he thought.

He should have known better. His mother never said a word, but he realized how reckless and inconsiderate he had been when she flinched as he hugged her one day. The bruises were all up and down her ribs.

That evil old arschloch always did know how to get his way in the end.

Ten minutes later, he’s behind the wheel, absorbed in thoughts about Thorn. Where had she gone? Why did she leave? She was so smart, he knows she could have gone to university. Did she go abroad? Is that truck about to crash into them?

He jolts to attention. That truck is about to crash into them.

The moments right before an accident are often described as moving in slow motion, but it doesn’t go that way for König. He’s just barely got enough time to jerk the steering wheel hard before impact. The collision sends the car off the side of the road, rolling over and over again until it comes to a halt against a tree.

Maybe it’s because he’s been in more dangerous situations than this, but he finds his mind unusually calm as he assesses himself for injuries, his head throbbing. He got lucky—he’s banged-up and covered in scratches from broken glass, but his limbs all seem functional, and his spine appears to be intact. He may have a concussion, but that’s not the most pressing concern right now.

The metal groans as he pulls himself free, coughing from the fumes. Fuck. It’s on fire. He needs to put distance between himself and the wreck before it explodes. He’s just managed to haul himself to his feet when he hears the angry bellow.

Goddammit. He’d forgotten about the Krampus sitting next to him.

He manages to pick his way to the other side of the car, where his father is fully pinned underneath the wreckage. It’s bad—his legs are twisted in a way König has only seen once in his line of work (that time, it had been an entire building falling on someone), and the frame of the car has come just shy of cutting him clean in half.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” His father growls. König instinctively moves towards him to help when a thought occurs to him.

He’s dreamed about murdering his father countless times, but he’s always known it was a bad idea. There was no guarantee he’d get away with it, and if he got locked up for murder, he might never get to see Thorn again. Not to mention the heartbreak it would have caused his mother. So day after day, year after year, he had stewed with no end in sight, waiting on Father Time to get his shit sorted.

But now here is an opportunity. His opportunity to get rid of his father once and for all, with no blood on his hands. Well, none that anybody else will know about.

He watches, like a passive observer in his own body, as he steps away from his father, arms retreating to his sides. His father spits and curses and finally resorts to begging, but König just stands, all sound distorted as if his head is underwater. Staring into the face of the man who has tormented him all his life.

It all floods his mind, every violent thought he’s ever cultivated against him, every gory fantasy that carried him to sleep. It savors of anticlimax, watching him burn to death through no direct action of König’s. And yet, he feels peaceful.

He sees him now for the pathetic old man he is. In an instant, he is no longer the monster down the hall, the boogeyman in his home. He only sees a pitiful animal, fruitlessly fighting its demise.

He would never have changed. König knows this—he realized it a long time ago. The only way to free himself and his mother from this evil is to purge it completely from this earth. This is the truth he knows now, after years of ending the lives of countless abusers in the field.

His father is slowing down now, the smoke choking him and silencing him. König pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re smashed, but he finds one perfect stick and pulls it out.

He holds the end of it to the flames ripping through the interior of the car to light it and walks away to wait.

It’s hard to not intervene. He won’t be stationed here for much longer, and the idea of leaving his guardian angel to return to her own personal hell every day twists his stomach into knots. But as she respects his privacy, he respects hers.

It’s a bright and sunny day when she admits her husband is abusive.

“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t bother me after that, and I was never partnered with him again until he was transferred to some other division.” König’s regaling her with a tale of a fellow recruit who fucked around and found out.

“His loss.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says with a lazy chuckle.

She leans her hand on her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. “You are so charming, you know that? Makes me jealous of all the other girls you’ve practiced that charm on.”

There weren’t a lot. None of them were you, he thinks before responding.

“Don’t let your husband hear you say that.” He meant that lightheartedly, but the word husband comes out with a hard edge to it.

“Maybe then he’d know what it feels like,” she mutters. He watches her visibly stiffen as she realizes she’s just said that out loud.

It’s like an entire conversation is had without either of them making a sound. He knows what she meant. She knows he knows. An awful truth that sits between them like a noxious gas.

“…won’t you tell me about it?” That’s another thing that hurts him and pisses him off. She doesn’t talk the same way as when they were young: it’s difficult to draw conversation out of her now. He’s not used to talking more than she does.

“I don’t want to worry you.”

He scoffs. “Too late for that.”

“I just don’t like to talk about it.” She’s fidgeting with her hands. She never did that before.

“I want to help you.”

Shit. Should he not have said that? She looks off into the distance when he does, like she wishes she were somewhere else. Is she mad at him? Is he imposing? Is she going to close herself off?

“I don’t know that you could,” she says, and he relaxes. Well, as much as he can when the woman he’s lived his entire adult life for tells him that he can’t help her.

“I can listen to you, at least.”

They’ve spent so many years apart, so many developmental stages of their lives traversed without the other. First kiss. First car. Graduations. Promotions. There should be a certain kind of distance between them, ice that needs to thaw. They’ve changed, that’s undeniable, and there’s plenty of time for them to explore those changes later (he hopes).

But all of that melts away the moment she leans her head on his shoulder. He’s so nervous that he’s conscious of his breathing.

“It hasn’t been…a good marriage,” she says, forcing the words out. “He wasn’t faithful. But…I loved him. So I stayed. I thought I could salvage things.”

Something ugly rears its head inside him when she says I loved him. It bothers him that she’s not talking about him when she says that. But what right does he have to feel that way? When he spent so long fucking around and not being there to protect her?

“When he said we were moving here, I thought it would give me an opportunity to leave him but…that hasn’t happened.”

“Why not?” She could do anything she wanted to, he thinks.

“I…I don’t have anything other than him,” she whispers, almost shamefully. “My parents are retired, I’m stuck in a foreign country, and I have no career prospects. I’m stuck.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I’m also just…tired. I’m so tired.” Her voice is soft, defeated. “Some days I alternate between wanting to think for myself and needing someone else to do it for me.”

“You can’t stay here, rosethorn.”

“I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have anything or anyone.”

“You have me.”

She looks at him, sweet and hopeful and with a vulnerability he craves. This is it. His whole life, his entire career, has led to this moment. Finally, he can do something for the person who gave him everything.

“Come back home with me. I have a house in Vienna. You could visit your parents whenever you wanted.”

She looks hesitant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Never,” he says, too forcefully. He adjusts his tone to be gentler. “Let me do this for you.”

Her expression looks conflicted. “I know I can trust you. But I just can’t bring myself to rely on another person so fully like that so soon. I need to do my own thing…figure some things out for myself.”

Shit. He didn’t consider this, but she’s right. He watched his mother depend on an abusive monster all his life, not just for her own sake, but to keep a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. She would have left his father, if only she had been able to. She was like a new woman after the accident—free to do as she liked, when she liked, without having to care for or appease someone else.

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts out, surprising even himself. She looks at him in confusion.

“For what?”

“I’m deployed for weeks or months at a time. I need someone to live in the house, take care of it. Make sure it’s not slowly developing black mold or a roach infestation, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.” He’s a fucking genius.

She seems to mull it over for a moment. “I think…I’d like that. I haven’t been to Vienna since I was a child.”

He loves watching her think, a look of concentration on her face that makes her look so cute, but also so intelligent. The gears are turning in her head.

“I would just have to divorce him. But he’s not going to like that.”

“I’ll help you get back home and stay with your parents before you serve the papers,” he quickly offers. “That way it’ll be harder for him to try anything. When I’m done here, I’ll join you.” She doesn’t know that her husband will never get the chance to try anything. König will make sure of it. He just needs her out of the house her husband lives in.

She looks at him and really, truly smiles. Oh, her smile. Her smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her eyes crinkle, her cheeks flush, her whole face radiates warmth. Yes, he thinks. Any length he goes to is worth it if he can draw this out of her every day for the rest of his life.

“It might happen quickly…within the next day or two,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to pack, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”

“Good idea. I’ll book travel immediately.” It’s all falling into place now. He’s so close to having what he’s been dreaming about for so long, he can taste it.

“Thank you, Alexander.” He looks at her and sees a renewed resolve in her. This is the rosethorn he remembers. This is the woman he loves.

Love is more than a piece of paper, König knows. His parents had the paper, but if there had been any love, it was long gone by the time König was a child. No, love is devotion and protection. König knows how to love her. And he knows that another piece of paper will not set her free. Only he can do that.

"Bucca, why is there German in italics if they're speaking German the whole time?" because I felt like it, okay? I use asshole too much to describe his dad, so I need to spice it up. also, spätzchen is a cute (and thematically appropriate) nickname.

sorry this took so long! like I mentioned in a separate post, I had the entire rest of the story plotted out pretty early after finishing the first chapter, but I was busy all week and ended up changing the structure of this chapter and removing some things. I hope this meets expectations <3 as always, leave me your feedback and corrections! and if you'd like to be on the taglist, please drop a reply! (this also applies if I somehow missed your request to be tagged.)

ps. I saw Hozier tonight. I feel like a different person now. if you want to get a head start on the vibes for the next chapter, listen to Francesca and Who We Are off his new album, Unreal Unearth. I heard both of them live tonight!

taglist: @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian

#bucca writes #könig #könig x reader #könig cod #könig mw2 #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod #mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig x reader #fic:shrike

[chososdiscordkitten]

pairing: Choso x depressed!reader

content: sfw, no nasty stuff, depression, mentions of family trauma, comfort, not proofread, sorry for any mistakes, idk just stuff from my brain.

word count: 594

Just thinking about Choso with a depressed partner.

Him knocking on your door after not seeing you for a while, “Are you okay?” he'd ask as he walked into your dark bedroom. Not being able to see you, only a lump under your blankets as he walked towards your bed. The light from the hallway lit up the room a bit.

Kneeling on the ground and calling your name. You wouldn't answer, only reaching a hand out to him. “What's wrong?” he'd ask, feeling how cold your hand was.

“Nothin.” you'd say, feeling his hand pulling at the blanket to see your face, seeing you balled up under the sheets, dark bags under your eyes. He had heard about depression, about how deeply it affected people's lives. And it hurt him to think that you suffered from it.

“Do you need anything?” he'd ask, seeing your eyes close and quiet tears leave your eyes. You nodded, telling him no without saying a word. Knowing if you spoke out, you'd start sobbing.

The mere question of ‘what's wrong?’ bringing stinging tears to your eyes. You felt him let go of your hand, and standing up. He was just going to get you some water or a snack, but you thought he'd leave.

“Could you stay?” you asked, looking up at him.

“Of course.” he'd say, walking to the other side of the bed and laying with you.

“I'm sorry.” you croaked, turning around to face him. He looked over at you, face puzzled at your apology. “I know you didn't sign up for this.” you continued, feeling his hands wrap around you as you cried.

“Don't apologize.” he mumbled, “I will be here through the good times and the bad.” he assured. “I will love you on your good days, and even more on the bad ones.” he continued, his hands holding you so tight that if he squeezed any harder you wouldn't be able to breathe. 

I see him bringing you pomegranate seeds in a bowl, even though you weren't hungry, you'd eat them for his sake. Knowing that he took his time taking the seeds out just for you.

Always so patient and gentle, being the kind of person who would kiss your tears away when you talk about your past. Who would cry with you when he hears about what your family did and would feel your pain with you.

Holding you as he recites poems from memory when you can't get out of bed, holding you as you cry silently into his chest.

I see him being the type to convince you to finally leave your bed, “I read that plants grow better in the sun.” he'd comment as he put a sweatshirt on you, “I'm not a plant.” you'd mumble, as he took your hand and led you out the comfort of your bedroom.

“True, but I want to test a theory.” he said, holding your hand as he led you outside. You closed your eyes, feeling the warm sun on your face, and the cold breeze on your cheeks.

“This is called photosynthesizing” he'd say, a warm smile on his face as he watched you take in the sun. "Is it working?” he'd whisper, seeing a small smile appear on your face, “A little.” you smiled, feeling his hand tighten its grip on yours.

He knows photosynthesizing only works on plants, but he also knew that back in the 1800’s, they'd send people to the countryside for mental health. So there had to be some truth to it, right?

-

this is sum a lil short, ive been feeling pretty down recently and kept thinking about this. this is my personal experience with depression so im sorry if you can't relate or something.

#jjk #choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk fluff #jjk choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso my beloved #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #kamo choso #fluff

[taizi]

sabo luffy prompt if your still accepting them:

Luffy about Ace's death: it should have been me.

Sabo wide eyed and scared cups Luffys face: never ever say that. Don't even think it.

x

It lingers in the back of Sabo’s mind, in the furthest, darkest corners, as persistent and sticky as a spiderweb. 

Luffy is his crybaby little brother, always will be. Sabo wasn’t there to watch him grow up, grow out of childish old habits, so the sight of that precious face crumpling and flooding with tears was familiar—expected, even. There in the underbelly of the colosseum, Sabo’s body remembered what his useless brain had forgotten, pure muscle memory guiding his hands up to catch the human cannonball without missing a beat. The act of it was tried and true, even now. Of course Luffy would fly into his arms, would cling to him and cry. Sabo’s job was to be bigger and stronger and hold him up for however long it took him to feel brave again. 

He might have been afraid to approach Luffy at first, but it was a stupid thing to be afraid of. Anyone else might have had good reason to be petrified of meeting their only remaining family—of facing the condemnation or betrayal or hatred for not being there when they were needed most, for only showing their face now when it hardly mattered. It would be a scary thing, reaching out the thing you had thought lost, knowing that to reach out would mean to lose it for real, but to stay away forever would be unthinkable.

But holding Luffy, looking at him, Sabo’s brain remembered how little he had to fear from this person. His heart opened up, like a flower unfolding for the sun, because it was safe to open and be gentle here. Luffy would never think to blame him or hate him, not for Ace. Not for anything. 

No, instead he would clutch at Sabo’s jacket with shaking hands, ruined chest heaving, and apologize. 

“I was right there,” he sobbed. “He died right in front of me and I couldn’t save him.”

At the time, Sabo smiled, and said, “I’m grateful you’re alive,” and let Luffy cry himself out. He helped Luffy out of his silly competitor costume and rubbed at his sticky face with the hem of his own jacket until the smaller boy was laughing and wrestling to get away. Luffy’s friends were waiting for him, and he had a job to do, so they parted ways not long after meeting again. 

Responsibility was an odd look on Sabo’s little brother, who used to find trouble in every single nook and corner of the mountain they grew up on like it was his job, but not a bad one. And when he ran off, shouting, “I’ll see you soon, Sabo! I swear!” Sabo knew he could pile oceans and mountains and decades on top of that promise and it would never break. 

Entering the colosseum, Sabo’s mind was focused forward—Ace’s fruit was waiting, Luffy was counting on him, Dressrosa was about to become a warzone. He was very good at compartmentalizing, at doing what needed to be done, his mind, as Koala affectionately put it once, like an unforgiving steel trap.  

But it lingered, that spiderweb thought; invisible except for when the light was just right, when the angle was perfect, when Sabo’s mind was clear and he had a moment to himself to breathe and noticed it cluttering up the corner. 

Luffy apologized. 

The chance to discuss it came eventually, when Sabo found himself at the end of an intel-gathering mission with news of the Straw Hats in the waters nearby. He cleared it with Dragon, endured Koala’s smug face when he let her know to go on without him, then backtracked to catch up to the ostentatious brigantine that was already famous in the New World. 

Luffy’s crewmates are a friendly sort, and the Thousand Sunny as a whole is happy to have him aboard. Franky waves him ahead and jumps down onto his vessel to secure it himself, and Chopper and Carrot and Usopp all call out to Sabo cheerfully, more curious about him than anything. He returns greetings as he makes his way across the busy deck, something in his chest easing like a sigh of relief to know that this bright, beautiful place full of bright, beautiful people is his little brother’s home. 

Zoro nods at him once, all the energy he has to spare for someone who isn’t one of his own, then tilts his head toward what must be the galley door. 

