#like they can see him perfectly but their brains refuse to connect his face to a human face

[zillychu]

Consider for a moment: A slow-burn identity reveal “no one knows” AU with an emphasis on ghosts being taken seriously as an actual, world-changing threat.

Ghosts are treated as an exceedingly dangerous, but unavoidable force of nature. They can come and go without warning, through naturally occurring spontaneous portals. They're territorial, driven only by obsession and hunger for the living. Particularly powerful ghosts are on par with natural disasters.

Life goes on because there's simply no other option. All major buildings have varying levels of ghost shields, some stronger than others. Just about everyone has some form of personal shield, weapon, or general deterrent. For the most part, humanity takes this apocalypse in stride, barely keeping it all together because there's just enough safety to keep them all sane.

Which is why the rumors of Phantom being able to fully mimic a human body incites panic in Amity.

Phantom was already a nightmare as it was–one of the most powerful and intelligent ghosts on record. His territorial fights with other ghosts for haunting (hunting) grounds in Amity have made global news several times already. Powerful ghosts could appear more human–but to think he was transforming down to a cellular level? Hiding among them? Bypassing ghost shields and alarms? Picking them off one by one?

The focus is mostly with Lancer's class, and how the school deals with this new threat on top of everything else. Everyone is a suspect, no one is safe, and Danny Fenton in particular gets slowly more and more exhausted, apathetic, and… unnerving.

The stress, the lack of sleep, the fighting, no one to turn to, not even his best friends or family–it takes a toll on him. Starving himself doesn't help, but he refuses to do more than take small bites from the ambient life energy and emotion of the living around him. Nothing that won't actually do lasting harm. He begins to slip up more and more, which Sam and Tucker begin to notice but haven't quite connected the dots yet.

But, well. What else can Danny do when Pariah Dark comes knocking on Amity’s doorstep, and his whole class is in the line of fire?

#Danny Phantom #zilly squeaks #btw i very much hc that ghosts are so intrinsically WRONG to all our senses that Phantom basically has a built in de-recognition spell #people surmise he's a young adult but that's about it #like they can see him perfectly but their brains refuse to connect his face to a human face #anyway i have brainworms this Friday night. how are y'all doing #kinda want Danny's friends and classmates to be terrified of Phantom #as a treat #(the treat is for me) #also there's not enough Mr. Lancer i love that man #by the way if anyone wants to write this #uhhhhh STRONG possibility I'd make you a ton of art for it #if you'd like to collab even. hit me up

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 80

Part 1 Part 79

Eddie hadn’t expected to wake up. He’d gone gently into the good night, ready to die by Steve’s side. Because as Steve flaked away beneath his palms, Eddie had felt something within himself fracture and flake away as well.

It had felt almost meant to be, as consciousness slipped like a flickering bulb: they would go out together in the same red world where this had started, one ashed connection taking both of them out with it.

So, it’s a surprise when he opens his eyes. Even more a surprise to not see the endless red of the Upside-Down sky, but the fluorescent lights of a hospital room.

He blinks up at the ceiling, brain too foggy for his befuddlement to truly settle in. But, then there’s a groan, and the bulb in his brain stops flickering. It turns bright and blinding.

He whips up, braced for Steve in bandages, Steve in ashes. It’s not Steve at all. Will’s laying, wan and small in his own hospital bed, curled into a small ball so that only his hair is visible past the bow of his knees.

“Baby Byers?” Eddie asks, clearing his throat when his voice crackles. “What happened?”

Will unfurls just enough to meet Eddie’s imploring gaze. He looks vacant enough that for a second, Eddie’s afraid whatever got Steve has latched onto him, too. But then he says, “I didn’t think we’d wake up,” unknowingly echoing Eddie’s previous thoughts in a floaty, not-all-there voice.

“But we did,” Eddie says, trying for reassuring and landing on wobbly. “Where’s Steve?”

Eddie closes his eyes, focusing on the place in his chest where Steve lives. He feels it there, pulling faintly, fainter than it’s ever been before.

Will sobs, just once, and when Eddie opens his eyes, he sees Will clutching his chest in a very familiar place, curled around his ribs like he can shelter the tether, keep its flame lit in his chest.

Eddie crawls out of his own bed on wobbly legs. He follows the flickering pull to the closed door, unsurprised when the doorknob turns and turns, but refuses to open the door. Locked, from the outside.

Somewhere out there, Mama Byers and Chief Hopper have to be making a ruckus. They’d been just on his tail when Eddie had dropped to his knees, reaching unthinkingly for Steve’s twitching body.

It’s a waiting game, now. But they’ll come. They always do.

So, he turns his back to the door, and shuffles back over to the space between his and Will’s beds, forgoing his own to shove Will over just enough to climb in.

Will doesn’t hesitate to press his wet face into Eddie’s ribs. Eddie circles his arms around Will and closes his eyes, keeping his old on the tether to Steve like Steve’s an unruly dog liable to slip his leash and be lost forever.

They wait.

And wait.

And wait.

There’s no setting of a clock or ticking of the sun, but a thousand years have passed by the time the door clicks open.

Dr. Owens steps in, already looking down at a slip of paper on a clipboard like this is a normal checkup for normal patients instead of a hostage situation. He even smiles genially at them as he settles into the chair at the bed’s side, patting the edge of the bed like he’s a grandfather patting his beloved grandson’s knee.

“How are you feeling, boys?” he asks.

Will, still curled up into Eddie asks, “where’s Steve?” His voice is wet, but there’s a note of steel in it that Eddie can feel in the fingernails clutching at the hem of his shirt.

“He’s perfectly fine!” Dr. Owens lies, “just resting. But we were hoping you could fill in some blanks in the meantime.”

He lifts up his pen, keeps it poised over the paper, ready to transcribe their assorted traumas and dissect them.

Feeling petty and mean, Eddie asks, “not gonna claim it's a delusion this time, doc?” He’s smiling when he says it, can feel it in the ache of his cheeks, but he’s never felt this cold.

Dr. Owens Adam’s apple bobs. “Perhaps there is more going on here than we initially believed,” he replies quietly.

Will scoffs, and Eddie squeezes him, loosening his hold as Will makes to sit up in the bed beside him. His eyes are red and puffy, the proof of his tears visible even as he glares at Dr. Owens.

“You knew it wasn’t fake,” he says, not looking away from Dr. Owens' face. “You just didn’t care.”

Dr. Owens face twists, mouth furling in on itself as he sighs. He notably doesn’t apologize. Or beg for forgiveness. Or admit to the wrong-doing Eddie can see twisting up his face. “Regardless,” he says, drawing out the syllables as if to emphasize the time they’re wasting while Steve similarly wastes away. “Your account of what happened will greatly help your friend.”

“I want to see Steve,” Eddie demands, settling his back into the bedrest, hard, letting the ridges of its poles cut into his spine.

Dr. Owens sighs, a bedraggled caretaker once more. “Unfortunately, neither of you have clearance to see your friend until we have your recounting of the events.”

He skirts around Steve’s name like not using it will make the damage to a real, living person by his hands less real. Eddie and Will trade looks, trading conversations with their eyes that neither can quite grasp.

Dr. Owens taps his uncapped pen against the paper and prompts again, “now, what happened yesterday?”

Yesterday, meaning there are hours unaccounted for in which anything could have happened to Steve. Eddie feels his mind slipping somewhere unknown and dark, interrupted only by Will beginning to recount the tale, from the shadowy creature entering Steve all the way up to the way he’d writhed and burned on the ground in the Upside-Down before everything went black.

His pen moves faster, a scientist’s curiosity gleaming in his eyes as he asks question after question about the way Steve found Hop, like it’s a marvel and not another step on their long, winding downfall.

When the yarn is complete, Dr. Owens smiles pleasantly and gets to his feet, and says, “come along then,” benevolently, as if he’s doing them a great favor, “didn’t you want to see your friend?”

When they finally reach Steve’s single room, down a brightly-lit, winding hallway, Eddie’s not sure how much of his friend is even left.

It takes a minute to notice. Because Steve is there. Pale and washed out the way only sickness and hospital lighting can, but blessedly not unblemished. Unburned. Whole. But he’s looking at Uncle Wayne with focused eyes, hunching back away from where he’s sitting beside his sickbed like they all have a dozen times. 

“Steve!” Will calls, running up to the bed, smiling up at Steve like he’s answered all his prayers. Like Steve will still save him.

Eddie lingers in the threshold, watching Steve’s face turn toward Will, focused eyes falling on Will with absolutely no warmth, no recognition at all. Just like he’d looked at Uncle Wayne, or Mama Byers, or talked about Hopper like he didn’t know him at all.

Steve had taken to saying Will and Eddie’s names with a reverence he hadn’t understood. Now he’s wondering if it was whatever had been left of Steve clinging onto the only memories he’d had left.

“Steve?” Will asks, taking a step back, eyes trained on Steve. 

He feels a tug from his sternum, pulling him toward Will, so he comes, even if it feels like approaching a predator. He lays his hand atop Will’s shoulder, squeezes tight, and meets Steve’s eyes.

 They’re the same brown that he loves, but dull now. Empty, a black hole sucking him in. Still, “do you know me, angel?” he asks, uncaring of the audience.

Steve doesn’t break his gaze, doesn’t give his usual shy smile at the nickname, just stares and stares and stares, before he says, “Eddie?”

But he doesn’t say it with relief he’d used before, or love, or even the exasperation from before Steve and Eddie became Steve-and-Eddie. 

He said it with nothing. Like he’d matched a name to a face and felt nothing at all. 

Eddie Munson breaks. It wasn’t getting dragged to a hellscape along with a boy he disdained that did it. It wasn’t even watching the boy he now loves suffocate by inches in the Upside-Down, no. 

It was looking into that same boy's eyes and having something else look back. 

Part 81

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic #will byers #me using fire metaphors: :) The Mind Flayer: :(

[leomonae]

Soooo it turns out that if you're playing a do-gooding, self-sacrificing bleeding heart type who's basically contractually obligated by their religion to take on suffering in place of others doing so and also gives a fuck about what happens to the githyanki as a society...

(Massive spoilers ahoy!)

... you kind of inevitably wind up an illithid? Which, okay, fine, cool cool cool, as a healer this is pretty much the only time I've been at all effective in combat except when we're frying undead so that part is pretty awesome and apparently Ilmater is totally cool with all this since I still have my cleric powers, except now my prettyboy vampire boyfriend refuses to kiss me anymore, on the grounds that it won't work with my new mouth :(

The thing is, though, I've been mulling this over for the past fucking day I've been unable to just finish the damn game because of this slow-ass patching process courtesy of GOG, and I think I actually kind of adore this outcome? No, really, I could see this being great for Tav and Astarion's relationship, once he's had enough time to get over the whole... eldritch horror aspect of it all!

Benefit one: Tav's lifespan just became a total non-issue for them! Sure, I don't know and wasn't finding much regarding illithid lifespans, but my Tav was a human before; pretty much anything would be an improvement on that, next to how long a powerful elven vampire could expect to live. And honestly, illithid lifespan isn't even that important in that regard, because they have other options Tav could now actually take. There's no way she'd have ever agreed to becoming a vampire before, but now that the "I prey upon mortals to survive" line has already been crossed? The details of how she's going to handle things ethically hammered out? Why not go full-on vampiric illithid at this point, if that extends their time together? Hells, she could jump straight to illithilich if she wanted!

Benefit two: illithid are sexless. Sexless, but - crucially - with the potential to still be sex-positive, if we take that little interlude with the Emperor which broke my brain so badly the other week at face value. The most obvious implication of the narration was that what the mind flayer gets out of the whole experience is what their partner is putting in: that it's due to their psionic link, or whatever. Sure, there are still questions as to what part the tadpole played in facilitating said connection, but it's not like there aren't any other sources of mind reading or mental sharing that exist in the setting; my Tav is already running around with Detect Thoughts up constantly, I'm sure she can pick up some alternative just fine. The point is, Astarion and all his trauma just got himself a partner who not only wants him to genuinely enjoy having sex with them, but is quite likely literally physically incapable of deriving any carnal pleasure from the experience if he isn't.

Benefit three: illithid are naturally selfish and egotistical and risk-averse enough that my Tav probably just picked up a modicum of concern for her own survival, which I expect will be a massive weight off Astarion's mind after the past few weeks/months of watching her throw herself at wherever the most dangerous enemy on the field happens to be

Benefit four: illithid enjoy sunlight only marginally more than vampires do, which admittedly means that Tav is gonna have to buy a new mace soon, but also means the two of them now prefer complementary habitats and daily schedules

Benefit five: their diets are complementary too! They can split a bandit to avoid food waste!

[edit: benefit six: three times the upper limbs mean three times as many/thrice as good hugs for astarion]

In conclusion spawn Astarion + illithid Tav is clearly the happiest ending of them all, thank you for coming to my TED Talk

(also the going out in public part is pretty much a non-issue too, I tested out one of those cheap mundane disguise kits you can pick up and it worked perfectly fine even if the human female variant I used to be was not skinny and middle-aged with an afro, so I'm sure between Gale Shadowheart and Omeluum we can figure out a way of making me look like myself again in no time)

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #not wholly serious #but it does present some fun and interesting possibilities i must admit #illithid tav

[heliads]

everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter Five: A Treacherous Road to Safety

Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.

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The ground is shaking, and it takes Connor far longer than it should to realize that he isn’t going to die. He’s jumpier than he was a few days ago, already, and he can only assume it will get worse as time goes on. Connor will shed whatever innocence he had left before his parents signed him up to die a thousand painful ways all at once, and he will become a twitchy skeleton, the nervous bones of what was once lively flesh and blood.

The source of the disturbance isn’t the disaster he’d envisioned. A loud rumbling had split the air, and Connor had flinched like he’d been slapped, picturing the land beneath him crumbling to dust, or the ship cracking at the seams. Instead, they’d started to move, and Connor realized belatedly that they were only just now taking off. It’s okay. They’re starting on their journey, the destination unknown but at last somewhere they can be safe.

He glances down at Risa, who’s somehow still asleep by his side. Growing up in a State Home, she must be used to sleeping through all sorts of sound and commotion. He envies her for it now. What a blessing it must be, to close your eyes and let the world slip away. Every time Connor so much as thinks about taking a break, his brain goes into high alert and refuses to let him rest. After so many close calls, he’s certain that one more will ruin them both, and Connor cannot have that after how far they’ve come.

Still, Risa seems to think it’s okay to rest, so maybe he can too. Not enough to sleep, just enough to take the edge off his already frazzled nerves. Connor does his best to relax along with her, let his breathing ease in unison with hers. They’ll do everything together until they get wherever Sonia wanted them to go, and even past that too, no doubt about that. They’ll survive together, run from the Juveys together, and yes, even breathe together in the underbelly of a massive shipping cruiser, curled away like rats in a cellar. Well, Connor’s already a pest in the eyes of the Collective. He might as well sink his jaws into the brightest parts of life around him while he’s at it.

So he sits perfectly still, careful not to so much as topple a stack of tools lest they somehow be heard over the distant clanging of the superspeed engine and the roaring of the ship around him, and he waits for their destiny to ship them off to somewhere farther beyond the stars. There are no windows in this glorified storage closet, so Connor can’t see where they’re going nor how far they’ve already come. 

He swears he should be able to feel it in his bones when he officially crosses the boundary dividing the OH-10 star system from empty, nameless connective space, but instead they just keep going, paying no mind to the total terror that is leaving one’s home for the first time. The next time Connor looks up at the sun, it won’t be his. There might even be more than one. The stars will no longer be the ones that shone down on him, not in the same order, not the same way. Connor is away without leave in every sense of the word. Homeless, groundsless, purposeless. All he has is the infinity of stars somewhere around him.

Risa wakes at some point; Connor has no way of telling when. She comes to gradually, wrinkling first her brow and then her fingers, moving the digits together in her lap. Risa straightens up from where she’d started to slouch against Connor’s shoulder, both of them pointedly not bringing up the fact that her face had been so close to his, and to cover up for the mistake she asks, voice still groggy, “How long was I out?”

“No idea,” Connor answers truthfully. There’s no way of sensing anything here. Hours could have passed or mere minutes. They just keep going.

She frowns. “Still too long, though.”

Connor lifts a shoulder. “What else would we do?” He’s careful to keep his voice quiet, just in case.

Risa follows suit, her eyes flicking around the empty space before she continues in a whisper. “Do you really think there will be someone waiting for us?”

