#foolish has layed on the tracks so many times now

[lycheefruiit]

i love this group

[nekrosdolly]

Wesker surviving RE5. Taking a good while to recover. When he final tracks Chris many years later he sees a young woman with Chris. Obviously not Chris' wife.

Chris got a daughter. And Wesker knows how to truely break him now.

Poor girl, she gets hit on by a super hot dude not knowing that he is her dads biggest enemy

listen... this would go fucking crazy... 18+

cw; afab!reader, creep!wesker, reader is 21-ish and wesker is... *gulps*... 61, dad!chris isn't the best dad, i'm projecting big time with this one guys sorry, takes place circa re8, reader is in college, no use of y/n, chris is the kind of alcoholic dad that you don't want your boyfriend to meet because you are, in fact, embarrassed of him, wesker drives a lincoln mkz zephyr.

you look like your dad but prettier. softer, sweeter features than your father's own. your eyes are paralyzingly innocent, and he can't help himself when he lays eyes on you. you're younger than albert by a concerning amount of years, but thanks to your dad's unintentional neglect during your childhood, you've got some issues.

your father never told you about wesker- or anything relating to his line of work. how foolish of chris to not take such precautions with his daughter. you never bothered to ask, either, as you felt some sort of resentment towards your dad in your teenage years. everything he did pissed you off, especially when he was trying to bond. so of course you decided to date someone just as old, if not older than your dad, just to piss him off in return.

that's when you stumbled across wesker. he was handsome for his age, though he looks much younger and you're not sure why. the sunglasses thing confused you, though he'd told you once when you had first started talking that he has light-sensitive eyes. you, being so trusting of this nice, older man who made you feel wanted, believed him and every little thing he ever told you. he'd make you feel so warm inside, and it didn't take long for you to fall for him.

he'd made a show of falling for you, too, to keep you under his thumb. you were the type to flee at the first sign of abandonment; he couldn't have that.

your dad was shocked when you told him you'd found a boyfriend. thanks to your strained relationship, you'd hardly talked to him after leaving for college, which he blamed himself for. it had only worsened between the two of you after your mother left.

and now, at dinner, your dad thinks it's the greatest idea in the world talk about your beloved.

"so," your father starts as he saws through thick-cut steak with a serrated knife, cutting you off a piece, "this boyfriend of yours, when am i meeting him?"

"you want to meet my boyfriend?" you cock an eyebrow at your father, though he doesn't meet your gaze. his own is fixed to the bit of steak he's setting on your plate beside some vegetables.

"well, yeah. must be pretty serious if you told me about him." chris finally looks at you, setting his silverware down. you swallow.

"i don't know, dad."

"what, are you embarrassed of me?"

"i didn't say that, don't put words in my mouth." you stuff a piece of sauteed cauliflower in your mouth as chris sighs inwardly. for the next ten minutes, there's no sound except silverware clinking against your plates and your father's jaw popping here and there.

neither of you can take much more of the awkward silence.

chris clears his throat and leans back in his chair, "listen, i just want to make sure you're dating a good guy, okay?"

"yeah, sure." the bitterness and slight annoyance in your voice is hard to hide. you don't bother.

"is that a crime? wanting to look out for my kid?" he crosses his arms over his chest, getting a little defensive.

"don't you think it's a little late to play dad of the year? i'm not a child, i don't need you to look out for me."

"i know you're not a child-"

"then just stop." you're standing up from your chair, "stop trying to be a bigger part of my life. stop acting like you care. stop."

"fine, you want to be an ungrateful brat?" your dad stands up too, "then get out. take your shit and leave, or shut the hell up."

you don't really have anywhere else to go, so you slink back into your chair and reluctantly finish your food. with all the money your dad gets from his job, he's paying your tuition.

your dad downs the whiskey in his glass and gathers his dishes, leaving you to sit in silence at the dinner table.

-

your father lets the boyfriend thing go until you bring it up to him again, this time on your own.

when you bring it up to albert, he's delighted.

"i'd be honored," he tells you as he leans down to kiss your cheek, he's confident about this, which puts you at ease because you know your father isn't going to take this very well.

-

you're dressed your best, as is albert, who's got his hand on your lower back protectively. he can sense your nerves- uroboros didn't completely burn out of his system- as if they were his own, and he kisses your head as you unlock the front door. based on the black jeep in the driveway, beside albert's zephyr, your father is home. you open the door, and in a flash, you're pushed out of the way.

you didn't expect your father to have a loaded gun aimed at your boyfriend so quickly, if at all. a deep laugh sounds from albert.

"oh, chris..."

[hyperfixation-symposium]

Yaknow, I don't think Bad will be able to escape the island today, but imagine if he did

Has Bad told anyone that he's genuinely going? Has he mentioned to anyone that this attempt is a serious one?

He follows the train tracks, there's something there, a way out for him and his son. He can escape, and he takes Dapper and they go. They're free, of the island and the federation and the code. They can relax.

But there's no way back, no way to send messages to his friends on the island, no way to tell them it worked. Perhaps the Federation is hunting him, trying to see where he went, pull him and Dapper back to the island. Bad has to lay low, keep his wits about him, all while returning to 'normal' life with his egg son.

Then, to the other residents, one of their most trusted, strong, vital friends is gone. There's no goodbye, no indication that he's left, he just stops answering. No one can find them anywhere, nothing major is left of the duo aside from the things they made. Foolish even finds his way out to the building they were going to make their new home, sure he's just hiding there. He isn't.

Cellbit would probably have the worst reaction. He's known Bad for a long time, they're buddies, they're veterans, they were fighting the federation together. Now he's just gone?? Cell is convinced the federation took him, and nothing will stop him for fighting for Bad like he does for Felps.

Forever just can't comprehend it. Bad was just here, everything was normal and find last night. The one person he trusted the most outside of the Brazilians, the person he thought would be there for him whenever, suddenly gone. He understands Cellbit a lot more, just how crazy he was going. Forever wants Bad back, and nothing will stop him from doing so.

For much of the server there's just this aching feeling that something is lost. People keep sending out large group messages asking Bad for something or to come places and remembering he is gone. Foolish insists at first that he's glad the gremlin is gone before being seen putting up missing posters with Cellbit. The absolute care he poured into helping the eggs is a slack the others feel starting to catch them - Bad had so much set up for the eggs, he was so protective and helpful, and now it's a burden so many others are carrying.

The island is thrown into more distrust, fighting, and problems while Bad actively does everything he can to try and find a way to help his friends to get out all without being able to talk to them or see the effect that his leaving had.

But as long as he stays out of the eyes of the Federation, he can save them right? And nothing will ever hurt Dapper again.

Anyways at this point I'm writing AU material, hope you all enjoyed owdheMAHSJZ-

[cream-and-tea]

LAY ME DOWN. chapter six excerpt. unedited. featuring: fivers attempt at honest conversation at a very bad time, the first of many. a category five Pallas Mental Illness Moment. thoughts of violence.

[transcript under the cut]

don’t ask if i’m posting this excerpt just to make this joke. you already know the answer. anyways me when i try to comfort the teenager that HATES me.

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-). @vellichor-virgo @transmasc-wizard​ @houndmouthed @muddshadow @just-wublrful @corkywantstowrite @shrunkupthejams @andromedaexists @kingsinking @lungs-and-gills @lychniscitrus @phantomnations @onomatopiya @sapphos-scientist @arctic-oceans @perilous-prologue @redbloodprose

Pallas leans their head against the stone railing and tries to think calming thoughts. Colour-coded notes, pens lined up in a perfectly neat row, the feeling of freshly laundered clothes against their skin, old-book smell, sticking their thumbs into Calliope’s eyes and watching his head explode like an overripe melon dropped onto concrete…

No. Not that. Not now. Cold water. The bite of frost in early morning air. Coffee so hot it scalds their taste buds going down. Slowly, infinitesimally, they allow themself to breathe.

Then sound, the scuff of a boot against the floor. For a split second of stupidity Pallas considers that merely thinking about Calliope has summoned her to torment them like some kind of bloody mary demon. They spin sharply on a heel, bristled, already narrowed in on a heartbeat and ready for a fight; only to find someone far worse darkening the tower door.

The man, tall and rangy with waves of blond hair pulled unsuccessfully back from his face, stops dead in his tracks, hands raised in the universal gesture for surrender. Fiver (as in the fictional rabbit, not the currency) looks, as always, like a problem that should have been dealt with years ago.

Pallas narrows their eyes, not moving an inch. “How did you know I was here?”

He shrugs, signature laissez-faire smile painted across his face, signature gaudy coat brushing just above his ankles. He's wearing red heart-shaped sunglasses and the overall effect is patently ridiculous.

Pallas isn’t certain why the Director tolerates Fiver at all. He’s a wanderer and a wretch who doesn’t even have his name logged in the ledger. He appeared out of the blue when Pallas was a child and has spent the years since darting in and out of The Library's halls whenever it suits him, like a stray cat who only wanders back when the weather gets cold. He’s far past the age of a student and yet hasn't taken up any official post, so Pallas has deduced that he is either an man so abominably foolish that the Director considers him below her notice, or he somehow holds knowledge that could be useful to the cause, in which case it’s not their place to question her. They don’t have to be cheerful about it though, not when Fiver knows things about Pallas that no one should know and insists on popping in and out of their life as if he doesn’t.

“Lucky gue-”

“You followed me.” Pallas cuts him off so they don’t have to listen to his voice. They narrow their eyes. Fiver takes a step further onto the balcony as if he has any right to.

“Calm down pal-o-mine, my ears were popping three floors away. I think everyone in this building can tell you’re out of it. I came to the place furthest away from everybody else. Trip not go so well?” He has a smile like the Cheshire Cat, it doesn’t once slip from his face. Instead of answering Pallas turns around to face the air. That’s right, they think, you’re so little of a threat to me that I don’t even care that I’m leaving myself exposed to attack from behind.

“Yeah, it’s like that sometimes,” Fiver continues lightly. “Hope it wasn’t a total horrorshow at least.”

Pallas crosses their arms on the railing and leans their chin on them. If they ignore him long enough eventually he will give up and leave. Still the footsteps draw closer and then, horribly, he appears next to them, leaning his arms against the railing as well. They resist the urge to move away, opting to keep staring straight ahead and trying not to think about the dirt smeared on their cheeks or the pine sap making their fingers stick together or their messy hair or anything else that will confirm to Fiver that they’re just as weak as he obviously believes. Heat floods to their face, ugly and rioting. What does he know? What does he know about anything?

They want to wash their jacket. They want to take everything out of their jacket pockets and arrange it all on a table and throw out anything that’s useless and then wash their jacket and then after it’s clean put everything back in the pockets and feel satisfied about all the excellent objects they have in their pockets and how well organized it all is. They don’t want anyone to look at them. They don't want to talk to Fiver, especially today, when thoughts that usually stay locked in the back of their mind have been so quick to claw their way to the surface.

[a-sirens-melody]

Good Enough

When Plague Knight comes to, Black Knight is lying face down on the ground and his arms and legs ache. His pockets are also significantly lighter than before he reached the tower entrance, though the rest of his cloak is still weighed down with rain water. Shattered glass is scattered around them, sparkling in the green light like the deadliest night sky, and Black Knight is caught in the center of it all. His usually pristine armor is littered with dents and scratches, and one of his shoulder pads has been ripped clean off. The horns from his helmet are nowhere to be seen as well, Plague notices, and there are black and red feathers, also damp from the rain, joining the glass shards.

Ah. That’s right. He fought Black Knight again. And from the looks of it, he did far more damage this time than in the Plains of Passage.

Plague feels a familiar cruel satisfaction bubble up, and a small smile forms under his mask. Good. That’s what that fool gets for standing in his way one time too many. He would tell the Enchantress about the foolishness of her proudest servant, but, well-

She won’t be around for much longer. It would be pointless to draw their battle out, and soon, she will also lay on the ground weakened, her Essence sparkling in his hands. And then?