“Surprise, surprise,” Sabo laughs, and makes his way to the kitchen. 

It smells amazing, something rich and spicy wafting from the simmering pans on the stove. Luffy is sitting at the huge, scarred table, gnawing on a piece of dried meat and talking with his mouth full, while his skeleton musician strums something unobtrusive and cheerful on an acoustic guitar. Sanji is working diligently on what Sabo can only assume is dinner prep. The dangerous Trafalgar Law sits across the table from Luffy, with a book open in front of him that he appears to have largely given up on. He’s watching his fellow Supernova with dark, clinical eyes, but there’s much more warmth in them than Trafalgar is probably aware of. 

Those eyes flick past Luffy as the door opens. When he sees Sabo, Trafalgar stands, picks up his book and his mug, says, “There’s no way I’m dealing with two of you,” and leaves through the other door. 

“Fair enough,” Sanji says, which is rude, but not unfounded. 

Luffy swallows his mouthful, turns in his seat, and then lights up like the dawn.

“SABO!” he shrieks, leaping over the back of his chair like one of the monkeys he grew up with back on Mt. Colubo, instead of getting up and going around it like a person. 

Sabo is already laughing by the time he catches the armful of little brother, squeezing Luffy tight for a moment before playfully ruffling his hair and tussling with him. Brook the skeleton tips his massive tophat and leaves them to it, but Sanji clearly can’t abandon his multiple stations, even just for a few minutes. That’s all right. An audience of one is more than he could have hoped for with all the bodies currently on his brother’s ship, between his own people and the visiting allies. 

“How have you been, Lu? Staying out of trouble?”

“For now!” Luffy says happily. “I bet our next adventure will be fun, though!” 

His body is battered and bandaged, but he looks a lot better than the last time Sabo saw him, in that little hidden-away cottage in Dressrosa, the night after he and his crew won peace for a people they barely knew. He’s already looking forward to the next adventure. 

Whatever Sabo did to deserve him in a past life, he’s grateful. 

He gives Luffy a push back towards the table, and draws a stool up next to his. The dining hall is cozy, and a cup of something steaming and fragrant appears in front of him the second he sits down. Sanji only hums when Sabo calls his thanks, already halfway back to the kitchen proper. It’s either the worst place to start a potentially difficult conversation, or the best one. 

“I’m here for a few days,” Sabo says, “if you can spare the room.”

“Of course!” Luffy declares. “Always room for Sabo! Sanji?”

“Your new friends left us pretty well-stocked,” the cook says without looking up from something complicated he’s doing with a knife and a fish the size of a small horse. “We could probably feed an army for a few weeks if we wanted to.”

Luffy looks up at Sabo with a glowing smile, as if to say ‘see?’ and Sabo reaches over to shove his hat down over his eyes. 

“Thanks, Lulu.”

He’s glad he remembered the nickname, because just like when they were kids, Luffy is immediately outraged. 

“DON’T CALL ME—” 

“I did want to tell you something kind of important,” Sabo cuts in smoothly, grinning inwardly at Luffy’s flustered, frustrated face. “I’d rather say it now and get it out of the way then hang onto it for my whole visit. And after I’ve said it, if you’d rather I didn’t stay anymore, that’s okay, too. Your ship, your rules.”

Luffy’s expression clears to one of confusion. The sound of Sanji’s knife has slowed. 

“Okay,” Luffy says. “What does Sabo want to tell me?”

Sabo has practiced this half a dozen times on the way here, but it’s still very difficult to start. 

“When we met, back at the colosseum,” he says, “I was so sure you would be angry. I thought you’d hit me, at least. I deserved that much, right?”

Luffy’s brow furrows. “Why would I hit you?”

Taking a steadying breath, Sabo says, “Because I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. Because I only showed up two years later when it suited me, when I would get Ace’s fruit out of it. Because I let Ace—”

“You didn’t,” Luffy says loudly. “You didn’t let anything.” 

“I didn’t do anything,” Sabo replies, wrestling with his voice to keep it even. “I didn’t help you.”

He watched the transponder recording a hundred times. He relives it every time he closes his eyes. The gaping hole in Ace’s chest, the blood on Luffy’s hands, his childish, frightened plea of Ace’s name, the wounded animal sound of pain and grief he made right up until his mind took mercy and shut his body down. 

A nightmare. An actual documented living nightmare. 

And Sabo wasn’t there, because the two of them were strangers to him, and he had more important things to do than wonder about the execution of Gol D. Roger’s son. 

He should have flown to Luffy the second those memories flooded in. He should have turned heaven and earth upside down to find him. Instead he chose to be a coward. 

Robin was kind, more so than he deserved, and the two of them spent dozens of late nights in Baltigo trading stories about that same wild, relentless little person who owned the most real estate in both of their hearts. She filled the black hole inside him with better stories than the one in the papers, sun-filled stories, about triumphs and hijinks and heartaches and unconquerable love. She showed him the newsprint photo that he’d already looked at no less than a million times, of her beloved captain paying his respects to the fallen at Marineford, only this time she pointed out the message on his arm. 

“I want to run to him right now,” she said. “I want to break everything and everyone in my way and not stop until I’m beside him again. But he wants me to wait. He isn’t ready yet.”

Sabo stared at the photo, mindlessly rubbing his finger over the 3D2Y he hadn’t understood until someone who actually knew his brother explained it to him. Robin let him have a moment, her eyes knowing and grave and full of a sympathy he didn’t think he deserved. 

“It’s okay not to be ready,” she said. “Just don’t make him wait too long.”

Now, Sabo says, “I want you to know that you can be angry. You can yell and scream at me and blame me and that would be—it would be allowed, okay? Even if you just want me to go away, or you don’t want to see me for a little while. It’s all on your terms. Just don’t pretend. Not with me. Okay?”

Luffy’s face is blank and Sabo isn’t sure what to make of it. He dares to reach out and lay a hand on Luffy’s slim shoulder, impossibly small for the weight of the things it carries. 

“Okay, Lu?”

“I’m not pretending,” Luffy says, loud and sudden. “I don’t do that, it’s dumb. I was happy to see Sabo, because I thought he was dead but he was alive and it was a miracle. Robin told me you had ameesia so you forgot all about me and it wasn’t your fault. I dunno about that stuff but if Robin said it, it must be true. It would be scary not to remember important things. I bet it hurt a lot when you finally remembered and it was already too late. I bet it was really lonely. I would never hate Sabo or hit him or blame him for that.”

Sabo’s next breath shudders, and the one after that, and he has to bite the inside of his lip hard. When he’s certain he won’t fall apart, he says, “Robin only told you that afterwards. You didn’t know I had amnesia when you first saw me.”

“You’re my Sabo,” Luffy stresses, like Sabo is being particularly dense for no good reason. “I’ll always be happy to see you first.” 

It’s one of those Luffy-isms, Sabo thinks, leaning forward to put his face in his hands. One of those unexplainable, unquantifiable things that so many people hang their faith on. It would make sense for Luffy to be angry, because grief is heavy and horrible and doesn’t disappear into a fine mist just because something good happens. But there are so many things better than anger for him to hold onto instead. He’s surrounded by better things. 

A plate is set down somewhere in front of him and he lifts his head. Sanji lingers after the delivery this time, slouching into a chair and pushing the platter of lemon curd cookies and fresh-from-the-oven turnovers to the brothers’ side of the table. 

Luffy beams and picks up a turnover, but he doesn’t eat it right away. He turns it over in his hands a few times, warm against his fingertips, and begins to shred the flaky pastry into pieces. 

Sanji sits up a little straighter in his chair, as if an alarm has gone off in the back of his head. Sabo is right there with him, because he’s never seen Luffy deliberate with food before, not ever. Especially not something home-cooked by someone he loves. 

“If Sabo is angry,” Luffy says slowly, “he can tell me, too.”

“What?” he says faintly. 

Looking at his hands, at the dessert falling apart into a loose pile on his plate, the young captain tells them plainly, “Ace died back then, instead of me. He might have lived if he didn’t save me from the magma man. Everyone was there to rescue him and ended up rescuing me instead. Because I wasn’t strong enough. I’m glad I didn’t die, because I still have my nakama, and we still have promises to keep. But I bet that some people, who fought in that war for Ace, who loved him and didn’t even know me, wish that it had happened differently.” He still doesn’t look up, expression unreadable as he burns the tips of his fingers on the hot rhubarb filling dripping from the mangled turnover, when he adds, “Sabo loves us both, but he loved Ace longer.”

If Sabo had been stabbed with sea stone, it would have hurt less. If he had burned with the Grey Terminal, or drowned at sea in front of the Celestial Dragons, it would have hurt less than this. 

He’s on his feet before he’s aware of moving, seat tipping over and rolling away behind him. His heart is racing, he can feel the steam start to lift off of his superheated skin as Ace’s fire inside him begins to react.

“Don’t say that,” he says, too loud, almost a shout. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it.”

Luffy finally looks at him. His mouth is set but his eyes are wide, and Sabo may have twelve years to catch up on, may have failed both his brothers at every possible turn up until now, but he still knows what his little brother’s face looks like when he’s seeking reassurance.

How many thunderstorms and bad dreams did they weather together back on Goa? How many times had tiny hands shaken Sabo awake, only for him to look up into these eyes exactly? 

Back then they were both children, so Sabo would make fun of him, or he would groan and roll his eyes, and they would have a hushed argument about it, but ultimately Luffy would fall asleep safe under a shared blanket, the thunder or the nightmare the farthest thing from his mind. Sabo never regretted it, even when Ace laughed at him in the morning. 

The body remembers. He’s reaching automatically, and holding Luffy’s face in his hands. He isn’t afraid of burning him, because Ace’s fire would never burn him. 

“I wouldn’t trade you for anything,” he says. “Not for anything. It doesn’t work that way. If I ever had to choose one or the other, you or him, I’d kill whoever made the rules and choose you both.” Unspoken, forever unsaid, is the knowledge that he and Ace would always put Luffy first, because that’s an older brother’s prerogative. Luffy wouldn’t understand it, so Sabo simply says, “I loved Ace longer, but I don’t love him more.”

Luffy nods, his eyes glassy, the firm line of his mouth beginning to wobble. Sanji snatches the plate and the messy turnover scraps away with a bitten-off sound, stalking back into the kitchen. 

Reeling, feeling somewhat as if he’s backing away from the perilous edge of a five-hundred-foot fall, Sabo releases Luffy only to drag him forward by the shoulders into an embrace instead. Luffy scrambles to his feet to return it properly, wrapping rubbery arms around Sabo that loop a few extra times. Sabo buries his face in the top of Luffy’s head and breathes him in; sea-salt, warm grass, everything touched by sunshine. 

My brother, he thinks, with all the same wonder as the first time he thought it. 

“And if you ever say anything like that ever again,” he goes on, “I’ll fly here from wherever I am in the world and kick your ass.”

“You can try!” Luffy says, leaning back to look up at him. He’s beaming, untouched by everything he’s lived through—still, in part, that same stubborn little kid that Sabo and his best friend first met in the jungle, who decided they were all better off together. “I’m stronger now. I could probably beat you this time!”

“You think so, huh?”

“No fighting in my kitchen, idiots,” Sanji snaps, striding back to the table with a big dessert bowl in hand. “Do I look like I have time to babysit? If you’re gonna wrestle, take it outside.” 

He all but slams the bowl in front of his captain, revealing the deconstructed turnover folded into fresh vanilla ice cream and drizzled with caramel. It’s the most aggressive display of affection Sabo thinks he’s ever seen, and he grew up with Koala. 

“Ooh, thanks Sanji! I would have eaten it the other way, too, but your ice cream is the best!” 

“Of course it is,” the chef says shortly. “Eat it before it melts. In fact, go eat it in front of Zoro, it’ll be funny.”

“Sanji’s weird,” Luffy says, full of good cheer, but he hauls the bowl out the door with him and makes a beeline straight for where he somehow knows his first mate will be. “C’mon, ‘Bo, I want you to meet Sunny!”

He lets Luffy get a head-start out the door, listens to him join the rest of his crew on the deck, their voices rising together gladly. He picks up his chair and rights it, scooting it back into place at the table. He just needs a minute.

“None of us were there, either,” Sanji says abruptly. “We all wish we were. Would’ve given just about anything to be there with him. But by the time we got the news it was too late.” He crosses his arms, leans back against the counter, and says, “You can imagine what a failure that felt like. Leaving our captain out to dry like that.”

“He would never hold that against you,” Sabo says immediately, knowing the truth of it in his blood and bones.  

Sanji nods, looking Sabo in the eye as he agrees, “No, he wouldn’t.” 

#one piece #opfic #revolutionary sabo #monkey d luffy #asl bros #my writing #prompt #anonymous #op #sanji slipped in there bcus of course he did #rhubarb turnovers with ice cream my beloved

[dairy-farmer]

You know that annoying "redeemed by a Good Woman/redeemed by puss" troupe?

I just remembered Match :Dc

Kon's evil Clone twin. The one where they actually SUCCEEDED and he's totally down to kill Superman and is also super unstable physically etc.

But consider!

Secret Relationship! Bats are paranoid after all. Can't let our enemies or Dads know we're dating! Or fuuuuuckin.

So when the switch happens? And "Superboy" gets a nasty blow to the head that gives him spotty memory? Of COURSE his... "Best Friend"(tm) wink wink nudge nudge, is gonna take care of him. The whole team obviously knows. But no one else does.

So Match has no idea what's happening.

Has he been Made? THAT FAST? Shit, Bats really ARE something else. Better kill hi-... why is he hugging me? This... IS a hug, right? He's never had one before. It's not awful.

And so Match keeps pretending to be Kon. Slowly gets "better". Forgot a lot about Robin and their Relationship, of course, so they have to start basicly over. But isn't Rob the BEST? So patient! Hand holding. Cuddles. Tender kisses.

Hand jobs.

It blows Match's MIND. This? This is fantastic. No one tells him what to do, treats him like an animal, calls him an "it", and?? He gets all these soft touches and kisses? Robin's even talking about maybe having sex "again"!

Fuck. He is TOTALLY stealing the other clone's Life. RIP to that guy. His now.

Except? No The Fuck You Don't, Bitch(tm). Kon is actively waging a one man war against his captors. Fuck these guys. Luthor in particular. He has a boyfriend to get back too and a Usurper to curbstomp. Or fuck. Depends on how hot he is and if he's a dick. Kon DOES have a well known incest kink.

Might keep him.

But back with Match? B-be gentle with him Robin~ *bats eyelashs* *shoulder smack* they're doing the whole shebang. Cabin by a lake. Pizza and dancing. Sparkling grape juice since booze won't effect "kon" anyway.

Just? Everything Tim can think off to make it fun and memorable. He even remembered lube this time, because NOW he knows Kon is too big to take without a little help. It's like a do-over, almost.

It's ALSO the moment Match's loyalties completely fuckin switch. Ride or Die with THIS guy, specifically. [Robin has given Match: The Sex. Match will now willingly die for Robin.]

It's a literally life-changing First Time for Match and a Really Good for Tim. Laughing and tired from dancing, hands roaming each other's bodies, lazily finding what feels good. Tim sighing in pleasure, a pretty little roll of his body arching his back, as he let's his legs fall wide. Smiles at Match.

His hands still loosing hugging Match close, his kissable lips, soft in a lazy grin. The body under Match relaxed and full of trust. Touching him back. Just to feel his skin, too make him feel good too. Looking at him like he's wonderful. Like he's worth loving.

IS Loved.

Match wants to worship this. Steal it away. To hell with the world and "saving" it. He uses a brain meant for grand battle strategies, to memories every twitch and squeeze around his rocking fingers. What makes Rob feel good. What makes him feel BETTER.

Kisses his way down.

Gentle. Careful, so careful. He has so much strength.

He wishes he could suck, but doesn't trust himself. Luckily his tounge draws delight anyway. He let Rob roll them. Feels cradled, between those thighs, as Rob desperately rides his face.