“Other than Juvey-cops, you mean?” Connor asks, then sighs. “Who knows? I’d like to think so. Sonia seemed like she had her stuff together. If she wanted to turn us in, she would have let Lev do it while we were at the boundary checkpoint. Would’ve been much more efficient for both of them.”

He’s unable to hide a slight snarl in his voice when he mentions Lev. Sure, he’d kind of kidnapped the kid, but he’d only stolen him from an early death. It’s not like his family was taking him on a fun vacation or something, unless you count the wild sendoff to a surgeon’s knife as an exciting thrill ride. Lev should be grateful for his second chance at life; Connor had to fight for his, and he gave it to Lev free of charge, yet the little bugbait ran off and sold him out, too. 

Next to him, Risa arches a brow, evidently able to tell where his mind is headed. “Still mad at our favorite runaway tithe?”

“How could I not be?” Connor protests. “He stabbed us in the back.”

“After we kidnapped him,” Risa muses, and at Connor’s wordless but energetic protests she rolls her eyes and admits, “Yeah, I’m mad too, obviously, but you’ve got to think about it from his end. He’s probably been trained to accept this all his life. Just when he’s about to fulfill his divine destiny or whatever, we swoop in on a stolen cruiser and don’t even give him a chance to say his goodbyes. He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”

This saps some of Connor’s anger from him. At least when he ran away, it had been on his own terms. He’d decided what night to leave, and he’d treated his parents accordingly. He might not have been stupid enough to say goodbye outright, but he could still let that shape what conversations he had with them. Lev may have been ready to die, but he might not have been ready to let go quite yet.

“D’you think he’s already in a harvest colony somewhere?” Connor asks after a pause. “Last time I saw him, he was raring to go under the knife, but I can’t help but wonder…”

He lets his voice trail off, not sure what he’s wondering at all anymore. It’s easier not to ask questions about what happens to fiery tithes after they sentence themselves to death. Same way no one at home will ever talk about him again unless they physically have to. Thinking about someone who has seen you before, someone who remembers your name and spoke to you, having those same eyes and vocal chords ripped away on a remote lunar outpost is too disturbing to consider.

Risa gets what he’s trying to say, though. “If he changed his mind or something? If he did, Sonia could have found him. Maybe we’ll see him wherever we’re going.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, not entirely convinced, “Maybe we will.”

He’s not entirely sure that he believes it, but it’s a better thought than most, so Connor lets himself accept it for now. The two of them drift into a silence that’s slightly more paranoid than companionable, letting the roaring of the ship around them do the talking for them.

Some time later, the ship touches down. His hands are clenched into fists the entire time, terrified of a bad landing doing them in. However, they’re still alive when the dust clears, so Connor counts that as a win. After so long stuck inside the noisy, clanging behemoth, it’s strange to carefully climb out of it in complete silence. The absence of sound makes him uneasy, and causes him to be extra aware of the quiet shuffle of their footsteps as they head away from the shipping hauler.

Once they’re a safe distance away, Connor gestures for Risa to follow him into a darker, quieter hallway. “What do we do now?” He asks.

Risa shrugs. “Try to find that man Sonia told us about, I guess. What did she say his name was? Cleaver?”

Connor can’t help a wry smile. “That totally sounds like the kind of guy I want to see right now.”

Risa nods solemnly. “All the most trustworthy people go by Cleaver, I’m sure. Any idea of how we’ll find him?”

Connor shakes his head. “No clue. Do you think we should have stayed on the ship? Maybe he was supposed to come to us first.”

Risa tosses a nervous glance over her shoulder towards the ship, which is now swarmed with workers anxious to unpack the cargo. “If we stayed, we would have gotten caught. I think our best bet is to lay low and see if we see anyone else hanging around.”

It’s not like they have any other options, so Connor nods his agreement and they do their best to blend into the shadows of the corridor. The area is busy with disembarking passengers and ground control all bustling around. A few times, they have to duck into a closet to avoid overeager sec-officers patrolling the area, but everyone stays moving long enough for them to come back out soon enough.

The flow of workers starts to slow, but no one’s found them yet. Connor can’t be sure if that’s a good thing or not. Even if Cleaver doesn’t show, they’re still out of OH-10. It’ll be tricky to make their way out of here and find a regular source of food and shelter without a single grounds license between them, but they’d surely figure something out.

He’s about to suggest to Risa that they start to make their way out of the spaceport when she gently nudges him with her elbow, her eyes on something behind him. “This guy’s been staring at us for a while.”

Connor casually fakes a cough, using the motion of twisting and covering his mouth to glance behind him. Sure enough, there’s some guy in dark clothes loitering down the hall. A datapad is open in front of him, but the guy’s not doing much more than that to keep up the pretense of work. Instead, he’s eyeing Connor and Risa with an expression almost akin to hunger.

“Let’s get moving,” Connor suggests.

“What if it’s our guy?” Risa asks.

Connor gives her a sarcastic look. “Do you really want to go up to that guy and ask if he’s looking for two groundsless who look like us?”

Risa winces. “Good point.”

They turn and head down the corridor. The guy watches them go, and starts to follow a few paces behind them. Connor starts to pick up his pace, but the man just speeds up accordingly. They take a few random lefts and rights to shake their stalker only to find themselves at a dead end. Connor meets Risa’s wide eyes, and slowly turns back around to face the man who’s been following them. He shifts forward a little to step in front of Risa, but the guy doesn’t strike. Not yet.

Instead, he glances one last time at the open datapad before eyeing Connor. “You two are Sonia’s latest kids?”

Connor swallows hard. “How about you tell me who you are first?”

The guy stares at him as if Connor has just asked the most useless question in the world, then sighs. “I’m Cleaver. Sonia sent me, obviously.”

“It’s not obvious,” Risa remarks from behind Connor’s left elbow, “You’re a stranger. We have no idea of knowing who you are at all.”

Cleaver shrugs one muscular shoulder. “Can’t argue with that. Now come on, we need to get moving before someone else notices you. The two of you stand out like a sore thumb.”

Connor and Risa frown at each other. Connor had thought they’d done a pretty good job of hiding, but apparently not. Cleaver gives them one more look of vague disgust before turning and walking back down the corridor with long, purposeful strides. He’s moving fast enough to make it clear that he doesn’t want to talk to either of them, but Connor has more questions and he’ll be damned if they don’t get answered. 

Hurrying to catch up, Connor presses on as they round a corner and head down a long hallway lined with doors to other sectors of the spaceport. “Is that how you knew it was us? We were too obvious?”

Cleaver grunts in reply. It takes Connor intentionally matching his strides for half the length of the hallway before the man finally caves and answers him. “That was hard to ignore. Other stuff too, though.”

Paranoid, Connor glances back behind them, but anyone passing through is too intent on their own destination to pay much attention to the three of them. “What else?”

A snide side glance from Cleaver; Connor returns his stare as intensely as he can while still speed walking down the hall at a breakneck pace. They make a few quick turns and Connor is forced to break his gaze so he doesn’t head directly into a wall. 

When he looks back, Cleaver is facing ahead again, but this time he condescends to explain himself. “You two did look mighty suspicious, but I was helped by this.”

Cleaver tilts his datapad so Connor can see the image on the holoscreen. Immediately, he tenses up. Emblazoned in big, bold letters beneath a picture of him are the words WANTED: CONNOR LASSITER, ESCAPED GROUNDSLESS. TREAT WITH CAUTION. There’s another image right below it, a photo of Risa with a similar caption. 

Connor wants to throw up. “When were these released?”

“About twenty-four standard hours ago,” is Cleaver’s guttural reply. 

Connor blows out a low breath. So his parents had noticed his absence about the next morning, which makes sense, and the state home would have seen that Risa was gone when they checked the kids in the shuttle. 

She’s told him by now of her escape attempt, and he’s got to admire her guts for pulling a stunt like that. Sneaking off the shuttle that was supposed to take her to a harvest colony after everyone on board nearly all died from the meteor shower? Crazy stuff. Connor’s down with crazy, though, so long as it keeps both of them alive. They’re a package deal by now. Can’t split them up, no one without the other. Like the twin braces of Connor’s ribs inside his chest, that’s them; no breaking them up until the end. Till death do us part.

Connor shoves his hands into his pockets to stop them from shaking. “So that’s how you knew it was us? You searched up our wanted posters?”

Cleaver blows out a breath, and Connor swears he almost looks impressed. “Not for you, actually. I’d already heard of you even before Sonia said she’d managed to send you on my way.”

Connor frowns. “How’d you manage that? Do you monitor every AWOL out of Sonia’s star system?”

Cleaver guides them down a narrow hall out of the main thoroughfare. It seems as if they’re headed towards a smaller hangar bay, probably where Cleaver keeps his ship. It would explain why Cleaver feels confident enough to stop lowering his voice when he tells Connor, “I didn’t have to look you up. The two of you are already famous.”

Risa has joined them by now; Cleaver’s relentless pace slowed when they left the central sector of the spaceport. She eyes the man cautiously. “What do you mean, we’re famous?”

Cleaver opens his mouth to answer, but another, younger, brasher voice beats him to it. “He means that you two made quite a name for yourselves when you shot a Juvey-cop and stole his ship.” 

Connor looks past Cleaver to see a tall, muscular boy looming out of the darkness of the poorly lit corridor. His grin is sharp, and his teeth flash like fangs when he says, “Or, just Connor, I should say. He’s the one who did it.”

Cleaver huffs out a frustrated breath. “Roland, I told you to stay on the ship.”

The boy– Roland– doesn’t seem to care what Cleaver thinks he should or shouldn’t do. “I got bored. No one’s here, anyway. If they did, I’d shut ‘em up, no worries.”

Ah, Connor thinks. So he’s setting himself up as a threat. Classic move. Whenever new kids impede on your territory, you’ve got to decide whether they’ll be friends or foes. How lucky that Roland has already made that decision for him. Now he knows for certain that the only ones he can trust are Risa and maybe Cleaver. Roland will ‘shut him up’ just like anyone else to cross his path.

Connor’s met boys like Roland before, enough of them to already have a plan of how to handle him. Step one is not to give up or show a sign of hesitation. Step two is to get into a fight, but judging by Roland’s cocky stature and impressive physique, that might not be one he’d win.

Step one’s good for now, though. Connor squares his shoulders and looks Roland dead in the eyes. “I’m glad you’ve heard of me. It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

Roland scoffs. “Don’t take it personally. The story’s better than the real deal anyway. They failed to mention that you’d be this short face to face.”

Connor rolls his eyes, making Roland flash him another saber-toothed grin. Clearly eager to get back to his ship, Cleaver urges them both onwards. Roland stalks back into the dim lighting, giving Connor a good look as what he had thought was just a shadow on the boy’s right arm manifests itself as a tattoo of a shark. Suns, everything about this guy just gets better and better.

Roland leads the way back to Cleaver’s ship with obvious familiarity, making Connor wonder how long he’s been stuck here, waiting to move on. Cleaver checks for unwanted guests around his ship, and unlocks it once he’s sure the coast is clear. This starship is more haphazard even than the Juvey-cop’s shuttle; it looks completely patched together and it’s even missing an entry ramp, so they have to awkwardly climb up into the thing. 

Roland acts the proper gentleman by offering Risa his hand so she has an easier time getting up, but judging by the way he doesn’t let go of her immediately afterwards, he’s not just doing it out of the pure kindness of his heart. Connor approaches the ship next, leading Roland to sneer in his face that he won’t be helping him up. Connor says something snappy and stupid in return, then climbs up, Roland right after him. Cleaver goes last, and walls them up inside after checking around one last time.

After that, they’re all left standing uncomfortably in the belly of the ship. Cleaver claps his hands together suddenly, making Connor and Risa jump. “Alright, then,” he says, “We’ll take off tonight, and probably make it over bright and early next morning. Give me a few hours to get everything in order and we can leave this junkyard behind.”

Roland’s face twists. “We’re not waiting for anyone else? I’ve been here for a fuckin’ week and the second these two show up, we drop everything and go?”

Cleaver, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye at Roland’s protests. “As you so helpfully pointed out earlier, Connor and Risa are far more recognizable than you are. I can’t take the risk of someone stumbling across the ship and finding the Akron AWOL.”

Connor has no idea what that nickname means, but he can only assume it refers to him. Roland looks like he wants to argue, but Connor interjects so Cleaver can head to the cockpit and get travel preparations started. “It’s the fame, Roland. You have to understand. It’s exhausting having this sort of legacy, but–”

Roland cuts him off with a sound bordering on a snarl. “Watch it, starspawn. I don’t take kindly to upstarts running their mouths. That’s not how it goes around here.”

Connor wants to argue with this, but Risa lays a hand on his shoulder and says, “I think we’d all like to minimize fights, if possible.” 

Roland folds his arms across his chest, daring Connor to contradict this. Risa looks at Connor accusingly, and– sunfire– they are on the same side, so he’s not going to undermine her by starting something, even if he really, really wants to. “I agree,” he says simply, and walks past Roland to the dingy common area in the center of the ship. There are maybe four chairs, one of them broken, but it’s good enough for now.

Risa follows him. “Excellent temper control,” she says, one eyebrow quirked up.

Connor sighs. “Don’t you start, too.”

“I’m not,” she replies, hands raised in mock surrender. “I just want you to remember that Roland is not the biggest of our worries right now.”

Connor looks past her to where Roland still lingers near the starship’s entrance. They’re far enough away that Roland can’t hear them, but the older boy still glances towards Connor as if he can sense the topic of conversation. Roland grins predatorily, and Connor’s eyes are again dragged towards the shark tattoo on his right arm. 

Getting tattoos is rebellious, especially in the age of distribution. Either you’re confident enough that you won’t get distributed that you don’t mind damaging the goods, i.e. your own skin, or you know for a fact that you will be so you want to make sure that whoever gets your bits and pieces will be unable to ignore the source. No matter where they go, they’ll see your ink and they’ll be reminded of what they did to you. It’s like taking a stand, you refuse to protect your body such that someone else could use it. The way Roland acts, though, makes Connor think that it’s not just a promise that he’ll destroy himself, but anyone around him as well. He would drag them all down with him if he got the chance.

“No,” Connor muses, “but he’s certainly not something to forget about.”

They end up sitting around for what must be a couple of standard hours before Cleaver remembers that he was supposed to be leaving and they finally take off. In that time, Connor sits down for a while, stands up, sits again, walks around the ship a few times, peers at the cockpit instrument panel before Cleaver chases him out, and pokes around in a few crates. Risa stares at the wall. Roland stands with his hands on his hips, looking out the window as if daring anyone to come near. Every now and then, he cracks his knuckles menacingly, but only when he’s certain that Connor is nearby.

At last, when Cleaver comes out of the cockpit and announces that they’re on the move, Connor thinks they’ll finally have something to do. Maybe he can ask him for some flying lessons, or better yet, learn something about their mysterious destination.

Cleaver immediately shuts down the flying tutorial idea, not that Connor was really expecting that to go anywhere, but he is a little more forthcoming about where they’re headed. Apparently, one of the Collective’s higher-level officers recently developed a conscience and couldn’t live with his guilt about all of the kids getting distributed. He borrowed a massive cruiser and has been using it to house any groundsless he or his associates come across.

It sounds like a fairytale to Connor. Can’t be real. Of course there’s just, like, a massive star cruiser full of Unwinds orbiting some moon somewhere, because that’s the most realistic option here. When Connor looks at Cleaver to wait for him to start laughing at how gullible they are, though, the release never comes. Cleaver stays cold and stalwart, and at last Connor realizes that stars above, it’s real. It’s real, and they’re going directly to it.

Connor leans back on his heels, shaking his head slowly. “That’s crazy.”

“It is,” Cleaver says impassively, “And crazier still is how protective we have to be. No one can know about it. No one can leave unless they turn eighteen. It’s our best kept secret. That’s why you three are going to be traveling a little less comfortably than you’d like.”

Connor freezes. Even Roland looks uneasy. “What does that mean?” Risa asks slowly.

Cleaver meets all of their eyes in turn. “We can’t afford for any of you to get picked up on scanners while we travel between star systems, nor are any of you allowed to see where we’re going. This ship was jerry-rigged as an illegal transport vessel a long time ago. There are storage compartments in the walls that don’t let scanner beams through. You’ll be hiding in those until we dock.”

Connor stares at the walls around them. They don’t seem all that thick, even by junker starship standards. There must be hardly any space for them at all. 

“It won’t be pleasant,” Cleaver says in agreement with Connor’s unspoken thoughts, “But I think you’ll find distribution far less appetizing. Unless you’d like me to let you off at the nearest harvest colony, of course. That would save us time and trouble.”