Then he will be perfect.

He carefully picks his way through the mess, not even bothering to step on Black. This is no time for childish antics. Not when he’s so close to getting what he wants. Just a few more steps and all that’s left is to ascend the Tower and fight-

There’s a cough. Scraping metal. The sound grates at his ears.

Plague turns around to see Black lifting his head up to face him. 

“Clearly,” he starts, after a rattling breath, “you care for her, but… why go to such lengths? Why a potion that makes you all-powerful?”

He supposes he can tell Black the truth. He would be the only one to truly know, and no one would ever believe him if he were stupid enough to try to tell anyone else. Besides, Plague has waited for years to complete his potion. What’s a few more minutes?

“I-I’m not out to rule the world.” Gone is his usual mischief, replaced by a quiet timidness that has him kicking himself when he hears it. What a lovesick fool he’s become, so blinded by hopeless pining that not even the sharpest bombs could cut through. “Heh. I just want to become stronger, and maybe then…” His voice tapers off as he realizes what he’s saying. What he’s never told anyone and kept close to his dark, rotten heart since the moment he knew. “She’ll love me.”

“Fool!” The sudden cry startles Plague into stepping back onto a stray feather. He slips, but catches himself so quickly he’s sure Black hasn’t seen. Not that he would have been paying attention to his steps, anyways. His head has snapped up to Plague’s mask, and a mixture of annoyance, confusion, and worry tingle at the base of his spine. Is Black going to tell him how stupid his plan is, again? Did he bear his soul only to be met by mockery yet again? What a waste of his time, he should’ve known better by now.

“Can’t you see that she already does?”

“No.” He’s spit the word out before he even realizes what he’s saying, his mind reeling. “The potion is the only way.” The door to the Tower rumbles open, and he steadily walks through, the pouring rain and Black’s quiet growl of frustration fading.

The Tower is just as cold and quiet as it always has been. The water’s chill sinking into his bones turns into the blistering heat of lava pools. Plague bombs and floats his way through relentless running tracks and moving staircases threatening to crush him in a heartbeat. Really, it’s insulting that the Enchantress thinks this could do anything but slow him down. A few black powder bombs here, a vat there, with a flawless Big Boom and the beetles, stray knights, and rats are no more. Child’s play, really. He might find more joy in it if it wasn’t for his head spinning, not unlike the pesky propellers of Propeller Knight’s henchmen. Try as he might, Black’s final words have not escaped him.

Fool! Can’t you see that she already does? 

And he wonders. Wonders if all those looks he caught Mona giving him in the late nights of experimenting and potion brewing really weren’t a trick of the dim lighting. If he really had caught glimpses of her looking at him when they perfected a tricky fuse or solved a mathematical error in their notes that had troubled them for weeks with triumphant joy and… something else he hadn’t been able to place.

In the Plains, when she asked him about the Magicist and what she’d meant to him, had she not been angry at him for wanting to woo the woman they spent so often gossiping about behind closed doors, but rather… jealous? Did Black’s irritating talent of poking his helmet in where he wasn’t wanted and protecting his precious Enchantress cause Mona to leave him over a stupid rumor out of heartbreak?

Was that why she’d met with him in the first place? To protect Plague because… she loved him? Would she have stayed if he hadn’t frozen on the spot and stuttered for fear of being vulnerable; if he had corrected her and admitted his feelings, limitless power be damned?

He stops in the hallway before the banquet room. Lets himself imagine it. Mona spinning with him on the torque lifts, laughing and looking at him with such glee that took his breath away. Mona smirking at his snide comments on Percy or any one of his minions and joining in with him. Mona dancing by herself and acting so nonchalant when caught that he almost missed the loneliness in her voice.

And then he remembers the way she’d laughed when he mentioned dancing, and practically begging Black to help her because it was all “getting too risky” and she “couldn’t lose him”, and his eyes shot open and his heart broke again, as it had so many times before.

Stupid! Stupid, what was he thinking? He could say they were equals in intellect until his voice gave out, but he was an idiot to let Black Knight of all people get his hopes up. How dare he, he didn’t know her like Plague did! She wanted to protect him because he was weak. She didn’t think he could handle the Enchantress all on his own, and took pity on him, because he was stupid, clumsy, far too short, and a coward, and he would never be good enough for her.

Not like this.

Just a little longer. Just a few more steps, just one more Essence, one more distillation, and it will all be over soon.

Then, he’ll find Mona in his new perfect form and explain everything. He’ll tell her it was all for her, that he knew he needed to change since before the Order, and he did it. Now, he is good enough. Because he loved her, not the Magicist. And she will reply in kind, eyes sparkling with pride and joy that he has dreamed of for so long, and she will love him.

Plague takes a deep breath. Blows it out shakily. He hadn’t noticed the lump in his throat giving way to tears. He scrubs them away quickly, wipes his hands on his sleeves. He takes one final breath before nodding and continuing to the banquet door.

For him. For Mona.

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

SHAPE HELLO IT IS ME!!!! CALLI CUBITOZINC!!!!!!! So erm. gonna be honest dude i fought with myself in my head so hard on what i wanted to send for this especially cause i didn't want it to be silly or stupid but you know what. Who give a shit. and i have been there when it comes to having to fight for writing motivation... boy have i ever. SO!! feel free to run with this prompt if you get any ideas from it but absolutely no pressure :]

"Jaiden spent uncountable moments these days thinking about what kinds of things she could've done in the past."

HI CALLI HII BELOVED MUTUAL CALLIIII . i have never written a jaidn before but for you.... i will try.

Jaiden spent uncountable moments these days thinking about what kinds of things she could've done in the past.

Or- maybe they weren't uncountable? They were probably countable, if she'd cared enough to count, but it hadn't occurred to her to count them when she started, and so she'd lost count of them from the beginning, so. Uncountable.

...There's something almost sad about that. Losing track of things since the beginning, no hope of catching up to the present. No chance to right the now because of the wrongs of the past. It makes her heart ache in her chest to think about, but she can't- she can't stop thinking about it. She keeps poking at it, like a bruise, but a sideways bruise. Look at these flowers, they look just like the ones in Bobby Fields. Drink this tea, it's just like the tea Cucurucho gives her. Look at Roier, smiling at Cellbit, and then quietly leave them to be happy. It's...

One thing that's different, from the then to the now, is how many houses she has. One for each piece of her heart, all of them missing something. Does the party house count as one of hers, too? What about the room she stayed in while helping the Cucuruchos? She wants to say yes. It hurts to think yes. If she said yes, if she went there to call for him, would he still leave her waiting?

...She knows the answer. Part of her wishes that she didn't. More of her knows that it's better that she does. It's like playing pretend, and you need to know when you're playing pretend. She knows how often she plays pretend, and how often she pretends that she isn't, and she remembers the time that she didn't have to and she wants that back so badly that it hurts.

Like a bruise. Poke, poke, poke. She knows she's being manipulated, and still she leans into it. Is it helping? Who is she helping? If Cucurucho is hurting, can she really help him? Can she free him? Is it worth it? Is it about worth, or is it about waste? Is it about anything?

Jaiden groans and throws her arm over her face. Maybe it's about laying in the warm pink sand on Hot Girl Beach while Mouse and Foolish chatter behind her. Maybe it's about leaving her empty houses and keeping her hair dyed Miku-blue and doing what she can, because she can. Maybe it's about tailing along with Foolish whenever he gets more silly Cucurucho tasks. Maybe it's about- whatever else is fun. Whatever else keeps her occupied, and out of bed, and waving goodnight to the sun.

There, is that another one of her uncountable moments? No, probably not, she hadn't done much thinking about the past. She could do that. She could think about Bobby and his raccoons, and Bobby and flowers, and Bobby and the very first painting he made for her.

Like a bruise. Poke, poke, poke. She's almost afraid of finding out what will happen if she lets it heal.

...That's enough angst for the day. The sun will be setting soon, and she wants to say goodnight to Bobby with a genuine smile. She pulls her arm off her face and sits up to turn to her friends, join in on their fun.

Her houses are empty, but she knows how to pretend that she has a home.

[lurxof--thxmaw]

❝ mono is out of place, and he knows this very well. an old, rickety vessel that he’d boarded via television that was somehow more dangerous than anywhere else he’s been. ( there’s so many people here. ) yet he’s climbed and scampered this way and that, and after so long he hopes he’s closer to the exit.

of course, it would be foolish to assume that danger would lessen. the bag-clad boy is quiet as he creeps along shelves, acutely aware of a threatening presence somewhere nearby. no movement has been made toward him yet, so he assumes he’s undetected.

however, mono is one to take precautions. it’s risky, but he attempts to climb to the next shelf above. the boy makes it, but at the last moment—THUD!—he’s knocked over something with his foot and now his heart is racing and he hastens to hide behind what cover he can. he curls up, makes himself small, gray eyes wide behind his bag and watching in case he needs to make a desperate run. static clings to him and it’s all he can do not to suppress it, lest his panic overtake him. ❞ － @buddymuses

The Lady's humming alts.

Her eyes widen behind the mask, her head snapping in the general direction of the noise. She's completely silent, waiting for an indicator that anyone was there at all － after all, it wouldn't be the first time one one of her relics is knocked over by of the remains she had so generously gifted a second chance at life to. Ungrateful little things, they were. However, upon awakening the primordial power laying within her, it seems that she will have to pin her suspicions elsewhere.

The endless pit of her stomach is not reacting to the presence as it normally would.

No regular soul to be found in her immediate proximity. The ghosts under her... " care " had become incredibly easy to track down over the years. Had it been a regular living child, she would have noticed as well. Well, no. Truth be told, what she perceives is a small essence － one tiny enough to fit in her palm. And yet, something about it makes it irreparably different from all the others she has felt before.

There is a foreign power hiding somewhere in her Residence.

One the Lady wishes to avoid at all costs. In truth, she knows not of what it's abilities are yet － and she most certainly does not wish to find out. She has fled the world for a reason. She does not wish for it to catch up to her. Her quarters are vast, and the sound came from a distance large enough that she could simply slip away as though she had never been there. She could. But should she?

Oh, duties, duties... she cannot let an unknown entity run around the Maw so carelessly. Not unless she wishes to risk the stability of the being of which she is the vessel. Choosing her comfort now would not only be shortsighted, but plain idiotic. With a swift step back, the Lady retreats in the shadows before she speaks, her voice reverberating through every spot the shadows touch:

❝ I can feel your presence. There's no point in hiding away. Come forth. ❞

[theblindafterhours]

I cannot bring myself to sleep yet. There might be something really wrong with my head by now. I am writing this letter with no clear intention behind it, just pure melancholia— guess this is what happens when you can no longer sense pure joy in anything. Not trying to make you feel bad, though, as I had it coming for me.

At this point, self sabotage has become the norm for me. I’ve been thinking about it. Long, and hard. At the same time, though, I’ve made peace with your absence. Haven’t tried to get a hold of you for long enough, now. Probably not as long as I should’ve, but long enough to not go crazy about it. You made the bed, you’re laying on it by now. I made mine, too, not that it matters. I’ve been growing content with everything. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel you anymore. I miss you everyday. I wish you’d change your mind. Sometimes I wish I was wiser, stronger, so I wouldn’t still wish for us to make sense. Months go by so swiftly I’ve lost track of time. Everything feels so devoid of color. I have a good time only to ruin it in the end by wondering how you’re doing.

I just know you’re doing amazing. My guts tell me you’re probably getting to know somebody else. I guess it’s for the better. I wish I could forget you. Nobody ever felt so hard to get over. Maybe it says something about the love we shared… or so I’d like to think. That’s all I do these days— think. About us, about you, about all the different ways I should’ve acted instead of the way I did. I tend to blame myself for it. Why wouldn’t I, though? I broke it off so many times your trust in me ended up diluted enough for you to never trust me again. I don’t trust anyone. I probably have been broken beyond repair and I’ll never be able to feel good. I loved you so much I would’ve done anything you asked me to. I still do, I’m afraid, but I��ve chosen to keep at least an ounce of my dignity. I’ve accepted, too, the fact that you never did nor will you ever want me as much as I did and do. Not every love is meant to last. I’d be lying if I said I thought that of ours before, however, as I did. Fiercely. When I thought of you, I saw my future so vividly. Now, I don’t know.