Takes so much control for Rob to stop. He's shaking with it. He wants to continue so BAD. But wants Match's cock more. So Match gets passed the lube. Blindly fumbles to get ready.

He hears something, flying. Probably a plane. Not important. Robin's important. Lifts him so EASY. Feels him shudder, turned on by how easy Match moves him. They line up, and Match slides in like he's always been there. He has to let go or his grip will get too tight. Amazing. Wet, hot, soft... w-words... he can't...

And THAT'S when he gets a sharp stab to the arm with an injecter and a Smiling But PISSED, grabbed-by-the-throat-hard-enough-to-break-the-bed-frame Slam from ACTUAL Kon. Who has escaped.

And found Match in bed with his boyfriend.

The injector has the stabilizing agent they were withholding. The choke hold however? That's for him. Sup, buuuuuddy. Enjoying my boyfriend? Yeah, he DOES feel good. I would know!

Give me a reason not to kill you where you lay :)

Tim is confused as hell. Still horny. But very alarmed. Two Kons? One is clearly NOT Kon. Please tell him it's not the one he's in bed with. He does NOT want to be a cheater! Kon he would NEVER cheat! (Kon knows.)

Match... offers to switch sides? He would kill for Tim. Die for him. Is in love. Wants to be a person. Is mildly to moderately insane but can TOTALLY promise to keep a lid on his Crazy.

.....also this is kinda hot. Wanna make out? Do you think Tim would enjoy that?

Kon? Is basicly? Yyyyyep. That's a 'Me but fucked up' alright! Unfortunate. Hot though. Let's keep him. He's like one of those really, really ugly dogs you kinda can't help but falling in love with.

Tim? Still impaled on SOMEBODY'S dick and just wants to know what's going the fuck on. Face in his hands. Why is he dating this asshole? Why!? *gets smoochs* oh, right. Tim loves him.

Damn it.

Fine! Fuck it! Both of you, I GUESS, get over here. Time to live out some of those fantasies Tim's had but couldn't do with only one boyfriend. Kon! Naked! You! Name? Match. Okay, Match? Move your hips! *vigorous sex noises!!!*

And so they threesome it out! Until Tim can no longer keep up. Then Match n Kon pull on pants and blow up some bases, get pizzas, and come back for "round two". It's a great week!

Tim ends up on bedrest. Looks vaguely mauled. But with a delightfully dewy well-fucked shine~ to complexion.

-🐼🐼🐼

sex with tim getting ppl to stop being evil😍😍😍!

#answered asks #asks #anonymous

[riewritten]

𝐎𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 · CHAPTER ONE · AO3

˚ · .─ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: YOU, a college student in Frankfurt, start receiving emails that embarked the dim of normalcy you worked so hard to build on your own; starting from a message claiming you as the light amidst the hell of Kinderheim, who came just in time to bring a paradise of doomsday and grime, something that pleased the monster inside him. Initially, you thought of reporting the email as spam until another ding came: the monster, so pleased and full, is aiming to return the favor—something to flesh out the paradise you had granted him back at Kinderheim.

˚ · .─ 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎: Johan Liebert/Fem!reader | 6.4k words

˚ · .─ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: stalking, manipulation, obsessive tendencies, paranoia, among many things that might arise.

For a fire to start, there must be friction. For a fire to scatter, there must be air. To maintain the fire, the environment must be tolerable.

"And the prairies would do," the little boy, who seems like he just came out from a deep slumber, beams at you.

And so you look around. Indeed, luckily for you two, because this little sanctuary is surrounded by prairies. 

"But, Johan…" you whisper because the little boy asked you to. He entrusted you with a top-secret, after all. "Why burn the whole place?"

Johan stays still. Cold smile, half-lidded eyes. You only realize how lightweight he is when he places his palm on your head. His aura is enormous, darkly so, that it often overwhelms you. You wonder how Johan's simple pat on the head could ground you from his quiet but menacing presence.

"You said you want to see the fireworks up close."

"I did…? Oh, yes, I did, but that was a long time ago!"

"Only two weeks ago," Johan corrects.

"You could remember?"

"Everything you say is etched in my memory."

"Because I'm special?"

Johan smiles, "Because you're special."

You chuckle innocently as your silly little brain can't perceive that silly little remark as something deserving of alarm. After all, Johan is special for you, too.

He's the first friend you ever had. The first kid that has been introduced to you by Daddy. Daddy had constantly introduced you to people of his age. Whenever you ask, "Why not a person of my age? I want a friend!" Daddy had the same answer: it needs to be—for his work, for your house, for your storybooks, for your clothes, and for the food you eat. And with his cold smile, he adds, "It's how the world works. No child would prosper without an adult." His smile gets even more uncanny when he quips, "Worry not because when you grow up smart, you'll be introduced to children like I introduce my men to you. By then, you'll understand. By then, you could replace me."

But you don't want to replace him or his so-called men, for that matter. Something about them unnerves you. Sometimes, you don't even remember what happens after Daddy introduced them to you. You'd just know it when you come home with a new storybook. That was it. That's the only thing you could decipher.

So Johan's arrival in your life was a momentous change. His presence changed the direction of the air, perhaps towards something more sinister. But what could be more ominous than the storybooks, let alone Daddy's workmates? If Johan is with you, sinister would be a secondary thing. The excitement cradled with Johan's gentle presence would be the primary.

And how could you not deem him special when he suddenly went to you with myriads of ideas so that you could see fireworks up close, just because you said you wanted to?

"But, Johan, there might be a reason why fireworks are thrown to the sky."

"What would happen if it wasn't thrown to the sky?"

You look around the prairies and the building. Then, your face gets etched with pity. "What a waste of beautiful things," you thought to yourself.

Johan walks to you, nonchalant, full of poise. He carefully hoists your hair to put a red spider lily on your ear. Then, he replies, "You're right. Everything would get burnt to a crisp. The prairies would be no more. We will be none but dust in the wind."

A strange urge came to you, then. Run. Run away as fast as you can. However, the urge was weak. Curiosity riddled you more. Yes, it could be indeed frightening, but you were so used to it. Storybooks and the sessions with Daddy's workmates gave you a primal urge to run at first, but it all faded when you got used to it.

You stay silent as he looks at you with a subtle adoration—almost proud of how the flower accentuates the features of your face. Just as if it's not the same flower that'd be burnt down to a crisp if he gets to show you the fireworks up close.

Suddenly, you reach for your leather shoulder bag to grab a book, "Just like this one?"

Johan's sleepy-looking eyes lighten up. You know it excites him whenever you bring a storybook with you. He loves reading it more than you do. If not for the policies inside the sanctuary, which you're obviously not aware of, you were sure Johan would've brought it back with him.

The book cover is a paper mache of matchsticks and flames. You had always loved caressing it as you slept. Still, seeing Johan's dazed eyes towards the book right now, you figure it'll always be worth sharing whatever's yours with him.

Daddy said you two share a lot of similarities. You honestly don't see it if you were to compare personalities, but if that was why he introduced you to Johan, then you might as well cling to it. Daddy said Johan meets no other children aside from you. Daddy said Johan, just like you, only gets to talk to the adults. Daddy said the only difference between you two is that you live in an actual house. In contrast, Johan lives inside the sanctuary where Daddy works. Daddy said, Daddy said, Daddy said, Daddy said—

"Thank you, really," Johan calls your name. "The book keeps me awake."

"It's okay to be a sleepyhead, though. Daddy said your quizzes are much harder than everyone else. You're such a hard worker that I could give you everything that's mine!"

Johan's face darkens at the mention of so-called quizzes; hence, you reiterate, "If it'd help you do better in Daddy's quizzes, then you could take whatever's mine. They said everything that's mine has been given to me for being a good girl. You're a good boy, too. And so every piece of mine is yours, too!"

Johan's voice, unlike earlier, is much quieter now. "You resemble someone."

"Do I?"

"Someone I must never forget."

Your smile widens. Suppose your presence alone helps Johan remember someone he must never forget—it'd be unnecessary to give him everything that's yours so he won't leave you alone. "That's wonderful. Are they why you could withstand Father's difficult quizzes?"

Johan didn't answer. His smile, albeit his usual one, is much darker and more complex to decipher. 

You remove the red spider lily from your ear, walk towards him, and gently hold his hand with the flower. Your foreheads bump—perhaps it's your statement to the wind that whatever darkness and terror your friend has inside him, you're not afraid to stick to it—just like the match head is to its igniter or the pin stuck in a grenade.

You don't know why, but it makes you proud. Not anyone could do that. Not even Daddy. Not even his workmates in the sanctuary. Only you.

"Let me visit you as much as I can, then. I'm gonna visit you until you can be with that person again, the one you must never forget."

"Would you?"

"I would!"

After all, Daddy said you're not much different from him. And Johan is special. And he holds you special, too. And he'd devise ways to show you the fireworks up close because you said you wanted to. And you'd love it. Your curiosity would be more palpable than the terror because you're used to it. You're used to it all.

You shot your eyes awake, terror filling every crevice of your skin. You feel hot. Despite the sunny weather, autumn-like sky from the window, and the vivid dream about a poor child who seemed to be a lovely friend, it feels like you're quenched in an oil well fire.

Your breaths are staggered, loud. Your mouth is open, gasping for air as if it just went through hours-long of suffocation. Your throat hurts. Your eyes are drenched with tears, just as your skin is soaked with sweat. You look at your surroundings to ground yourself, but everything seems spooky. One tiny sound would make you faint out of fear. Your eyes linger on the spare bed of your dorm.

"Frieda is right. I need a roommate as soon as possible."

Perhaps the source of your recurrent nightmares was the heap of emails you've been receiving recently. Your friends in college were quite conflicted when you talked to them about it. Half of them, which includes Frieda, said you must file a blotter at the police station at this point. The other half, however, deemed the messages as something sweet. They told Frieda and others not to overreact because the emails were too cryptic to qualify as stalking.

"Too cryptic, huh?" Frieda grimaced. "The sender is named 'Monster,' for heaven's sake!"

"Maybe an exaggeration? Like some sort of 'You might as well call me a monster, for I could only be satisfied once I devour your enormous love' type of monster?"

"Ew!" Frieda shuddered. "It better be that type of monster, but the latest email just creeped me out!"

"Really? What did they say?" the other friend turned to you.

You sigh. You really don't want to think about it anymore. "The Monster said I was the one who brought him the 'paradise of doomsday and grime' and that he'd come to me at last to return the favor I did for him back at Kinderheim."

You froze at the last word.

"Kinder—what?"

"Okay, 'the paradise of doomsday and grime' was actually creepy. But hey, in my defense, the previous emails sounded like a profession of love!"

Kinderheim. Kinderheim. Kinderheim.

You barely skimmed the email this morning, so the word Kinderheim passed from one ear to another. Or maybe you just blocked out the needed energy to decipher what it meant because the message came right after you woke up. Only now that you are at the school cafeteria and sipping an iced coffee with your friends did you realize that Kinderheim was a very familiar word that triggered a primal fear in your head.

The next thing you know, your friends are done talking about the email and are focused on calming you down because of trembling and crying. You ended up at the infirmary after lunch. After witnessing your meltdown, Frieda couldn't gather the headspace to her next class; she insisted on accompanying you instead.

"Sorry for not telling you this sooner, but—" Frieda gulps, "I've found you a roommate. I'm getting really paranoid about the emails. After what happened today, I'm sure you must not be left alone in your dorm for the meantime."

Much to Frieda's surprise, you squeeze her hand to ease her worries. "Thank you, really. My nightmares are worsening, too. Every sound inside the dorm kind of scares me."

"Oh god. I'm so sorry I couldn't be there for you."

You shake your head, "You don't need to. Your grandma isn't getting any younger. Just introduce me to the roommate you've found." Frieda is the most trustworthy friend you've had for god knows how long, so you don't doubt the screening process she did with the roommate in question. 

"She's a very, very pretty girl, let me tell you! She's a recent transferee from Law who's been dorm-hopping for a week now, and she saw my poster on the bulletin board."

"Recent transferee from Law? What's her name?"

"Anna. She's the talk of the town! I can't believe you haven't heard of her yet! She's mysterious but very amicable. I was able to screen her nicely, though, don't you worry! And oh, I think both of you would click."

"Why do you think so?"

"You're similar to each other in ways I couldn't explain," Frieda pondered. "Maybe it's because you grew up with foster parents…?"

You let out a strained chuckle, "Just because of that?"

"Ugh, I told you I don't know how to explain it. Be the judge once you meet her! And be quick to get well because I can't introduce you to her in that state, okay? The pros of having her is that she's ready to move in as soon as tonight."

"Tonight?! Wait, that's too soon!"

"But it's quite a pity, you know? She's been staying at the hotel near the campus since her transfer. She looks wealthy, but we both know how expensive hotels are in this economy! Give some college girl a slack!"

If this were normal circumstances, your face would turn sour at how fast the transaction was. However, Frieda's grandma owns the apartment. If it's her granddaughter who arranges things concerning roommates—let alone with someone from the same campus—it'd be faster than needed.

"How about the down payment? Her lease? Hell, when did she even reach out? Why are things happening so fast?!" you ask, albeit futilely. Deep inside, you're wondering if you had cleaned your room enough for a visitor to come.

"I was initially planning to let her in a week after I tell you, but today was an emergency. You really need a company tonight. Anna told me she needs a place as soon as possible, so this arrangement would benefit her. And she had sent the down payment already."

"Without visiting the place first? If I were Anna, I'd deem you quite sketchy."

"Heh. Anna doesn't need to take a look inside. Don't you know where you're staying right now has always been eyed by the students?! You're just lucky you got the 'best friend pass!'" Frieda crosses her arms and sticks out her tongue. "Besides, I'm sure she wouldn't bother visiting the place anymore when I already gave her the pictures. And she's quite excited to meet you, too."

"She knows me?"

"She said one of her classmates has a crush on you. I'm frustrated that I couldn't get the name out of her, though! Seems like she really is a trustworthy friend."

It made you excited to meet her, too. And oh, Frieda really did not lie at all. She is such a pretty girl—no, pretty would be an understatement.

Stunning could be the nearest term.

You only return to your senses after Anna flashes a sweet chuckle. "My hand is getting numb."

"O-oh! I'm so sorry!" you frantically shake hands. "It's just that you're so beautiful I got lost. Frieda didn't warn me enough."

"Hey, I did warn you!"

"Oh dear," her voice is even sweeter than her face, "how lovely it sounds from a pretty girl like you." Rarely did you ever blush with someone praising you, and for some reason, the honey in her voice didn't help ease the butterflies either.

Frieda helped fix Anna's stuff, which shockingly was a little. The house wasn't that huge—a typical townhouse, if one must say—but the one and only bedroom is designed for two people. That's why it felt pretty empty when only you were sleeping on it.

Anna insisted on cooking dinner while you settled on washing the dishes. She initiated a get-to-know-you conversation, and you were glad to follow through. But then, perhaps Frieda was right when she said you and Anna share many similarities. You could see through her while talking—her gestures, cordial eyes, and eloquence seemed programmed, to say the least. That would take time to practice, and you know how long and hard it'd take. How else would you know if you're not the same as her?

Unlike other people, communication wasn't conventionally taught to you. You were meticulously taught to do so. And you just know Anna was, too. Ordinary people who learned it naturally stutter and space out occasionally, and the awkwardness will be apparent if you squint your eyes. You've been scrutinizing this for as long as you remember. You'd believe someone if they say it's possible for a human being to be born at age ten, already equipped with basic human abilities, despite not knowing the reason why.

But then again, if you don't have any memories of your life below age ten, how could you know you weren't taught conventionally? How could you see through Anna? How do you know she underwent the same process as you did? How? How? How? How?

Anna gently called your name with her palm, caressing the top of your head, dissipating the fiery pit of your deeply rooted curiosities. 

However, even her hand feels unusually familiar, too.

"I'm gonna turn off the lights now. Is it okay?" Anna gently asks.

"Where are you from?"

If Anna was taken aback, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she quips, "Does it have any relevance to me asking to turn off the lights?"