It’s an unnecessary threat, but it gets the point across. Cleaver walks over to the wall and begins to methodically unlock and pull away sections of the metal surface. Sure enough, he reveals storage compartments curving down the hall. They’re extremely shallow and not too tall, either. It’ll be like a coffin in there. In escaping death, Connor has seemingly sentenced himself to an early grave.

Cleaver extends a hand towards the hollows. “Well, take your pick. Time’s a wastin’.”

They all stand there for a moment, unable to move, and then Roland goes first, making an exaggerated show of scoffing like he couldn’t care less about how he makes the trip. Connor sees his eyes just before Cleaver closes the wall back over him, though. He knows Roland is just as terrified as they all are.

Two empty areas await, looming like eye sockets in the smooth metal wall. Risa climbs into one cavity, but when Connor moves to get into the next one over, she reaches out and grabs his hand. He looks over at her, and sees Roland’s horror reflected in her gaze. Which is worse, to have even less space than before or to go through this trial alone?

He climbs in after her. There’s just enough room for them to stand side by side, backs pressed up against the metal wall. Cleaver looms up before them, silhouetted by the light of the corridor outside. Strangely, Connor feels as if he’s on the other side of an airlock, about to be shut out into space, and then the metal casing slams down and they’re locked inside.

Immediately, Connor feels as if he cannot breathe. He’s never counted himself as claustrophobic before, but he’s never been locked inside a narrow storage compartment before, either. The darkness is overwhelming; Connor swears it presses against his skin like water. He thinks he might drown in it, and takes deep breaths to compensate. He never gets enough air, though. His lungs are never full.

He tries again, gasping for more, but it’s not enough. The blackness around him seems to get closer, and Connor is a few seconds from fully freaking out until he feels a tapping on his right arm. It comes again, a moment later– tap tap, two motions against his forearm. It’s Risa, reminding him that he’s not alone in this endless darkness. She’s here with him. They’re going to be alright, because they have each other, that’s all they’ve ever had, and if they managed to survive everything else, surely they can live through this, too.

Connor feels his heart rate start to slow down. He reaches his right hand to tap twice against her left arm, returning the message. A couple of minutes later, when Connor can feel her starting to shuffle around too much, she taps twice, and he does the same, like a prolonged heartbeat stretching between the both of them. Eventually, they both calm down enough that the beats have more and more time between repetitions, and then they stop entirely.

Connor focuses on his breathing, on not thinking about anything. He closes his eyes, even though it doesn’t entirely matter, just because having his eyes open to the stuffy blackness makes him feel even more uncomfortable than before. His knees start to cramp, but he can’t straighten them, so he just tries to think about something, anything else. 

He moves the fingers of his left hand one by one. He curls his toes inside his shoes. He listens to the soft rise and fall of Risa’s breathing somewhere to his right. Connor leans a little closer to her, just to be sure that she’s still there and hasn’t somehow been ripped apart from him. He’d never known unless she shouted; it’s too dark in here, and his eyes refuse to adjust. He would have no idea at all that she was gone if he ever let go, and so he won’t.

There’s a scratching sound on the metal somewhere above and to the side. Connor wonders if it’s Roland, trying to carve his way through the barriers of his storage compartment into theirs. He shivers, and Risa, evidently having heard the same thing, presses closer to him. The sound carries on for some time before falling off in disappointment. They won’t be reached by anyone, shark or boy or Juvey-cop. Nothing can touch them.

Neither of them pull away, though, and Connor doesn’t want to. He’s only aware of one sensation anymore, and that is the crescents of his skin pressed against her. They are here in this unmarked grave, somewhere in the vast expanses of space, and when they come out of this, they will be safe. They will be whole. Someone out there is looking for them, waiting for them to arrive, and then none of this will ever happen again.

And if they die here, let the worlds find their brittle bones together, hand in hand, spine against spine. Let them never be separated again, even in death. When their blood congeals, when their muscles atrophy, let all that dust of what was once flesh and bone intermix until no one can tell the difference between the two. Let Connor and Risa, Risa and Connor, never, ever end.

Connor learns to sense the passage of time by the alternating rumbles of the starship’s engines. Twice, Connor thinks Cleaver docks the ship, and twice he gets his hopes up only for the ship to start up again without ever letting them go. Cleaver had passed out food and drink rations before forcing them into the storage compartments along the walls, so he’s not immediately hungry or thirsty, but he has no idea how long they can keep this up. When he starts thinking too much about it, he taps his right hand twice, and waits until Risa taps twice back. Only then can he force himself to relax and move on to other, braver topics.

He compels his mind to stay busy. Mentally, Connor runs through every flight tip he’s ever heard. He thinks through the routes he would walk or bike to school, how he’d return from his destination. He used to sneak over to his friend’s houses all the time, and in his mind Connor imagines that he’s back there again, hopping fences or running low down the road so cars couldn’t spot him. He goes to his friends’ houses and he completes the trip back, but he always stops his mental picture just before he turns down his driveway. Home is not a place Connor can return to, even in the illusion of his own head.

More, a desperate need for more; Connor thinks of homework assignments he procrastinated, TV shows he’d binged. Every girl he’d ever met. Every boy he’d ever fought. There was this one field trip when he was a kid where everyone in his class got to go to a science museum across town; they’d shown up in one big, writhing mass and immediately been shepherded from exhibit to exhibit by exasperated teachers. He had been small then, barely able to tie his shoes, and when they passed dioramas of monstrous animals with huge jaws, Connor had hidden his face in his hands. One had been a tiger shark.

There’s a clamor outside the metal wall of their storage compartment. Lost in memories, Connor thinks it’s his dad working on the junker of a car they’d found abandoned on the side of the road one day. The engine had needed some work, it hardly even ran on substellar batteries, let alone a normal fuel like power cells. 

Still, they’d worked on that thing day and night. He can still remember his dad looking at him proudly the first time they took it on a trip across the neighborhood; Connor can’t imagine why his dad would let him die when he was so happy that day, they both were, but maybe he just hadn’t done a good enough job on it, maybe that was why his dad had been okay letting him go.

The clanging persists. Connor opens his mouth to tell his dad to stop it, he’ll be out in a minute, but then the door of the storage compartment rips open, letting in blinding waves of light, and Connor remembers. He remembers where he is– not at home, not heading out to the garage, but on a run down starship somewhere in the vast expanse of the galaxy.

Cleaver is peering down at him. “You two haven’t died in there yet, have you?”

“No, unfortunately,” Connor grumbles out through chapped lips and a dry tongue.

Cleaver grunts in sympathy. “You look it, though.” 

He helps both of them out, then hands them each a water ration. Roland is already idling somewhere in the back, and although his back is tall and straight, he’s got this look in his eyes that even the best of his bravado can’t hide. None of them will forget what it took to get here. In a way, Connor thinks that was done on purpose. You can’t run a secret safe haven if the kids inside believe they can just leave without a care. This sort of terrible journey teaches them the price of their safety.

Cleaver nods, as if sensing that Connor finally gets it. “Well, you survived,” he says matter-of-factly. “Welcome to the Graveyard.”

unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @locke-writes, @sirofreak

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#unwind #unwind imagines #unwind oneshot #unwind series #unwind fanfic #conrisa #conrisa imagines #conrisa oneshot #conrisa series #conrisa fanfic #unwind dystology #unwind dystology imagines #unwind dystology oneshot #unwind dystology series #unwind dystology fanfic #connor lassiter #connor lassiter imagines #connor lassiter oneshot #connor lassiter series #risa ward #risa ward imagines #risa ward oneshot #risa ward series #space au #connor lassiter x risa ward

[here2bbtstrash]

LDOMLT 7 :

  ahhh you painted JK's picture so perfectly. Black outfit, chains and chunky shoes is so him !!!

  “You weren’t kidding about his ass!” nope, we do not joke about Park Jimin's ass in this house !!!!

  can i just say how comfortably mundane this sideline stories are, like nothing much just reader going about her day and mention of the devil here and there directly and indirectly.

  “Wonho would love a third. He can barely keep up with me.  why does this feel so normal, like there is no other way i could have imagined Jimin to be in.

lol her struggle is so comical really and what a journey has she embarked upon from jerking off to yoongi's memory to almost submitting herself in studio, from screaming wrong person's name after begging them to fuck her in a very specific manner to seeing Yoongi everywhere quite litreally. poor woman has it bad and the devil is to blame. aahhhhhhhhhhh

@reader and i'm sorry but not only you are emotionally dense, you are also a poor observant as to how little baby goth really looks at you, which is both apparent to the guy you are hate fucking and your best friend who has only seen him for the first time !!!

and i wonder what was she hoping for really with which speed she just fled from her seat at the bar to see Yoongi! oh god stop following him, what are you even going to say ?? let's check out the bathroom at this bar ????? i want to boop and see if you are real or a figment of my imagination!!!!! GET A GRIP WOMAN !!!!

You don’t hear from Jimin after Jungkook drops you off that night, and you’re too stubborn to text first, secretly hoping he’ll make the first move and apologize for reading you for filth unprovoked. YOU EXASPRATE ME CHILD, REALLY

overworking herself to avoid thinking about things at hand or to face the consequences of what happened, i feel you !

Presentation room.

Better than his damn office, you think to yourself, and then two more texts pop up. are you sure woman ??are you ???

“Now, Yoongi,” you snap.

At this, his head snaps up. “Well, some of us got tapped to give a fucking presentation to the visiting overseas team. Tomorrow!” ssshhhhh deep breathes!!!! at least they are talking, this is still better than just running away ......

not gonna lie watching yoongi fumble at at least somethings is very very satisfying....

but his only response is the jerk of his adam’s apple in a hard swallow. heloo???? presentation ?????

“Finish the presentation,”  whoa whoa nice to meet you miss ocassionaly-soft-dom-especially-when-you-want-yoongi-to-control

“We don’t have time, Yoongi.” Your hands fist in his shirt to pull him closer, and he steps in between your spread legs. “Just fuck me.” and there we have LDMOLT reader going down in the history as the woman who denied MIN YOONGI'S MOTHERFUCKING TONGUE !!!!!

i cannot believe that so far they are fucking like animals with only their genitals connected that mere thought of holding each other during sex sounds so reckless to her brain......

“Come.” His lips brush against yours when he says it, a touch so light it could’ve been an accident. FIST ON THE TABLE FIST in THE MOUTH SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT MY FAV MOMENT IN THE CHEP!!!!! oh god but you really love to edge huh!!!!!!!!!!!

whoa whoa what a turn that took in the end with finally them behaving like humans !!guess more fluff is coming (?)

i'm off to read new chep now bye *sob sob*

hfeiushfkdjfgklj the fact that you took the time to put this all together in prep for the latest drop is so sweet 🥺 ohhhhh chapter 7!!!!! 🫠

jk is fully in his JITB album release party outfit and i refuse to apologize 🥲 gahhhh.... baby goth 😩🖤

LMFAO NOT MENTIONS OF THE DEVIL.... you know.... just your very normal coworker that you are hatefucking and also he's min yoongi..... NORMAL THINGS.......

thank u for acknowledging that reader has GONE THRU IT 👏 my girl has not had a BREAK. not a moment of PEACE. it's a wonder she's still sane at all 🤣

hoooooo boy her obliviousness...... chapter 8 is sure gonna be fun huh 🤭

AHAHAHA NOT LET'S CHECK OUT THE BATHROOM. NOT A BOOP ON THE NOSE OMFG. thank god yoongi was a trackstar bc what the fuck WOULD she have done if she caught him hefudfjkgsdfhfdg girly did not THINK she just RAN!!!!! 🏃‍♀️

hehehehehe they share the soft dom and it's beautiful 🥲

SHE'S A FOOL !!! SHE'S A FOOL !!!!! SHE WILL COME TO REALIZE SOON ENOUGH THAT SHE'S A DAMN FOOL 😩

not the fucking like animals hfgdhkjlfsldgdg the half-kisssssss 💀 you know i couldn't just let y'all have it. absolutely not!!!! you must SUFFERRRRRR 🫠

if you had this much to say for chapter 7 i..... god rest your soul when you read chapter 8 🙏 will say nice things abt you at your funeral 🤣 nahhhh but thank you so much for reading and for the lovely feedback, i can't overstate how much it means 🥺💜 this story is my baby and i will always love screaming with y'all about these idiots!!!!

#anonymous #mbox 📮 #fic review #look down on me like that #LDOMLT spoilers #queue what you want ㄱ -ㅅ-ㄱ

[astaroth1357]

Unconventional Pact Mark Headcanons

So like, I know that when people do pact headcanons it’s usually all sweet like, “Oh look, they’re so connected!” but also what if the pact marks and pacts in general were just... weird and did weird things sometimes? Well here you go.

Lucifer

Any time the MC feels belittled, Lucifer’s pact mark burns like it’s trying to shout at people for them.

Whenever the MC is looking for confidence, they can rub Lucifer’s pack mark and they’ll feel like they can literally take on anything. (Translation: So stupidly confident that they’ll jump off a cliff and legitimately believe they’ll land perfectly fine because they were awesome enough to make a pact with Lucifer so there).

Lucifer’s pact mark glows the brightest of the bunch - and that’s saying something - the MC can use it like a flashlight if they have to. It refuses to be outdone by the others after all.

Mammon

The pact mark sparkles like a glitter sticker whenever the MC touches something expensive - almost like it’s encouraging them to run off with it… 

Mammon’s mark tugs and pulls him towards things that the MC touches often, which results in him “stealing” some of the MC’s favorite stuff in order to hold onto/use himself (their pillows and pens are common targets).

Since Mammon’s pact mark came first, it’s connection between Mammon and the MC is the strongest. It has so much influence that if Mammon or MC say each other names, they will actually sneeze.

Leviathan 

Whenever the MC uses one of their others pact marks, Levi’s mark will glow like a fucking Christmas tree like it’s trying to say, “Hey, I’m here too! You won’t forget me right?? Right?!?”

Naturally, sometimes when Levi gets envious of something it’ll spread to the MC too, but since there isn’t always an easy target to be envious of their brain will make some… pretty big leaps in logic. (*narrows eyes* “Look at that fucking lamp over there… I bet it’s mocking me… Well shut up! Not everybody can produce light like you, Lamp!!”)

After getting Levi’s mark, the MC can start to hear the thoughts of fish… Henry 3.0 2.0 is surprisingly eloquent and a 100% Mom friend. They see why Levi talks to him so much…

Satan

The local cats seem to recognize the mark on the MC is Satan’s because they’ll always nuzzle up against it if the MC stops to play...

Satan’s pact mark actually gives the MC somewhat increased strength when they’re pissed off - or it enhances their anger so much that they bust difficult-to-break items on sheer willpower alone… Jury’s still out on that one.

If the MC meditates or is just reeeaalllly calm, Satan feels the subtle but constant urge to purr... 

Asmodeus 

Asmo's pact mark actually kind of "roams around" the MC's body. It will disappear and reappear on whatever part of them Asmo likes the most (and he's terrible at deciding). It's all fine until it pops up on their face or… other parts...

If the MC concentrates, they can get Asmo’s mark to change color to match their outfit! But it will change his as well, so they sometimes have to do some outfit coordination in order to keep things looking good.

If the MC gives Asmo’s mark a quick kiss, Asmo feels it go down his spine and it makes his wings appear and flutter involuntarily.

Beelzebub

Whenever the MC starts craving a certain food, Beel will do the same. They often end up meeting each other down in the kitchen or at the same restaurant looking for the exact same snack.

In the rare cases Beel eats something he doesn't like, it gives the MC heartburn. He's forbidden to eat Solomon's cooking now (not that he's complaining).

If the MC gets too full, it makes Beel burp. It can be assumed it be vice versa, but Beel’s never full so… 

Belphegor 

The MC can wake Belphie up by slapping their mark as hard as they can. He feels it like a hard whack to the back of the head and he HATES it.

Both marks glow while they sleep and in accordance to their dreams. Good dreams, bad dreams… wet dreams… If you know the flashing sequence, you’ll know right away (and thank fuck the others don’t).

Though the MC may have never had a sleepwalking problem before, they occasionally leave their own bed in the middle of the night to go find Belphegor. Which is fine - unless he’s in the attic. A sleeping MC doesn’t have the motor control necessary to climb spiral stairs so they usually just end up waking up face down on the steps come morning...

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons

[inkykeiji]

break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.  

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark  hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”  

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.  