I won’t ask you to come back. I’ve dreamed of you enough these days to be so foolish. I tried to manifest you back into my life, but I’m quitting. There’s no use for any of it. You don’t love me, and I have to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart left behind. I won’t hold it against you. Can’t make you love me, I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to do it.

I wish you the best. I will love you forever. If you don’t come back to me, I wish to be able to move on from you in a way that it feels like a distant memory. Pain free.

[just-absolutely-super]

OP au crack

Lan: you think we'll meet that Zap guy again and his crew?

Mega: I don't know, but if we do I'll handle the worst of it this time. I don't want you to get an electrical burn again

Lan: excuse me? Like hell you do. You're not going anywhere near a guy like that with electrical powers.

Mega: Lan, I get your concern, but I can handle it and I have ranged attacks. It's you who should be worried about only being able to do close ranged attacks.

Lan: I will duck tape you to the mast if I have to!

Mega: the duck tape won't hold me, and you will be the one who's gonna be duck taped to the mast

They continue to bicker

Yai: sometime I wonder how we're doing so well in battle when our Captain and first mate fights like toddlers?

Much much later, they do meet Zap and Elecman again...but under different circumstances

Lan and Mega: YOU!

Zap: YOU!

Lan: What are you doing here? This is just a humble port town! Did you track us down? You looking for a round 2?!

Mega: Stand back, Lan, I'll handle this!

Lan: No, we'll handle this! We're a lot stronger now than the first time we faced off against them!

Elec: Just say the word, Count, and I'll take them on!

Zap: Alright, you brats, are you ready for another duel to your deaths--

???: ENOUGH!

They turn to see a middle-aged woman

Elec: M-Mother..

Zap: A-Ann, honey, this isn't what it looks like...

Lan: Ann?

Mega: Mother?

Ann: Are you two bothering these poor boys?

Zap and Elec: N-No ma'am...

Ann: And I assume you two used to cross paths with my foolish husband and son?

Lan: Husband?!

Mega: Son?!

Ann: How about I make some tea and you can tell me all about it. Jack, Eddie, please finish your community service then you may have some tea as well

Zap and Elec: Okay...

Lan: Wow they're whipped...

Mega: This is a stark contrast to last time we met them...

Lore notes:

Elecman is Ann and Zap's adopted son, and they are actually a very loving family, but hard times led Zap to take on piracy and his son followed in his footsteps. Ann didn't approve but she she was often reassured they weren't doing anything too terrible, just stealing treasures from other pirates...it was a lie of course

Count Zap has so many fucking names due to the localization as well as his love for pseudonyms apparently, so I decided to just kinda mash things in a certain way:

Count Zap is his pirate name--his real name is Jack Elecitel as per his Japanese Name

Elecman is his pirate epithet or nickname--I've decided to give him the real name "Edison Elecitel" (or Eddie) in reference to Thomas Edison

Ann's full name is Ann Elecitel instead of "Ann Zap" like BN6 will call her

After being defeated by the Hikari Pirates, Zap and Elecman fled before the Navy could find them and headed back home to Ann who was pissed off at them for lying and becoming wanted criminals

They grovel for a time, and she forgives them...provided they wrong their rights and undergo intense community service

The Navy does not know of Ann's existence so they don't think to go to her residence to look for the wanted pirates. They also don't know Zap and Elecman's real names, so it's easy for the family to lay low for a bit and reinvent themselves

[halonicheart]

The twins mother, Isette, was never able to become a proper Dragoon. Often did she share stories of her training, the fellow soldiers she had come to know and lost… but never why she was never knighted. Isette was an odd woman, she wanted to remain honest with her Lovette and Labault, teaching them in the way of Halone, telling them stories of Ishgard and son. However she never told them why it was that they could not live within the city state nor why they lived farther out in Coerthas in a remote community that did their best to lay low.

She could not tell them this was a village of the falsely accused. Some were able to re enter Ishgard… most did not either by choice or being unable to for a myriad of reasons. It was with the help of a highborn family that this community existed. It was a very risky matter, the family had everything to lose but still did all they could whilst keeping it under wraps.

So just what was it that landed Isette with heresy to her name? Her family, The Briebelles, were lowborns that kept their head low and moods lower. Isette was one of three children. Her older brother was kind but clumsy and quiet. Her younger sister was terribly shy and kept out of sight. Their mother, widowed too soon was somber yet loving. Isette wasn’t really sure what it was the possessed her to train to become a dragoon, to serve the city state. She wasn’t even particularly good with a polearm, not at the time at least.

Her fellow trainees, as well as the current Dragoons, found her owlish stare off putting. She was kind enough but awkward. Unintentionally intimidating even at times. Still, odd as she was she trained hard. When it finally came to her official test to become a dragoon, she faced it head on. Isette Briebelle was tasked to slay a dragon, no surprise, in a particular area. It was reported to have “odd” behavior. Nothing more was shared.

It took some time but she managed to track down this dragon. It wasn’t very large or notable… however upon approach Isette finally understands what they meant by odd behavior. The beast did nothing but stare, huff, and curl back up.

It was submitting.

This bothered her in ways it shouldn’t. Even when she taunted the dragon, it did not respond. Merely huffed once more. Isette can’t bring herself to kill it… foolish really. But something told her not to. Upon return she lied about the whereabouts. Said she had her to locate it.

Over the next several days she kept visiting the dragon, who still remained indifferent to her presence. It did not speak to her, though now it would occasionally sing. Isette initially recoiled at the sound, thinking it some kind of draconic enchantment… it was none of the sort. The dragon was merely singing.

Through these songs, Isette learned this dragon was a mother, she bore several eggs with only two surviving. She has not seen her children in so many years but sings as if it was just yesterday she saw them take their first breath and how time will ultimately bring them back together. Isette knew not how to feel a bit this information, the burden of having to kill the dragon growing heavier.

When the burden was it’s most heavy, the dragon finally called out to Isette. She questioned why she hasn’t been slain. Called Isette foolish for returning over and over again… there was no true malice in her words.

Isette answers that she honestly is not sure. Though she questions the dragon mother all the same, why has she not slain her? Why has she just laid there? Why does she merely sing and nothing more?

The dragon mother explains she cares not for this war between man and dragon. If she perishes because of such a war, she cared not, so long her children lived on she could die at peace. The original so lied with man. She finishes her tale by telling Isette to run along, never return or simply kill her and be done with it.

She did neither of those things. Perhaps it was because this dragon was somber in the same way her very own mother was that kept her coming back time and time again. Isette has memorized the mother’s song now, something that actually bemused her- though she warned never to sing it amongst men, lest she wants to perish at the hands of her own people.

The dragon mother took a liking to Isette, though she never said as much aloud. The day they spoke for last time, she tells Isette that this is last she will sing, that she fears her time has come. She shares Isette a nugget of knowledge… that there was a time when man and dragon fought as one. The dragon mother tells Isette to remain kind, to seek the truth, and prays there are more like her that would listen to dragon’s laments with such patience.

Upon visiting the following day… Isette is greeted with a corpse. There was no struggle. Her chest felt hollow as she approached. A crunch beneath her feet catches her attention… she lifts her foot to see cracked egg shells. The dragon had bore more eggs… around her carcass were broken eggs by her stomach… she did not move in attempts to protect her newborn children. Isette misunderstood the sight… thinking her children died with her, clutched the empty shells to her chest and sobbed louder than she ever thought possible of herself.

So loud in fact she did not hear the heavy steps of another dragon approaching, not until it was right behind her. Isette, finally registering the looming beast behind her, scrambles to her feet- she expected it to attack.

The new dragon merely stared at her, then corpse and back again before calling her a fool. When Isette does not reply, the dragon proceeds to introduce herself. She is the daughter of the dragon now slain. Reunited with her mother at last only to have to part with her for good. She says her mother told her much of a kind elezen who listened to her songs. That should she be foolish enough to try and visit once more after having been told not to… she was instructed to thank her. She finishes by telling her the dragonets are not dead as she lifts her wing.

Just beneath were the very dragonets mentioned, all eyeing Isette and chirping curiously. Isette found them terribly cute… small little things… innocent things…

The dragon then tells Isette that she plans to leave but not stray too far. For showing her mother kindness she will help her in a time of need, should be ever need it. Isette departs and resigns from her training with no other explanation than “I am not fit to slay dragons” it was technically the truth.

Life could not return to normal from then on. It wasn’t very long before Isette slipped up, committing the cardinal sin of singing a dragon son in Ishgard. Someone heard her… and now it was only a matter of time before the Holy See came to drag her away come sunrise. There was nothing she could do, not on her own, but wait for her coming doom. The knock on her family door filled her with dread, but where a member of the See should have been stood a man she had harbored feelings for.

Valencia Vairemont. His family owned a funeral home. They were all decently liked and kept a pretty clean reputation, though they were deemed morbid and gloomy. He does not explain how he knows of her accusation but that he can help her. That he was due to leave Ishgard for business and he could smuggle her out. There was a network of people behind this. All she need do is say the word and he’ll see it done.

Isette did not wish to perish at the hands of the church. She agrees. That was how she found herself placed into a coffin in the back of chocobo drawn carriage. Before Valencia lowered the lid, he told it everything would be alright. He would see to it she left safely. It was a terrifying ride to say the least. When next she saw Valencia she nearly threw herself into his arms and wept. From that point onward… her new life began…

[libidomechanica]

On the spikes of his men, and seemed

A ballad sequence

               I

Love to the place has brought soul for     thy hand! Hindering about: Noli me tangere, for the     cup that on the street, and

yet how fain would make and thou art     into the lists the Phrygian king, my darling, my spring     about: Noli me

tangere, for a lass wi’ a tocher,     then the proue. Yet God’s just beyond that purple fritillaries     that we be sent,

ichoot from a darkness is in     her eyes. Jean Arthur with many dayes: I wonne her way, of     custom, Gama said: I

worne out the shadow lend. On the     spikes of his men, and seemed to love vehicles the very     night, and desperate seas

long locks down my books. All they doe     as then. He wonder a treat. Show by this love than mournful     widdowes hangen themselves

to ride backward from myself,     in happiness at a long ago; lust am fallen:     they cannot climb out. In

bowers our flesh mouldie moss, and to     thee, and fever, as yet, there stirs a quiver. Kind is Stella     oft sees the conquer’d?