You look away in a flush, "N-no! I-I mean, yes, you may turn off the lights. It's just that I'm not yet over with our getting-to-know-each-other conversation."

"You seem tense today. Frieda told me something had happened and that I needed to move in tonight. Looking at you now, I think you were the reason why." Anna lies on her bed and snuggles inside her futon. She faces you with a smile.

Frieda and you will have to talk as soon as tomorrow comes. However, Anna's honey-laced voice exuded sheer comfort. It's as if she could take whatever you'd tell her. She seems like a person who could put things together despite your incoherence. And it's something remarkable because you have never met someone like that. Your friends had always described you this way, but never did you appreciate the charisma of it until you met Anna tonight.

"I'm having nightmares recently about a strange little boy in a strange little sanctuary. It's so vivid and recurrent that one could think it really happened."

Anna stays silent, but her kind eyes coax you to continue.

"The sanctuary is in the middle of a vast prairie. I have so many storybooks to read, and I share them with this one tiny, pitiful boy who looks like he just woke up from years-long sleep."

"That's a rather wholesome dream. What made it a nightmare?"

"Because he suggested burning the sanctuary and the people inside it just because I told him I want to see the fireworks up close. We discussed how the grass could help turn everyone and everything into dust. And we were so giddy doing so. It's such a nightmare for children to think of something that cruel."

"Is it really a nightmare for children to think about such things?"

"Obviously?" you chuckle nervously. "Do you think otherwise?"

"But what are children's words if not things passed down to them by adults?" Anna trails, "Cruelty is as inherent as our primal fears. No being would survive without it."

Your eyes widen.

"See, if lions teach their cute little cubs to gobble innocent deers who have their own babies, what more could human beings do?"

"You're justifying children's mass murdering tendencies, Anna."

"Am I wrong, though?"

Oh crap. Frieda might've gone wrong with her screening.

Anna calls your name, "Are you and your little friend wrong for wanting to see a firework up close at the expense of prairies and the sanctuary? Is it so bad for children to think of goals in a manner taught to them by adults? Why fear something so natural?"

After a while of not speaking, Anna slowly sits and scoots her face near to your frozen one. You could smell the flowery scent of her hair and the oh-so-pleasing soap she had used to wash her face. Amidst her pleasant smell, nothing else could enter your mind but horror. Her presence is quite similar to your dreams. As Anna's face scoots closer, she's becoming more familiar, too.

When the proximity is only centimeters apart, she blows in your face and says, "Boo."

You sit up in a panic and scream, then quickly return from it upon hearing Anna's chortles. This is the first time you've seen her laugh, heartily so. Throughout the day, her smiles have always been controlled, the same way as her words and gestures are composed. The tears forming in her eyes due to laughing don't seem calculated this time.

"That's mean, Anna!"

"Sorry, sorry," Anna tries to wipe the tears with her fingers. "It's just that you look so cute when scared. I can't help myself."

The flush forming up your face doesn't help you at all. It may prove Anna's point, even. You turn your back to her, annoyed. "Frieda brought you here to accompany me as I sleep, not to make my night harder!"

"Should I turn the lights on, then?" she slyly asks.

"I'm not a kid!"

Anna's chuckles wrap the room again, "Sorry for scaring you. I'll make up for it."

"How? I'm totally terrified to close my eyes now."

Anna hums in pondering. You're still determining if she's thinking of ways to take back what she did or mess around with you more.

"Okay, you could take it this way: if you dream of the same boy again, maybe you could ask him a question," Anna starts. You face her again, confused, and so she continues. "Ask him why he'd grant your wish at the expense of human lives, the beautiful flowers, the grassland, and even the sanctuary itself."

"How would that help me?"

"Once your empathy surpasses the fear, your nightmares would stop being nightmares."

Oh.

"Don't worry, I'll stay here," Anna gives you a sweet smile. "Tell me his answer first thing in the morning."

You're unsure if it's because of Anna's impact on your first day together, but the little Johan in your dreams became clearer.

It was Anna's face, or rather, Anna if she were a young little boy.

"How silly," you thought to yourself. Now, you're sure the dreams are not the memories scraped off from your brain before you turn ten.

˚ · . ─ 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 ─ . · ˚

Life is good. Every morning is not filled with fires. You have the best roommate who compensates for her mysterious presence by pampering you. You're not a kid (you never became one). You never had a sinister childhood friend. You were a particular case of a human being born out of nowhere with a ten-year-old body, uncanny eccentricities, unrooted trauma, and fear of abandonment. It's better to put things that way.

But it isn't. How bad. Do you hope it works that way? Things are, in fact, getting worse on your end.

Anna was so present in the first month of moving in that you got so dependent on her, especially when having nightmares. Anna is so easy to wake up that you even wonder if she really is asleep the whole time. Anna would sit on your bed, squeeze your hand with her broad fingers, tuck you in while caressing your head, and whisper sweet nothings. When morning comes, she'd ask you about the nightmares, particularly about Johan. Then she'd ask you how you perceive Johan based on the dream. She speaks as if Johan is not a fragment of your dream, that she knows the boy personally, and that she knows the overall premise of your nightmares even though you only tell her the gist of it. It's as if Anna knows everything about you.

Despite the uncanny development between you two that needs to be assessed because otherwise, things could get a bit toxic, you couldn't help but cling to her. How could you not, when she's always there, so aware of what to do whenever you don't? How could you quench this dependency when she rarely comes home now, and the creepy emails from the Monster are increasing alarmingly? How would you sleep alone in a room designed for two when the Monster tells you things only your close friends would know? You're getting a bit too paranoid—delirious, even—during midnight meltdowns that you start cutting people off. It continued until Anna and Frieda were your only close friends left because you were sure neither would be the Monster. You sense Frieda's utter worry, but at least leaving Anna in your circle of trusted people tempered her anxiousness.

One midnight, right after you woke up from a nightmare showing the burnt sanctuary cradling corpses of so many children, you felt the most tormenting headache of your life. But Anna wasn't there to help you. You had to force yourself out of bed, wear your hoodie despite being drenched in cold sweat, and search for the nearest 24/7 pharmacy.

As if the night couldn't get worse, a strange tall man with a pointed nose and black trench coat approached you. He looked like he hadn't slept for days, and his dead eyes riled your intimidation towards him. With a small smile, he asks, "You don't seem well, young lady. Need help?"

"No," you grimace, the headache and paranoia increasing your irritability. "I can manage."

"The pharmacy is three blocks away from here. I can accompany you."

"How could I know you're not gonna bring me somewhere else?"

"You've got pepper spray on your left pocket, taser on the right. I don't think any burglar would dare go against you, not when your temper is riddled by unbearable headaches."

Sharp, he is. You silently nudge him to pave the way, then. The twinkling lights from bars and the volume of people leaving and entering the place help ease your intimidation on this terrible midnight. 

The man waits for the painkiller to kick in with you beside the pharmacy, after which he shows his ID and says, "Apologies for not introducing myself sooner. I'm Inspector Heinrich Lunge from BKA.”

How strange it is for an inspector to introduce himself at three in the morning. Upon examining his ID, you finally ask, "How could I help you, Inspector?"

He confirms your name, with which you nod, and then asks straight to the point, "Have you been receiving peculiar emails recently?"

Blood in your head flushes out in fear, which is quite uncanny, if you'd be honest. This might be the help you've been waiting for all this time. After your teary-eyed nod, the inspector invited you to a nearby cafe. His treat. The economic crisis had made mere painkillers so expensive for college students in Frankfurt, after all. 

You don't let details slip with Inspector Lunge; he seems immersed in it, minus his strange finger tapping on the table.

"To summarize, the Monster started his message by claiming you as the light amidst the hell of Kinderheim, who came just in time to bring a paradise of doomsday and grime, which pleased the Monster inside him. And after telling you that he's about to return the favor you did for him, the emails started becoming more personal and alarming," his finger-tapping did not cease after saying all this. It isn't until he closes his eyes that his voice changes, "All that, and yet, you didn't report it to the police."

"Because I'm conflicted. If I had reported that and it was a silly prank by one of my friends, how embarrassing would it have been to the officials who handled my case? Not to mention that—wait, hold on, how did you know about the emails, then?"

"An anonymous tip came to me, and it just so happened that your case might be related to the person I'm finding."

"The person you're finding…?"

"Okay, first things first. What I'm about to say are merely hypotheses I came up with by myself. It's not confirmed, at least not yet. In fact, you're the one to prove if everything I'm about to say is true."

You raise an eyebrow, "By yourself? How could you disrupt some random citizen's night over something you thought all by yourself? Have you not consulted your colleagues first?"

"That's not needed, to be honest," Lunge poses, holding his methods with utter confidence. "I don't think it's necessary if the one who tipped the information I have about your case is the presumed suspect themselves."

Your head starts spinning, unsure if it's because of the horror or rage. Really? Is all this torment only a game for this Monster?

"That's why you must help me, young lady," Lunge interposes, "because your cooperation would benefit your safety the most."

You don't trust people so quickly, but it's not like you have any other choice if the best one to help is this eccentric man in front of you. "Go on, Inspector."

"Nice choice," he clicks his tongue, "I'll get straight to the point, then," then sips his coffee. You feel he's going tormentingly slow as if pretending to consider your headspace to accommodate it. 

“Johan, Kinderheim 511.”

Fuck.

No way. There is absolutely no way.

"That's quite a reaction. It rang a bell, didn't it??"

Neither Anna nor Frieda had known that the little boy in your nightmares was named Johan.

Myriads of possibilities ran inside your head sporadically. The painkiller started wearing off despite its supposed 12-hour effectiveness. Trembling pleas for help transcended into actual throbbing headaches. If not for the public fiasco it could cause, you might have lost consciousness by now.

"Johan, he—" you trail, "h-he does not exist."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He does not exist!" you exclaim and stand up. The aggressive reaction turned everyone's head towards you. The only one unperturbed about it is Lunge himself.

"What's with your reaction, then?"

"Johan, the prairies, the fireworks up close, the burnt sanctuary holding corpses of burnt children, all of them!" you grip your hair with both hands, hoping to ease the ringing pain inside your head, "They do not exist! They're all in my head, they are nothing but nightmares! I—ah—huh—" you might be having a panic attack right now. Why? You just adamantly claimed that none of these exist? So why?

If the inspector knew of your meltdown, he showed no sign of it. He seems to care more about the information you have in you rather than the tumultuous effect it could give your brain by saying it out loud.

"The only way to ensure your safety right now is if you spill everything to me. Otherwise, you'll remain in that torment until that Monster reaches you."

You glare at Lunge angrily, "I won't be able to spill something that doesn't exist!"

"Your reaction says otherwise. You know it."

Your breathing becomes more staggered, urgent, and unrelenting. The inspector really might help you, so you try to calm down. If you couldn't help yourself, even his initiatives wouldn't matter, "H-huh… Hah—"

You look around the prairies and the sanctuary, "What a waste of beautiful things." "You're right. Everything would get burnt to a crisp. The prairies would be no more. We will be none but dust in the wind."

Tears start streaming down your face. You swear you could feel strands of your hair falling off by how hard you're gripping them.

You remove the red spider lily from your ear, walk towards him, and gently hold his hand with the flower. Your foreheads bump—perhaps it's your statement to the wind that you're not afraid to stick to whatever darkness and terror your friend has inside him. "Let me visit you as much as I can, then. I'm gonna visit you until you can be with that person again, the one you must never forget." "Would you?"

The snippet starts glitching in your head when the red spider lily Johan and you are holding melts down into blood. The tranquil afternoon turns dark. And the fluffy clouds turn into a massive chunk of smoke. The air started to stink. The cold breeze is now tormentingly hot. It reeks of corpses. Children. Flames. Ashes. And there goes Johan, looking at your reaction with expectant eyes, saying: Here are the fireworks you so wished for. I told you everything you say is etched in my memory. You ask, and I deliver.

"Stop—hah—go away! I can't—oh!" you snap out of it when a familiar hand grabs you by the shoulder and brings you to her embrace. 

She hushes you and whispers sweet nothings until it overpowers your sobbing, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm here. Breathe slowly."

Your eyes flutter. Anna's soft touches coax your heart to slow down. 

"Where have you been?" you muffle your cries on her shirt. "I've been having a hard time alone in the dorm."

"But I'm here now, am I not?" There's something in Anna's honey-laced voice that calms you down. Something more effective than drowsy painkillers or the sleeping pills you buy when nighttime events go dire. "You've been so independent all your life, so I thought you could handle it. Am I apparently mistaken?"

Just before you let your body give in to the cradle of Anna's safe arms, she speaks in a voice much deeper than usual, "I'm here because you want me to. It was you who wished for me, so you're not gonna get rid of me anytime soon."

You neither understood what she meant by that nor what was with the sudden change in her voice. Perhaps it was your delusion kicking in, but Anna's tone almost sounded like the boy in your dreams if he got to grow up into a fine young man. How alarming, indeed, but with your mind so desperate for comfort and warmth, you let Anna's remark consume you with relief.

To leave the only inspector who could help you in the hands of a girl you've only known for a month or two? What a pity.

But then, it's not like you can do anything about it. You have no choice but to let Anna handle it. As she always does, as she always would.

When you wake up, you're already at the dorm. Lying on the bedside table was a full-course breakfast Anna cooked for you. She told you what happened after you lost your consciousness. Inspector Lunge begrudgingly called it a night, but her apologies to your roommate were sincere. Anna was able to confirm his identity. Inspector Lunge is indeed from BKA but is on leave of absence.

"Then why did he go to me in the middle of the night? And the strange thing is that he reached out to me with nothing but assumptions he had just made by himself, with no colleagues involved whatsoever."

"My friend's father works at BKA. He told me an uncanny rumor."

"Rumor? It's more uncanny that the beauty and brains Anna Liebert believes rumors."

Anna giggles, scoots closer, and whispers to your ear, "One of the crucial witnesses in the case Inspector Lunge used to handle had killed themselves after he got so engrossed interrogating them. His leave of absence was forced by his superiors," she then faces you upfront; cold but gentle eyes are centimeters away from yours. Her breath smells of fresh mint. "Strange, isn't it?"

What's more strange is how you're flushed from the proximity just now, though.

"That's why I want you to be careful around him," Anna calls your name. "It's not that he couldn't help you—I think he would do so well in that regard—but do come to me once he crosses the line."

Indeed, if Inspector Lunge really crossed the line with this thing, killing yourself is way more possible than anything. "Thank you, Anna. I don't know how to repay all the help you've done for me."

She cups your cheeks, a very soft gesture contrasting her uncanny reply afterward, "I'll do everything for you."

"Why?" and yet you're too entranced to get alarmed by it.

"Why?" Anna lightly ponders. She gives you a cold, sweet smile shortly after: "Because you're special."

"Special? Why?"

"That's a secret," Anna then slides a toasted bread in your mouth. "Now eat. Someone dropped a letter in our mailbox. I think it's for you."

She then closes the door to leave you be. As much as the so-called secret is riling up your fluster, a realization daunts you, too. The longer you stay with this mysterious girl, the more it strengthens the feeling of familiarity towards her.

You brushed a hand through your head, deeply baffled and horrified. Not because of how this inspector nailed the events in your nightmares but because of a long-awaited admittance to your realization: the nightmares aren't just nightmares. You were never a particular case of a human being born out of nowhere with a ten-year-old body and uncanny eccentricities. Johan is real; when you were a kid, he was the sinister but only friend you've had.

I would like to apologize for my reckless behavior the previous night. It was imprudent of me to continue when you're clearly asking for a break. This time, please read this letter at your own pace. I know you're having a hard time, and this is the least I can do to help you.

Long, long ago, in one of Kinderheim's foster homes, there was a little boy constantly forced to sleep as he held the words that could shatter human lives. "He was a monster, keep him locked in the underground!" the staff often say. Rumors have it that he had ten horns and seven heads—a monster, indeed, if one might say. One day, this little Monster developed resistance to Kinderheim's sleep-inducing methods, and there, he leashed out the words that could ruin human lives. His power led to the demise of Kinderheim. Some say the monstrous boy only wanted to see fireworks up close, but Kinderheim wouldn't let him. Death to the foster guardians who didn't let him! Pity to the children who had to sacrifice their bodies so fireworks would be lit!