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

      ✰          ✰          ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

    ✰          ✰          ✰ 

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.  

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”  

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.  

#zenin naoya x reader #zenin naoya smut #jjk smut #zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #tw:incest #tw death #tw toxic relationship #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY #whew okay

[silversatoru]

hands

sukuna x f!reader

a/n: remember that thirst i posted the other night about sukunas fingernails? u bet i wrote a quick fic about it. i am not sorry

synopsis: an exploratory study on the intricacies of what sukuna could do with those goddamn hands of his 

tags/warnings: 18+, pain kink, scratching, mentions of blood, biting, bruising, hitting, blindfolding, restraints, overstimulation, monster fucking, dom sukuna, very soft aftercare sukuna (<3)

word count: 1.8k

One of Sukuna’s long, sharp nails traced down your body, from your neck to your toes and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He placed his talon on your neck for the second time, trailing it down your body again but pressing a little harder this time. Shivers quaked through your body as he left a puffy red line down your skin. He ran his finger over your exposed clit, a sharp bolt of pain and electricity shooting through your veins. 

Sukuna had you completely at his disposal, hands secured tightly behind your back and eyes covered by a thick blindfold. He loved to see you shiver under his touch — quake and twitch as he gave you nothing but the bare minimum. 

You felt the bed shift as he straddled himself over you and leaned down, his breath hot against your neck. His long, warm tongue left a streak of sticky saliva up your neck, and then he blew cold air on the wet skin, sending more quivers through your body. 

“Look at you baby, looking like such a pretty slut for me,” He cooed between licks, the praise coaxing a few soft moans from your lips. 

His tongue disappeared and was quickly replaced by pointed teeth and soft nibbles. Your body gushed with pleasure as you felt a second and third mouth nipping and lapping from Sukuna’s hands at your torso. His ability to duplicate his body parts wherever he wanted gave him terrible amounts of power in situations like this. 

You could barely handle the tripled stimulation, your head growing foggy with desire and your mouth filled with strangled moans. A resounding whimper leapt from your throat as the mouths got more aggressive, dotting your skin with discolored marks. They nibbled and gnawed on every inch of you, squeezing down to give the occasional bite, which sent you spiraling. The sharp pains felt indescribable, every single sting absolutely electrifying. A mixture of pain and pleasure crawled over your skin as he continued to cover your body in imperfections.

“It’s pitiful how quickly you come undone for me, princess,” The words dripped off his tongue like thick honey. 

Your clit twitched at his words, but you refused to be embarrassed or ashamed by how pitiful you looked right now — not when he was making you feel this good.

Not being able to see or resist his actions made them all the more exhilarating, your heart pounding as he sat up. Your skin felt cold and empty without his tongues keeping you warm, and goosebumps trailed up your arms as the anticipation of what he would do next grew greater. 

The mouth that belonged to his face connected with yours, and one of his hands clasped over your cunt — a mouth for each pair of lips. Quivering whimpers and raspy whines spilled from your throat into his, the tongue from his hand working fervently on your aching entrance. The pleasure was almost intolerable as the second mouth engulfed your cunt, it’s tongue swirling small circles around the swollen nub. Your body began to tremble underneath him, your toes curling and legs shaking. 

Two extra arms boiled their way out of sukuna’s body, each lurching foward and grasping a handful of your breasts. He kneaded and massaged them in the roughest way, his nails leaving small scratches as he worked. Two of his fingers grasped each of your nipples, twisting and rubbing them with incredible force — your body twitching and teeth clenching together. Between the rough kisses, nipple simulation, and hot tongue that was eating away at your cunt, you thought you just might combust. Your body was incredibly overstimulated, trembles rolling under your skin over and over.

Eventually his tongue slowed, leaving lazy licks up and down your cunt now. The antagonizingly slow pace made your skin crawl, frustration building inside of you. Your hips rolled out of desperation, you needed more of him so badly — but this just earned a rough a slap to the side of your torso. His motion left a large, red hand mark in its place, your skin aching and tingling as your eyes rolled back into your head from complete bliss.

Sukuna sucked in a sharp breath, it was impossible to punish you like this, ecstasy surging through you every time he inflicted pain on your body. But it was also what made you so perfect for each other, your ability to handle whatever he wished to do to you. Regardless, he’d need to find other means of punishment, like restricting you until the last second — not letting your pretty little cunt come until you completely deserved it.

His second mouth shot its tongue deep inside your entrance, curling and lapping at your hot cavern. A warm feeling began to boil in your stomach, your climax inching closer and closer from the wonderful feeling. Throaty groans ripped through your teeth, your back arching and legs growing stiff as you trembled right on the cusp. Just as you thought you might fall over the edge, the hand disconnected from your aching clit — strings of curse words and echoes of Sukuna’s name flying from your lips. 

“Not yet, baby,” he purred, “You know it’s not that easy. You need to make me feel good before you get to come”. 

You gave him a desperate nod, the need for his cock growing increasingly more intense as he left you laying untouched. You whispered a strangled combination of “yes”, “please”, and various curse words, bucking your hips forward. 

“Look at you, so fucking eager for me,” His voice was almost a snarl now, “Open those pretty legs”. 

You wordlessly obliged, pulling your legs wider and stretching yourself for the ravenous curse. A deep, throaty groan rippled out of his mouth at the pretty sight of you, his own needs growing stronger than his desire to keep you waiting. 

He wrapped his thick fingers around his now exposed shaft, giving it a few lazy pumps as he stared down at your quivering body — your hands still pulling on your knees and stretching yourself open in the most beautiful way. He was aching to stuff himself inside of you, to fill you up and feel you squirm under his grasp. After a few more strokes up his girthy length he positioned himself in front of you, pressing his swollen tip into your clit. Your body jerked and twitched from the feeling, an evil smile stretching across his face at the sight. 

“Maybe I should make you wait a little longer,” He teased, moving his inflamed head up and down the entrance to your cunt. 

A small “no” was all you could manage, your lips trembling as you spoke — but it was perfect. Your fragile state and utter helplessness was exactly the motivation he needed to thrust himself into you without warning. A suffocated scream lurched from your throat, a horrible pain filling your stomach as you struggled to adjust to his monsterous size. 

He grasped your waist with an incredible force, his talons sinking into your skin and drawing blood. The small crescent-shaped cuts from his nails felt like tiny flames igniting on your skin, sending endorphins bursting through your brain. Between the pleasure derived from that pain and your body becoming accustomed to his member you were caught up in absolute bliss — your head spinning and your vision growing cloudy.

Sukuna let out a raspy, feral growl, his pace almost too much for you to handle. “You take me so well, pretty girl,” He mumbled, scratching one of his hands down the front of your chest.

His nails left more red lines down your fragile skin, small droplets of blood leaking down your torso. The continued overstimulation of burning pain and forceful pleasure was enough to brim your eyes with tears, choked sobs beginning to force their way out of your throat. His two extra hands were still working on your breasts too, the lumps aching and smeared with blood from the small wounds he continued to inflict.

His occasional praises were the only thing that kept you sane, your heart doing small backflips every time he used such endearing names for you. The scale between calling you princess and then lacerating your skin and railing you into oblivion somehow balanced itself perfectly in your mind. 

A tight, warm knot began to churn itself in your core, and you began to move in sync with Sukuna’s body. You were so desperate to reach your climax and coat his member in your fluids — you’d been deprived of this for much too long now. 

You were incredibly lucky that Sukuna pitied you as much as he did, because the curse didn’t really have a breaking point. Honestly, he’d fuck you straight through the night if you’d let him, but he tries to limit himself to accommodate to your poor, human body. 

He can tell you’re close now, whispering encouragement and coaxing sweet moans to fall from your lips. When he finally tells you to come, giving you the permission you so frantically needed, you let yourself completely unravel. You melted into a mess of whimpers, moans, and trembles — waves of euphoria surging through your body. Your tight walls became impossibly tighter, squeezing his aching cock and pushing him to his climax just a few moments after yours. He thrusted hard into your shuddering legs, pumping you full of his liquids and snarling strings of curses and praises into your ear. 

The two of you collapsed into a messy heap of contentment, your skin tainted with mixtures of blood, sweat, and semen. After a few minutes to compose himself, Sukuna scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bathroom. He was so incredibly gentle with his aftercare, but you never pointed it out because he got terribly insecure when you did. He hated admitting that he felt more than just lust for such a worthless human like yourself.

“You did so good, princess,” He cooed, holding you tight to his chest.

He untied your arms and removed the blindfold from your face, placing a soft kiss to your forehead. He sat you down in the bathtub and turned on the warm water, using a soft washcloth to gently scrub the various liquids from your skin. Once you were clean and dry he even rubbed some ointment over each of your cuts, not wanting them to get inflamed or infected. 

After making up for the damage he did to your frail body, he effortlessly lifted you back up and carried you back to bed. The two of you laid in silence while he played with your hair, softly scratching and massaging your scalp with the same nails that had done such serious damage earlier. They were much more soothing now, the soft sensation helping you to drift closer to sleep while you laid curled in his arms.

#sukuna thirst #sukuna smut #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna ryomen x you #jjk smut #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #sukuna x reader smut #smut #jujutsukaisen

[arty-shadow-morningstar]

My Maribat Betrothal AU: Take Two

Okay so people like that post that is more of a train wreck produced by my sleep-deprived brain. I expanded on it and added some changes. Fair warning: Most of my ML and DC knowledge came from Maribat fics, a few episodes and the DCU movies like son of Batman. I have Mari's pov and background stuff written and it needs some editing. Anyways, enjoy <3

It is not a continuation but: @alysrose-starchild, @buginetye, @lookatthestars1, @blackroserelina, @macncheesemonster, @mochinek0

[Masterlist]

(Part 2)

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

PART 1

Damian groaned.

He was not having a good day.

First, Father decided to pair him with Todd, TODD of all people, for patrol.

Second, while doing a stake-out for the warehouse near the docks which might be used as storage for criminal activity and enduring Red Hood's annoying taunts, they both were knocked out by tranquilizers and his mother's face was the last thing he had remembered seeing.

"Don't worry, little one. You are just fulfilling your duties as heir to the Demon's Head. Then, all will be perfect." She had said, just before he fully lost consciousness.

Third, he woke up to being chained up with a major headache. Taking a bearing of his surroundings, the room he was imprisoned in had two exits, an iron door and a window that had the view of his childhood home. He was dressed in wedding ensembles of the League of Shadows. Red Hood was chained up next to him as well but unlike him, still had his suit and helmet on. Glancing to the other side, he saw a raven-haired girl, chained up and dressed in the black and gold robes of a bride. She had also retained consciousness and was staring at him.

Bluebell eyes met his piercing green.

His betrothal was petite with Asian features. She had freckles dotting her button nose and rosy cheeks.

She is fragile and will break easily, he thought. Why did his mother want him to marry such a weakling?

"Savez-vous où nous sommes? (Do you know where we are?)" Her voice was sweet and trembling with fear. Her eyes were wide and seemed filled with innocence yet carrying great sadness. She was an Angel, an ordinary girl, not fit for this harsh and unforgiving world she was forcefully going to get married to.

She opened her mouth to ask another question and suddenly, she went limp, appearing to be unconscious. Damian furrowed his brows in confusion. Why did she-

A moment later, he heard footsteps approaching and the iron door opened to reveal his mother.

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

Jason woke up to the sight of the Bitch Talia and Demon Spawn, face to face, glaring at each other.

Talia broke the tense silence.

"Damian, I hope you know what you should do."

"To be forcefully married to that little girl. She is no one special. Why am I getting married to her?"

Married? The Demon Spawn is getting married?!

Jason saw through his helmeted vision, a girl about Damian's age, chained up like them but not yet awake. He raised his hand and saw the shackles around his wrists. The chains were connected to the wall. He experimentally yanked the chains, drawing Talia’s attention.

“Well, Jason, you are awake. You can be the best man for the wedding.”

“No. I don’t know what game you are playing but you better release us. B is gonna find us and you will pay. Let the girl go. She is innocent in all of this.” Jason said vehemently.

"Ladybug may not seem like it but she possesses great power that my father converted for centuries. Speaking of, she should be awake by now."

Talia stood up and grabbed Ladybug’s(?) hair and yanked so that her eyes met the girl's. The girl, who unfortunately was going to be the Demon Spawn's bride, lets out a cry and starts to tear up. Jason felt anger at how she was being treated, seeing the girl as a little sister already.

"Tch, See, she is more pathetic than I thought. She is not powerful." Demon Spawn growled out. The girl starts babbling in French. From the little French Jason knows, she was begging for mercy.

“Like I thought, weak. She is not deserving of the title of my wife.” Damian spat out.

"Appearance can be deceiving. Despite her demeanor, she is the current wielder of the Ladybug Miraculous and the Current Guardian. The old Guardian, the old fool had promised her in exchange for his protection." Talia countered, letting go of the girl.

Miraculous? Guardian? What the hell?

"That doesn't mean I want to marry her. She is not worthy of an Al Ghul or a Wayne. Look at her, crying at the slightest feeling of pain."

The mother and son begin to bicker. Damian refusing to marry and Talia trying to change his mind.

“Yes, both have to be willing to be married but the curse placed on both of you will ensure that you will agree.”

The dark haired girl had stopped crying and started whispering in a strange language when the fight started, fiddling with the silver ring she wore. Jason saw a terrifying smile crossed the face of the girl across him that chilled him to the bones. Later, a black blur came out of her robes and went through the door. He wondered if he imagined that before he was a determined glint in her eyes.

He blinked.

Talia was choking on the chains that were previously chained to the wall and were now around her neck. Fortunately for them, Talia had closed the door after her entrance and the guards most likely to be stationed outside didn’t storm into the cell. The girl whispered something in Talia's ear, making the woman's eyes widen with what could be fear.

The experienced assassin struggled to get free and gain an upper hand on the girl but was unsuccessful, passing out from the lack of oxygen and strangely strong grip of the small girl.

What happened next was surprising. She breathed hard on her shackles which instantly disintegrated into flakes of rust.

Holy Shit! Demon Spawn's girl is magic. Jason knows his mouth was hanging open under his helmet at that realization. Damian seems to be in the same state.

Talia didn't have the keys to the locks. Being crafty like that. Bitch

"Call me Lady." she said in lightly accented English as she summoned black orbs at the tip of her hands. “Stay still.”

She then proceeds to place her hands on Jason’s shackles, turning them into nothing more than specks.

"I am Red Hood." said Jason, rubbing his wrists.

"The little shit here," as he kicked Damian's leg, " is-"

"Damian Al Ghul" she said the last name with venom. She moved on to Damian's bonds. "Son of that bitch over there, grandson of Ra's, demon heir, blah blah blah. Hold still, mon mignon. I am sure you don't want to lose a hand."

Damian stopped moving at that, due to the pet name or fear Jason couldn’t tell but by the red at the tips of his ear, it could be the former. And she used her powers to free him.

Lady somehow managed to use what remained of the chains to hog tie Talia up.

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

“How do we get out?” Damian asked, inspecting the blade that he flinched from his mother.

“Hey, kit.” A nasally voice called out. “I checked out the place we are in. Like you asked. The way to the Throne room is heavily guarded and they seem to think old Ra’s the target. The Pits are guarded too but they are nothing you can’t handle.”

“What is that?” Jason shrieked.

“Thanks, Plagg, you will get that camembert danish when we get back. This is a kwami, a god of sorts and his thing is destruction so I wouldn’t insult him if I were you. He likes to go by Plagg”, answered Lady, which doesn’t clear up Jason’s confusion.

“So, Pigtails, what’s the plan?” The floating, black cat-shaped god(?) asked.

“I was thinking of destroying the Pits to give Al Ghul a middle finger and call Maman to use the Horse to get home.”

“We need Tikki to get rid of it..”

“I will just tell Maman to bring the earrings.”

Damian snorted, “That sounds like a foolish plan. You are insane and not strong enough to take on the League alone, despite having a ‘god’ of destruction at your side. This Tikki or magic earrings will destroy the Pits, many have tried. And sorry to disappoint but no horse can make it up the mountainside of Nanda Parbat.”

“Have to agree with Demon Spawn here and I rarely do that. Your plan sounds insane, Pixie. You are just one girl. Let us help, we know the League better than you. We can come up with a better one.” Jason was worried for the girl, she was crazy if she thought her plan would work.

Lady smirked, “It is a perfectly sound plan. I know what I am talking about. Despite the weak girl act, I am no Damsel in distress. After this is all over, we will split our ways and hopefully, never see each other again.”