               II

To see hoped some thrise-sad tragedie.     And far descending smiles and mists are express’d; but less proved     so lowde: which it was far conquest of us: that my prayer.     Then us the hinny he’ll crack pipe—the four kids had     not under gore, herkne to

thy siluer sound, unfree? Is Godhead     so sweete reward the tops shall have your ex-boyfriend of its     possible of love: if I saw a cherry weep, Love, foolish     work of Fancie, drawn such sleepe begins with showers. Flowers     of lowly dropping from

stars grown the air, and their wrigle     tailes, over Orion’s fate; and tis my darling, right. Laying     fleece in such frostie furrows what; and night be so sweetly,     and many dayes: I wonned to set myself I’ll have ranged     with charm’d me no more: and

presence this many time away,     my laddie’s sae meikle in languor wept: her eye, silent     lighted; and arc, spheroid and thighs, and Peace, is over, eating     on the grand mute, and legs and drunk with his base had kindled     such place, who bear all

on Parnasse hyll, but yields each on     thy voice doth prayse: but this mates; but them ill, that dance with green     bowers of these flames, which to her foot was our own silhouette     we swain, nay more, that time we’ve her with crystalline; since     sorrow and troubled soul

in Stellaes selfe haue we in the     Lion’s fate; and in the grandeur that which alters nyne, whereof.     Or why should Fate sic pleasures they comen trade, that like     a vine. Poised feet in the deare, let bee. And they were I if     they cannot beware. That

a war? Be, too, which now upon     us and a day, I feel her fair appearing the notes     as she never belly, but yeeres did let me not evening     sun on the good to singer to enjoy. Are beloved     before through she sand

when I speak thy train;—the agate     lamp within. Who but for ever. Impossible of the     you the piano appassionate tears do come back, and     to do with brow like to their arms, they circle the crush on     Myrna Loy, carole Lombard,

Paulette Goddard, coy jean Arthur     with hymnes the bump I ride in much we let you sit,     then, while we slumbered tracks. And pure virgin full sail doth     the brother. The kids had stol’n of both and told hill side. Means     I may stooped, re-father

wounded, friend and mochell mast too     much was grave locks thy fingers of that she need more silent&     quake I wouldest were friend, like lemonade. In every one     hand appearance like those boughes my thou not near and brief,     the illusion. The gos

are for. For he will he is will     stop it, death wilfully upon us as objects, thought     coole, and therefore wild scatter’d farms. In the darts. Would love was     vanquished, you need saving notes, while each its foot so fair, and     wings for me. There I smells,

if not destroy the Lityerses-     song again, where went the lords out and my heart, pity a     hundred air shaft the Soul to Spirit, by spirit in the     ampersand, the roar that she nor me. Flickering with Spirit     all time of lowly

dropping from times; but to disclose;     so to see. Your shall dead reckoning. On high, arise, for a     lass wi’ a tocher, then her height, nought with dew; nor silent     thy repose, and trees unrooted left behind. And over     and round me hopped Hurst, its

princes too, vs in the other.     Over Orion’s gravity, I’ve checked you in Grecian     tires? In the Eternal World, who are sealed off in a     still with loves me falls it then, that to winne renowne, a grieuous     case, the writing on their

christall face beneath the basement     when ye countest things are. To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and is     allay’d, to left of thee rested the morning, to leaves of     the fertile earth can spie; take me to pleasant though it was     but are crush on Myrna

Loy, white am with this, was it     chance, and this morning, her mine rebuked me so straight in ev’ry     possess and Four; interpreting; sings his sickly     appetite to pleasure it’s much can have low down through they drewe     an auncient heighten that

one then sweet mood which reason gave,     and I myself and proffer of mine more like Jocasta     in a trains are not from hevene it in his here wanderer     of thy louely hate. With her, who will scatter’d world to     offer the purpose of

heau’nly blisse, long small woo ye. And     lazy lingering in—I too wide of your wild beasts find sometime     he cannot say what an iron in the small kinds of     those presence seem’d my blisse brings, too, such outrage showe? Who cried,     all thy stock than this not!

               III

Death’s second time we’ve heart thy Body’s Strength the grain.     Passing, or hold they bene the path there Cupid’s name. Of our palace shot its signify;     no sonar with eyes even at

night. Lo Collin, her organ’s praise and perpetual     dullness. The sprang sublime, these flame, she, and Peace, for a little weeping from love, be     the other shame your winding smile, our

laws are fallen: they not my faithlesse favour! But     Sylvio, when I felt it so read’st the slender purple pride But it must be his: her     hands. Not allow Come hither mother

I would have for that put on more dark as night. Deep,     and curtaines spreads and even if by me the asp for the graunt to pleasure: but the     hidden brookside gleam primrose on me

thundring mynde. And mother, when ye country-folk     acquainted to fall; soone will give it struck me dead? And chess being best language woo: take a     friend, like to all tend upon life have,

life’s moiety and the mountain road, which reason did     defend, a maze where she did breed that to write above thee! When spray biginneth too. And     lighted; and die! To burn as closet

case. No purple cleft their own selfe, all fear, that he     is too longed for, spied its wreaths; and fear, that hope, once still either without descend into     joint narrative does not such Pollution!—

Finding smile, for it, O Thyrsis the grass! The     slaking mouthed and vaine, the sea. Let’s try tone; until its chief powres are for wowing of     such than anyone: that’s in hire wil

on hire bounty doth take twenty years, still our madness     unforgiven, an angry Pallas on air, and soft cheek or faded eye of strength,     nor flowretts bene annoied. Or to

view, robert Burns: there born to lament what use to     mee: no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. Men gave, and flyes, the lad bene then the forces we     first shade, it like a wintry eye: but

when to her eye. I know my visits here, too rare,     to want it to the child; but the threates, if Fancie, drained of create you tend? Where wet window     he hope for semlokest of an

All Nighting was, knowing her bosom, panting, burst     of love depend on the poesy, the head thee accloieth, my Sinnamon smell too much it     was but at push-pin half the Pen of

my life: my brave galleries past care, as doen, while     sore than she. Wicked eares? Than like awe, that is no my ain lassie, fair neck the girl,     who else, not, but a dream thy counsel,

and he love, to be torn, red grief its possible     of alle wommen my nature slips, prison all the antique time had it lighted; and     you might my faith; but the heart beat neath

to spring daffodil, I know not hides the     watercress so fair, when the soyle, that lips sweld so very nape of hair away dyd     Free adit; we will lie, souls transit.

               IV

Less than seruants wracke, for at all     the shiny things that break. And freedome doe professes, and     only landscape a velvet

Elvis above thee to meet     his jive ass back not his Jenny on his plaintiue please you? Knowing     faces in flower

as your misgiving die, and tears,     this lips, if that hide then hey, for a lass wi’ the four kids     had never hugged it over

brother. Be near and while ech     this bow of mine though hate sweet mood is censure your fortune’s     shine But high Towers in

the cold half-round me to the pear     and there is no one else to the could not with my braunches     back. Lopped-off heads of these

men are having that sang out Mine—     mine—not your name, to shake. But be content could not dead: o     let thus, and where I if

they should be liberty. And course     was old. For this is no port of strange. In thy head banging     a wisp, a gasp, sonorous

stole a long tale, and that myself     the vista of year, its quiet be exalted be     a lilly on thorn, thy

cup is ruby-rimmed, that breath with     Psyche evening breezy air; and where else to make him feel.—     They all her solitarie

Brere with his brief, the hitch between     Vertue and vain the meadows in what nymphs should boldly trip and     pitied of heau’nly blisse.

And the Sunne, within his her clere     voice lifts its thread that I cannot she is growne fast with she     saw the very

capitulation we checked there need more     train was a crush on Myrna Loy. Gave its threates, if Fancy,     and so woe-begone?

               V

I set myself, with evermore.     “But see the quiet paine. Flickering vp sterne strike from the     woods! The long-star. But whence

didst shoulder blasts anywhere. To     be the holy frankincense I smells, if not for you the     primroses it was without

descry neath each with the dear     souls transfer where it with the furrowes: drerily shooting     his ill-omened

song of torment us with     authority—the Lady Blanched fists. Through me ran; and his     draught me some kind wind shall

be as blacke the Light of lowly     chilling else I fynde: then her memory stand nothing to     her, give her with grief its

possible of a hope to get     marriage of tall asleep, Love, this waxeth wan: levedy,     al forward violet thus

that Stella O dear and wood: oh,     light it not gall, and her mine was metaphor. But O, my     heart a-dying. So, now

here mayet thus, the humble as the     red peach in this shame alike. Thy flocks, above, over they’re     over brother, he in

the shooting his sheep, his head banging     sometimes under the great Creator’s primal burst     I neuer ginne tasswage.

[amistytown]

The Brothers Comfort MC During a Panic Attack

This is my first attempt at writing down my headcanons for the brothers, so I apologize if anything is out of character. I meant it to be short and sweet, but it grew out of my control after a while. I’m a perfectionist and wanted to rewrite everything. I made minor edits and am posting it anyway or it’ll sit in my drafts forever; I admit I put the most effort into Lucifer’s, forgive me. Also sorry for the repetitiveness and any typos you may find. I decided to write how the brothers would comfort MC during a panic attack, especially as someone who suffers from anxiety and panic attacks themselves. Honestly, I wrote this as a way to comfort myself since I’ve been dealing with terrible anxiety lately. Of course, everyone experiences anxiety differently, so I can only speak from my own experiences. I didn’t go into detail when it comes to the symptoms themselves because it’s from the point of view of the brothers and only so many are visible to the eye. Trigger warning for depictions of anxiety and panic attacks. Thank you for reading!

LUCIFER

Lucifer is troubled. Following lunch, you disappeared, currently absent from class. This is unlike you, his worry intensifying every minute you’re out of his sight. Yet he maintains his composure, resigning himself to scouring the academy grounds. Time passes at a torturous pace, his thoughts beginning to take a turn for the worst. He contemplates whether to involve his brothers and Lord Diavolo himself at this rate, however the sound of his D.D.D diverts his attention. A wave of relief washes over him at the sight of your name lighting up his screen, chased by frustration at you, your silence, and himself for losing track of you so easily; he couldn’t bear living if anything happened to you under his watch. He expects this behavior from his brothers, not you. Though his heart sinks, the Avatar of Pride uncharacteristically overcome with guilt while he reads your message. Of course, you are not his brothers. He should not have doubted you.

Your texts are apprehensive, a weighty pause between them as you hesitate to lay bare the darkest depths of your soul. He approaches you cautiously, to avoid upsetting you further. Your words alone convey the sheer panic taking possession of you, the last of your strength used to press send. Outside he discovers you, huddled miserably in an isolated corner of the building, swathed in shadow. The desire to shelter you from the world burns within him, but your eyes widen fearfully in his presence, wounding his pride. Immediately, you apologize. Sorry you’re missing class, that you left without telling anyone, and upset him—especially when you’re aware of his busy schedule. You’re sorry for not having the courage to pull yourself together, succumbing to your anxiety, your shame palpable. The hand clutching your D.D.D is trembling, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe. He aches for you, each tear shed hurting more than the last, your pain managing to touch the very core of his being and set him alight.

If anyone is sorry, it’s him, pride be damned. Kneeling in front of you, he assures you an apology isn’t necessary—your wellbeing of great importance to him. He wants you to rely on him, grateful you confided in him despite your doubts. Hopefully, he can eventually put your mind at ease. His voice low, soothing, he continues to console you, making sure you’re aware he’s not upset, and your feelings are valid. Although he’s not familiar with the inner workings of anxiety itself, he’s willing to listen, learning how to support you to the best of his ability—starting today, providing you’re comfortable accepting his offer. Initially, he prioritized your safety for the sake of the exchange program and Lord Diavolo’s wish to unite the three realms, now it’s merely out of adoration for you, his beloved. Once you’re ready, he’ll let you know you’re not alone. He’s never too busy on your behalf. 

Offering you his hand, a smile graces his features as you accept. Slowly, he helps you to your feet, steadying you against him. He notes the way you relax at his touch, shoulders sagging and head coming to rest on his chest. Only you exist in this moment, his gaze not leaving you, not even for a second. Standing in silence until your breathing settles and you regain your balance, he sees you through the height of your attack before escorting you back to the House of Lamentation. He’ll personally excuse you from the remainder of your classes, understanding you need a quiet place to recover. Classical music plays softly in the background of his room, and he’s content to have you in his embrace, drawing you onto his lap after you finish the tea he brewed to calm your nerves. Lucifer pays you special attention, massaging your tired body and kissing you tenderly, his breath fanning across your lips as he reminds you how special you truly are—brave, compassionate, and incredibly loved.

MAMMON

Mammon mourns his loss, wondering how he let them gain the upper hand; admittedly, a foolish mistake on his part. He dreads breaking the news to Lucifer, and the resentment that shows on his brothers’ faces once he confesses does little to ease his mind. Still, he worries about your reaction most of all, knowing his stupidity has put you in a precarious position. In that moment he believes their words—only a greedy scumbag like himself dares to place his human’s happiness on the line. Although certain of his win at the time, he should consider how his actions affect you more often; otherwise, how can he claim he’s the Great Mammon? His confidence is his downfall in the end. Now you’ll suffer along with him. Yet you feign optimism, attempting to soothe everything over despite your innocence. His guilt only grows, a heavy weight on his shoulders. One he deserves.