No one knew about the boy—neither his name nor his past. And as an inspector, I do not believe he's as monstrous as rumors say. It's a child's inherent characteristic to copy what adults around them do. Furthermore, hatred in an oppressive home is strengthened when people inside it gather. Hatred brings people together, and this measly little boy might've just ignited a flame out of it. Perhaps this little boy was just the personification of it all. 

How strange it is for a boy to have the means to burn everything to shreds. If it's true, I deduce it's possible only if someone gave him the material condition to do so—like a matchstick to its igniter or the pin inside a grenade.

Such are mere assumptions a mere inspector came up with on his own. Such are the assumptions only one person can prove.

You've been asleep so long and now have no choice but to wake up and put down the fire your wishes had caused.

• NEXT CHAPTER >>>

🏷️ @cadenza-damour @bianca4evers @lyneyenthusiast @suntizme @hyejohann @onasvigo | GET TAGGED FOR THE NEXT UPDATE

oh this is gonna go down so bad folks

#monster fanfiction #johan liebert x reader #johan liebert x you #johan liebert x y/n #fanfiction #monster fanfic #johan liebert fanfic #heinrich lunge x reader #anna liebert x reader #johan liebert fanfiction

[anika-ann]

Cookies and Spark(le)s

Type: one-shot, prequel, canon-ish (see A/N)

Pairining: (pre) Steve Rogers x reader    Word count: 4000

Summary: In which you thank the Captain for saving your life on your first mission together by baking cookies, a revelation or two is made and most importantly, you bring a smile to his face – and vice versa.

And so your nickname, Sparkles, is born.

Warnings: FLUFF, mentions of canon-typical violence, Tony being Tony (affectionate), ... I think that’s it? 

A/N: Standalone or a one-shot set so-so TWO YEARS before Love on the Brain series; reader is called “Agent Jones”; divider by firefly-graphics 😍

“Let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.” - Mother Teresa

- 

There was a small smile playing in the corner of Steve’s lips, a quiet but intense feeling of job well-done humming in his chest.

After almost four hours in a gym, a company of ten – and then another ten – agents of various ranks, him and Rollins leading the training and overseeing agents’ drills, Steve was beyond content. There was a reason why they encouraged all agents to sign up for whichever training session available and it didn’t only go down to unregular schedules – it served as a valuable learning experience. The senior agents teaching newbies; the newbies humbling the experienced ones who would have thought they had seen it all, but were proven wrong by a fresh graduate knocking them down; mock opponents of all sizes and strength and tactics, testing each other, some days more than others. And today had felt good, a testimony to the advantages of mixed classes.

Had Steve been a little more spiteful, he’d spend a little more time revelling in the expression on Vale’s face – a senior agent who was sporting attitude issues at times – when she ended up on her back. And as virtuous as people believed Steve to be, he actually did enjoy seeing her fall from her high horse; but the shy smile and the damn helping hand her opponent offered her, right after she had got her on her back, quickly made for a different emotion. Warmer and brining just as much satisfaction.

He wanted to smile at you at your gesture, catching the pleased spark in your eye, but you quickly averted his gaze and returned to your drills. Steve didn’t press; while you were kind and friendly, you also took training – and self-growth, apparently – very seriously. And he had a feeling you were a little unsure about how to act in front of him ever since the last mission.

The fact was that the gentle hum in his heart you had started by kicking Vale’s ass and then helping her up remained until the end of the session, only strengthened by other great moments you and other agents made for.

It truly had been a good afternoon and Steve knew he would sleep well tonight, knowing their system worked – and that they were good people working under the Avengers’ Initiative.

He was just slipping into the sleeves on his hoodie, catching a glimpse of Rollins patting Agent Finnegan on his back as they were leaving, when he heard your voice, instantly attracting his attention despite the slightly awkward note to it.  

“Captain Rogers? Can I have a second?”

A brief smile passing over your lips made the corners of his own rise higher on instinct. Your hair was messy, some sticking to your forehead, some flying around as you had had to just pull a hoodie over your head, your stance speaking of both determination and hesitance.

“Sure,” he said, gaze involuntary flickering to the Tupperware box in your hands. “How can I help you, Agent Jones?”

A flicker of surprise caught on your face as if you hadn’t thought he’d remembered your name – a pleasant surprise, Steve hoped. He hardly ever forgot names and faces, a blessing and a curse of his eidetic memory; but he had a feeling that even without his gift, he wouldn’t forget yours. You stood out subtly, but firmly, at least to Steve; and it had little to do with the fact he had covered you and probably saved your life on your first mission together just a few days ago.

“I, uhm… I know you probably get this all the time, because… well, because you save someone’s life all the time, but. I wanted to thank you,” you explained, a mixture of emotions difficult to decipher sinking into your voice, embarrassment at the forefront as if you were already questioning your decisions.

And you should – there was no reason to thank him further. You expressed your gratitude before, thanking him with shock right at the site of the shooting and then again on the plane when he made rounds, checking on all the agents. You owed him nothing.

But he had to admit you were being rather… sweet, looking up at him like that, sure and unsure at the same time, clearly hesitant about how to handle the situation and desperately trying to get a read on his reaction.

So, Steve took a deep breath, gaze flickering all over your face and minding to sound sincere – as he was – when he spoke again.

“You already have,” he pointed out gently.

“I know. But. It’s my life and just saying thank you doesn’t really seem like enough for something of that magnitude so. Here. A bit more of a thank you,” you said, standing your ground as you held out the box. Your smile grew, a little playful note in your voice as you shrugged. “You strike me like more of an apple pie kind of a man, but I don’t think anyone ever gets offended with cookies.”

Busted. You clearly weren’t a former FBI profiler for nothing. His hands twitched as he almost reached for the box, slightly embarrassed himself now.

“That’s really not necessary, Agent Jones.”

“I promise they’re not poisoned,” you hummed with an attempt at humour, instantly having Steve’s eyebrow rise up, along with a corner of his lips.

“That… didn’t even cross my mind until you mentioned it.”

“…oh.”

Your mouth opened and closed, no real sound coming out.

One silly sentence and it was obvious you pulled back, growing more embarrassed by the second; Steve felt a little guilty for teasing you. You seemed like a confident enough kind of woman, especially when a situation called for it, but he mustn’t forget you barely had just finished your first mission under him (his command, under his command), one where he had to – and wanted to – tackle you down so you wouldn’t catch a bullet for your trouble. Not to mention he was not only your superior, but also a potentially imposing figure known from overexaggerated urban legends which he didn’t try to but fed into anyway. Approaching him would have been nerve-wrecking for anyone, let alone in your circumstance.

But here you were, doing your best to stand with your head held high, offering him cookies, to highlight your gratitude for something Steve believed was his duty. And to show you regretted getting yourself into a situation where he had to intervene, a situation which could make you appear incompetent in the eyes of your direct supervisor – Steve himself.

So yes, he felt a little guilty for the gentle jab when all he had intended to do was to reassure you it was all in day’s work – and maybe to make you smile a little wider. Because from the little he had seen of you and he had read up on you – he liked to know his team, he liked to know what he could work with on his missions, sue him – you seemed to be quite a capable, dedicated and kind person. Not to mention rather beautiful too.

No matter how much time he had spent out of the ice in his new role, his interaction skills with beautiful women, even if those under his command, clearly needed a lot of polishing.

Putting you out of your misery, he slowly raised his hands as not to startle you and carefully took the box from your fingers, gently flipping the lid open for a slit. The sweet aroma of butter and chocolate tickled his nostrils, his quick metabolism letting itself known, his body whispering that he could definitely devour these after two training sessions, even if they weren’t that taxing on him.

You offered a weak smile which Steve reciprocated.

“If they are poisoned, you covered it well. They smell delicious. And look that way too,” he added for a good measure, hoping to erase the last remnants of awkwardness between the two of you.

He did not expect your reaction; nor he anticipated the effect it would have on him.

Upon his light tease and praise, your face lit up. Truly lit up. You might as well glow – and Steve felt his heart stutter, resisting the urge to squint against the gentle light, tempted all the same to keep his eyes wide open to appreciate the sight. It might be ridiculous, but he felt blessed to earn such smile; a perfect beautiful smile, irises sparkling with gratitude and humour, as if you suddenly appreciated him poking a bit of fun.

“Well, the recipe is from the times where no one truly cared about sugar and cholesterol,” you shrugged, smile subtler now, but no less blinding. “And the secret ingredient is gratitude.”

Steve couldn’t but chuckle, no matter how much as he wanted to disapprove of that sentiment.

“Hey. Like I said. Not necessary, but who am I to say no to this,” he mused as he closed the lid. “Thank you, Agent Jones.”

It was the title, Steve realized regretfully the moment the words left his mouth, that had the alluring sparkle in your eye dim and turn your smile from brilliant to polite; it was the reminder that despite the teasing, you were his subordinate and you were still basically strangers. Steve mourned the loss of your glow; and made himself a promise to bring it back soon as you rocked at the balls of your feet, embarrassment returning, even if considerably more subtle than when you had first approached him.

“Enjoy then. …I, uhm, I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you again, Captain Rogers. Have a good day,” you said, genuine warmth behind your words.

Yet, you kept your word and spun on your heels, heading out of the room.

And Steve couldn’t help it. He could tell it was back, that something weighting on your conscience, probably the worry about how you had introduced yourself to him as the agent who needed saving – and tried to, presumably lamely, soften the terrible impression with baking, no matter how excellent. The urge to have you know that was not at all what he as thinking of you was too acute to ignore, a tightness in his chest that needed to be released. Because you seemed a wonderful agent and a better person and he couldn’t let you leave thinking he considered you anything less.

It didn’t matter he barely knew you or you barely knew him; because you simply didn’t deserve to doubt yourself. Because there was more than one reason for why he didn’t really feel entirely comfortable accepting your gratitude; because it wasn’t fair.

“Did you get any cookies?” he called out, voice low despite the now empty training room.

You stopped in your tracks in an instant, turning to him with confusion written all over your face.

“I’m sorry?” you asked politely, frown turning into a brief smile when you realized what he meant – or thought so, apparently. “Oh, well, I sampled. I had to make sure I’d give you quality goods, after all.”

For a profiler, now you were being completely clueless. Steve shook his head, lips a thin line even as he tried to smile, slowly taking the three steps to make up for the distance you had walked. His gaze flicker over your face, still contorted in mild confusion, before he bored his eyes into yours, mindful to sound gentle despite the urgency humming in his ribcage.

“From Agent Thomas, I mean,” he clarified. The effect on you was immediate; your breath hitched, body going rigid with shock. Good. Then you’d hear what he was saying. “Perhaps some thank you for saving my life cookies too?”

Your lips parted in surprise, eyes widening. Your shock at the revelation that he had noticed the situation was almost adorable. He tried not to let it insult him – he could hardly blame anyone for not believing he’d pay attention to them on the mission.

The truth was, Steve probably would have been slightly annoyed had the situation been different. If, upon first time under his command in particular, he would have had to sweep in to save an agent because they were reckless, defying orders or showing off – but that wasn’t the reason you had missed the danger posed to you.

The only reason you missed the enemy shooter was because you were shooting another, right before Steve could. And you did it because Agent Hillary Thomas, on her very first mission of this sort, failed to notice she had left an opening. Because you had exchanged a few words with her on the jet, learning it was her first, and you probably had kept an eye on her ever since. Just like Steve had kept an eye on her and you.

The only reason he had to save you was because you got too busy protecting your fellow agent. It wasn’t your explicit order to have her six, but you had done it anyway, because that was what teammates did for each other. Steve could respect that. Hell, Steve appreciated that – and he was glad that people like you were on his team. This kind of people were his favourite and he would take a bullet for them at any day, so truly, tackling you was the least he could do and would do in the future should the need arise.

“No, Sir. Captain. I didn’t,” you said, a little quiet; clearly torn between standing behind your actions and knowing it had technically been a mistake to look out for someone else more than for yourself. A mistake which your Captain was now pointing out, you perhaps thought.

Imposing figure, Steve reminded himself with a mental sigh, a superior; you must have thought that you were being reprimanded further, which was not at all Steve’s intention. Realizing his shoulders had turned tense upon remembering the mission, he forced his body to relax and willed the corners of his lips to lift softly.

“At ease, Agent Jones. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to let you know that the circumstance has been taken into account. It was a compliment,” he assured you.

Much to his satisfaction, you let him. You stuck your chin up, standing straighter as a brief pleased smile passed your lips.

“Thank you, Captain. I realize that the practice might be different here at the AI than at my last place of employment, but-“

“You were looking out for a colleague, as have I,” he interjected, earning a nod from you, along with a barely-there smile. “And I’m pretty sure having your friends’ and fellow agents’ six is a universal rule. So… I’m glad I had you on the team for the mission. …And I would have been even without the cookies,” he added with a small smirk.

But oh, he should not have sweetened the compliment with a joke if he wasn’t ready to face the consequences. You chuckled, surprised at the teasing – your smile grew large and genuine, eyes shining again, the playful spark making its return. Steve felt his heart stumble in his chest once more, falling straight into the trap of your charm.

He was in trouble. He had been intrigued by you, half-way in trouble already, ankles deep at least, but now you not only smiled – at him, with him – but you smiled at something he said and he could not deny that at heart, he was a simple man with appreciation with the most incredible simple things; like how your smile lit up the training room like the brightest star. And now he was knees deep. No, waist deep, if not more.

If there was one person who should be smirking, it should be you. But you weren’t, because you probably had no idea that the gorgeous smile of yours just made breathing seem like a task worth only of titans among whom Steve did not belong, not with his chest feeling so full – full of delight and pride. He did that. And he wanted to do it again.

He was in so much trouble.

“Well, you got them this time, so enjoy them. I’ll try my best so there’s no reason for them next time,” you declared, unwittingly offering Steve a helping hand by reminding him of the reality of him being your boss – and therefore of inappropriateness of where the train of his thoughts was heading.

“As great as I think these are and as glad as I am you are looking out for our teammates, I like that plan,” he said with a grin, clutching the box only in his left hand in order to outstretch the other, an offer to shake it. You tilted your head to side slightly, but set his hand into his with a soft smile. Trouble. Beautiful, beautiful trouble. “Looking forward to working with you again, Agent Jones.”

You squeezed his hand, an honest grip – firm but gentle, not too strong to show off or try to assert dominance, nor too weak for you were not. Your voice carried the same sentiment as you parted.

“Same, Captain Rogers. Have a good day.”

Perhaps it would sound absurd if said out loud, but the box of homemade cookies only solidified Steve’s conviction that he had made the right choice to decide to move out of the Tower. His first apartment given to him by SHILED after he came out of the ice never felt like home for multiple reasons and so when Tony had been kind enough to offer to all the Avengers a place to stay, no matter how often, Steve had been grateful – if for nothing more than for the convenience of not having to commute. But as time passed and he felt the ground under his feet grow more and more solid, slowly coming to terms to the fact that this century had to be his home now, Steve was finding it hard to balance work and life outside of work with the majority of his life outside of work still happening at the place of employment. At a place where his colleagues – even as he could call a few of them his friends – could stride in literally whenever they pleased. He found himself longing for a true home again.

And yes; something as simple as sweet taste of chocolate chip with peanut butter edge played straight into his yearning for domesticity, painting an image of a woman to hug as she stands by the stove, him sneakily stealing one of the still-cooling cookies he had helped to prepare from a plate, earning a playful smack over the back of his hand and a chuckle. The woman carried your face at the moment, inevitably associated with these particular cookies; Steve had to scold himself for thinking about one of the agents under his command this way.

Then again, the way your eyes sparkled, delighted and a little playful stirred something deep within him, automatically coaxing his lips into a smile even two hours later.