“We can’t separate. My mother said there is a curse that will ‘make us fall in love.’” Damian said, using air quotes. “You need to come with us so we can get someone to break it.”

“Fine. But I need to do something before I am coming with you. Plagg, Claws out.”

Bright green light flashed around her and she was now dressed in a black bodysuit with green linings. It was armoured at the chest, knees and elbows. (Add whatever details you want, I can’t do it. Jacket, designs, use your imagination) Her gloves were claws-like, reminding them of Selina and there was a belt carrying some vials, pouches and throwing stars. Her hair was now longer and braided and seemed to move on its own. Cat ears were attached to her head. Her eyes were changed so the sclera were the same shade of blue as her iries and the pupils were slitted like a cat. A black domino mask framed her face. Two ten-inch daggers appeared out of thin air in her hands.

The transformed Lady did the inhuman feat of kicking the door open. The assassins stationed outside were immediately knocked out by Lady.

“Well, are you coming or not?” She called out, before running down the corridor. Jason patted his shocked brother’s shoulder, “You doing okay there, demon spawn?”

“Tch, Let’s go, Todd.” Damian replied, trying to get rid of that funny feeling in his chest.

#damian x marinette #maridami #mlb x dc #maribat #daminette #betrothal au: take 2

[otptings]

Tease

Idol; Haechan

Genre; Smut (unprotected, mirror sex, semipublic sex, slight degradation, unintentional edging, exhibitionism, Jaehyun knows too much)

I will be continuing the big dick Haechan legacy I do not care anyway a one shot for one of my favorite brats in NCT hope you guys enjoy and requests are open for any idol that you would like

Letting out a ragged breath I watched as the mirror fogged up. Haechan’s grip on my wrists tightened. Pushing my face directly against the window as his other hand moved its way down to my shorts. 

I don’t regret a single thing.  Haechan has been teasing me every single day. Grabbing my waist and press his cock against my ass in passing, sliding his hand up my thigh when we’re out with the boys. He took it too far by pulling me aside at one of our magazine photo shoots. Pushing me up against a door, sliding his hand underneath of my dress, rubbing me through the built in shorts before walking away. Leaving me horny and flustered in the middle of a photo shoot, with all of the NCT boys. I was fuming. 

For my payback I decided to tease him right back. Haechan likes to sit in on my private dance practices. So I played one of the sexiest songs I knew (Wow by SKZ Danceracha) and danced to it. A dance that had plenty of body rolls, drops with my legs spread, splits, and more. A dance that was more fit for a strip club than for a Kpop group. It did the trick. Haechan got so horny he bypassed the bratty phase and went straight to being dominate. 

His hand pulled my shorts down so they were around my thighs before his finger pushed into me with no warning. I let out a shaky moan as I felt him thrust his finger a few times, before adding in another one. A louder moan left me, the music covering some of the sounds hopefully to anyone walking past. The cool of the mirror on my hot face, and the feeling of his fingers as they worked inside of me, scissoring, and curling up to hit my spot just made my brain go fuzzy. 

“So you like being a tease? You act just like a slut and wonder why I act this way.” Squeezing my wrists I whimpered a little as a pain shot through them.

“Haechannie it hurts.” Haechan only squeezed them again, thrusting in a third finger causing me to let out a moan. The pain and pleasure mixing perfectly, causing a shiver to run down my body.

“Now I’m Haechannie? You really think your slutty ass has the right to call me that.” Haechan pulled his fingers out causing me to whine at the lost of the pleasure. My building orgasm slowly faded away and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. 

“Hands above your head, don’t move them!” Haechan released my hands and I instantly placed them over my head, pressing them against the mirror. I knew the mirror would have visible handprints but I couldn’t care. Pulling my face off of the mirror I looked at Haechan’s reflection, watching him pull off his clothes. His cock rock hard hanging between his legs. Haechan was the biggest that I’ve ever had. He was long and thick. The first time we fucked I refused to believe that he was as big as he constantly bragged. I became a believer after losing the ability to walk the next day. That was pretty hard to explain during dance practice. 

I felt my mouth watering at the thought of finally getting what I've been craving. Taking my shorts off properly he threw them behind me before grabbing my hair and yanking my head back, pulling my face off of the mirror. Pain shot through my scalp and a few tears escaped my eyes. 

“Look at my pretty girl,” his other hand slid up to my neck and squeezed it, “You know I missed you. I like teasing you because of this. Look how fucked out you are already, you’re crying already.” Haechan laughed at me mockingly, releasing my hair. Rubbing his cock against my slit, I moaned at the feeling. Weeks of his teasing between our schedules finally paying off. Haechan slowly pushed his head in and a few tears slipper from my eyes. The feeling of him slowly stretching me out caused me to squeeze around him, a hiss leaving his mouth. 

“Haechannie please.” I let out a loud whine as he bottomed out. Haechan leaned into my ear and I felt myself shiver again as his breath ghosting over it. 

“You might not wanna be too loud either, the door isn’t locked.” I felt myself slowly start to drip at the thought of any of the other boys walking in on us. All of NCT already knew that we were dating, but seeing us in the middle of fucking, inside on of the practice rooms nonetheless is a whole new level. “You liked thinking of one of he boys walking in on us? I can tell by the way you squeezed around my cock. The cute girl maknae getting fucked by her oppa right against the mirror. What do you think they’d say?” Haechan’s grip on my neck tightened as he slowly started to thrust into me. The song in the background had changed again, causing the sound of bed squeaks to fill the practice room (we all know the song). Fitting.

“My pretty girl, so pretty and tight for me.” Haechan’s thrust slowly picked up speed until my face was pressed against the mirror again. I bit my lip trying to hid my moans. Haechan couldn’t say the same he was groaning loudly in my ear. The sounds of skin clapping, and my wetness as Haechan fucked into me were echoing throughout the practice room. I prayed that none of the boys could hear. I felt my orgasm coming around again when Haechan pulled out. A loud whine left my mouth at my second failed orgasm. 

Turning me around Haechan pushed me so that my back was against the mirror. The cold mirror felt amazing against my hot, sweaty skin. Grabbing my left leg Haechan pulled it up to wrap around his waist before thrusting back into me, quickly resetting to the previous brutal pace. This time being able to see him I couldn’t help but let out a loud moan. His golden skin was covered with a layer of sweat that seemed to only make him flow more, his mouth was open and letting out pants and groans freely. He looked like a walking wet dream.

“You feel so good for me princess. So amazing.” Haechan groaned into my ear. “Only for me to see right pretty girl?” I nodded my head quickly another moan slipping out from my lips. 

“Haechannie please.”

“Please what?”

“Kiss me.” Haechan finally connected our lips for the first time. Our lips moved in sync as his thrusts never faltered from the brutal speed that he set. Haechan picked my leg up higher causing his dick to go deeper. I let out a gasp as the blunt head of his cock rubbed against my sweet spot.  “I’m gonna cum, please let me cum Haechannie.” His hand slid down to my clit, rubbing quick, and rough circles into it. I winced from the sensitivity  but the pleasure overtook everything, and I felt my eyes roll back as I cam all over him. Haechan continued to thrust into me, helping me ride out my orgasm, before pulling and jerking himself off quickly. With a loud moan he came on the inside of my thigh, warm and sticky against my skin. 

We stood there in silence before Haechan walked over to his back pack and pulled out wet wipes. After wiping the cum off of us, we got dressed before moving to the couch in the corner to snuggle. 

Someone knocked on the practice room door before it opened, revealed Jaehyun in the door way. He started to walk in to the practice room before making a screwed up face.

“Manager will be here in 10 minutes.” Jaehyun then smirked at us before turning around and walking out of the room. 

“You think he knows?” Glancing over to the mirror I saw that it had smudges, and handprints all over it I nodded my head.

“Definitely.” 

-

“Why did you have wet wipes in your bag?”

“I had planned to fuck you today anyway.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“You’re hot when you dance what can I say.”

#haechan #lee haechan #lee donghyuck #donghyuck #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #nct smut #Kpop smut #nct drabble #nct one shot #nct imagine #nct 24th member #nct girl member #nct extra member #Jaehyun is mentioned

[remsmoonlight]

— title : sweeter than candy

— word count : 3k words

— pairing : daryl dixon x reader

— summary : daryl is good at keeping things buried, but when the thought of words left unsaid do you both realise you have both been thinking the same thing about the other. 

— warnings : mentions injuries, mentions of death

“ hi!! OMGG I came across your account and I’m obsessed with your writing!! I was wondering if you could write a Daryl Dixon x Reader following candy coated promises. Where Daryl has developed feelings for reader and following an errand run she gets injured and has to stay in bed. And Daryl find out! If that makes sense! Thank you!!! “

           ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*   requests are open ! / requested by anon *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A deep desperation of yearning to be useful has led you to forget the risks involved in the interminable list of things that wish to cause you harm and are able to on such an intense scale. Luck had been on your side for so long, the illusion of life’s greatest ally refusing eluding your group for this long has proved itself to be just that — nothing more than an illusion. Once the burning of fear had dulled to nothing more than a dim ache, all you now feel is the one wound that does not run red yet pours into your veins as if it does. Stupidity. You’d volunteered yourself to go on a run with a small group, you’d spent enough time before the barbed wire fences, that you felt yourself becoming trapped.

A deep regret that would follow you even in death would be if any of your group would, too, meet their chapter’s end too soon by an immense error made on your part.

One thing that lays dormant in your mind, yet unable to completely fade is the fear of becoming too settled in safety. Spending too much time wrapped in a blanket of comfort that provides refuge from the grit the outside world revels in only hands you a vulnerability unsuitable for a reality submerged in death that roams freely. You don’t want to forget how to survive, you’ve come too far for that.

Part of that is how you have ended up being put to bedrest.

Your brain is yet to sort through and file the fleeting images that blend together into one disorientating image instead of a folder of what had occurred picture by picture. In one instance the group and yourself had been rummaging through the shelves that still contained some stock and the next, you’re rushing Maggie out of the way and pushing over shelves onto a growing horde of walkers. Though in the next second, your heart fell a thousand feet below as you lost your balance from the liquid coating the floor from where they’d tumbled and smashed to the floor, with the shards of glass forming a bewitching hazard.

“ your ankle still givin’ you trouble? “

The voice pulls you out of your thoughts, your sight settling on Maggie.

“ I don’t know if that hurts more or if these scratches do. “ You complain, your fingers lightly tug at the bandages that cover the fresh wounds that coat both of your palms, you take note of a number of loose fibres from the material.

“ Glass’ll do that to ‘ya. “ She chuckles, slowly moving into the room. She grabs a chair from the metal desk on the side and moves it next to your bed. “ I never got a chance to say thanks. “

“ You don’t have to worry about it. “ you refuse, shaking your head in turn.

“ I feel it’s my fault you’re like this. “

“ If we’re going to blame anyone, let’s blame my eyesight. I should have seen that wet patch. I should have been more careful. “ Frustration that burns bright in your reply as you turn away from her. Perhaps you’d spent too much time concealed from the harsh reality that constantly claws at you all as it takes refuge in a thick coat of a hauntingly isolating fog as it waits to drag you down with it further into the depths.

Mistakes are synonymous with fatalities now, one moment you’re on top of the world and in the next you can be in a free fall clutching the thin air as if it should be your saviour. Never have moments been promised, and this fact has never shone clearer than when the dead claimed the Earth for itself in an effort to void it of life wholly.

“ Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself. “ Maggie brings a hand forward to squeeze your shoulder momentarily, a comforting smile packaged with it easing some of the self loathing you could feel weaving itself into your being.

“ I don’t have much to do in here by myself, I have to keep myself entertained somehow. “

“ Well, I got an idea.. “ She trails off, a mischievous grin lifting her lips.

“ Maggie.. “ You utter a strict warning, already knowing where the conversation is about to lead.

She pauses for a second, laughter bouncing from grimy wall to grimy wall as she reacts to your cautionary tone, the light in her eyes bursting with the power of a thousand stars as it illuminates her features. Gratitude for the fleeting moments of rare normalcy that reflects a past occurrence in the old world runs deep, for a fraction of a second you can pretend you’re simply two friends joking about something goofy and foolish. For a minute, you’re not sheltering in a decrepit prison as you run from walkers, it’s a perfectly average afternoon.

“ You can’t tell me you don’t realise the way he looks your way now? I know you’ve been lookin’.. “

“ Okay, I think I'm tired now. “ You huff, shifting your body as to your ability with your injured ankle to face the wall that has an array of stains permanently painted into its surface.

Maggie only laughs in response, the sounds of steps dulling into nothing more than a ghost of an echo that informs you of her departure. Her words have pulled a string you’d not wished to pay attention to until it would be absolutely necessary. Needless to say that as much as you’d tried to bury the budding seeds of affection into the dirt, they’d only bloomed in force into a sea of colour with the evidence left to coat your fingertips for everyone to see.

Never had it been your intention to entertain this idea, when anything positive you’ve managed to seize with both hands can be ripped away so unexpectedly that you are left to nurse the empty space left behind of what once had been, grieving the idea of what could have been. However, there’s a dim curiosity that softly grows in size that envelopes around you, compelling a desire to reacquaint yourself with a human intimacy that fell to the back of the queue as the instinct to survive overwhelmed it. You don’t want to fear living, you don’t want to fear connecting to others on a deeper level, but you can’t help but simply.. be afraid.

Had you been in a different reality where the world continued on as normal, you would have probably fallen under his spell sooner.

Only after that one night you’d spent on watch together after he’d gone out of his way to bring you such a simple gift illuminated him in a way that your sight would often lean towards him. Many times you would find yourself analysing his actions on a deeper level, a coy warmth burying itself in the pit of your stomach when realising he’d included you in his thought process. From the chocolate bar, to you being the first person he’d check on if you needed anything before heading out on a run, to even the simple act of being there just to talk when life felt rough. A shape of one Daryl Dixon had been carved out by the man before either of you had realised.

A thunderous groan erupts from your lips as you turn onto your back to stare at the bunk on top with the realisation hitting you like a train threatening not to stop. You completely adore the Dixon.

About an hour away from the Prison Daryl secures the last of the rabbits caught, they swing side to side with each of his calculated movements. All Daryl finds himself wanting to do is to get back to the Prison, unable to push down the inclination of being back to the comfort the life behind those metal fences bring. It’s been a long day and all he’s interested in is getting back to those he holds dear.

That thought is when a fleeting frame of your face crosses his mind. Though he speaks not of which he truly wishes to share, the time you do spend together is something he cherishes more than a billionaire would with all of the money and rubies in the world if they had them in the palm of their hands. The darker side of him, the side that would always listen to those who preferred to taint his waters with their gloom, doesn’t allow the emotions constantly swirling within him to be touched by the burning sun rays as they are laid bare.

Heavy breaths fall without grace from his chest as he’s let through the gates, the stony expressions etched deeply into Carol’s features. No words need to be uttered to know it’s to do with you, Daryl doesn’t even allow a thought before he’s making his way on a path he has walked a thousand times and will walk a thousand times more. Creaks that echo in the darkening corridors that are not lit by the comforting flames of candles, the prison sounding as if it’s more in pain than it appears — still, he pays no care. His only goal is to check on you, he’d be unable to forgive himself if anything were to happen to you and he’d never be able to see you one last time. His brain conjures a number of horrific scenarios and tainted pictures to accompany them as it runs wild in a sea of dread.

The crossbow that had been secured in Daryl’s grip is lowered gently to the ground as he scans your form, a grateful sigh when he sees the slow movement of breathing.

He lowers himself into the chair next to your bed, trying to pinpoint the moment he’d stopped gazing upon your form as a friend to replace it with an aura of starlight — no longer did he see the colour of your eyes, but galaxies full of life and wonderment. Daryl allows himself a few seconds to chase each other by as he considers his next action, though deep down he’s aware his decision had already been chosen, as he threads his fingertips into yours to allow your warmth to comfort the panic that had been raging at the thought of your demise. His thumb traces a circle that is light enough to keep you tucked away in a slumber and as a comfort technique for him, where his mind allows him the time to placate himself.

Before he’s aware of it, the sky blends into itself once more as the pastel hues paint it with dashes of gold from the sun as dawn breaks and he’s hunched over with your hands still connected as one — the position held the entire night. Nothing can be heard in the confined space except a symphony of soft breathing from you both, the serenity only the early hours in which no one is awake brings comfort to the sleeping forms of you and Daryl.