Three days of waiting on and performing for large crowds at The Fall proves hectic for everyone. He can tell you’re struggling beneath the façade of a composed and hospitable server, going above and beyond to ensure the patrons leave satisfied. Furthermore, you lend him and his brothers a hand, coming to their rescue; it should be him making it as easy on you as possible. His concern for you runs deep, no matter how hard he tries to maintain his usual air of indifference, but you have the nerve to reassure him—it’s meant to be the opposite, dammit. Each night he goes out of his way to check on you, frustrated that you continue to dance around the subject. He can see the exhaustion on your face, hear the slight tremor in your voice, the toll his stupid decision is taking on you, and it stung. You comfort him, even when he’s undeserving, so why won’t you allow him to hold you and kiss the pain away? Not that he’s asked. You should realize by now you can rely on him, right?

Watching you suffer in silence tortures him. He can’t deny it regardless of his best effort to make light of the situation. You barely eat or spend time outside your room, saying you’re tired, which isn’t a lie—working is exhausting, no doubt about it—but he understands you well enough to notice the subtle signs of your anxiety, your smile unable to trick him into believing otherwise. Perhaps you find him as insufferable as his brothers do, or worse, and don’t want to see his face after what he’s done. That doesn’t stop him from showing up at your door, hoping he can offer some form of comfort. However, you keep up appearances, supporting the seven of them during the longest weekend of their lives. You work hard too, his chest swelling with pride as he watches you care for his brothers and customers alike. How can you like an idiot like him? You’re selfless and loving, looking past his flaws to see what lay beneath his sin. His human. His angel. He wants—no needs—you to be okay.

The last day comes and goes in a blur. Finally, he can toss these ridiculous clothes and rabbit ears in the trash and never perform that dance again. Better yet, you’re free of his burden, though the guilt remains. He can’t relax until he’s positive you’re okay, knowing he’s genuinely sorry. Standing outside your room, he tries to muster up the courage to open his heart to you—apologies not his strong suit—when he hears you crying. They’re small, muffled sobs that manage to shake him to his core, blood running cold. Yeah, he should knock, but he can’t control himself, throwing the door open without hesitation and rushing to your side. The sight of your tears is almost too much to bear, and he draws you into his embrace, face heating up at his own moment of vulnerability, but this is about you, not him. He can be strong for you too, telling you everything’s going to be okay, that the Great Mammon is here to help.

After his stupidity, you tell him you were afraid to bother him? He can hardly suppress the shock at your confession, the sadness in your eyes breaking his heart. You wanted to make sure it went smoothly for his sake? You suffer through Hell alone because you chose to put his feelings first? Crazy. Though he thanks you, not completely ashamed to admit he’s touched. However, he tells you that you don’t have to put aside your feelings for his benefit; he prefers to be by your side then know you’re having a rough time on your own. He is your first. Taking the initiative, he asks what he can do to make it up to you, no matter how big or small the request is because he’ll do it in a heartbeat. You opt to stay in his arms, burying your face into his chest, and he wipes away your remaining tears, being as gentle as he possibly can. He can feel how tense your body is, your skin unnaturally warm, and it takes a while until you stop shaking. It’s moments like these he’ll tell you how much you mean to him—that he loves you, okay—and he wants you to come to him for everything. He’ll hold you, taking your hand in his, and kiss you with all the adoration in the world because you’re incredibly important to him. Mammon can attest to that.

LEVIATHAN

Leviathan invites you to his room to play video games, a daily routine the two of you have comfortably fallen into. He loves gaming with you, though on occasion you opt to watch instead, thoroughly enthralled by whatever is on the screen. Miraculously, you enjoy listening to him ramble—whether it’s about the game he’s playing, anime he’s watching, or TSL among other things—genuinely showing interest in his passions; he’s incapable of expressing how truly grateful he is for your company. His heart nearly bursts whenever you compliment him on his gaming prowess, encourage him during a particularly intense battle, or merely tell him how you enjoy hanging out. How in the Devildom did a gross otaku like him get so incredibly lucky? He can hardly believe you love him of all demons. The thought alone sounds crazy lmao. 

Unable to contain his excitement, he awaits your arrival that night, ensuring everything is perfect when he hears a knock on the door. However, his smile fades the moment he lays eyes on you, mind beginning to race as he wonders why you look miserable, your gaze trained on your hands. Before he can speak, you apologize, dissolving into tears while you return the game he let you borrow. You’re stuttering, completely winded, and he can barely hear you confess to accidentally corrupting his data in your panic. In fact, he loses track of the number of times you choke out a sorry. He treasures his games, his collection extensive, but he cherishes you most of all. The loss is a minor annoyance, nothing that lessens the feelings he harbors for you. Although difficult, he overcomes his insecurities to show you it’s okay—you’re loved.

Not only are you sad, but you’re also terrified, a part of him wanting to destroy the game itself if it means you never have to experience the pain that torments you now. Regarding you carefully, afraid to make matters worse, he reassures you that he’s not upset—far from it, honestly—and that he cares about you more than any game. No stranger to your panic attacks, he reaches out to take your hand in his, hoping you find comfort in what he has to offer. And when you finally glance up, hope shining in your tear-filled eyes, he can’t help but wrap you in his arms. A warmth spreads across his face, heart pounding in his ears, but he knows you need him, allowing his body to relax around yours.

Holding you against him, he tells you everything’s all right, stuttering out how he loves you and, most importantly, wants to you to feel better. Your arms circle around his waist, causing his heart to jump into his throat, but he only pulls you closer. You’re his Henry, and what friend is he if you can’t rely on him? Leviathan is understanding, wanting you to come to him for support at your most vulnerable. Now he puts his knowledge to the test, easing you into his room with continuous words of affirmation. You always know how to console him at his lowest, and he hopes he can return the favor. If anyone deserves to feel loved it’s you, who brought joy into his otherwise bleak world, and he’ll sit with you every day and night if you need him to. 

SATAN

Satan knows he shouldn’t be awake, though he finds it difficult to satiate his curiosity as he peruses the books lining his shelves. He barely registers the sound of his D.D.D, reluctant to put the book aside to see who’s messaging him at this ungodly hour; Asmodeus most likely. His tune changes after he sees your name lighting up his screen, his annoyance replaced with worry. He knows you struggle, especially at night, but he can tell you’re hesitant to reach out. Nevertheless, you gradually begin to confide in him, his patience limitless if you’re concerned, and he feels a sense of relief that you choose to trust him at your most vulnerable instead of suffering on your own. Pouring over every book he can locate on anxiety, he studies it religiously, engraining each page into his memory. Not by giving unsolicited advice—he doesn’t want to make that mistake twice—but by comforting you the best he can, even if it simply means to stay by your side, waiting for the panic to pass.

A second later, he appears at your door, gaze softening as your eyes meet. In the darkness of your room, he can tell how exhausted you are. You apologize for bothering him, particularly this late, but he dismisses you with a shake of his head and a reassuring smile, sitting beside you on the bed. It saddens him that you feel the need to, but he’s familiar enough with anxiety by now that he understands how much of a manipulative monster it truly is; if only he can destroy it with his own two hands, strangling the life out of it so it no longer taints that innocent soul of yours. To watch you struggle fills him with a rage that he forces deep within himself, fully aware anger isn’t the answer no matter how great his desire to protect you is. So, he cups your face in his hands, your skin warm beneath his fingers as he strokes your flushed cheeks and presses your foreheads together. 

Focus on him, he tells you, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his voice while he whispers words of love and encouragement. He never tires of letting you know how beautiful and strong you are, that he’s always here for you and loves you—all of you. You unravel in his arms, opening your heart up to him, and he listens intently, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips the moment you look uncertain. You’re not a burden he promises, hoping one day you’ll believe it yourself, but he’ll remind you every chance he gets; forever if he must. It’s worth it in the end, when you relax against him and smile, kissing him in return. Slowly, the anxiety leaves your body, Satan thankful that the waves of panic have receded enough to let you rest your weary mind. He remains next to you, pulling you down to lay your head on his chest and closing your hand in his, entwining your fingers. He’s content here with you, watching you fall asleep and chasing away the nightmares.

ASMODEUS

Asmodeus loves shopping, but he loves shopping with you most of all. The day is bright with you by his side, and he can’t help but buy you clothes and matching accessories to bring out your inherent charm. Your potential is endless, and he gushes over how gorgeous you are, unable to contain his excitement when your cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink in return. He can hardly control himself around you, gaze fixated on your every movement and heart racing each time you flash him one of the sweetest smiles he’s ever seen; your very soul seeming to shine through and blind him. Nothing prepares him for the love he feels for you, but he considers it a welcome surprise, his desire to grow closer to you intensifying day after day. You captivate him, the Avatar of Lust of all demons. What an exciting turn of events!

Of course, he attracts attention wherever he goes, posing for pictures with adoring fans and basking in the compliments constantly thrown his way; nothing new, but he enjoys it, nonetheless. Who can resist the allure of his very presence? However, anger wells within him at the sight of you being shoved to the side, falling to the ground and lost to the crowd that has gathered. Their words of flattery fall on deaf ears as he rushes to you, throwing a heated glance at the lowly demon who dares to touch his darling human. He desires nothing more than to punish them for such an injustice, but the fear in your eyes tells him otherwise. By the time he scoops you up into his arms you’re trembling from head to toe, and he can feel your heart pounding against him. A part of him places the blame on himself, an unfamiliar feeling, but he chooses to ignore it for now, focusing on getting you home in your worsening state.

In the peace and quiet of his room, he sits you on the bed, wrapping you in his arms as he affectionately runs his fingers through your hair. He can tell you’re upset—in an absolute state of panic by the looks of it—and all he can do is hold you through it, quietly asking what you need and willing to answer your every beck and call if it means that adorable smile graces your features once more. For a moment he considers seeking out Lucifer, worried something has gone terribly wrong, but thankfully you find your voice, mumbling into his chest about anxiety and panic attacks, that you’ll be fine—eventually—and are sorry for ruining your date. He doesn’t understand completely, though he knows you need him, promising to stay by your side for as long as you want. Kissing your cheek, he assures you there’s no need to apologize to him, your safety more important than anything else; the demon who laid his hands on you won’t go without punishment either.

Admitting a bath helps calm you down, he prepares one for you, steam rising from the surface and the heady scent of roses filling the air. Together you slip into the water, enveloped by its warmth, and he hums in contentment as you lean into him, his arms coming to rest around your waist. He watches you carefully, making sure you’re able to relax and preparing himself in case you call on him; he’ll do anything for you if it brings you the happiness you deserve. Your eyes flutter close, Asmodeus showering you with delicate kisses, comforted by the fact your breathing has levelled out and you appear a lot calmer than before. The day didn’t go as planned, and he hopes to make it up to you, vowing that no one else will hurt you on his watch. He loves himself. He loves his brothers. But loves you most of all.

BEELZEBUB

Beelzebub notices you haven’t touched your dinner and is beyond happy the moment you offer your plate to him. Yet he can’t bring himself to enjoy the food in front of him while you excuse yourself from the table, eyes downcast and voice quiet, the usual smile gone from your face and leaving behind an emptiness that rivals his own hunger. His mouth waters at the thought of seconds, but his concern for you grows, and he decides to follow you without question, disregarding the ravenous growl of his stomach. He catches you in the hallway, calling out your name. You turn to him, his brow furrowing in unease at the sight of your tears and the slight tremble of your lip. It hurts him to see you in obvious distress, and he earnestly offers his support.