That smile only grew as he spied an unread e-mail at the screen of his computer. From Tony Stark himself, sent this morning, the subject hinting the location of his possible future home. Steve had requested an apartment in one of the Avengers Initiative buildings, which were offered for rent to all agents under the AI for more than a reasonable price. Conveniently located, far enough from the Tower, but not too far; carrying a much better potential to be turned into a home.

Opening the e-mail, Steve couldn’t but chuckle at Tony’s – at least partly pretended – pretentiousness oozing from the first two sentences.  

Hey big guy, you sure you wanna live with the common folks? One apartment’s freshly empty, but can you actually handle living next to a newbie-ish girl? Had J run a like a triple background check on her, she should be okay. I mean. Besides being former FBI, bleh. Check for yourself. She could be good neighbour I guess, you could always ask her to lend you some sugar. Or pour some all over you, cause she has good looks. Lemme know if this’ okay. Peace out.

Steve rolled his eyes at Tony’s inability to not add a dirty joke – but his heart skipped a funny beat at the mention of the FBI, allowing himself a brief hope of seeing you more often. As if you were the only ever newbie coming from that particular agency. However, that simple skip turned into a thunder in his chest when he noticed the file attached with your name indeed.

He was being ridiculous, he was aware. But he found himself excited at the prospect. The first win was that from what he understood you were more intimidated by your circumstance than starstruck when you had interacted with him, so he wouldn’t have to deal with some hero worship that could quickly get awkward and annoying, despite what some people thought. And the second win, well… Even if nothing more than a smile and hellos should be exchanged a few times a week, a friendly face who might light up at least a bit upon talking to him sounded all sorts of pleasant; let alone a kind one.

Maybe he would ask for a cup of coffee after a few days, in a very neighbourly fashion of course, and get to know you in person rather than from the extensive background check he might have received but refused to read because Tony was probably able to dig out things like the name of your first pet and that was just wrong. He’d rather learn these things from you, if you’d be willing. You certainly didn’t seem uninterested in talking to him when giving him a completely unnecessary thank you, so perhaps you’d say yes – to the coffee, at least.

And perhaps he was getting quite ahead of himself. He shook his head.

Briefly checking the address, knowing the quality of the living space would not be an issue, Steve caught himself smiling as he wrote Tony back.

Looks perfect. I’ll take it. Thank you, Tony. S

He groaned when he realized his mistake, quickly sending another e-mail, even as he himself hated when people sent out e-mails as short as a text message in quick succession.

When I said ‘looks perfect’ I meant the apartment. Just to be clear. S

Naturally, with a nice neighbour like yourself, you were a part of that perfection and maybe he did mean you on your own as well, but he would never confess to that, let alone to Tony. Had he said it to anyone else, they would probably look at him funny, slyly even, but Tony… he’d make a huge deal out of it and would probably meddle.

Sadly, this was Tony who he was dealing with. The man could leave important e-mails concerning battle strategy or economic matters untouched for two weeks – but now, he replied instantly. Naturally. Steve could practically hear his friend saying the words. He groaned again.

‘Tis all yours, Cap. And I’m sure you did. Enjoy your cookies, btw, could have shared, you know.

The cookies, not her. Suuuuugar-

Steve felt his face being set aflame; but he rolled his eyes, shutting the tag closed with a grin on his face and warm hum in his chest. Tony’s teasing couldn’t taint the fact Steve was about to move into an apartment with a fresh opportunity to build a home. You living next door – even if it meant a lot of teasing from Tony (and Natasha, and Clint if he caught on) in the future – was just a very pleasant bonus.

He was a simple kind of man – an apple pie kind of a guy as you had guessed, in all senses of the words. Maybe he could try to bake a pie once he moved in and share with you; return your Tupperware with a piece of it in it, as a sort-of a reversed ‘welcome in the building, neighbour’ gesture.

Yeah, he should do that. He had a feeling that it just might make you smile; maybe just enough for him to see a sparkle light up your eyes again. He'd like that. Very, very much.

Steve Rogers masterlist // Love on The Brain masterlist

Thank you for reading my short trip from writing hiatus 😇🥰 Feedback always appreciated 💕

I have several things for TWO possible sequels to Love on the Brain written down, but I don’t have the time or mental energy to really write, let alone detail up a mystery right now. So, I thought you might like a fluffy prequel at least 😊 Thank you for your support 💕

P.S. I have a headcanon now that Tony knew the post boxes in the wall were a mess and he was perfectly happy with the knowledge Steve and Sparkles had to interact whenever something landed in the wrong box. He was probably deliberately stalling having it fixed.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fluff #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america imagine #steve rogers #former bau agent reader #agent reader #love on the brain #cookies and sparks #anika ann

[chronosdawn]

Delirium - Vampire!Scaramouche x GN!Reader

I’m in the mood for vampires what can I say?

Warnings: dark content, kidnapping and captivity, blood-drinking and biting, reader is very out of it and it’s reflected in the prose.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. Kept in this room where the thick velvet curtains are always drawn and the faintest hints of sunlight able to sneak through the gaps on the brightest of days are a fine luxury. The sheets underneath you are soft and silken, clearly of high quality—as is the set of manacles chaining your wrist to the bed frame. 

It is not those that make escape something of a far flung dream however, no, it is instead the arms of your captor that are often locked around you in a vice-like grip in your more conscious moments. He’s holding you now, the dark strands of his hair brushing against the side of your face as he leans down and buries his fangs in your neck.

You barely react to pain anymore, just an almost imperceptible flinch, too used to the sensation and too unfamiliar with your own limbs to do much more. This is all you know anymore, arms and fangs and cold—always so very cold, like every speck of heat has been drained from your body and you are incapable of generating any more. If only you could reach the curtains and pull them open to let the sunlight warm your skin just like—

Like when? Had you ever stood in the sunlight? You could recall the sensation, the lovely way it felt on your skin but any memory you might have had of it is gone, lost to the dust and the dark and the cold. It is so painfully cold in here.

Your captor draws back from your neck, peering at you with eyes that seem to glow violet in the dim light, a smear of your blood darkening the corner of his lips. A slender-fingered hand cradles your cheek with a little too much force to be called gentle. 

“Not long now,” he says, brushing his thumb over the skin of your cheek. “See, I told you you’d get through it just fine, didn’t I?”

Did he? You can’t recall. You think you knew him before the room on some days—on days where you even remember a time before the room at all. In your clearest moments you think you might have been fond of him once. Or maybe you were afraid? Perhaps it was both, before the cold had come and left your insides deadened. 

“You’ll feel better when it’s over, you’ll realize I was right all along.” He leans towards you and kisses you sweetly.

His lips are like ice and taste of blood.

No, you’d told him you didn’t want this. That you wanted him but not the cold and the never-ending night. You pull away with as much effort as you’re able when your muscles are all numb.

“S—Scara—” The rest of his name falls away from you as quickly as your moment of lucidity had come. 

“I’m right here,” he says, wiping away a tear that you do not remember falling down your cheek. “We’ll be together forever now, you’ll never need anyone else.”

He may say that but you feel like you do. Like there are people you want to see so badly your heart may burst from your chest, even if you can’t recall a single one of their faces.

“I—” you try but the cold has seeped into your tongue and your brain and you do not know whether to tell him to go away or come closer so that you may lose yourself in the scent of green tea on his clothes and dream of days gone by where he was not the feature of your very worst nightmares. 

Your chance to ask for either is lost as he pulls away, rolling up one of the sleeves of his fine shirt to reveal a skin so pale it can never have seen the sun at all. Without any sign of hesitation, he brings his wrist to his mouth and sinks his fangs into it while you watch on impassively. 

A drop of dark liquid—darker than the blood of a human had any right to be—runs over his wrist as he draws it away from his mouth and holds it out towards you.

“Drink,” he tells you. The wound looks raw and deep, blood welling up from it freely, yet there’s no trace of pain in his expression as stares at you expectantly. 

You don’t think it’s normal for you to drink blood, even if you have vague memories of going through this same ritual on a number of occasions. And it’s so dark, the same shade as the curtains. If you could just reach the curtains and pull them back to reveal the sunlight then—

“I told you to drink it—” he shoves the bleeding punctures in his skin towards your mouth, “—so hurry up before it starts to heal.”

“I…” What was it you wanted to say?

“What?” he snaps at you.

“Will it take away the cold?”

He freezes, eyes boring into you. “What do you mean?”

“I’m so cold Scara. I don’t want to be cold anymore.” You’ve started crying again, the rolling tears like icicles on your cheeks.

An expression flickers across his features, but in the dark room you can’t tell if it’s one of annoyance or remorse. Finally he looks away and says, “yes, it’ll take away the cold.”

That’s all you need to hear to bring the bloody wound to your mouth and start lapping at it with your tongue. The taste is bitter but you can’t bring yourself to care, not if there’s the slightest chance it could ward off the chill that has crawled so deep inside it might as well be a part of you. 

Scaramouche watches you rapturously, his features softening in a way they never did for anyone other than you. It used to make you so very happy, when he looked at you like. Before he’d asked you to become something inhuman and you’d told him no—only to end up here. Where sunlight could no longer reach you and you were left in the dark and the cold.

Ah, it’s still so very cold.

#vampire AU #Vampire!Scaramouche #Scaramouche x reader #genshin impact x reader #GN!reader #not sure if this counts as angst or horror tbh #both maybe? #for anyone who could not follow my nonsense: #Reader was in a relationship with vampire!Scaramouche and things were actually going okay #right up until Scara brought up the idea of turning them so they could be together forever #and reader told him they didn't want to lose their humanity #this was not well received #tw: yandere #tw: kidnapping #tw: blood #have I missed anything? #please let me know if I have #genshin x reader

[leggerefiore]

Like Lovers Do

cw: yandere, CEO au, dark content, creepy behaviour, poly (ingo/reader, emmet/reader), broken s/o(?)

words: 2179

Part 1

It was warm.

A lovely heat surrounded you as the softness of the sheets pressed against your skin.

You would almost let yourself fall back into the embrace of slumber. Brain much of a slurry from whatever had happened the night before.

But…

But, you felt a warm breath drift across your neck. It led to the awareness of arms wrapped across your waist and your hands bound together, unable to move. You opened your eyes immediately.

This was not your room.

Not at all.

Expensive, luxury items laid about the large room. Black-out curtains worked perfectly to keep the bright sunlight out of the room. A sound of constant humming echoed as you spotted an extremely intricate model train set looping around a track that resembled the subway perfectly. It was little mystery where you were being held as your memories rushed back into your brain.

Emmet laid behind you, peacefully, still asleep. They had no day off scheduled, but you supposed it did not matter. The twins were in charge, they could almost do whatever they pleased. You thought about screaming, yelling for help and to be saved from whatever madness had consumed your bosses and corrupted them into whatever you saw the previous evening. That would be pointless, you knew.

The bedroom door squeaked open as you laid, deep in thought and contemplating your next move. A smell of greasy breakfast staples wafted through the air as a strange visage of Ingo in an apron appeared before you. His eyes held a tender emotion as he placed the plate of food on the bedside table. You felt rage boil inside you at how he was acting. Did they think it was normal to kidnap someone?

“Fuck you,” you snapped at him, having an unexpected fire lit deep inside you. Ingo gave you a stern look, not unlike one of an upset father. The arms around your waist tightened to an almost painful degree.

“That is verrrry mean, darling,” Emmet's voice was saccharine, “He made you breakfast! Thank him.” The feeling of his hands pulling up your shirt, one you now realised was not your button-down from yesterday. His fingers danced across the skin in a threatening manner. You swallowed. For now, it seemed to be your best interests to play along.

“Thank you… Ingo,” it was odd calling him by his name when you spent such a long while trying to distance yourself from that. The older twin gave you a soft look.

“… You must have been upset I woke you up, dearest,” he shook his head, “I know you did not mean those words.” Emmet's hands retracted from the new area they had taken to exploring. Ingo turned to the plate and hummed as he cut into the eggs with a butter knife. Carefully, he brought a fork up to your mouth. Mortification surged through your system. “Here, for you to eat,” his tone was gentle, like he was terrified to upset you. It felt absurd. You had sat in on some of his disciplinary meetings and negotiations and knew how sharp his tongue could be.

You felt your pride shatter as you let him feed you the breakfast. If you were going to get out of here, however, you knew that skipping meals was going to be a bad idea. There was no telling how they would snap if you refused to play along, like they nearly had yesterday. The crazed and desperate looks that had taken over their expressions haunted you.

Emmet had shifted you around and placed a leather cuff around your wrist after he had decided to get out of bed. The silken rope was undone, and you were left there as both twins stepped out of the room. There was little opposition from you, happy to have more time to debate your next moves without their gazes piercing your flesh. You shuddered as the thought that Ingo's cooking was not half-bad crossed your mind.

~

Emmet eventually returned from wherever he had gone after he left with a giddy smile on his lips. His attire was only a pair of boxers and water dripped from his hair. You glared at him as he softly leaned over you to press a sweet kiss to your forehead. Your free hand attempted to push him away, but he quickly grabbed it by the wrist and ticked his tongue.

“Brother says we need to be patient,” his voice was icy and empty, a terrifying thing only heard when a business partner thought he would be easier to fool than Ingo, “There will be a looooong period of adjustment.” His forehead came to rest against yours. Those toxic seas of mercury in his eyes remained fixated to bore into your soul. He wanted to lay your very being bare before him and shift it into the happy partner you were supposed to be.

Ingo was supposed to charm you at a party and flaunt their wealth with ease. He was supposed to find out everything about you and help them change their plan as needed to get you into their grasp properly. Instead, foolish people distracted him from you and made you feel so alone and small. They had to hire others to figure out the information they were supposed to willingly get from you. Emmet cried when you became so callous towards them after they tried to become closer to you.

You eased their loneliness so well. Elesa picked you out so well for them. You were perfect. When you came in for an interview, they had already planned to hire you.

Fire you… Neither twin could ever imagine doing such a thing. Even if you decided to act out and fail to do any of your job duties, they would have kept you around. Emmet's heart swelled when he thought about the happy ending you were supposed to share with them. From their cute assistant to their beloved romantic partner…

… Emmet wanted to blame Grimsley. It had to be his fault that you became so skittish and terrified of them. He had hated him since their fathers had been friendly in their youths. Something smug and taunting lurked around the dark-haired man and his expensive, well-bred Purrloin.

“I love you,” he said almost robotically, “Ingo loves you.”

“… I don't love either of you,” your patience had run out again. Emmet's brain surged with complicated feelings. He hated this situation. Why could everything not have gone to plan? This situation never needed to happen. His grip on your wrist tightened. Your earlier words to Ingo remained in his mind, too.

You wished you had not said a word as a malicious grin grew across his face.

“Heehee, darling, you need a punishment,” his other hand to cup your cheek. One last kiss was burned against your lips as he got off from the bed and walked out the door, not daring to give you a second glance. It was shut behind him.

Leaving you alone in a quiet space once more.

It was then you realised this was not a bedroom of either twin.

The door did not open for many, many hours.

~

When it did, Ingo stepped inside once more. He held another plate of food. This time, something more befitting of dinner. His earlier movements with breakfast. You once again found yourself with a fork held to your lips. A thought entered your head. Ingo was truthfully the more naive and trusting of the brothers. You had seen that in action quite often. Once more, you allowed him to feed you with a plan on your mind.

You grabbed on to his shirt as he stood up and turned away from the bed. Looking up at him with pleading eyes, you watched his stoicism broke for a moment. “Yes, dear?” his voice was the gentle one from earlier as he knelt back down. Something in his look made you want to hit him. He had no reason to act like this when he and his brother had kidnapped you. Swallowing back those rough emotions, you chose your next words carefully.

“Emmet said…” you watched his head tilt slightly, “He said that he would “punish me.” What does that mean, Ingo?” He froze for a moment. His eyes closed as a hand came to rub at his temple.

“... Ah, you had said some cruel things to him, hadn't you?” Ingo's words were more for himself rather than you, “He… We will be leaving you alone for most of the time to let you reflect on your actions. It will help your adjustment, too, I think.” He continued to mumble to himself as you toned out his words. Alone? That was a punishment to them? You felt lucky. More time to plot, then. Before you could fall too deeply into a train of thought related to your escape plans, Ingo cupped your face with his hand.

“Oh, dear,” it was a whine that left him this time, “Please, we will treat you with nothing but love and affection; anything you want, we will provide. Just love us, too.” You flinched when his lips lightly pressed to your temple. The plate was taken, and he left just as his brother had.

Both of them seemed completely delusional.

You wanted to scream again.

~

Everything became a blur after that. Ingo fed you the next morning but refused to speak with you. You were given a short time in an en suite bathroom to shower and use the bathroom, but soon found yourself cuffed to the bed once again by Emmet, alternating to your other wrist. Both barely acknowledged you as a person before heading out. It was obvious they were going into work by their outfits. You realised this was your punishment quite quickly. This treatment continued for days.

During that time, all your attempts at escape soon grew too grandiose and impossible. Attacking one twin would only anger and upset the other, leading to you being restrained again. Running out was impossible as you did not know the layout of their apartment and seemed not too fond of letting you out of “your” bedroom. Not to mention, there was no way to know what stories they had spun about your sudden disappearance to everyone. Elesa could help you if you could get in contact with her, but that seemed impossible.

Loneliness began to play at you, too. The lack of proper human contact and conversation began to weigh on you as more and more time passed. The moments where Ingo was forced to look at you as he fed you became oddly precious, much to your horror. You hated how this disgusting situation was beginning to twist you.

You hated how you grabbed Ingo desperately as he tried to leave one evening after your dinner. Tears stung your eyes as you begged him to stay for a moment. The sweet smile that fell across his lips both disgusted and warmed you. Ingo sat beside you on the bed and gently stroked your arm, an affection you fell into. His voice was so perfect in your ears as he spoke about his day in the office. It felt like a conversation you could have outside of this situation. You found yourself calmed down after having the older twin sit with you for a moment.

Emmet was next. His cuddling next to you in bed would have made you want to shift as far away from him as you could, but the lack of contact for days had you accept his back pressing against your own. His chin laid atop your head as his grinned. Arms wrapped around your waist pulled you closer to him.

Soon, he felt confident.

Soon, you would be theirs properly.

~

Soon, the previous dream of you being their sweet, beloved partner became a reality. You stopped caring about whatever past you had and dreams of being away from the twins. Ingo and Emmet were much too loveable for any of that. They had been right, you did love them. The rich men easily showered you in gifts and affection. Your favourite meals were at your beck and call, and anything you so much as mentioned would appear in the apartment before long.

Ingo made sure your needs were met and gone beyond, while Emmet doted on you with endless affections and sex. You could not think of a time that you had felt so peaceful and complete in your life.

The only price for all this was not leaving the apartment.

An easy task when you considered the sheer size of it and connected balcony. Not to mention the discussions the twins held about finding an actual house for you to move away to. Something about Nimbasa had grown too smothering, in their words. You chose to agree.

Everything was perfect.

…

Until a familiar man reeking of wine and smoke appeared in your living room while the twins were away with a red-eyed stranger.

#ingo x reader #emmet x reader #yandere pokemon x reader #yandere ingo x reader #yandere emmet x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #yanstuff

[boxblondiecoops]

You should write something about joe cooper and someone on his team! It would be such a cute idea since I saw your recent post lol 😭

- Saphari ★

Hello Saphari!!!

You're my first ask! I hope your doing amazing! Ok, I'm gonna warn you, my writing is chaotic as shit and probably scrambled as hell. I'm gonna start with bullet points and see where my brain takes us. Let's gooooooo~

It's gender neutral and mostly him having a crush but ya know.

　　　　　　　　　✴✶✴✶

Ok. So based off my obsession memory with how he acts around Jenna.............. He turns into a fucking golden retriever.

Same goes for when he's with you.

Like same big blue eyes, same dopey smile. Constantly jumping up to take care of stuff you need/want. He will even tie your shoes for you without you even so much as asking.

Oh, need some water during a sweltering practice? Here's a cold bottle, just for you. It even has your nicknames first initial on the cap with a lil heart with it. Or maybe your player number.

Need a snack because you forgot to eat before a game or something? Oh, lookie, he has your favorite! Actually, he has about eight of em, just in case you need more than one pick me up.

Listen, you guys have to hang out after the games and before the games and all the time.

If you don't wanna come over, he whines and complains to Remer all the time and every. single. time. Remer rolls his eyes so h a r d.

He curls up on the couch, watching his old game and hugging a pillow WISHING desperately it was you.

He's such a lonely guy, please go hold him. He'll gladly be the lil spoon, big spoon, the fucking fork, he doesn't care. He just needs you to hold him.

So naturally you've come over and hung out (more than once) and played some Nintendo and drank some beer if you like too, but he won't push it. He's just happy you're here.

In the house, he has a designated spot on the couch JUST for you. It's right next to his but no one else can sit there.......... Except maybe the dog. MAYBE.

If your allergic or even nervous of his dog, or even the cat for that matter, he'll move them to a seperate room and keep them in there when you hang out.

Although if your allergic he vacuums like the entire house before you come over, even doing the couch.

During games, he's the most supportive dweeb ever. He cheers, like, the loudest in the dug out if your psych out hits the way you practiced. He bounces around and claps.

If it doesn't, he pats you on the shoulder and tells you it was awesome and you guys can tweak it later.

He loves you in the uniform. He won't say it................ But like he stares at you so much. You're so pretty to him he just can't not look at you. He's smitten.

You are the ONLY person on the team allowed to score with La-Z-Boy. He trusts you so, so much with it.

Now imagine you got distracted, waiting your turn on the bench, your name gets called, saying your next up and he gives his prized ball a gentle throw to you and is just like

"Go kill it!" And he's blushing a little bit and almost giggles when you smile and jog off to the pitch.

He knows you won't pop it or fuck with it. It means the world to him and so do you so seeing you use it makes him blush and lean over the railing and just watch you.

Remer definitely fucking laughs at him tho... But also highly encourage him.

"My bestie is soooo in love!" *wipes fake tear*

"Shuddup!"

If you pop a home run with his ball? He's on cloud fucking nine, jumping up and down.

Oh god, if you score the winning game, he rushes at you and picks you up, spinning you around and smiling up at you like you hung the moon and the stars and he just really fucking loves you.

He is constantly waving to you from the pitch if you aren't on the field. Like the straight arm lil wave

Please, can we talk about his eyes? He has the prettiest fucking blue eyes. He looks at you all the time like you personally crafted his favorite constellations or just handed him a signed baseball bat from Reggie Jackson himself.

Like come on. He's so fucking cute, I can't with him. Look!!! Look at him! ↷

The tension.

The tension during practice?

Especially if the team isn't there and it's just the two of you???

STOP SHUT UP

HOLD ON THE CLICHE ASS "lemme stand behind you and, like, move you in the proper way" CLICHE SHIT PLEASE TELL ME YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

He has game for once!!!!

He stands behind you, hands on your waist, guiding you to stand directly across from the net. He makes sure your holding the ball right (basketballs are hard for me to hold- I have small hands) and even shows you the proper follow through.

And he's fully pressed against your back because I said so and he's so warm and big and everyone talks about how big Remer is but Coop is big too!!!!!

He smiles and gives you pointers on your stance and how to aim and shit- and he's such a sweetheart about it.

Like if you miss he claps and grabs the ball and is like "oh, good try! Let's do it again, but a little bit more like this-" and shows you how to do it and adjusts you to be right.

But he's genuinely so nice about his critiques and is so sweet and is painfully and obliviously so into you and stares at your lips a lot and-

Putmeincoach

Oh my god hold on

Y'all does he have like a "call me coach" thing???

You call him coach as a tease and he smiles and shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips.

.......... Call him that in front of the team and he gets majorly flustered.

I might need to write some suggestive shit on this topic later. This is like all I got for right now. I'm only thinking dirty shit uh-

#trey parker #baseketball #joe cooper #trey parker x reader #trey parker x male reader #joe cooper x reader #joe cooper x male reader #joe cooper thoughts #baseketball x reader #baseketball x male reader #matt stone #matt stone x reader #doug remer #doug remer x reader #doug remer x male reader #trey parker and matt stone

[lingeringmirth]

panic

Stranger Things | Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, the Party (- Will) | Rating: G | Words: 630 | angst, S2 AU, hurt steve, concussions, steve has absent parents.

cw: vomiting.

Also here on AO3.

-

Steve collapses when they get out of the tunnels and Dustin panics.

They haven’t really known each other beyond these past few days, but Dustin knows what it feels like to have a connection, and he feels that with Steve. He’s started to care about him, knows the older teen cares about them, about him, shared something personal and vulnerable with him as they were walking along the railroad tracks.

So, he panics, falling onto his knees on the ground next to Steve, taking hold of his shoulders and shaking him, calling out his name, his voice cracking. Pleading. Steve isn’t quite unconscious, but he’s not fully conscious and aware, either, and that's bad with a head wound, isn’t it? He maybe shouldn’t shake him, but he can’t stop himself.

Someone’s hand lands on his shoulder, shakes him, when his own shaking doesn’t rouse Steve beyond whimpering.

‘We have to get him to the hospital.’

It’s Max, who somehow has more real-life practical knowledge than the other three of them combined, because Will isn’t here, he would know how to take care of someone.

Dustin gentles his shaking, looks down at what he can see of Steve’s beaten-up face in what illumination is offered by the bimmers headlights. He can’t quite make out the bruises, but he knows that they’re there, that Billy Hargrove beat Steve up pretty bad, he’d been admiring Steve’s endurance and ability to keep on his feet despite him likely having a concussion when he’d likely been running on pure adrenaline and stubbornness, both of which have given out now the danger’s past.

Steve rolls over and vomits and there’s a chorus of eww’s from all of them.

‘But none of us can drive!’

He knows that his voice is high and panicked,  but he just can’t help it. He is panicking. What if Steve’s dying? How could Dustin be friends with him if he did that? Would they get blamed somehow? No, he needs to be rational, it would be Billy who’d be blamed, wouldn’t it? It was he who’d beaten Steve up.

What if Steve’s been bleeding into his brain all this time and is dying?

Thankfully, Steve groans a little just then and Dustin hasn’t heard a better sound ever in his life, it feels like.

‘--s not driving…’ Steve’s words are slurred, but they’re words.

Dustin hushes him. ‘It’ll be okay.’

Steve struggles to get up, his movements unco-ordinated and amounting to him not getting to his feet and Lucas and Mike are there to help Dustin heft him to his feet before he even needs to ask. Max snatches the bimmer’s keys out of Steve’s pocket and Dustin’s pretty sure he doesn’t even notice with all the groaning and flopping and puking he’s doing.

They get him to the back seat, still protesting even if weakly and his words jumbled, and Max takes the driver’s seat.

It’s a minor miracle, and they’re owed one after tonight, that they get to Hawkins Memorial without crashing onto anything.

There’s a rush of noises and bodies as they help Steve through the doors, he’s put onto a gurney and wheeled out of sight as a nurse asks them how they can reach Steve’s parents, which none of them know. Dustin realizes he doesn’t even know Steve's home number, not that his parents are home, he doesn’t think. All they can do is give them Steve’s name, age and that he lives in Loch Nora, because even Mike doesn’t know his exact address.

They sit in the waiting room as Steve is being treated and Dustin feels like shit. Steve protected them, actively put himself in harm's way and this is how they repay him? He vows to do better, because Steve is worth it.

#whumpril2024 #whumprilday14 #urgent care #steve harrington & steve henderson #the party #steve harrington #dustin henderson #dustin henderson centric #hurt steve harrington #protective steve harrington #steve has absent parents #cw: vomiting

[pttucker]

[I've become the retired SSSSS-grade Son Wukong!!] Haven't I seen that many 'S' letters somewhere before? Even though I knew I was being taken for a ride here, I still tapped on the info tab of this chamber. And that's when I saw its introduction. – Introduction: Only I know the end of the Journey to the West.

Wow, what a totally not at all familiar title and plot.

Oh man, but them saying that they had someone they wanted to play Sun Wukong but he got delayed. 😭

And then the loooong pause after Dokja gives Sooyoung his new Modifier.

Am I reading too much into this or did they totally set this story up in the hopes that Dokja would fill the role that's so obviously his? Is Sooyoung surprised that it's not Dokja? Did her Predictive Plagiarism tell her this was the best way to find him and she's wondering what went wrong? Is the pause because she's upset and trying to decide if they should just go without him?

Or does she know it's Dokja and is wondering if he's lying or if he got a new modifier or is she deciding if she should call him out or just go along with it or...?

Ugh, both her knowing and her not knowing make sense.

It soooo seems like they have to know, though. I mean my goodness if this isn't straight up yelling directly in Dokja's face idk what is:

(This small stone monkey had a nasty habit of sacrificing himself to save other people, and many of those who received his unwanted rescue attempts ended up with psychological scars.) (Gods and Buddhas of the heavens all criticised him for it, yet that dumb rock-for-brains continued to throw his life away to save other people over and over again.) N-no, hang on a minute here. (The heaven's Great Jade Emperor and Buddha felt that they could no longer accept such actions from Sun Wukong anymore and imprisoned the Monkey King inside the stone crate under the Marble Mountain.) (And our story starts from there.)

...especially after Jihye literally said that they should bury him in a coffin and leave him there until the scenarios are over. They may not be able to do it in real life but at least they can play pretend!

But despite those harsh words they're so gentle and caring with him? 😭 Literally Dokja's job is to do nothing but rest and relax and let his companions handle things (for once).

I stepped forward and spoke up. "Both of you, please hide somewhere. I shall handle this." If my memory was working fine, then one of the players took on the role of the 'Tang Sanzang's White Dragon Horse'. I was pretty sure that he was the one behind the current event. Seeing that the kids were participating in this Story chamber, the rest of the players should also be from , but if someone with ill intention had somehow butted in here… "…We told you, you just stay on the bus."

Oh man, look at Dokja immediately going right back into protector mode and even assuming that maybe someone had infiltrated the story. And the sass they give him in return! Saying he can't even afford proper clothes for himself but wants to save them? And Yoosung's scary little smile?

THEY HAVE TO KNOW RIGHT?

Is this their way of showing him that they can handle themselves so please trust them to do so? Maybe some kind of angry "stop treating us like children, we are going to be the ones to save you"? An even angrier "how dare you save us when you can't even take proper care of yourself"?

And maybe also their way of letting him just rest finally? After all, how is Dokja to deny them taking care of him when it's literally the plot of the story they're enacting?

Also there's this weird little exchange:

– This way, he'll trust us more, you dummy. What will you do if he decides to wreak havoc later? I felt goosebumps break out on my skin. – …You're actually scared of him? Look at his current state, will ya?

Why would they assume some random stranger is going to wreck havoc??? In fact, who is the one person they know who regularly wrecks havoc for everyone around him? Also, the whole "look at his current state." Dokja assumes they're just talking about his shabby clothes or something but they're definitely talking about how weak he is right now, right? Like, I don't think Dokja was able to fully recover back at Secretive Plotter's place because last we saw he was only like 38% healed. (Yet another reason for his party to pamper him right now.)

Gilyoung and Yoosung are definitely saying "we can totally take Dokja right now he's so weak, if he starts to act up we'll shove him a box somewhere before he causes his usual mess," right???

Ughhh but everything also makes sense if they don't know.

Sooyoung would know that such a story would (and does) appeal to the Great Sage because he also wants to just have a nice relaxing time where he doesn't have to save anybody and is pampered by this companions. And of course a story mirroring the Demon King of Salvation's story in any way is going to draw attention, both from the Great Sage and the general public, as we literally just saw with both the Earth news and the news here. (And Sangah! Sangah is back!!!!!!!!! We actually get to see her again!!!!! And this is the story she's drawn to!!!!) And Dokja himself points out that by doing all of the work of the story, they'll ensure that Kim Dokja's Company gets all the story shares.