A lengthy yawn escapes your lips as your eyes fight to open as they blink heavily to adjust to the light that invades as much as it can. The weight of something lying comfortably in your hands confuses you, as you distinctly remember there had been no pressure previously, the image before you washes your entire body with the icy grip of shock as you scan the trail leading from the hand within yours to the person it belongs to. Teeth grip your bottom lip as you bite it, attempting to battle away a smile that wishes to break free, you can’t believe the sense of humour that the universe has. Not an inch is moved by any part of your body, you seek to savour the intensity that such a simple action bears, your eyes positively glowing in adoration as a softer side to the man is revealed. Moments like these are few and far between, it leaves you wanting to bottle it up and pocket it forever.

A squeak of displeasure cuts through the serenity the early hours have worked so hard to cultivate as you inch your injured ankle to the side, clearly different positions prove to be the opposite of beneficial. The noise is enough to wake Daryl, his sudden alertness makes you doubt whether he’d truly been in a deep rest, but it’s the least of your worries as he realises he spent the night with his grip connected to yours. The warmth that brought a grounding comfort to your being now is a phantom touch you crave again once an eerily coolness now surrounds your empty palm.

“ ‘M sorry ‘bout that. “

“ There’s nothing to apologise for, Daryl. It was nice. “ You confess, your volume touches the air with a softness of a feather that descends to below in an elegant waltz.

“ Mhm. “ He turns his gaze to the floor, a thumb is chewed upon lightly as he’s wondering what he should say next. “ ‘Was worried about ‘ya as soon as I got back. “

“ Yeah, things just kinda happened. “

“ ‘Ya gotta watch y’self more out there. “ He scolds you with a light scorch of misplaced anger that almost lays eternally with him, a wave of anxiety at the thought of losing you are twins in a realm of horror he never wants to bear witness to.

“ I know, Daryl. “

Poisonous words full of fire and fury born out of dread of your existence in his life being cut short itch to burn your indifference to the situation. As he settles his gaze upon you, all he can see are the stolen moments you both have shared away from the group, where the person he’d created in his head built without even speaking to had been smashed into shards the more he got to know — you’re a fresh breath of peace in an unstable world that thrives on chaos. Quiet moments where all he can hear are the flickering embers of the fire are the memories he finds himself kicking for, all that lost time to never be recovered due to his preconceived notions.

“ Do ‘ya? “ Daryl shakes his head in frustration, his soul a pot of swirling emotions and thoughts blinding him to the point he can’t see straight. “ I can’t lose ‘ya. “

His voice is so low you barely hear it, your brows thread together in the slightest form as they’re unused to the window of Daryl’s vulnerability being so widely open.

“ You won’t. “ A faint twitch of your lips means well, you try to comfort the man. Your touch is delicate as your palm overlaps his with warmth.

“ Y’can’t promise that. “

“ But I can try! “ You argue lightly, a bounce in your response.

“ Forget it. “ Daryl sighs harshly, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the thoughts that run circles around his mind.

“ Daryl! Wait. “ Your voice falls on deaf ears as he’s already halfway towards the exit of the room, for a moment you forget your injury and a burning sensation flies with boundless wings up your protesting muscles and you land in a heap on the floor. The bandages do nothing to cushion your fall, you cry out in pain from the intensity of the throbbing plaguing your body.

“ Why can’t ‘ya be careful!? Damn it. “

Before you know it, Daryl is level with you as you feel his touch grazing your skin — ensuring you’d not injured yourself further. Guilt pools in his stomach at the thought of your current suffering being his fault, his ire now directs itself brightly towards him.

“ Dar — what’s going on? Why are you acting like this? “ You quiz as your expression contorts into a grimace. You’d not seen him behave like this for what feels like a long century, even more so when directed towards you.

“ Like what?! Huh? “

“ You’re being crazy! “ You state, your finger jabs into his chest.

“ Ain’t it obvious? “ Daryl asks suddenly.

Your head shakes, confusion clouds your features as if it’s an angry storm that has waited long enough for the calm — nothing can be seen through the darkened skies. All you want is for the sunny rays of truth to shed light upon this mess.

“ ‘Ya mean more to me than you should. “

“ Daryl? Do.. do you — ? “

He nods suddenly, unable to hear the words out loud no matter how true they ring, because as real as it is. There would be no taking it back then. Your lips purse as a sad smile lifts itself with no help from you, your heart hurting as you realise this could have been avoided entirely since you both appear to be on the same page. You acknowledge the fact that actions would speak louder than words in this scenario, your fingertips brush through darkened strands of hair as if they play a sheet of music with the aging competence of a commanding pianist. This is one of many songs your mind finds itself conjuring, a burning hope of this forging something more between you. It’s not long before your arms are wrapped around his neck, with Daryl unable to believe the scene in which he finds himself in, you’re a sky full of stars that he finds himself wanting to get lost in.

“ We can take this one step at a time, yeah? “ You question softly, not wanting to be witness to the fleeting images of a set of angel wings.

He agrees silently, a warmth spreads outwards from your cheeks and treks outwards to cover your completely. The moment is sweet, as it concludes with a honeyed kiss on his tanned cheek. In one frame you both are thinking the same thing, just how lucky you are to have fought through your fears of living and given in to taking the plunge into unchartered waters that Maggie and Glenn have already found themselves navigating.

In a world full of the dead, you both agree that to love shouldn’t be a reason to cower and hide.

#daryl x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon oneshot #twd imagine #daryl fic #twd oneshot #daryl dixon imagine

[honklore]

invisible string | dreamwastaken

(requested plot by red string of fate soulmate au, dream is still a streamer, reader has commitment issues, dream just wants someone to love, chat is the best wingman, sapnap and george try but they suck, reader is timid but dream makes them feel brave, taylor swift references, this is not very deep or poetic at all, i don’t like typing y/n so after this i’m going to move to ___)

listen to: invisible string by taylor swift

In kindergarten, red strings were simply a crafting tool, and teachers never mentioned how much pain they would eventually bring.

Because when they appear, from a child’s eighteenth birthday and beyond, they tighten like a godforsaken high school ring that came in one size too small. Like the universe is a child tugging their mother towards the ice cream truck, you’re pulled around central Florida, passes faces you can’t memorize and voices too garbled to hear.

The string knows where you need to go, and when.

And you’re at the park, feeding ducks and trying to ignore that incessant pull that tugs at your pinky, when you hear it.

It’s a voice you know only because it’s a voice that’s been in your house before. At least, through your brother’s tablet screen. Some gamer online — a streamer, with a distinct wheezing laugh that you’d recognize anywhere.

And you do. Behind you.

You risk a small peak, and your heart drops into your chest. He’s tall. Too tall to not intimidate you. And his sandy hair is wavy, curling at the collar of his sweatshirt, falling perfectly into place when he runs his hands through it. When he does, you see it, the red string.

Which means he could see it too. All he’d have to do is turn around.

But you’re not ready. You haven’t been, not since you watched your cousin get rejected on her eighteenth birthday. Since you watched a string of fate get clipped in front of you, like the three fates had finally had enough of your cousin’s happiness.

It was enough to make you curl into yourself, and reject the natural pull set before you. So you run, and you try not to think of what would’ve happened if he saw you before you saw him. You try not to feel the clippers, but the blade feels tangible against your skin.

You don’t stop running until you arrive home.

“Hey chat, just wanted to do a few practice runs and catch up with you guys,” Dream mumbles into the mic, already restarting his game after deciding he didn’t like his seed. The donos begin rolling in, even before Sapnap and George have unmuted, so Dream flits his eyes to the display screen, subconsciously reading along with the text-to-speech voice, “Dream, what if we shared a string of fate? Ahaha, just kidding... unless... love you bestie.”

Dream chuckles, “Actually chat, I felt a tug today! Isn’t that weird? I was actually reading up on what that could mean, and it seems like either my soulmate is in a lot of distress, or they were in my vicinity. I’m hoping, for their sake, it’s the second one. How would you even comfort a soulmate if all you can do is tug on a stupid string?”

“Simp!” George finally unmutes just to be annoying, and Dream knows soulmates are a touchy spot for him, considering he wasn’t given a string on his eighteenth. Which is strange, but not impossible. Of course, chat doesn’t know this, because it would give them more hope of becoming George’s metaphorical soulmate, but it certainly makes for awkward conversations once Dream and Sapnap get into their own soulmate bonds.

“I’m not simping, George!” Dream feels a bit defensive, because he’s genuinely just curious. He has no interest in meeting his soulmate right now. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He has his streams, and his friends, and chat. He’s fine.

[abbywastaken donated $10: dream why don’t you go back to where you felt the pull and see if you feel it again? that’s how i found my soulmate. okay luv u bye.]

“Thanks, Abby. Love you, too. Um, honestly I was in a pretty public place, so I don’t know if they would even come back anytime soon. Also, this is Orlando, right? Tourists are everywhere.”

Sapnap snorts, and Dream thinks it’s funny, since he’s in the other room. “Just say you’re a coward and go.”

“I’m not!” Dream says. “It was just a small pull, okay? It wasn’t even a big deal.”

He feels another lurch when he says that, but this one is in his chest. It taps against his heart, a quick reminder that it beats for someone else, and he needs to watch his words. “Okay, it was a big deal. Sort of. I’ll go tomorrow, okay chat?”

Chat is spamming all types of messages, from encouragement to jealousy. Dream manages to read off a few donos and create his first nether portal of the stream. He answers as they appear, eyes scanning for a fortress. “No, I didn’t see them… I’m not telling you guys where I was, that’s weird… I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jeans… Hi, Sarah and Patrick…”

He trails off as the donos do, and works at getting blaze rods. George is talking about a riddle he just learned, and he’s trying to trick Sapnap into saying something stupid.

Lost in his own thoughts, he finally closes the stream after a hasty goodbye. “What if I missed my chance?” He asks the two boys on the other line.

“It’s a string of fate, Dream,” George says. “You didn’t miss your chance.”

“Maybe they saw how ugly you are and ran away,” Sapnap says, completely joking, but the thought lingers in Dream’s head.

Did they feel the tug, and run away?

You pour cereal for yourself, and when your brother shuffles into the kitchen, you make him a bowl as well.

He’s eleven, and as little brothers go, he’s pretty chill. Aside from the inappropriate jokes and hogging the bathroom when you have to get ready for work, you like hanging around with him.

You pass him his bowl, and he grins. “I’m gonna watch Dream’s new video on the TV, since mom’s not home.”

You furrow your brows. Dream must be one of the dozens of streamers he likes. Maybe one of his friends will be in chat with him, and you will be able to connect a voice to a face. “Can I sit with you?”

He gives you an odd look, and it’s true, you don’t ask to watch videos with him often. “I guess.”

You eat a spoonful of cereal and settle into the couch while he gets everything ready. He clicks on a lime green icon of a little white blob man, and when the first video appears, you’re taken aback by the voice.

That’s the voice you heard. It’s this one, out of all the random men yelling about a block game. It’s Dream.

“Why doesn’t he show his face?” You manage, wanting information about the person that shares your string.

“What?”

“Like, he’s handsome, right? Why doesn’t he have a facecam?”

Your brother snorts. “Handsome? He’s never shown his face, Y/n. Don’t you know who Dream is? He’s like, super famous.”

“Oh.” You think of his golden hair, as sunny and soft as the glow around his entire being. His voice right now, joyous as he gets chased by his friends. “I mean, I don’t keep up with streamers.”

He begins to explain Dream and his friends, along with lore in their role play server, and it’s all interesting enough that you sit and listen, holding on to the little bits of information you can collect about your soulmate.

You file these facts in a secluded corner of your brain and try to make a whole person, along with the hair and the laugh and the intense music he plays as he gets hunted by his friends.

By nightfall, you’re following all of his socials and binge-watching his old streams, holding on to the way he speaks to his friends, and the fond way he replies to donos.

[dreamwastaken is live!]

You click on it, bundled underneath your covers as if someone might see you and find out your secret.

“Hi, chat! I know I was just live yesterday, but I cut it too short and wanted to come talk to you guys.”

He uses his avatar to wave at the screen, and it’s kind of an adorable sight.

[gogysimp donated $25: did you go see your soulmate?]

Your heart stops. Does he know? Did he see you? Or even worse, has he already found someone else, and he just hasn’t severed the tie?

“No!” Dream’s laugh pulls you out of your worries. “I was busy with meetings today, actually. And I was too nervous. Sapnap also refused to come with me, so I’m just going to go another day.”

So he didn’t see you. He just knows you were there.

You click the donate tab before you can stop yourself.

[y/n donated $1: would you reject your soulmate if you didn’t like them?]

Dream mumbles the question, and you try to ignore the way your heart deflates when he skips saying your name. “I don’t think so,” he states plainly. “I mean, logically, a soulmate would be your other half, so I wouldn’t not like them. But I know some people just don’t click, or there are other issues. So, I don’t know. I guess the only thing I can say is that I don’t want to reject them. And I hope they don’t reject me. I mean, imagine finding out your soulmate is a Minecraft Youtuber. That would be pretty weird…”

You giggle to yourself as he trails off and answers another donation. So he’s against rejection. Okay. Maybe you have a chance.

[kyra donated $60: i’m your soulmate.]

“Meet me where you felt the tug, then,” Dream says sassily. “Chat, don’t be weird, okay? I can’t control who my soulmate is, and I don’t want you guys to exclude them if they become a pat of my life.”

Oh, you think. So his chat is vocal about their opinions, and apparently they mean a lot to him. You shiver despite your warm position and imagine how annoying you might seem to his loyal viewers: someone who only knew about him because of their brother.

Insecurity pushes against your chest, so you close the stream and push your phone away, hoping to forget this ever happened, that maybe you won’t have to deal with the inevitable if you don’t think about it.

Yogurt Barn isn’t the first place on your list of dream jobs, but it has decent pay and helps you pay off student loans, so you appreciate it nonetheless. The teal sweatshirt they gave you as a uniform keeps you warm as you scoop the frozen treats.

Your coworker, a girl named Madison, is busy manning the counter, so you check each flavor and refill the ones running empty.

“Can I ask you a question?” Madison met her soulmate, Anna, only days after she got her string. It was a textbook romance, two people meant for each other, no doubt in anyone’s mind. She might be able to help you now. That is, if you can even admit to who your soulmate is.

“What’s up?”

“I felt the tug,” you say, avoiding her eyes in favor of restacking the medium cups.

“No way!” Madison is perky in a way that makes you want to be included. You like this about her. “Did you see them? Did you talk to them?”

“He—” You want to say that the part of him you saw was perfect, enough to keep you up when you should be dreaming. But reality is nothing if not disappointing. “I ran.”

“Y/n…” Madison gives you a stern look — like a mother finding out their child didn’t defrost the chicken in time. “Why would you run?”

“I don’t want to be rejected.” The magenta swirls painted onto the walls are a stark change to the clay sidewalks of the strip mall. “And before you say he wouldn’t… It’s happened to my cousin. It’s possible.”

Madison frowns. “But that can’t be the only reason, right? I mean, we all know someone who has been rejected. It’s usually not the end of the world for them.”

“He’s a famous streamer,” you blurt, and you’re thankful the shop is as empty as it is. Just the words themselves sound fake.

Madison snorts. “Like, gaming? That’s what’s holding you back? He’s a gamer?”

“I don’t care that he’s a gamer!” You hiss. “I care that he has a loyal fanbase who more than likely all want to be his soulmate!”

“You can’t say that for certain,” Madison says. “I mean, everyone knows about the soulmate system. If you watch someone and don’t feel the pull, you know they aren’t your soulmate, right? So why wouldn’t they accept you?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I’m just scared. I mean, he’s got this huge following and everything and I’m just me. I work in a yogurt shop for goodness’ sake.”

You head into the back to grab more cups, and the bell rings, signaling a new customer.

“Welcome to Yogurt Barn, what can I get for you?” Madison’s customer service voice pricks your ears.

You sift through the boxes to find the smaller cups and listen to the customer’s order. “Can I have a strawberry cone?”

Your string pulls, that same familiar voice filling your head, not on the screen but once again just a few feet away. He’s infiltrating your life, so close you could reach out and touch him, but it’s such a terrifying thought that you set down the cups.

You tear off your apron, and run into the break room to grab a water and calm yourself down.

It’s ten minutes before Madison comes back to find you. “Hey, are you okay? You disappeared.”

You take a deep breath and stare at the poster on the wall. It’s brightly colored, with a walking yogurt cup waving and reminding employees to wash their hands before scooping. “That was him. The guy— the pull— Dream— I can’t— Does he know? Is he following me?”