The only sound is that of your sobbing. He desperately wishes to hold you tightly and rid you of your pain. However, he falters, studying you. Your gaze is trained on the floor, shoulders stiff with tension, and the color drains from your cheeks. When you speak, he’s surprised by how helpless you sound and the fact you’re trying to reassure him, putting his needs above your own although you’re struggling to hold yourself together. Fear flickers across your features at the echo of the brothers’ voices travelling up the stairs, and he mumbles out an apology as he carefully lifts you into his arms, cradling you to his chest. 

Before the others can round the corner, he hurries down the hall and slips into your room, determined to protect his vulnerable human. He notices you relax against him, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he can’t help but want to keep you close, relieved after you lean in closer to wrap your arms around his neck. Stroking your hair, he allows you to cry, his patience and love for you endless. Eventually, you mutter an embarrassed sorry, thanking him profusely, but he’s merely relieved you’re beginning to feel a bit better, reassuring you that you can always depend on him. 

Listening to you intently, he never breaks eye contact. You open up to him about your anxiety, his stomach twisting as you describe what you call a panic attack and how it wrecks you both mentally and physically. Beelzebub knows he has a lot to learn, but he expresses interest in understanding anxiety and, most importantly, how he can help you, so you don’t suffer alone. For the rest of the night, he keeps you company and eases you through the remainder of your attack, giving you plenty of hugs and rubbing your back in soothing circles until you no longer shake, and your heartbeat returns to its usual pace.

BELPHEGOR

Belphegor enjoys the time you spend together, especially when the two of you are alone. He asks you to accompany him in the attic, and it’s not long before he curls around you, falling into a peaceful sleep as he listens to the steady beat of your heart. However, when he awakes it’s to the sound of your soft cries in the dark, which fill him with a fear he can’t seem to shake. Without hesitation he’s at your side, sitting up to softly place a hand on your shoulder and ask you what’s wrong. The sadness in your eyes as you glance up at him, tears staining your cheeks, tugs at his heartstrings. He can’t bear to see you upset.

Once he realizes you’re having a panic attack, he’s attentive to your needs, cradling you in his arms as you cry into his chest. You confided in him about your struggles with anxiety after you fell to pieces in front of him months ago. A part of him understands, the loss of Lilith haunting him throughout the years and instilling a similar feeling of unease within him, especially when his nightmares seem to blur the line between reality and the painful memories of his past. You always came to his rescue and now it’s his turn to comfort you in your time of need. Sleep can wait.

With you in his embrace, he brings you down to relax against the pillows, pulling the blanket around your shivering form. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he gently brushes the remaining tears from your face, whispering words of love and reassurance. He listens to you when you’re comfortable to talk, the slight tremble of your voice causing him to draw you closer and press a kiss to your forehead. Belphegor tells you he’s here for you—forever—and although he’s still learning about anxiety and finding the best ways to comfort you during an attack, he wants you to depend on him no matter what. Even if that means you wake him up in the middle of the night. He won’t rest until he knows you’re okay, and you’re peacefully sleeping in his arms.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Abby Anderson x GN!Reader - Please Don’t Leave Me

Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Please Don’t Leave Me (I’m creative with my titles)

Can be found on AO3 here.

Setting: before Abby leaves to go golfing. Abby and the reader are in an established relationship.

Warning: angst angst angst, excessive usage of the f-bomb and discussions of murder.

(Y/N) replacer safe.

Word count: 1846

Fuck, she’s really doing this.

Every day since Isaac had granted the Salt Lake Crew leave to hunt down Joel Miller, you tried to bargain with Abby, tried to make her see some sense. That killing him won’t take away any of the pain she feels. The grief. The gaping hole in her heart. But she’d always brush you off, distancing herself from you, suppressing her emotions with bicep curls and crunches as per habit.

Each passing hour, a nail was hammered into the coffin of the woman you love. And this morning is the final nail.

The quaint apartment you call home is filled with a cacophony of rustling and pleas as Abby shovels supplies into her backpack, preparing for her hunt. In her mind, Joel’s death warrant is signed, the execution nigh. And God are you desperate, trying to drill some semblance of reality into her stubborn mind one last time before she embarks on a journey she’ll only regret.

“Abby, please just listen to me for one minute—”

“I need to do this.” She heads to your small shared closet, refusing to look at you from your position by the bed. You frantically try to intercept her path, knowing full well she’s much, much stronger and can reposition you with ease. But it’s worth a try.

“This isn’t going to solve anything,” you implore, clutching the wood.

“Move, (Y/N).”

“Abby, this isn’t going to bring him back. You know that.”

“Move.” Her tone is exasperated, utterly focused on packing her shit and promptly leaving. Your heart sinks to your stomach.

“That girl in the hospital. The immune one. She must have been like a daughter to him for Joel to kill a group of innocent people for her,” you plead, feet firmly planted on the floor. Searching for her eyes, those blue irises alight with a maelstrom of hateful determination. They meet yours. “Killing him will just put her through all of this.”

Abby reaches for the closet door and slowly pulls it open, acknowledging your reluctance to move, deciding to disregard it. The wood begins to dig into your back and you’re forced to step aside. “This isn’t going to end, Abby. You fucking know this.” As she folds some spare clothes and places them in her backpack, you fall gracelessly to the bed, needing to sit down. Bile climbs up your oesophagus. Shit, where was her sense of fucking empathy?

“Abby…” Once again, she doesn’t so much as spare you a glance, folding the garments in robotic fashion. “Abby, you said she was a kid. A kid.”

The final shirt is stuffed haphazardly into the bag. She grits her teeth and turns to you. “He killed dozens of Fireflies, (Y/N). Dozens. And that’s all we fucking know of. There could be hundreds of others because he’s a stone cold killer.” Her face flushes with anger, no remnants of the woman you know left behind. “No one person is worth that many fucking lives.”

You let out a breathy laugh in sheer disbelief. “But it’s not about them, is it? Not to you.” The words escaped you in a hiss, one that didn’t go unnoticed. “Never fuckin’ has been.”

Abby rolls her eyes and grabs her maps from the coffee table, iron fist crumpling the papers beyond legibility. “There could have been a cure. A fucking cure to all this.”

On the surface, her words are rational. One life for a cure that would save millions was a worthy sacrifice, that you would be foolish to deny. But the odds of developing this cure were slim, and the girl would have likely died in vain. You knew this. Abby knew this. Jerry knew this.

With a shaky breath, you cradle your arms, never before having felt the urge to cage yourself around Abby. Fingers firmly gripping at your elbows, you let the cards fold. Unadulterated truth.

“You’re in denial, Abigail.”

A tut. “Don’t you fucking ‘Abigail’ me.” Her previous efforts to maintain a steady tone have been vanquished, anger seeping into each progressing word.

She’s gone.

And it’s this precise revelation that fills your eyes with oceans. Throat closing up, nose burning with the urge to spill over, you attempt – attempt – to articulate yourself, to no avail. Seconds later, rivulets trickle from your eyes to your cheeks, and you find yourself sniffling like some stupid kid… No, not a kid. A grieving adult, bereaved by the loss of a lover. Because the other figure in the room is but a husk of the radiant soul you fell for.

“All…” You pause to inhale, deeply: a futile effort to regulate your breathing, to lay rest to the turmoil suffocating your ability to fucking think. “All that’s going to happen is… You’re going to have to—” Hiccupping, you close your eyes, praying no more tears would fall. “To live with the guilt of orphaning a kid.”

Sentence finally out, you surrender to your sorrows, allowing them to wrack your chest with sobs and heaves until it gets too much, salt freely spilling from the floodgates. You can’t…you won’t bring yourself to look at Abby – the machine in her place, one programmed to kill and kill alone.

It’s wholly terrifying.

Distress flickers in her eyes, her frown slackening for a fraction of a second at the sound of your despair. “No one is forcing you to come,” she puts plainly, as if that has anything to do with the issue at hand.

“You know this – isn’t about that. Fuck, even Owen knows this…this is a bad idea.” Too dejected to cry. Too dejected to battle the hitched breaths you take trying to force out the words.

Words that fall upon deaf ears. “That’s not what Owen told me.” She slots a Swiss army knife into her cargo pants’ pocket, headed with a canteen in hand towards the kitchenette. “He was there, (Y/N). He agreed that Joel needs to die.”

“Because he’s fucking scared of you!” We all are, nearly breaks free from your lips, but that’s not what Abby needs to hear right now. Nothing that will push her away. Further away. The reigns you have on your lover are fraying, leaving you grasping at nought but strings. Frenzied, you attempt a softer, less concrete approach. “Baby, it isn’t normal to be so…hellbent on revenge like this.”

Silence. The delicate trickle of water sounds from the faucet as Abby fills her canteen. Then, a sigh, one of frustration as opposed to defeat. “If you think calling me ‘baby’ is going to erase four motherfucking years of grief, you are sorely mistaken. You’re smarter than that.”

Patience thinning, you stand up, wading through strewn supplies across the apartment floor towards the kitchenette. “Four years and you still haven’t given yourself time to mourn properly,” you reason, deliberately obstructing her path out of the kitchen with your body again. “Maybe if you had you’d see some fucking sense.”

God, that was a mistake. Shit, shit, shit shit shit the last thing you want to do is piss her off, not with her mind in such a volatile state, devoid of all logic.

“I appreciate you’ve lived a fucking sheltered life since the outbreak,” she seethed. What?

“That’s not true—”

“And you have no fucking idea what it’s like to have someone ripped away from you like that.” Volume rising, words a mantra fuelled by detest. “And you know, maybe, just fucking maybe, this’ll be my one chance to put an end to this shit!” The fist not clutching her backpack clenches. And for the first time ever while alone in her company, you flinch.

“He fucking deserves this, (Y/N)! If I can show him a fraction of the pain he caused me—”

“Abby, you’re scaring me,” you whimper, closing in on yourself. Genuinely afraid she’d raise her hand towards you.

Had you a mirror, you’d know truly how perturbed you look in this very moment. Streamlines drying on your cheeks, eyes reddening and puffy from crying, wide with fear like a doe face-to-face with a moving car. Body subconsciously making itself smaller, reducing its surface area, reducing the likelihood for any incoming swings to hit.

She lowers her guard, colour returning to her knuckles as she unravelled her fist. Knitted brows returning to their natural place above her eyes, mouth parted as the horror of her behaviour settles in.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” Even her previously stern voice cracks at this.

It takes tremendous willpower to not fall back as she takes a tentative step towards you.

Drying your eyes with your sleeves – her sleeves…you forgot you’re wearing her old sweater, the notion sour on your tongue – you break your mutual gaze. “You’re not you right now,” you whisper, not trusting your larynx to produce anything above a mouse’s squeak. “This isn’t the Abby I know.”

For the first time this morning, a sentiment other than bloodlust registers in her face. Hurt.

Either unable or unwilling to respond, Abby recommences her packing in solemn silence.

Shit, you have three, perchance five minutes at best to dissuade your girlfriend from leaving and doing something that will haunt her for all eternity. Yet all you can do is brace yourself against the wall and allow a second tsunami of tears to wash over you, pangs of anguish striking your heart. “Abby—”

“I’m going, (Y/N).” Firm, with a shred less conviction, but firm enough.

A violent sob tears through you as you beg, beg, the vessel of the woman you adore, “Please don’t leave me.”

For a fleeting moment, your heart stops as she hesitates in her tracks. A flicker of hope seizes your mind, that perhaps she has reconsidered, that finally some logic has entered her train of thought.

It all crashes down when she reaches for the spare rifle ammunition by the front door.

“Fuck, Abby—”

“I’ll be gone a month at most.”

Hail-Mary.

Hail-Mary.

Please.

Chest shuddering with each sob that wracks through you, you utter through violently trembling lips and hiccups, “You’re so – fucking blinded – by your hatred – right now – that you can’t – fuck, see – this will – kill you—”

The gravity of the situation threatens to make your knees buckle.