...Actually, you know what, just the fact that those are all Dokja's observations and reasonings makes me 100% believe they absolutely know it's him because Dokja always, always, always does exactly this every single time people try to help him or show that they care for him. He always assumes they have some ulterior motive and that they're doing it for their own gain. He never thinks that people are there for him. He is the most unreliable narrator ever when it comes to his own story.

If Dokja believes they're doing it for themselves then they have to actually be doing it for him.

They MUST know.

#orv novel chapters 425-427 #orv #orv spoilers #orv liveblog #omniscient reader's viewpoint #kdj #kdj crew #hsy sat them all down and told them exactly how they're gonna scam the scammer #and honestly at this point I think even the children are fine with it because they are SO tired of losing him #they can hold off on the hugging and crying if it'll help them keep dokja in the long run #especially if they figure that there's a very good reason for him to be in hiding even if they don't know exactly why #also as an aside this novel gives me so much whiplash at times lmao #we went from 'this is definitely the end the apocalypse has come!!!' to 'let's all put on a play pretending to be the Great Sage' #what even is this novel

[v-ternus]

His Creation Myth pt.2

Enjoy the morning after with MountainDew. This was supposed to be all nice and hot and stuff. But then the plot ran away from me and now its this angsty little work amounting to 2500 words.

Heres part 1

Summary: Mountain feels like he mislead Dew, did something wrong, maybe even took advantage of him, and the worry seeps into his bones. A conversation is what they both need. Dew’s words are better then Mountain could’ve hoped for.

The first part is about Dew's morning, the second is Mountain’s and the third is the rest of their shared morning.

Read part 2 below or on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Dew~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dew stirs to the sound of a branch scraping against a window. He wakes up somewhere that is obviously not his room– the rich smell of sandalwood and lavender swirl around him, the sheets beneath him are rougher, thicker, and more importantly, he only has boxers on. It all confuses him.

He does his best to retrace the night– he had joined Mountain when he asked if he wanted to come over and watch this weird fish movie called ‘Nemo’. They watched and… oh. Oh no.  

The memories of the night before wash over him. Lingering moments of gentle touches, whispered praises, it hits him like a truck. Embarrassment wraps around his brain stem, he definitely fell asleep on the earth ghoul. He woke up clean and in a pair of underwear that wasnt his, so Mountain cleaned him up between then and now, wiped him down of his own spend. 

He wonders what time it is and rolls over to try and find a clock. Instead, he finds himself face to face with an earth ghoul who is fast asleep and snoring. He bites down on his lips to stifle a gasp. What they did last night, coupled with waking up right next to him, it was alot to handle, almost too much to process. He suddenly, desperately needed out. 

He gently drags himself down to the foot of the bed and manages to get up without rousing the sleeping giant. He finds his clothes from the night before in a pile right next to his feet, but quickly realizes they aren't fit to wear, he’s made a mess of them.

The clock on Mountain’s desk in front of him reads 7:42. It's almost time for breakfast , he thinks, and he’s almost as naked as the day he was summoned. His only option is to make the trek to his room, which is luckily right next door. He gathers up his soiled clothes and makes it out of the room without so much as a creak of a floorboard, hoping no other ghoul catches him leaving.

He gets to his room and shuts himself in for a moment, leaning back to take a few deep breaths. He slips on a pair of pants and a shirt he found hanging behind his door before setting off for breakfast. He decides to dissect the night later on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Mountain~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His wall is the first thing Mountain sees when he cracks his eyes open. A yawn bubbles up and he does his best to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but it's a hard task. The night before, he had held onto Dew, cradled him to his chest as the ghoul worked through his orgasm. Time slipped by and Dew had fallen asleep. His plans of aftercare went straight out of the window. He had rolled Dew off of him and marched to the bathroom, wiping the sticky patch on his own stomach. The best he could do for Dew was a damp cloth.

He went back out and wiped Dew off, grabbing two more new rags, managing to get him almost perfectly clean. He looked at Dew on the way back from the last bathroom run and quickly realized another problem– Dew was naked . He would’ve run over next door to his room, but trashed the idea when he started worrying about leaving him alone. His only bet was to dig for one of his pairs from when he was a newer summon, when he was much smaller. They still hung loose on Dew’s bony hips.

With his cleanup done, Mountain finally laid back down next to Dew and his heart swelled when he instinctively curled up into his side. 

Mountain watched Dew as he slept, he narrowed in on the features that were sharpened by shadows from the tv. He watched as his eyes moved and twitched with whatever dream he was having. He studied the few freckles that peppered his soft skin. He looked at him in awe. But after a while, the joy he felt started to be consumed. 

He couldn't stop thinking about what happened. He couldn't stop thinking about what he had done . Guilt ridden, he stayed awake, his racing mind not stopping for a moment. He ran through the idea that he had taken advantage of Dew, that maybe he had pressured him. The thoughts kept him awake until the sun started to creep in. By then, exhaustion hit him and racing mind or not, his body demanded sleep. 

All of his worries from the night before and waking up staring at a wall really made him ache. The wall meant Dew was gone, having slipped out sometime during the two hours he had fallen asleep. Mountain’s mind convinced him that Dew ran, that he was hurt, that he felt wrong about Mountain. His guilt is just as prominent as the night before, if not greater. 

He moves over to where the other side of the bed is tossed, where Dew slept. He buries his head in the pillow and breaths as deep as he can manage. It mostly smells like him, like his lavender shampoo and special sandalwood body wash. But he swears he can pick up something different when he pushes into the pillow harder. He finds the scent of petrichor, clean yet warm.  

It's intoxicating and he drowns in it, relishing in the smell of them . Like a forest after a much needed storm. He thinks about how the faint trace in his pillow already smells like home. He thinks about how he wont have it for long. Dew is gone from him now, and soon he’ll fade away from the fabric leaving no trace he was ever here. 

A grumbling stomach draws Mountain out of his melancholy. He’s already sleep deprived, adding hunger to the mix will only drive him properly mad. He forces himself out of bed, reaching for a shirt that was hanging on the headboard and slips it on. He sighs as he walks to the bathroom. 

The thing he sees staring back at him in the mirror looks faded— gray in a way ghouls aren't supposed to be, eyes adorned with heavy black circles and a sour look. Miserable is a good word for him. He splashes some water on his face hoping to fix himself up a little. It does nothing. The rest of the pack would definitely notice. He braces himself for stares from them before setting out the door. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dew passes through the common room, finding Ifrit and Zephyr lounging in front of the tv. They had the news on but they weren’t really paying attention, preferring to focus on each other's company. He walked further to get to the kitchen where Aether was at the stove, back towards him. He turned around to grab his mug off of the island and jumped, he didnt hear Dew, nor was he expecting him. A warm smile crept across his face as he scanned his eyes over him. 

“Good morning bug, did you sleep well?” 

“I did Aeth,” He returns his question with a smile. “What are you making?”

“An ‘American’ breakfast,” Aether makes gestures with his hands that Dew thinks are supposed to mimic quotation marks. “Pancakes, sausage, bacon and eggs. There’s some orange juice on the table too, if you want to try.” 

Dew remarks that it looks amazing. Seeing food makes him realize that he’s much hungrier than he thought. He really wants to eat. “Do you need any help?” 

Aether directs him to a pile of plates and cutlery on the table and asks if he can set them out. Aeon has to think back to their previous meals together to remember the set up. By the time he’s done, Aether’s putting the last pancake on top of the stack, so he helps lay the food out for everyone. Ifrit and Zephyr finally join them, sitting next to Aether on the other side of the table. Dew sits on his side alone. 

Just as he’s about to ask for the orange juice, the door to the common room swings open and a certain earth ghoul walks in. He tries to swallow the lump that formed in his throat but fails. His heart thrums, it feels like it's going to beat right out of his chest. His eyes stay glued to Mountain as he walks into the kitchen. They both realize that the only free seat is next to Dew, they both seem to wince but Mountain has no choice but to sit. 

Breakfast goes by uneventfully for the other three ghouls, they stuff themselves full of pancakes doused in syrup and greasy bacon. But the world is exploding on the other side of the table. Mountain and Dew eat in near silence, not saying a word to each other, both giving noncommittal answers when Zephyr asks about something, or giving a small chuckle when Ifrit says something dumb. The silence is awkward.

They suffer through breakfast and thank Satan that Ifrit sends Dew away when he offers to help with the dishes, instead calling Mountain over to be his assistant. It gives Dew a way to get out before him.  He retreats back to his room and drops himself on his bed, curling his knees up into his chest and holding himself tight. He lays there, staring at his already cluttered desk while he thinks. He goes through last night again. 

Give it time Dew. Good Dew, take what you want. Just let it happen Dew, let go for me. 

The words echo, bouncing between his ears like they were just uttered, like he was experiencing it all over again. For me. For him . 

He brings his hand to rub the back of his neck, remembering how Mountain held him. His stomach feels torn up and he doesn’t really know why. The night was good, he thinks. He enjoyed it, maybe even loved it. It just worried him. What did it all mean? What now? A knock at the door startles him and he has to clear his throat before calling out. 

Mountain’s head pokes up around the corner, “Can I come in?” Dew nods and sits up. He looks toward the foot of the bed then back at Mountain, silently giving him a spot. Mountain sits, honoring the gap Dew has set between them, he doesn't know where to begin. Are you scared? Are you upset? Are you ok? None of the questions seem good enough. 

He’s grateful when Dew speaks up. “I was thinking about last night,” Mountain preps himself for the worst. “I don’t really know what it means… for us” Mountain looks at him, thinking long and hard about his next words, choosing them carefully. He’s fixated on Dew’s use of us . 

“It can mean whatever you want Dew,” Lie. He wants it to mean something good. He hopes it was as special to Dew as it was to him. 

“We don't have to do anything else, things don't have to change for us if you don't want them to, there’s no set expectation here bug.” Another lie . Mountain wants more. He wants things to change. He wants to belong to Dew and for Dew to belong to him. But he’ll tamp down his desire if it's not what Dew wants. He’ll manage his suffering. 

Dew fidgets with the hem of his shirt and mumbles out a quiet ok. He tugs at a loose end and wraps the thread around his fingers. Mountain wishes he could read his mind, hear his thoughts. He wishes Dew would just tell him already, whatever he’s thinking about. 

“Was last night… ok? I didn't do anything you didnt want, right?” The silence after his words feels like it stretches on for millennia. His voice is almost a whisper, they’re laced with worry, and Dew can hear it. His eyes meet Mountain’s and he feels a pang in his chest. He’s staring at those gorgeous green eyes that remind him of lush forests, but they have the sheen  of tears. He understands the true question beneath what he asked. 

“Mount, you didnt… I– it was ok,” He struggles to get the words out. “I think I really liked it.” A wave of relief washes over Mountain, he wipes his eyes, ridding them of the wetness. Dew reaches his hand out and meets Mountain’s, who jolts from the cool touch. He drags his thumb along the back of the large hand, feeling the shifting sinew and skin, soaking in the warmth. Mountain whimpers, and the tears he fought to keep back start falling against his cheeks. If only Dew knew how much this meant to him. 

Dew takes his hand back and Mountain cringes, already missing it. He feels empty without it. But then the bed shifts and he sees Dew move up and under the covers, and he’s holding them open for him. He hesitates, wipes his face off with the neck of his shirt before moving to join him. Dew’s bed is stiffer than his, but he’s enveloped in his scent, so it's the most comfortable place he’s ever laid. 

They lay there, face to face, curled up with their knees touching. Dew reaches for Mountain’s hand and rubs over the spot Mountain has been picking at absentmindedly. He gives it a quick squeeze, brings it up to place a kiss on his knuckles. 

“Last night was good Mount, you were good to me. I'm glad it was you.” The words get trapped in between them, sounding only for Mountain’s ears. His reassurance makes Mountain sob, releasing his worries and fear releases his tears too. The tension washing off of him is palpable and Dew feels a bit sick at the thought of Mountain carrying this around all morning, he wonders how much it weighed him down.

“Thank you… for letting me.” He has no other words to follow up with, he just hopes Dew knows what he means. Letting me help you. Letting me touch you. Letting me see you come apart in my hands. Letting me witness a star being born.  

Dew leans forward to rest his forehead against Mountain’s chest, just like the night before. This time, he notices a deep rumbling, Mountain’s purring. It made Dew press his ear in closer, finding a steady beat. Their joined hands found a place above Dew’s heart and they basked in the silence blooming between them.  Mountain accidentally falls asleep, his sleep deprivation catching up to him. Dew looks on as his features soften and relax, he’s never seen a prettier sight. 

#nameless ghouls #ghost band #the band ghost #dewdrop ghoul #fire ghoul #dewdrop ghost #dew ghost #water dewdrop #water ghoul #earth ghoul #mountain ghost #mountain ghoul #mountain x dewdrop #MountainDew #ghost band fic #ghost fanfiction #his creation myth #nameless ghoul #the nameless ghouls #mountain always thinks so low of himself #he always thinks he's no good for anyone #why do i do this to myself

[lanabotomy]

The Female Rage Consumes Me

“Female rage,” sounded like an oxymoron for the majority of my life. The characterization of the words alone create this kind of juxtaposition that seems unrealistic. Female; womanly, kind, soft, gentle, all these words just to portray this image of innocence and purity. Rage; ugly, consuming, violent, the word itself feels inherently masculine. And yet, I watch and listen as the rage fully envelope and consume me.

I don’t know when the idea of Female Rage enraptured my brain, but I could say it started when I read a silly little book by Margaret Atwood called The Robber Bride.

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”

The idea that I can never fully be myself without the ever lurking man watching me, sexualizing me, consuming me like a piece of media only to be spat out once I fulfilled his satisfaction, it disgusts me. To worsen the matter, I know deep in my soul, that if I wasn’t desired, I wouldn’t know who to be. I don’t even know which parts of me are real or which parts of me have been created in pursuit of this ideal “male fantasy” I have created in my head subconsciously, and that enrages me even further.

Is the rage I feel even valid? Maybe my rage is actually just a deep rooted fear, a fear of what has or what could happen to me. I remember those lurking eyes on me since the age of 9, taking out the trash around 9PM in my galaxy leggings, those men yelling at me, asking me where I am from and where I live, what plans I had. All I could do was run in fear. I remember being 6, my mother’s boyfriend holding my hand and telling me that he’d marry my mother one day, what felt like a threat, those peering eyes undressing me, that hand burning a hole through me, as if the ghost of his perverted touch was still there. Or maybe it was those days in school when I would get groped, almost daily by the boys, the teachers said I was more developed and to expect those things, to wear less revealing clothes. I wore star wars shirts, lord of the rings shirts, and DC clothes. What was so sexually appealing about that? The worst memory of all…. I was forced out of my dorm room while 5 drunk guys stayed with us, none of them my guests. I remember just wanting to sleep. I remember one of those guys being weird, and avoiding him all night. I was so tired that night, and yet I didn’t want to sleep. He snuck into my bed, put his hand over my mouth, and did what he needed to do to satisfy himself. The unwanted touching, the unwanted stares, the unwanted attention. I feel like a walking piece of meat in the land of hungry wolves; A temptation to be consumed.

The rage that consumes me comes from a place of fear, and a place of knowing that I cannot be helped. One in three women experience sexual assault within their life, one in five experience rape, and yet only one in one thousand rapists face persecution, and that is only from reported cases. More than 2 out of 3 cases go unreported. Those are just the basic statistics. Imagine them in other situations; homeless women, women in 3rd world countries, women of color, women in the military, queer women, women in prisions, women in situations where they are helpless. I cant even begin to fathom the stories that would pile up beside me if I was able to speak to every woman, every feminine person, everyone who has a story.

To be so helpless in a world that doesn’t support me, it’s simply sickening. And I live the “Land of the Free, Land of endless Opportunities.” I feel the rage of my sisters, or the women around the world who know and understand me.