“It’s okay,” Madison runs her hand down your back. “It’s okay. He isn’t following you. When the pull starts it tends to draw the couple together until they meet. He probably doesn’t know it’s you.”

You nod and take your breaths in gulps. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right. You’re right.”

“Why don’t you go home early, okay?”

Dream is live again.

Fresh out of the shower, you pull a t-shirt over your body and burrow into your blankets. Earbuds in, you try to focus on the sound of his voice, ignoring every ounce of anxiety that’s been riddling your mind.

“Hi, chat. I’m gonna practice speed runs again. I think George is joining soon.”

You open the chat and scroll through the emotes, clicking the ones you like and sending them, just to calm yourself down.

[kylo donated $5: did you find your soulmate?]

Dream laughs. The sound makes your chest tighten with longing. Your fingers ache. “Actually, I went to the place I felt the pull again. I dunno what I was expecting, but they didn’t show up. But after that, I was running some errands and I felt it, chat! I felt the pull again.”

He trails off while his character starts to look for a lava pool. “I feel discouraged but I don’t want to like, chase them, you know? I don’t want to scare them off.”

You click the donation tab again.

[y/n donated $1: maybe your soulmate heard your voice and got scared of you because they watch your videos.]

It’s not the total truth, but it might help him sleep better. You don’t want him to feel discouraged, but you can’t bring yourself to follow the pull.

“That could be a possibility…” Dream crafts a portal and sends his character through. “But I wish I could talk to them. I wish I could tell them that it’s okay. Like, we don’t have to rush into anything.”

[y/n donated $1: They probably wish they could talk to you too]

“Thanks, Y/n.” He sucks in a breath as soon as he says your name. The Minecraft pause screen appears and the sound of a discord call can be heard.

Your heart pounds in your chest. Something about him saying your name just solidified everything. Your arms feel hot and cold all at once, like you’ve just been thrown in a frozen lake. He has to be feeling it too.

“Chat, I gotta go, okay? I’ll try to stream again soon.”

“Hello?” A sleepy voice comes in through Dream’s earbuds.

“George! Their name is Y/n!” Dream is so excited, his voice raising a few octaves as he talks. “Someone donated with that name and I felt like, super weird. I didn’t feel it until I said the name out loud.”

“That’s crazy,” George says, monotone but supportive. “Do you think the dono is actually them?”

“I don’t know,” Dream scrolls through their past donos and quickly screenshots each one. “I mean, they definitely could be.”

He shares the pictures in their group chat.

George hums. “It sounds like they’re trying to tell you how they feel without admitting that it’s them. Where did you say you felt a pull?”

“At the park, and at the yogurt shop down the road.”

“So go there again. Maybe all they need is a little courage. If you feel the pull this time, you should follow it.”

Dream thinks about it for a moment before finally agreeing. He changes the subject to their next jackbox stream, and George is now happily talking about how they’re going to team up against Sapnap.

He goes into Sapnap’s room that night. He sits on his desk chair while Sapnap sits cross legged on his bed, scrolling through his phone. “Do you wanna get frozen yogurt tomorrow? My treat.”

“Hell yeah!”

The new strawberry-lemonade custard is a hit. Not only are the colors aesthetically pleasing for the teenagers who want a nice snapchat story, but there was a promotional coupon in the mail that has people lining up to the door.

“It’s not even that good,” you tell Madison while the two of you are on break. You’re both using a sample spoon to try out the new summer flavors, and in your opinion, strawberry-lemonade isn’t even the best one. “Blood orange is better.”

Madison wrinkles her nose. “No, blue raspberry is best.”

“It’s sour, though,” you say.

“Guys! Break’s over and you’ve got a line!” Your manager stares disapprovingly at the cups of custard the both of you are indulging in.

“We’re coming.” You toss the cup into the trash and walk out, scratching at the sudden itch on your pinky finger.

Pulling on your gloves, you grab a scoop and address the first customer, “Welcome to Yogurt Barn.”

“Hi!”

You still like you’ve been caught stealing on camera. You look up, hand clutching the scoop so tightly you can feel the cold steel through your gloves.

It’s Dream.

It’s him. He’s tall, and his hair is a sunshine blond, dark at the roots and curling beneath his ears. And his freckles… little spots all across his cheeks so endearing that you get a little distracted staring at them.

Then he’s talking, and you have to focus on his jade-green eyes, not his lips, which are a warm pink. “It’s you.”

You blink. Fear strikes your spine and you drop the scoop. “I gotta go.”

“Wait!” Dream calls, just as Madison shouts your name.

You exit out the back door again. Your heart is pounding against your chest, ribs expanding, and all you can hear is the sound of your name coming out of his lips, just last night through a screen.

“Y/n?” Only it’s in front of you, a few feet away, and he’s searching your eyes for any reassurance that you won’t run away again. That you won’t reject him. “That’s your name right?” He keeps talking, a nervous smile flitting across his face. “The donos? That was you?”

You can see the string now, red and blaring, tightening with each step Dream takes. It’s signing off your fate, for better or for worse, and you can’t fathom why he’s trying so hard, why he cares so much.

It’s hot in Florida but you feel cold, chilled to the bone. You straighten up. You figure you owe it to him to look up in the eye.

He leaves you breathless, eyes shining in the sun. “It was me,” you say. “You’re Dream.”

“Clay, actually,” he says. His smile widens, and it’s magnificently bold. He’s triumphant, just from your reply, and that alone gives you the slightest bit of hope.

“Clay,” you say. “I’m— I’m not— I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to be.” Clay is quick to reply, hands open and palms up. It’s a complete surrender — putting it all in your hands. “We don’t have to announce it. We don’t have to be anything at all, if you need time. But I would like to be your friend. If— If that’s okay.”

But you want to be close to him. The draw of your strings pulling each other closer and closer makes you want to wrap your arms around him. If he hasn’t rejected you, maybe you can do this. “I– I want to be more than friends, but I’m terrified of you rejecting me. I’m afraid of the string getting cut.”

Clay set his brows, “I won’t let that happen. We’re connected. Fate, ya know?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and it’s a sigh of relief. “Okay. Maybe I’ll give you my number?”

“I’ll give you mine!” Clay is animated, holding out his hand for your phone. “That way you can text me when you’re ready.”

The red string shines like gold in the Florida sun, and when your fingertips brush, it burns with a satisfying warmth.

#dreamwastaken x reader #dreamwastaken fluff #dreamwastaken fanfic #dreamwastaken x you #mcyt au #dreamwastaken au #mcyt x reader #mcyt fluff

[sweetestlamb]

Walk Through A Storm

Author's note: Honestly, like I could help myself from doing this. it's short because I need to actually get my life together but enjoy. Oh also I don't wanna think anymore so someone give me title in the comments lol I'll pick the one that fits the best. (Thanks for actually giving suggestions, one really spoke to me!)

Summary: "I'm not ready to stop kissing you yet."

"I thought you were going to reject me." She whispers in between the small space between them, their lips are close enough to meet again in another soul burning kiss and he's tempted to close the gap again. They can talk later so for the second time in his life he wants to be selfish, she brings that out in him; makes him hungry for more than he thinks he deserves. She's been doing that since he first met her.

"I'm not ready to stop kissing you yet." Her eyes widen at his whispered words and without pause he leans closer softly pressing his lips against hers. She tastes sweet like the best candy he could never get as a young boy. Her little hands slide up his back dragging him closer and he goes easily, his walls are saw dust at this point and she's a windstorm. Wrapping his arms fully around her body he pulls her closer, cupping the back of her head as he swipes his tongue at the seam of her lips. She gasps in a way that makes his blood bubble and flow southward. The sea roars besides them providing the soundtrack to their first cognizant kisses. Hopefully the first of many.

The kiss drags and overlaps, her tongue persistent in his mouth and her hands busy stroking and rubbing at his back. It takes all of his willpower to sever their connection but he's starting to feel light-headed (and horny). This all still seems like a dream ever since he saw her running over to him, when she was supposed to be in Seoul. Leaving without telling him. Making him think the worst.

"Why do you look like you want to cry?" She cups his cheeks and he's reminded of that unforgettable night. She looks so concerned that he wants to disappear not used to being on the receiving end of such looks.

"Nothing. I'm fine." He tries to brush her off, viciously wiping at his eyes but she doesn't let him push her away, grabbing his hands tightly in her own. "Tell me what you're thinking. I told you everything in my head."

He almost chuckles at her expectant gaze. She sounds like him demanding payment.

"People usually leave but you're the first...to come back early." He smiles sadly thinking about all the people he'll never see again, and how he considered that she might go back to Seoul and realize that she was much too big for the pond that was Gongjin. He wouldn't have stopped her, she deserved the whole world.

"The first hm. I like that." He stares at her face, grinning at the satisfied grin and the enveloping dimples on both sides of her face.

"A daughter with your dimples would be dangerous, I think I'd understand how Chun-jae feels then." She pauses at his words mouth gaping and it hits him just what he's implied about their future. It's presumptuous and he should correct it but his tongue feels too heavy and her bright eyes suck the air from his lungs.

"Where's Mi-Seon? How did you get back so quickly?"

"Oh." She jumps cutely, suddenly hitting him on the shoulder and he winces ready to scold her for hitting him so close to his injury. But then she starts hitting herself on the head and instinctively he grabs her, stopping the self inflicted abuse.

"Stop that. I like that head." It's cheesy, something he would have cringed at if he heard another utter it but once he sees the smile she rewards him with none of that matters anymore, he'll say anything to make her beam like that.

"You're such a flirt." She fails at sounding bothered. "Oh and I left her in Seoul. It started raining and I realized you were it for me so I ran into the rain and left her on the sidewalk. Crazy right?" She starts snickering at her own words and he stares at her taken aback laughter forced out of his lungs at her infectious giggles.

She comes into his house like she belongs there, going to his fridge without permission and grabbing a bottle of water. He feels parched watching her drink it, never before has he wished to be a plastic bottle. So many firsts with her.

"What are you staring at?" She tilts her head like a bunny and he can't get the image of her with floppy ears out of his head.

"Cute."

"What?" She blushes furiously at his accidental slip and he clears his throat before grabbing his phone, desperately needing a distraction.

"Nothing. I'll call someone to pick up Mi-Seon."

"Who are you calling?" She asks walking over to him, sitting far too closely for his brain to function at maximum capacity. When a deep familiar masculine voice answers she squeals, bouncing in her seat and giving him thumbs up. He feels so proud he could burst.

"Don't say no. She's all alone and abandoned. What if something happens to her? Could you live with yourself?" He replies to the stuttering officers weak refusals and those are the right words to get the meek man moving, it's comical that he would be playing matchmaker for anyone else.

"You're a master manipulator." She accuses and he stares in surprise, "Does it upset you?" But she surprises him by leaning closer, spread deliciously across his compact couch. "No. It's sexy." Her face is glorious under the soft lighting in his living room and he swallows the drool collecting in his mouth, embarrassed when it starts a coughing fit. She thumps his back firmly before thrusting her water at him, "Drink." He listens obediently.

He gulps at the bottle, taking a deep breath before collapsing backwards into the couch.

"Am I making you nervous?" Making. As if it's only a present occurrence, as if she hasn't been making him swallow his words and expectations from the very beginning. He shifts looking at her through narrowed eyes.

She's far too innocently twirling her hair blinking up at him with wide eyes.

"You're doing this on purpose." She smiles serenely at the claim, leaning back onto the couch and by default his arm that's strewn across the top. She presses her body into the side of his body and he tightens his hold on her shoulder. It all feels too natural.

"I'm surprised it's working. You never seemed affected by me. You denied liking me so easily. Biological crisis, my ass."

He jumps at her cursing, she sounds too much like her father. It makes him smirk.

"I thought I had to. You were right, we are so different. I thought it was something fleeting for you, you told me you're someone who gets curious."

"Pfftt. You think I get curious about just anyone? I have high standards. I'm quite a catch you know?" Her signature bravado, but this time he can see through the veil better. Can spot the cracks and tears and it makes him want to protect her even more.

"I know. You're the best thing I've ever caught."

He'll never grow tired of being the reason that face turns so pink and flushed. (Immediately pushing aside an image of her beneath him.)

"Wait here. I have something for you." He wants to argue as she starts to leave his embrace but she's too quick for his grabby hands and he pouts at her unwanted departure. He moves to follow her but she's back before he's even finished putting on his shoes.

"Where did you go? We could have gone together."

"What? Did you miss me?" She teases, dimples flashing up at him.

"Don't be absurd." He denies but his cheeks burn yes.

"Whatever. I went to get this. Here." She thrusts a large bag at him, looking excited and embarrassed all at once. He takes it confused, prying it open and feeling more confusion wash over him.

"These are men's shirts." He says dumbly and she stares unimpressed at him, rolling her eyes before nodding.

"Yes. I got them for you in Seoul. Keep them even if you don't like them. They're a gift." She looks so small and... scared that he reacts without thinking, dragging his shirt over his head and throwing it to the side. The sight that welcomes him as his head pops out of the hole is not a new one, but it's still as effective as the first time. Hye Jin looks desperate, eyes locked on his now naked chest. His skin raises under her intense gaze.

"Miss Dent--Hye Jin ah?" His call doesn't do anything, well that's a lie it doesn't knock her back to reality like he'd expect instead it seems to be the siren call that lures her closer to him. Her hand outreached before landing on the tense muscles in his stomach, with one touch he already feels devastated.

"What are you doing to me?" He aches to feel and touch and kiss and fuc-

But it's too soon for all that. They haven't even defined this yet and despite all the lines they've crossed he wants to do this right.

Taking a step back he escapes her torturous touch and pulls a shirt from the bag, ready to cover himself back up from her too penetrating gaze.

"Wait." Her voice is so raspy and longing he has no choice and he watches mesmerized as she watches him hungrily, eyes darting all over his naked skin dissecting him. He swallows hard when he sees her little hands balled up in fists by her side. Disbelief swirling in his belly. "Okay. You can do it. That's enough....for now."

His cheeks flare at the seductively spoken words and to stop himself from devouring her like a starved man he slides on a smooth button down shirt. It fits him perfectly and gulps as he buttons it up. Nobody besides his grandfather ever bought him clothes.

"It's a perfect fit." Hye Jin echoes his thoughts smoothing a hand across the soft material. He stands ramrod straight at her ministration.

"Thank you. I'll wear it well." His throat is thick and he has to blink to chase away the tears pooling there, dangerously close to falling. She hums before stepping forward into his space again, that kiss effectively tearing down all the walls and lines they had both erected and drawn.

"You're already wearing it so well. But...it looks even better off. I can't wait to see it on my bedroom floor."

A scandalized squeak is all he's able to get out before she's diving at him and devouring his lips so roughly that they tumble onto the floor.

The pain in his shoulder is worth it as she kisses him senseless systematically driving out every doubt and insecurity. At least for tonight.

#hometown cha cha cha #hong du shik #yoon hye jin #sikhye #I was screaming kiss kiss omg #i was actually hyperventilating #i thought things would fall apart #I'm traumatized #episode 9 made me wanna write angst #but then 10 came and said nah b

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XX

Part I - - - - - - - - - - Part XVII - - - - Part XVIII - - - - Part XIX

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

“I want you to understand that what we’re going to ask of you is entirely beyond the scope of duty and therefore completely voluntary. You are more than free to refuse participation, at any point, with absolutely no consequences.”

Deep within the Healing Halls best-kept medical secret, Eights quelled beneath the full might of the GAR’s highest and most lauded Generals. Yeah I’m sure whatever they ask I’m going to want to say no. Honestly, what kind of soldiers have they been working with?

“What can I do to help, sir? Sirs?”

“I know this might be shocking, but we have reason to believe the GAR is...compromised.”

“Sir?”

Eights thought furiously. This wasn’t about the healers who were hiding them, or the Jedi his battalion never received, or the decommissioning he had escaped. This was bigger.

The General Windu spoke calmly, “We suspect that you may have been trained or conditioned at some point without your knowledge to unquestioningly follow orders, orders that would usually be beyond what you would typically obey. With your permission, we’d like to try and activate that order in a restrained environment in order to gain more information, with the hope of finding a way to help the troops resist.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand. You’re just going to give me an order and ask me...not to obey it?”

General Koon nodded (General Koon! General Koon and General Windu were talking to him at the same time!). “In a manner of speaking, yes. But it’s possible that the order will do more than that. The only way we believe this could possibly work” Koon glanced to the man at his side. “And we...do believe this threat is real, is if you suffer from some form of brainwashing. Activating it might cause irreparable brain damage. Activating it might damage or kill the parts of you that make you you. Even if it doesn’t- the ideal scenario is we find something- an intentionally designed tumor perhaps- and surgically remove it. And brain surgery also has its own risks.”

Eights swallowed around a lump in his throat. 

“And this is something that could be going on with...my entire batch?”

General Kenobi winced. “The entire GAR I’m afraid. Every clone.”

The General of the 212th! Commander Cody’s General was here! Talking to him! Telling him existentially terrifying ultra classified intel!

The trooper stared up from bed in disbelief. If anyone besides three of most respected generals in the entire GAR (not including Buir Ti) was telling him this he would accuse them of bantha crap fear-mongering, if not outright treason. Instead he was just...outraged.

“What would the order make me...us...do?”

Windu took a deep breath. “Attack us. Try and kill the Jedi.”

“I would never.” Eights straightened up even further. “We would never betray the Jedi- it’s- never. We were made for the Jedi and even if we weren’t- you’re the only ones who treat us with an ounce of respect.”

“No one is questioning your loyalty,” the kind Mon Cal healer (whose name he had never asked for fear of getting her in trouble if this ward was ever discovered) said, obviously trying to sooth him. She spoke with heart-breaking earnestness. “The fact that you would never choose to obey such a command just makes the possibility of something forcing you to do so that much more horrifying.”

“How would something like that even get in our heads? The longnecks designed us to serve the Jedi, why... I’m sorry Generals. I didn’t mean to get out of line.”

“No need to apologize. You have every right to be angry about this intrusion, as well as any number of things,” General Kenobi reassured him, smiling sadly. “We don’t know to what extent the Kaminoans are involved with this plot. Not precisely.”

Eights nodded, clenching his one remaining fist. “I’ll do it. Whatever you need from me. I can’t let my brothers have something this big looming over them without any intel.” I’m not exactly front-lines material anymore anyway.

“Are you sure?” Mace Windu’s eyes seemed to stare into his soul. Eights stared right back.

“I am. When do we start?”

It didn’t take long to shave the soldier and connect a number of glowing vital readers to his skull. He was ushered into a chambered observation room with what appeared to be a sfaraday cage hastily built around it. 

“Alright, whenever you’re ready.” Bant (Master Eerin apparently, but she told him to call her Bant) said.

“I’m ready, sir.”

“Let’s start off small, see if we can learn anything without fully activating the order.”

General Kenobi took in a deep breath. He looked calm, but Jedi always did. The General took in another breath. Kriff, two deep breaths. That’s Jedi for freaking out, isn’t it? Right?

Fuck.

“Does Order 66 mean anything to you?” General Kenobi braced himself, staring intently at the trooper in his seat. 

Eights wracked his brain furiously. Sixty-Six...that was...

“It’s...a little familiar? Sorry sir, I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere but...I can’t recall.”

“That’s perfectly alright trooper, not to worry.”

A Twilek healer he didn’t recognize spoke into a micomphone from the other side of a transparisteel window. “His frontal lobe might be lighting up a little, but it’s nothing abnormal, and not enough to triangulate for anything intrusive.”

After several variations on the same question as well as a number of scans of different ‘levels,’ the questioning escalated to orders, as well an extremely uncomfortable mock fight that he would probably tell his grandchildren about, provided he survived today, and also was allowed to have grandchildren.

Still, Eights couldn’t quite recall ever learning an Order 66 and was starting to relax, thinking the whole thing was some sort of horrible separatist lie.

They left him alone for an uncertain amount of time before returning with-

“Quickdraw?!” Eights jumped up at the sight of his commanding officer arriving via hoverchair, nervously saluting with his left hand.”I didn’t know you were here!”

“Just got out of bacta. My spine’s not quite what it used to be after the blast,” the lieutenant responded wryly. “At ease, Eights.”

“Our apologies again for waking you prematurely,” General Koon said softly.

Quickdraw waved the General off. “I’m honored you did. For something as serious this- well I’d hardly forgive myself if I just slept through it.”

Quickdraw locked eyes with Eights. “I’m supposed to try giving you ‘the order’ now- General Kenobi suspects that as your superior officer, I might be authorized to trigger whatever the hell the longnecks put in our heads.”

Eights swallowed hard. “The longnecks, sir?”

“Who else?” Quickdraw asked in a tone drier than Jakku. He spun in the chair to face General Koon. “How are we doing this?”

After a brief discussion, the troopers ended up on opposite sides of a sound-proof transparisteel divider, an comm channel open between them. Eights plugged his ears and gave the order first. And giving Quickdraw an order was almost but not quite as weird as giving an order that would apparently make him try and kill Jedi.

Nothing happened and they swapped, this time with Quickdraw using a waxy covering to block his hearing.

His lieutenant stared at him straight through the clear divider and ordered him to execute Order 66. This time he finally remembered his training, and realized he was woefully outgunned. Oh well, he was a good soldier.

Eights stood up. The only visible change in his expression was a widening of his pupils. There was no malicious intent palpable in the force- he didn’t even look angry- just determined.

He lunged at the Jedi next to him, only to hit an invisible wall. He threw himself at the barrier desperately while the traitor backed out of the room and escaped. The wall finally dropped, but it was too late, he was locked in.

Sighing, he picked up the chair with his one good arm, slamming it repeatedly at the door frame. Good soldiers follow orders.

On the other side of the observation window, Quickdraw stumbled back horrified, reaching for his ears before hesitating. General Koon softly tapped his shoulder and indicated they should leave. 

“I’ve got a location.” Master Che said quietly as the lieutenant was ushered into an antechamber and the activated trooper continued to beat at the door. “It’s a small but clear patch lit up like the festival of lights- I don’t know why it didn’t turn up in scans but...I’m as confident as I can be. Worst case- it’s a small enough area that removing the grey matter shouldn’t...well it won’t kill him. It’s enough to go on for microscapel surgery.” General Koon nodded, then tilted forward, weight falling heavily in his palms on the counter before him.

Vokara rested a hand gently on his back “...I was hoping it wasn’t true as well.”

Master Koon flinched away. “I am sorry and glad to say you do not understand my feelings on the matter. I think...my apologies but I need some time to meditate.”

“Of course.”

Koon rushed out. After a moment Master Windu stepped in, radiating similar distress as Master Koon. Master Kenobi followed, looking grim but also happy. 

‘Oh I’m glad Koon isn’t around him right now,’ Healer Che thought wryly.

Perhaps sensing the mood, Obi-Wan sobered. 

“I’m sorry it’s just- I didn’t actually see the order get activated. Of course I believed it wasn’t a choice- and I’m obviously not glad that anyone’s will could be taken so easily-”

“You don’t have to explain anymore,” Mace offered quietly. “I can understand why seeing this would be something of a relief, all things considered.”

The Head Healer nodded in agreement before taking charge. “Kenobi, go in with Eerin and help her sedate him. I’ll prepare for surgery.”

“Wait- shouldn’t we try other permutations first? It’s possible that once activated, a clone might be able to order a superior officer-”

“And it’s also possible that if a lieutenant is activated, the entire army will turn,” Mace snapped. Obi-Wan bent his head, chastised. 

“Right. Yes. I’ll go- find Bant.”

An extremely long hour later, Master Che returned from surgery. Masters Mundi, Koth, and Yoda had left to and fulfill the other thousand and one duties of a council member not unravelling a Sith conspiracy at the heart of the Republic, while Master Aerdo had been dispatched to talk with Quickdraw as well as some of the other troopers in the hidden Medical bay. 

“It’s a chip,” Vokara said grimly. “Native biological material, but clearly a chip. Like you would find in a droid. Far more complex than any slave chip I’ve ever seen, and no explosive component. It would only turn up on a level five brain scan. I didn’t even think to run it before- it’s overly invasive and typically useless.”

The reduced meeting crumpled at the sight of the infinitesimally small object of control, carefully encased in a stasis slide and placed delicately on the conference table.

Proof of Obi-Wan’s future, a future that the group thought they already believed.

“We should get Master Nu,” Adi Gallia said quickly, “We’ll want our top researchers analyzing it as soon as possible.”

Koon nodded sharply. “Agreed.”

The Tholothian Master stood, “I’ll go at once- we should probably keep any mention of this off comms.”

As Master Gallia swept out of the room, Plo Koon wrenched his gaze from the stasis slide to face the healer. “Master Che, what is Eight’s status?”

“Unconscious and restrained, but he should wake up soon enough. It...might not be a bad idea to have another Jedi nearby when he does.”

Koon and Che left the room, taking the chip with them and conferring quietly.

Obi-Wan leaned forward, elbows on the table and face in his hands.

Master Windu exchanged a glance with Anakin. 

Finally Obi-Wan spoke, tentatively addressing Bant, “Could it be possible for someone...besides a clone to be chipped? If Palpatine had access to them as a child...”

Bant drew back, gaze flickering to Anakin. “I- we would have to study it more-”

Anakin interrupted, shifting in his seat. ”Master- what did I do?”

“It- it wasn’t you. It wasn’t you anymore that the person who fired on me was Cody.”

Bant exchanged a glance with Mace, before clearing her throat with a soft gurgle. “Perhaps we should leave the two of you alone to talk this through.”

The Mon Cala Healer stood and exited rapidly. Windu exchanged a glance with Skywalker before he left. “Talk through everything, understood?” Anakin nodded.

The door shut, leaving Master and Padawan alone. “I feel like I’m missing more than two and a half days,” Obi-Wan muttered wryly. “I don’t remember you three having a non-verbal communication system consisting of eye-contact alone before.”

Anakin chuckled once then immediately grew somber, picking at a loose thread in the sleeve of his robe. A thousand thoughts were swirling in his head, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I- did I hurt you? Is that- is that why you stabbed me, you thought you were defending-”

“I did what?!” Obi-Wan paled, jumping up from his seat.

Anakin winced. “It’s nothing, that’s actually not important. I’m healed anyway so forget I mentioned it-”

Obi-Wan moaned, stumbling backwards over the fallen chair. “Of force- when you were trying to save me- I had a blade. I cut you down-” He tripped backwards, collapsing to the ground.

“Master!” Anakin lurched forwards, but the older Jedi scrambled back.

“I forgot my spray bottle in there,” Bant whispered outside the door. “Do you think it’s too late to go back for it?”

Mace peered subtly through the small window in the door. “Yes. They’re already on the ground. I think they’re both crying.”

“It’s been less than a minute!”

“Yes.”

“...We should go.”

“Yes.”

Unaware of their muffled audience, the two continued their conversation.

“Don’t- don’t touch me!” Obi-Wan gasped, back hitting a wall. “I don’t- I don’t deserve-”

The young knight reared back, falling from a crouch to his knees, “Is this...about the Tuskens again?

Obi-Wan blinked in confusion. “The Tuskens? What about Tuskens?”

“You don’t...remember?” The air grew cold and Anakin forced himself to continue, “What- what we talked about in the cave?”

“What we- I-” Obi-Wan thought furiously. “...Anakin. What did...what were you apologizing for in the cave? What- what did you think we were talking about?”

“Oh gods.” Anakin paled now, shuffling back.

“What are they doing now?” Bant asked the taller Master.

“They’re taking turns chasing each other back and forth on their hands and knees. They both look like they’re seconds away from passing out or throwing up.”

“I...is this a human thing?”

“No. What? Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know! Do you think this is how they usually talk to each other?”

“I think perhaps they don’t talk to each other, and that’s why they’re like this.”

“Right, right... I really want to hear what they’re saying.”

“Hm. I don’t.”

“Why are you also standing outside the door then?”

“I want to be ready to intervene if they start trying to kill each other.”

“FORCE”

“Quiet!”

“Sorry. Sorry. You think they fought then? In the...other timeline?”

“...It would explain Obi-Wan’s shatterpoint remnants better than anything else.”

“Not to mention the spice.”

“I thought we were politely ignoring the spice.”

“...and then I brought her back to the homestead for burial.” Anakin bowed his head, tears streaming against his will. “I thought...Master I know I can’t fix this but I’m sorry- I already stepped down from my position as General so I wouldn’t be in a position to kill anyone else- I need you to forgive me.”

“Oh Anakin.”

“What? What happened?” Bant asked urgently. 

The Master of the Order appeared unruffled in the force and human visible light, but the tips of his ears were heating up in infrared. She stood on her toes to see in.

“Oh- they’re hugging? Seriously? That’s what you’re embarrassed to see?”

“They’re clinging to each other like younglings. It’s undignified for a Jedi Master and Knight”

“Alright that’s it- we’re going. I really don’t think Anakin’s going to jump from crying and hugs to murder.”

Unaware of their newfound privacy, the two inside withdrew from their embrace, still sniffling slightly. 

“Thank you, Master,” Anakin said in a shaky tone. “I swear I won’t let you down, I’m going to do better.”

“I know, my padawan, I know. I’m going to be there to help you this time, I’m not going to leave you alone with- well I’m not going to leave you alone.”

Anakin smiled wetly at Obi-Wan’s careful avoidance of Chancellor Palpatine’s supposed Sith alter ego, refocusing on Obi-Wan and making intense eye contact.

“What did you think we were talking about?”

Obi-Wan looked down. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “It- it never happened.”

“Ori’vod, please. You- you mentioned younglings. I did something else unforgivable didn’t I?”

Obi-Wan smiled but didn’t look up. “And i forgave you anyway. Even when I thought your apology was just a fantasy. But it wasn’t, it was real, and- and the people actually are unmurdered so...it’s not worth talking about it.”

Anakin bit the inside of his cheek, gut roiling. “You...really think I might have a chip in me?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped up. “I...don’t know. I didn’t even know that Cody had a chip in him.”

“You just...were suddenly betrayed by everyone.” 

“Not...everyone. Most who refused to fall in line were executed, of course, but there were a few senators who stood with the Jedi, secretly.” 

A new wave of cold terror passed over Anakin. “What happened with the other senators?”

“Like I said to the council earlier, from what I heard they cheered Palpatine on. Thunderous applause.”

“That’s not what I mean- Padme, Was Padme alright?”

Obi-Wan buried his face in his hands, shuddering.

“Anakin- I don’t know what to tell you,” he said in muffled voice. “I don’t want to deceive you but- things were dark. If I tell you everything now, I’m afraid of what you’ll do.”

Anakin winced. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not...evil. I just...I messed up, and I want to make things better.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and pulled Anakin so they were seated next to each other in a mirror of the false peace a few days earlier. Anakin leaned into his Master’s side, feeling the cold retreat. “You’re not evil Anakin, but what you did to the Tusken village wasn’t exactly a small thing. I- look- Ad’ika-”

Obi-Wan hesitantly placed an arm around Anakin’s shoulder and the cold retreated a bit more.

“If the council accepts my plan, we’re going to have time together over the next few weeks, to talk more about...everything. We’re going to end the war- save everyone. I know the cave wasn’t what either of us thought it was, but it still meant the galaxy to me. I love you, no matter what...and that conversation, what you said. Well, it gave me the strength to go on, to do what I needed to.” Obi-Wan froze. “Not my, um, self-inflected injuries- that’s- obviously that wasn’t your fault-”

“You thought you were hallucinating. I know.” Anakin smiled, feeling honestly amused at the absurdity situation for the first time. “I’m going to mock you for that for the rest of our lives, you know that, right?”

“I look forward to it.” Obi-Wan smiled.

A vise that had been clenched around Anakin’s heart since he broke down the door to their apartment finally relaxed. “You really weren’t trying to kill yourself,” he sighed happily.

“I was attempting to stay alive. Honestly concerned about dehydration. I wanted to stay in the daydream, but I knew I couldn’t. And part of that was because you gave me the strength to keep going. Sorry I did such a bad job honoring that but, well. You know. Thank you, Anakin. For saving me twice over.” Obi-Wan’s voice was utterly earnest, though it was a touch more embarrassed than he was used to after the single day of utter unrestraint. 

Anakin’s eyes welled up. “I’ve been- I hated that you would just leave like that, give up-”

“Never Anakin,” Obi-Wan vowed. “I will never give up on you, or this galaxy.”

He twisted so he could throw both arms around his padawan.

“I swear by everything I am I will keep going. It’s... in my nature but gods is it easier with you besides me.”

“Even though i’m a child murderer twice over and once removed?” Anakin joked weakly, clinging desperately to Obi-Wan’s presence.

Obi-Wan shuddered. “Too soon, Anakin. Too soon.”

Part XXI

#star wars #my au #star wars au no 27 #suicidal misunderstanding au #star wars au #starwars