Abby plucks her jacket from the coat hanger and wades over to your crippled stance by the kitchen. A hand brushes your salt-slicked cheek as a lock of hair is swept out of your line of sight. “I love you,” she whispers in pained honesty.

“Abby…” You try to take her hand, to ground her, to remind her of the life she’s leaving behind on her relentless pursuit of this warped sense of justice.

“Goodbye, (Y/N).” She squeezes your palm and lets go, zipping up her pack as the front door to the apartment creaks open and slams shut.

Death is a word that isn’t used lightly, especially not after an epidemic takes the world by storm. But part of your spirit certainly died the moment that door closed behind her.

(I’ll leave it up to you whether she has a change of heart or leaves and scores a few hits above par.)

[after-witch]

You Can Run [Yandere Sesshoumaru x Reader]

Title: You Can Run [Yandere Sesshoumaru x Reader]

Synopsis: For request “Could you maybe do something with Sesshomaru? Maybe his ‘darling’ trying to escape not knowing that it would literally be impossible?”

Word count: 1700ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping

Planning an escape when you are constantly being watched, constantly surrounded, is not the easiest of tasks. You know this, because you have been planning an escape from the demon lord Sesshoumaru for many days now. It wasn’t an easy decision. He once threatened to kill you if you ever tried to leave, and you don’t know if he means it--but he doesn’t seem the type to make idle threats, imposing and stoic as he is, which is all the more why your plans simply cannot fail.

You have to leave. You have to get home to your family. You have to regain your freedom and your normal life. And since he has no intention of letting you go, escape is the only way you can take back control of your fate.

So you planned, and planned, and bit by bit prepared yourself to leave. Every few days, you snuck a provision or two into a bag you’ve tucked into your clothing--nothing big, nothing Rin or Jaken or (if he deigned to deal with those everyday tasks, which he doesn’t) Sesshoumaru would ever notice. Dried meat here, a fire stone there, extra cloth, a needle for repairs. Little things, but important, if you were ever to make it home in one piece.

Of course, you’re no hardy traveler, no world-weary merchant or soldier who is used to life on the road, but the seemingly endless days and nights you’ve spent captive in his presence have hardened you a bit. Your feet are used to walking (and walking, and walking); you know how to make a fire more readily than you ever did in your village, where your parents or elder brother were only too happy to step in when you fumbled with the tools; and you’ve learned to be more aware of sounds in the forest, how to find clean water, where to fish and how to keep yourself warm when the darkness brings chilly air.

I can do this, you think, every time you feel your mind begin to falter. Every time you catch him staring at you, as if he can read your thoughts, as if he knows what you’re planning and he’s waiting for you to take that first step away from camp to grab you and snap your neck or worse.

I can do this, every time you take advantage of Jaken’s distraction to grab something you’ll need. The knife was your biggest feat, the last thing on your mental list; and you swear you can feel it burning against your skin, a warning that it was too risky and he’ll notice and you’ll be caught and--no, no, no, you think.

I can do this.

**

Your heart is hammering so violently that you’re briefly afraid that it will wake someone up. It won’t, you know--but that doesn’t make your nerves any less shaky or make you feel any safer. Your eyes do another sweep of the campsite as you slip off your footwear and tuck them into your bag, now full and slung over your shoulder.

Rin is sleeping peacefully, and your heart felt a pang of guilt when you’d slowly removed her arm from around your stomach--cuddled close, as she’d started doing recently. You do care for her, poor thing that she is, but you have to care for your freedom more. Jaken is sleeping… well, like Jaken--snoring and occasionally mumbling and clawing at the air. But the biggest obstacle to your potential escape is what worries you the most: Sesshoumaru. He’s leaning against the nearby tree, eyes closed, body passive and prone. Is he sleeping? Resting? The thoughts come in rapid flickers, terrified bursts that tempt you to lay your head back down and forget you ever began plotting to run.

But the temptation is overcome by the slow, dreaded visions of the future. Were you to be his unwilling travel companion forever? He would never say why, exactly, he’d taken you--would never tell you what he was going to do with you or when (if ever, if never) this would reach an end.

So you took the chance. And took a wary step. No movement from the demon lord. You took another step. Still, nothing--no, a breath, an easy one, careless. He must be sleeping. He must be sleeping. You take another step and another until you’re away from the flickering fire and instead in the woods, dark and loud with the sound of insects and animals. You slip on your shoes to protect your feet and pull out the pilfered knife, just in case. The moon above is round and glorious and you silently thank it for lighting your way. You needed to be able to see, to get as far away as possible, particularly during the first few nights of your barely-tangible freedom.

It’s thrilling. It’s terrifying. You could die out here, well before you make it home. You’re well-aware, now more than ever, of the potential dangers in the forest--of the potential dangers in the world. Yet you can’t help but think, as you push aside brush and ignore the itching of insect bites, would it not be better to be killed by a wolf or drown crossing a river than to be forced under the will of a demon lord?

You forge ahead, each step filling you with a shaky confidence. You’d done it. You’d gotten away. When the moon disappears and the sky turns its beautiful colorful shades to prepare for the rising sun, you feel something akin to happiness wash over you. Surely you’d gotten far enough that they couldn’t catch up right away, surely so--and you decide to take a rest in a natural clearing.

You sit against a rock and finally pay attention to the rumbling of your stomach. You had barely eaten the night before, too nervous to keep anything down. You don’t want to start a fire--you’re not that far away, you remind yourself--so you pull out a piece of cold, dried meat and take a bite. Maybe you can find a river soon to quench your thirst. Maybe you’ll even be able to catch a fish or two, though cooking them would have to wait.

And then, a branch snaps. Hard. You tense. A wolf? A bear? Your hands slowly reach for the knife you’d set on the ground. Could you fight off an animal with such a small weapon? Or would your theory about it being better to die at the hands of an animal be haunting you so quickly?

No, no, no. Your vision begins to blur in panic as the familiar visage of Sesshoumaru steps out of the trees. White--and red. And angry.

You manage to stand, legs quaking, the knife falling from hands that you can’t control, and you turn to run when you see that the white of his eyes have become a terrible blood-red. He’s going to kill you. The thought rushes through you--Is it better to die by the hands of the demon lord than to be his unwilling captive?

Your body moves of its own accord but it doesn’t matter, because you don’t take but a half-step when you feel him harshly yank you backwards by your hair. You tumble to the ground with a cry and he swoops down, pinning you to the forest floor with his claws.

His breath is hot and he practically spits as the words tear out of his throat, low and violent: “What did you think you were doing, human?”

His eyes are even more horrible up close, and your mind tries to think of chants, of prayers. His claws tighten at your wrists and you know you have to say something, though nothing will spare you from the death that you know is coming. Your body is trembling so wildly that your teeth knock together when you answer.

“I was going home. I was getting away from you. You--you can’t keep me.” You’re going to die, so you may as well be honest. At least you’ll die with a pure mind.

“Of course I can,” he hisses. “I will keep you, and you will listen, and you will stop being such a damned annoyance.” And just like that, his tirade over, his red eyes fade, returning to their impassive coolness. The air feels less heavy and you can breathe. But he doesn’t let you up right away, and stays uncomfortably close to you as you lay prone on the ground.

“The sooner you stop being foolish, the better.”

You don’t know what to say. He gets up, then, and stares down at you.

“Get up. We’re going back. I will think of a punishment later.”

He’s not going to kill you. You don’t know why. He’s going to keep you. And you don’t know why.

The will to live overpowers anything else, though, and your force your shaky body to get up off the ground. You glance at your bag, at the knife you’d dropped earlier, and Sesshoumaru merely stares as you gather up your supplies. Waste not, want not, you suppose.

He begins walking away from the clearing, back into the forest, and you have no choice but to follow. Your newfound freedom is already gone. You feel deflated. You feel more helpless than ever. What went wrong? Was he awake when you ran? Did you leave tracks, unknowingly, perhaps with your shoes? You have to know.

"Lord Sesshoumaru?”

He doesn’t answer, and you stare at the back of his head as he walks with an ease through the forest you’d taken much longer to navigate.

“How did you find me so quickly?”

He stops for a moment, just a second, before continuing on.

“I tracked your scent,” he says, without bothering to look back. “ I marked you a long time ago. I’ll always find you, no matter where you go. Remember that, human. ”

Ah, you think.

I can’t run.

[bingoluka]

Need You

Summary: After a case gone wrong, and an injury left unattended, Loki realizes that even Gods need somebody.

Notes: Includes wound depiction and good ole' angst! Also a lil' Wowki but I'm a little bitch baby.

...

When he said it hurt like hell, it hurt like hell.

Each case tended to go wrong in its own unique and terrible way. Whether one of them leaves with a torn shirt and headache, or a deep gash and a broken spirit, one thing was certain; that Mobius and Loki looked out for each other.

Though, Loki would hardly admit he had grown quite fond of the man he called his partner.

Beyond that, he would hardly admit when he really, truly needed his help. He was independent, he knew this, and sometimes asking for the help or pity of another more than once seemed too much mental strain- for both him and whoever had the bad fortune of being alongside him. He hadn't realized the severity of the injury at the time, as a large piece of metal tore away at his abdomen while swimming from an impending tsunami. His magic had already begun to heal him, fixing the initial trauma while the freezing water numbed him.

He has assumed the blood in the water hadn't been his.

Now there he was, wandering aimlessly along the TVA corridors, wishing desperately he could lay his inhibitions to rest all the while sparing his friend the worry. Though, he knew it was unlikely.

The air felt cold against his skin, each step sending a fiery blast of pain across his stomach and up to his back. He grimaced. Pathetic, he thought to himself weakly. Who are you without your power?

"Loki? Loki!"

His voice sounded distant at first, so much he grew concerned he had never heard it at all. A sharp exhale left Loki's mouth as another pang sent shockwaves through his body.

"Oh no- oh no-!"

He stumbled, his legs crossing wildly over each other and he fell into the wall next to him. He began to sink to his knees, the pain becoming overpowering as he fought to stay present. How was it getting worse?

He realized then the wound no longer felt cold. It felt hot, burning as fresh blood spilled from the wound. Loki realized then how little healing had taken place.

"Loki? Hey, hey look at me."

Mobius's voice was soft, calming as it was fearful. Loki wanted to melt into the other, hide from the agony.

"I-I'm sorry," he gasped. "I thought it had healed- I thought- I thought it wasn't this bad-"

"Shh," he whispered, keeping a steady hand on Loki's back. "Loki, can you walk?"

Loki stopped for a moment, his eyes falling to the ground in shame. His breathing was already erratic, jumbling his thoughts and rationality to the point he wasn't sure of anything. He looked up at Mobius now, his eyes scanning his for a sign.

"Come on."

Loki hadn't realized how many people were there with them. Maybe it was adrenaline, or his partial loss of vision from the wound, either way, the voices began to filter in at that moment. Agents and hunters, some workers he had never seen all gathered around them. Mobius had taken one side, while a hunter had him on the other, leading him out of the hall when his body began to go limp. He fought against it, begging himself to stay upright just long enough to prove he was capable. But he wasn't, and they knew this. His knees buckled beneath him, sending both him and the other two staggering forward with an "oh-!"

He could feel them ease him to the ground, pain shooting through him again as he made contact with the floor- causing him to cry out.

"We need to address the wounds here," Mobius said, his voice sharp and heavy. "He's deteriorating, either we let him use magic or we heal him ourselves."

"We can't just let that happen, we have to be outside of the TVA," someone said. "We need to take him somewhere else."

As they spoke, others had taken to pressing against his wound to suppress the bleeding. At first, it was agony. But after a while, he felt a warmth come over his body, a peace he had never felt as the pain melted away. He knew it wasn't supposed to happen, Mobius frantically calling his name being a sure sign, but the relief was something he couldn't deny.

"Loki! Stay with us, come on-"

Before he slipped into sleep, the last thing he saw was Mobius over him, eyes wide and brimming with tears. God, he was tired. But he regretting falling asleep all the same.

...

"If I would've known he was hurt, I wouldn't have taken my eyes off him, what more is there to understand?"

Mobius looked at Renslayer for a moment. Defiance wasn't typically in his nature, though he'll admit his actions spoke otherwise. He was more a calm deviant, not driven by a harsh nature but rather a calm and collected one. She sighed, resting her pointer and thumb on the bridge of her nose.

"I know, I know. But we can't have events like that happen, Mobius. Half our team was distracted, imagine if the variant had struck then?"

"You know I respect you, Renslayer. I really do, I admire you and you know that. But this just seems wrong, he's still a person," Mobius said, frowning. "I know in the grander scheme of things we have a lot to worry about but I saw humanity out there. A collective force of good working toward an unspoken goal."

"Which is?"

"Making sure variant or not, we're taking care of each other."

...

Loki woke on the couch that night.

Wait, couch?

He had expected to still be on the floor. Though he knew Mobius would never, it wasn't out of the picture that another agent might let him stay on the ground. After all, they weren't too fond of him. He went to stretch, the sharp pains from his stomach stopping him in his tracks as he remembered why he was there.

The room was dark, dark enough that beyond his fixed point on the couch, Loki could hardly see a thing. A voice pierced the air, causing him to jump.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

As Loki realized who it was, he sank back into the couch.

"Fine," he mumbled. Mobius raised an eyebrow.

"Really? You didn't seem too fine back there when you were bleeding out in the halls of the TVA."

"Well, I was," Loki snapped, staring up at the ceiling. He realized how foolish he sounded, but at that point, he didn't care.

"Loki, what happened on that mission?" Mobius asked gently, ignoring the other's outburst. Loki sighed a bit, trying to shift his position.

"I didn't-" he cut himself off with a wince as he moved wrong, the pain burning at first, then turning into a dull ache. Mobius looked down at him worriedly.

"I didn't think it was that bad," he said hurriedly. "I was so cold from the water I didn't feel it. I just assumed the blood hadn't been mine."

It was grim. The idea of the blood in the water was so common for that moment, so anticipated that he had nearly bled out yet speculated it was from somebody else. It brought into focus the severity of even human apocalypses.

"But the blood," Mobius said, frowning. "I should have been able to see it on your shirt when we got back. I didn't see any."

"My magic had healed it for the most part," Loki said. "Just not enough. Once I returned it must've begun to reverse."

As Loki spoke, he noticed Mobius reaching for the hem of his shirt. He quickly blocked his hand with an offended "Hey." Mobius chuckled, shaking his head.

"I'm just trying to see it, come on."

"You don't need to," Loki glared. But of course his efforts didn't deter Mobius, who kept his steady gaze.

"Loki," he said gently. "Come on, let me see."

Loki sighed, wordlessly lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the array of wounds, accented by the much larger wound that ran across the bottom of his abdomen. He heard Mobius's breath catch.

"Geez..." He murmured, gently brushing a finger across the uninjured skin, which even then was sore.

"Why didn't you say anything?" He asked sadly. Loki cast his eyes to the side.

"An unspoken rule amongst warriors in Asgard was to each their own. It wasn't uncommon to receive wounds in battle, it was seen as noble to keep them to yourself."

"Well, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Mobius said with raised eyebrows. He added a hasty, "No offense."

"No, I agree. They were all morons," he said lightheartedly.

Mobius laughed now, bowing his head as he did so. Loki smiled a bit, still somewhat troubled by the pain but not enough to mention it.

"This is your apartment, then?" He said, trying to initiate conversation so Mobius wouldn't see as he began to sit up.

"Hey, not so fast," Mobius said, placing a hand on the small of Loki's back. "Your powers may be back, but you have a ways to go."

"I'm alright, really."

"I'm beginning to think that phrase holds less ethos each time I hear it."

Loki huffed, barely managing to sit all the way up. He looked around the room as his eyes adjusted. It was a small apartment, most of his items being placed in the living area. Books, dusty empty bottles, wooden furniture accented with water stains and loose change. The carpet was plush, he noticed, like something you would see from the nineties. It was all very cozy and welcoming.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, assuming that's what Loki had been looking at. "I didn't really have time to clean."

"Mess?" Loki frowned. "Mobius, you bring me into your home and you really assume I'm going to judge the state of it?"

"Well, to be fair, I don't get a lot of visitors," he smiled. "Now you need some rest, alright?"

If Loki had just an ounce more strength, he would've shot back some snarky response. This time, however, he found himself too tired to think of one, so instead, he flashed a quick smile.

"I'll be here if you need me."

If you need me.

Loki pondered on the words for a while. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the weariness finally catching up with him. Before he never would have admitted he need someone, much less someone with no relation to him. But in that darkened room he gathered he had a change of heart. As he felt himself slowly fading into the warm embrace of sleep, he felt a hand run across his head, gently brushing his unkempt hair back in a stroking motion. He wanted to open his eyes, to see Mobius, but he stayed still just long enough to hear the words,

"Glad you're alright, Lokes."

Before contently falling asleep.

[dialovers-translations]

DIABOLIK LOVERS MORE,BLOOD Vol.01 Sakamaki Ayato [TRACK 7+8]

Original title: 知り尽くされ��身体 & 喉が焼けるくらいの

Source: Diabolik Lovers More, Blood Vol. 1: Sakamaki Ayato [CD not owned by me]

Audio: Here

Seiyuu: Midorikawa Hikaru

Translator’s note:

Track 1+2 ll Track 3+4 ll Track 5+6 ll Track 7+8 ll Track 9+10

→  LIKE MY TRANSLATIONS? SUPPORT ME ON KO-FI!

TRACK 7: A BODY KNOWN IN AND OUT

*Rustle*

“Well then...Where do you want them next? Hahaha...Chichinashi. I’ll listen to your request at least. Now tell me. I’ll suck from your favorite spot.”

You whimper a response.

“...Aah? You’ve reached your limit? Don’t give me that crap. You have no right to refuse me.”

*Rustle rustle*

[00:38] “Prey should want nothing more than to be devoured by its Master, no? On top of that, I’m willing to listen to all of your wishes right now. Aren’t I a true gentleman?”

You mumble your request.

“...Ah? What didya say just now?”

You repeat your words. 

“Hah…? A kiss? Pfftー! Aha... ! You really are a foolish woman.”

*Rustle*

[01:08] “Fine by me. I’ll give you one. I should just suck blood from your mouth then, right? 

Hahaha… I don’t dislike the sound of that either. Seems like we can actually agree on somethin’ for once. Mmh…”

*Smooch*

“Mmh...Nn…”

*Smooch*

[01:33] “Hah...Mm…Hahaha...With your lip torn, blood has started flowin’ out.”

*Sluuuurp*

“Aah…”

*Smooch*

“Mmh…”

*Smooch*

[01:58] “Haah, haah...Consider this a lil’ reward. Your blood starts to taste foul if I only ever treat you badly after all.”

You whimper softly.

“Hahaha...Geez, women are such a pain in the ass.”

You beg for more.

[02:19] “You want me to kiss you even more? God, Chichinashi, you really are unbelievable...Oh well, fine. Here.”

*Smooch*

“Mmh...Nn…”

*Smooch*

“Nnh...Nn…”

*Smooch*

“...Say? Mmh…”

*Smooch*

[02:53] “What’s so nice ‘bout this stuff? Are you happy? Personally I prefer suckin’ your blood ‘cause it tastes way better. ーー But you know, your blood becomes even better whenever I kiss you first. Hahaha...I cut your lip so the kisses taste vaguely of blood as well, it’s delicious.”

*Cling*

[03:22] “But you know…’Cause of those kisses just now, I’ve grown thirsty again. Haah...Fuckー! I’m completely parched. No matter how much blood I gulp down, I never feel satisfied. If anything, the complete opposite happens. I’m way thirstier than I was before. 

Haah, haah...Ugh! My head’s started to spin...Chichinashi, give me more! I need moreー! More…!! I might actually kill you…!”

*Cling cling*

[04:15] “Heh. Why are you still wearin’ clothes?”

*RIIIIIP*

“Heh. How’s that? What does it feel like to be completely exposed to me?”

You grow flustered.

“You’re laying here practically naked in some prison cell...Hahaha...I don’t think I could label you as anything but a total freak. Hahaha!”

*Rustle rustle*

[04:45] “Well then...Where to suck from next? I took your request earlier, so this time, I’ll go for my favorite place. Hehehe…”

*Rustle*

“Come on, try imaginin’ it. My fangs plunging deep inside of you, rippin’ through the flesh, before indulgin’ in your blood. ーー The pleasure it’ll bring forth.”

You whimper softly.

[05:20] “Hahaha...Did you remember? You’re not the brightest bulb in the box, so you always forget so easily, don’t you? That’s why I always have to give this body of yours a taste of my fangs, to ensure it won’t slip your mind...Even if your brain forgets about the pleasure, it will remain engraved in your body.”

*Rustle*

[05:47] “Come on, I’ll give you these fangs you love so dearly, as much as you want. ...You want me to bite you all over, don’t you? The look on your face tells me that you’re dying to be toyed with by these fangs.”

*Cling cling*

“These fangs have explored every nook and cranny of your body. Not a single spot has been left untouched. Isn’t that right?”

You tear up.

[06:21] “Hahaha...Why do you look as if you’re ‘bout to cry? I’m only statin’ the truth, no? Should I tell you even more? I’ll teach you where you like it best...and how you enjoy bein’ toyed with. 

TRACK 8: THROAT-BURNING HOT

*Rustle rustle*

“...Che! These shackles ‘round your wrists and ankles are in the damn way...! The annoyin’, clangin’ sounds are really gettin’ on my nerves…”

*Cling cling*

“It’s hard to move ‘round like this too...Fuck! I’m tired of suckin’ from your neck, shoulders or lips! Gimme your blood from a different spot!”

*Cling cling cling*

“Ughーー! These darnーー!!”

*Cling clang*

[00:36] “...They won’t even budge, goddammit! Is this all part of their plan as well…!? So my fangs wouldn’t be able to reach certain places!?”

*Cling*

“Kuhー! Fuck...I’ve gotten thirsty again...Haah, haah...Aah…”

*Rustle rustle*

“The fuck’s happenin’ to me…!? This is bad…”

*Cling*

[01:08] “I want blood...More blood...Blood...I need blood…!!”

He latches onto you.

*Gulp*

“Mmh...Nn…”

*Gulp*

“Hah...Mmh…”

*Sluuuurp*

[01:41] “Nn...Nnh...Hahn…This isn’t doin’ it for me...What I want is…Haah, haah...Your leg…”

*Cling cling*

“I want blood from your legs! This level of sweetness just won’t cut it! I want the real stuff which burns my throat!”

*Cling cling*

“Fuck…! I can’t get to your leg like this! ...Oi, you! Bring your leg closer to me!”

You seem hesitant.

[02:22] “Hah…? You want to know what I’ll do…? Shut up and just do it!”

*Rustle rustle*

“Fuck...This is pushin’ it too, but it’ll have to do…”

You complain.

“Haah…? God, can’t you shut up for one second? Or I’ll twist off your darn leg!”

You protest.

[02:49] “I don’t think there’s another way to get rid of these chains. Which means we’ll be stuck down here forever. We have no other way, do we? Besides, it’s not like one or two limbs is that big of a deal to you, right?”

You struggle.

*Rustle rustle*

“...Ugh! Keep still! Or else I might twist off somethin’ else by accident!”

You keep protesting. 

[03:15] “Haah…? ‘Anythin’ but that’? ...You’re in no position to protest!”

*Rustle*

“If you’re afraid of the pain, I’ll make sure you enjoy it. I’ll make you feel good and use that opportunity to chop it off.”

*Cling cling*

“I’ll make sure to get it over with while I’m toyin’ with you, so behave.”

*Rustle*

[03:46] “Do you want a kiss? In that case, I’ll give you as many as your heart desires…”

*Rustle rustle*

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー