#how the world doesn’t want to hear about the pain or the night terrors or the sleepwalking or the addiction

[novelconcepts]

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

[yan-lorkai]

Could I request a Ciel x Mother!reader who comes back to life after the fire? Reader doesn’t really remember what happened or how they are here now but spends their time giving Ciel love he’s missed

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Yandere content, platonic yandere, slightly angst

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Ciel remembers seeing his parents' body, your body. He vividly remembers the look of terror etched on your face, remembers the smell of burning flesh, remembers how the flames engulfed the house and everything it once stood for.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ When he and Sebastian made the pact, the boy asked if there was a way to revive his family. He wished he could see his brother again, hear his father's soft laugh and feel your warm hugs, but the demon insisted there was no way for that.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ "Once a person dies, their soul is collected by Shinigami." Was the explanation offered. It was an explanation that didn't bring him any comfort at all and one that he hated, but he could do nothing but accept, however reluctantly.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Even without a family, Ciel proved capable of rebuilding the Phantomhive name and reputation again. He carries out all of the Queen's tasks with great excellence, leads the Funtom company and makes good investments. He buries himself in work and the adrenaline of his missions so he doesn't have to think about and miss his little family, the longing for simpler, happier times. On quiet days, where there is no form of distraction, however, he misses you, his brother and father too, his heart still cries for your absence and motivates him to complete his revenge.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ So... How can you be here now? Wearing the same clothes you wore that night a few years ago, the same beautiful smile and sparkling eyes that soothed him after a nightmare. How can you be here? He's gone through grief, he's continually faced sadness, but he can't stop the feeling of happiness and relief from taking over his chest as soon as you look at each other.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You can't remember what happened, but he supposes it's for the best. He also wouldn't want to remember many of the things that happened, but he has to tell you, because you deserve to know the truth. It's a long, uncomfortable conversation, and by the end you're both crying together.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ But the comfort you bring to him, the affection and love he needs, make the pain in his heart lessen. He can handle everything now that you're back, he can enjoy your headpats after a hard day's work, hear you hum a lullaby to him at night, enjoy your delicious dishes, to have your hugs, in short, to live his characteristic double life between being Count Phantomhive and his son.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ And he tries to be a good son to you, he tries to make you proud of him, after so long feeling alone he needs this as much as you do, he needs the deep connection between mother and son. And he swims in his love as if he were still a little boy laughing and exploring the world in small steps, Sebastian likes to tease him for that. But Ciel can't bring himself to care. You are here and that's all that matters.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Though part of him wants to know how and why you are here and now, how it's possible - even Sebastian has a contemplative expression on his face, thinking and thinking and never coming to a conclusion. If Shinigami hold a person's soul when they die, Ciel can only hope that none of them come after you, because now that you're back he promises to protect you. He will use all the resources necessary to keep you alive and well.

[ah-bright-wings]

Sound - A Triduum Story

Malchus can feel the heavy gazes of the others. He ignores them. His own eyes are pinned to the door they guard, listening to the drip of water condensing and dropping onto the floor. There is no rain, but the air is damp, as if the heavens are drawing out the wet stores of the earth in preparation for a storm. 

Customarily, the chill would make him wish for his bed. He’d grumble with his fellows about the weather, about the work, peppering complaints with a few stout curses. But there is no discussion tonight. Malchus sits hunched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, and he waits.

What are they waiting for?

Cold fingers touch the lobe of his left ear. He turns to see Jesse, who’d touched him, withdrawing, fingers curling into his palm. The apology is gruff. “Just wanted to see.”

That’s a lie, thinks Malchus, turning back to the door. They’ve already seen tonight. What’s left is to believe.

Malchus doesn’t ask permission before he rises, taking the flask which hangs on a wall hook, and the keys there beside it. The eyes of the others follow. He unlocks the door and slips in, shutting it behind, and then pauses, palm flat on the wood. He takes a breath. 

Drip.

Drip.

The Nazarene’s hands are chained so that he must stand. His head bows, forehead resting against the bruised back of his right hand. He lifts himself when Malchus enters. His lips, which had been moving silently, still.

Malchus holds out the flask. Then, as an embarrassing afterthought—the man is in chains—he uncorks it. 

“It’s just water,” he assures when the man doesn’t move to drink. He tips the flask close enough to meet the cracked lips. The Nazarene swallows twice and then pulls back, chains jingling. His face is wet. Tears, Malchus thinks, until he hears the drip of water dropping onto the man’s head. It slides down his temple and dirty cheek, carving a clean track through the crust. Malchus re-corks the flask.

It’s not quite fear that he feels. He had felt fear on his knees in Gethsemane, blood down his neck and a howl on his tongue. The world was silent, then, and shrieking, dizzy with pain and the terror of new loss. When strong hands cupped his face, he clung to them. He grabbed hold of words he could not hear but lips he could see moving, breath he could feel on his face, brown eyes he could see.

And then, he could hear. 

It was as if he’d never before heard sound, not true sound, but only echos, half-formed, half-heard, until that very moment when he heard truly. Each noise was crisp and new. Around him were the night birds stirring in the trees, the puffed breath of the disciples, the crackle of licking flame, the creak of leather belts. He heard them all, and he hasn’t stopped hearing since. Creation is vibrating, uncountable voices overlapping in the same tremulous song. Even the breeze seems to have a voice, and the water running on stone. Even his own heartbeat. They cry out when the rest of the world is silent.

“What did you do to me?” Malchus asks, voice barely above a whisper, for everything is new and he cannot make sense of it. 

The Nazarene’s smile isn’t mocking. It’s as quiet as his voice, and it crinkles the corner of his good eye. “I know how long you’ve waited to hear.”

They’ve never met, of course. Of course not. This man doesn’t know him. How could he? Malchus has taken great pains to hide his gradual loss of sound. Each year, the muffle covers his ears a little more, stealing his senses, deadening the world to him. If he misses a call, he plays it off. If he cannot hear his wife calling, he feigns captivation by his task. He does it well, he thinks, well enough. Perhaps his wife suspects. But only he knows, only he and his God. And this backwater Nazarene with an accent pulled from Galilee’s fishing waters—because Malchus can hear the accent now—cannot know Malchus. How could he? No, he does not.

But he knows. 

Malchus is sure, standing before this man who made him more than whole, that he is known. Known, and known truly. And here stands Malchus, his jailer. His enemy.

“How could you know?” he asks, eyes searching the Nazarene’s. The water drips, drips. A rat scritches at a bit of stone. “I can’t do anything for your case. They’re bringing you to Pilate.” His grip tightens on the flask—his only offering—and the stale water it holds. The words pour out of him. “I’m a guard. They told us to go, so we went. I had no stake in it, see? See, we were told to go. I was told to go. I never intended—”

“Malchus,” the man says softly, almost fondly, as if he is interrupting a brother and not one walking him to his death. “Will you pray with me?”

The request startles Malchus out of his own thoughts. He pauses, wary of some trick. Without meaning to, his hand rises to touch the warm outer shell of his ear, tracing the connecting point between the cartilage and his skull. There’s not even a seam to show where it had been severed.

Mouth dry, Malchus finally nods, and the Nazarene closes his good eye. The water slides again down his temples. His words fill the damp space, and Malchus recognizes them at once, joining the recitation:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

and naked shall I return.

The Lord gave—”

The man breathes in, and Malchus breathes with him.

“—and the Lord has taken away;”

Their breath stirs the stale air of the room. All has finally gone quiet. The Nazarene opens his eye and tips his head to look up, past the stone roof, past the courtyard and the trembling earth, to the heavens, spread out over them like a tent. The water no longer falls. The rat is silent. 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he says.

[wrencatte]

i accidentally started writing a follow up to the life in my veins is molten, which is not a fic I'd planned on writing a follow up to. I have so many other fics that need their follow ups.

People are arguing.

Jason ignores it in favor of luxuriating in this wonderful soft bed with the haze of good drugs fogging up the pain he still feels deep in his neck and feet and, well, everywhere. He wasn’t so out of his mind to forget about last night – and it was probably last night. The color of his closed eyelids tells him he’s next to a window and the sun is up, for the given meaning of ‘sunup’ when it comes to Gotham. He knows Tim and Stephanie came for him; he remembers using the last of his energy for that circle. He remembers staring up at Cass, half-believing what he was seeing.

So, he knows where he is. He knows he’s safe. Just like he knows the argument is happening between Dick and Babs. Just like he knows someone is in the room with him, quiet and small enough he’s pretty sure it’s Cassandra. Jason doesn’t want to move, so he doesn’t. He hears a door open and then a weight drapes over his legs, carefully avoiding his knee. Steph lets out a loud, dramatic sigh.

His hands ache when he lifts them to sign a shaky, “Get off” without opening his eyes. He drops them to his stomach, annoyed that doing that is enough to exhaust him.

Steph laughs. “Good morning to you too,” she says quietly, probably to keep the others from realizing he’s awake. She really is his favorite sometimes. “How you feeling?”

Jason wiggles his head in some form of a so-so gesture. He curls his hands into fists, his index fingers left extended, and points them at each other, bringing them together twice. “Hurt,” he admits.

Even with the drugs, he can feel the deep ache in the bottom of his feet, can feel pain sit heavily in his neck to press against his throat. His hand hurts more than he thought it would, and those memories are vague. It’s a blur of panicked hope and someone shouting as he finally tore free and scrambled for the first weapon he could find, hand curling around it tightly so no one could take it from him. Pain – pain and desperation and terror –

“Breathe.”

He hadn’t realized he wasn’t. Jason sucks in a sharp breath that hurts. Cass’s hand is in his hair. Steph hasn’t moved from her spot on his legs and it’s more of a comfort than it should be. He can feel her ribs press against his shin as her chest expands with each inhale. It’s probably uncomfortable for her, but it’s literally the best thing in the world right now. A living weight instead of the cold, impersonal pressure of that room.

[theninjamouse]

I loved the lates chapter it was amazing but I am really curious on what grillby was thinking during shores break downs?

Hello Fluffy!! Gosh I have so many of your asks I still need to answer and I swear I will. Here is this in mean time <3

~~~~~

If there is one thing that Grillby knows for certain, it is that you do not like to share when you are in pain. It’s something the two of you have in common, but thanks to his own tendency to withdraw when upset, he recognizes when you are immediately. Discomfort, annoyance, and hurt are all things that show only in brief moments. It’s quite amazing actually, considering how open your face is at all other times. 

He doesn’t like to push. Perhaps he should have. Maybe he should have pressed you for answers before this, before you were forced to face them in a place with the likes of him making everything worse. 

His Soul is still churning with rage. Even now, his hands itch with the need to burn the terror into that man’s face, to make him suffer a thousandfold for the hurt that you have suffered at his hands. He wants to feel the flesh of that bastard melting under his-

The sound of running water cuts off his violent thoughts and he shakes himself mentally. Enough. He is done being the kind of monster to hunt down those who have hurt others. Even if sometimes, he quietly wishes that he still was. Just remembering the way your fingers trembled while holding his hand is enough to stoke his flames into deadly temperatures.

He is horribly, viciously glad that Alex is already dead. But of course he can’t tell you that. Telling you any of the thoughts in his head would only serve to upset you. You’ve been through enough; he must keep his demons to himself. 

To further distract himself, he takes out the ingredients needed for grilled cheese. It’s one of your favorite comfort meals and he was correct in assuming that you were going to need it. It’s a simple enough process that it doesn’t quite work in fully capturing his attention. Instead, he listens to you while you bathe. More accurately, he’s listening for the sound of crying.

He doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t really expect to. He’s only seen you tear up once. That night on the beach, crying for him. But he’s never seen you cry for yourself. Not when your surfboard broke, not when you shook with the fear that he would somehow find it possible to hate you when you discovered your magic. As if he could just callously stop caring for and loving you, for something you could not help. The fact that the assumption that he would leave you is your gut reaction pisses him off all over again. That foul, disgusting man-

The bread in his hands turns to ash. He curses quietly and gets another. 

When you do emerge, you’ve dressed yourself in one of his shirts. It’s a sight that never fails to make his Soul perk and dance a little in his chest with a warm and perhaps slightly possessive feeling. It’s only enhanced by the fact your eyes are still bloodshot from unshed tears. It takes a great deal of willpower not to sweep you up in his arms and carry you away from the hurt.

He keeps his demeanor calm. Unbothered by the events of the day. Gentle. Even when you bite into the sandwich and burst into tears. Though his Soul plummets and he aches to hold you and hide you away from the world, he stays calm. 

Inside his core, his Soul rages.

When tears begin to flow freely, he wants to scream out his frustrations, burn away the hurts that have dared to harm you. There is nothing he can do, there is absolutely nothing besides tucking you into his chest and letting his own magic sweep over you in as soft and comforting waves as he can. 

“Were you going to kill him?”

Yes. He doesn’t have to think about it. The fact that there is no hesitation scares him. “I should probably say no, but I don’t think I can,” he finally whispers and he is a little ashamed, but he is not sorry. 

He is sorry when you start crying again and he is enraged all over again when you so casually address your obvious trauma as ‘daddy issues’. What a disgusting phrase. 

Eventually, you calm down. And eventually, you sleep. And as you sleep, your face remains pinched. Remains of your tears are dried on your face. Tenderly, he does his best to wipe them away without waking you. It’s then that he cries a little himself. Just for a few minutes and silently so as not to wake you. 

How could anyone hurt you? How could anyone see the joy and the caring and love so clear in your eyes and want to see it gone? Abusive parenting is…unfortunately not unheard of underground, but it is rare. Parents who have lost hope themselves and only have hurt in their Souls. But even then, there are programs, help for those parents who feel that they cannot perform their duties as parents. That is the role of community; to help one another.

Then of course, there is the issue of Alex. He meant what he said earlier. He doesn’t have to know. He can guess well enough and thinking about it only upsets him more. All that matters is that there is a fear deep within you and it is raw and hurting. 

When you wake up screaming a few hours later, he is not surprised. But it hurts far worse than he feared to hear you wailing. And now he cannot stop himself from pulling you in. Please, please tell him how to make your pain stop. Tell him how to make it better, he cannot bear to simply sit and do nothing.

You can’t. 

All he can do is let your tears splash down over his hands and whisper any and all comfort that he can while you fall apart. He makes a promise to himself then. He will not allow anyone to hurt you like this.

Never again.

[assortedfruitsnacks212]

I've heard you ship Bileven and have reasons for it. I'll admit, I'm curious to hear you explain why!

(in other words please take this as the opportunity to ramble a ship manifesto because the thematic connection between the two makes me think your explanation would be intruiging)

(main of @mike-wheeler-faggotry)

Thank you so much for this ask. It means a lot for someone to be curious for once instead of rushing to judgment.

I'm not even sure where to start. Billy and El have been my OTP for two years now, and they mean a great deal to me. Their relationship is about a broken young man learning to be soft again; an autistic-coded (!) girl growing up and claiming her place as a woman; two conflicted human beings meeting each other and saying, "Hey, you're like me! I thought I was the only one."

In a word, it's soulmate stuff. And to me it's beautiful.

I don't know what else to say that I haven't expressed better in my fics. So I'll share a scene I wrote two years ago. It's probably the closest I've come to writing a manifesto.

The setup: in 1989, Billy visits Hawkins after three years in California. El is eighteen now, no longer a child, and it scares him to death. After a novel's worth of tension, denial, and conflict, he agrees to meet her at Sattler's Quarry one night. Arriving early, he spends some time smoking and reflecting in his car.

--

He tries not to act nervous, but as time passes, he keeps checking his watch. 10:05. 10:10. He reminds himself she’s walking here and he needs to cut her some slack. At one point he pretends to be pissed—if she doesn’t show up in five minutes, I’m outta here—but he knows it’s bullshit. He’d wait here all night for her.

As he waits, he thinks about the quarry around him. How, years ago, he came here at his darkest point. Somehow though, being here doesn’t feel like being at the mall. The memory doesn’t burn, because the moment he said no to death was the moment he turned his life around.

And god, did he need to turn his life around. 

He shuts his eyes, dragging on his cigarette, as he remembers who he used to be. How, in his rage and pain, he destroyed everything around him. 

Fuck, he thinks, scoffing. He doesn’t want to imagine what he would’ve done if he had superpowers. He probably would’ve become a supervillain, holding the world hostage with his pain.

In a way, he almost did. The Mind Flayer gave him superstrength, a burning energy that took away human weaknesses like the need to eat and sleep. It made him the general of his army and told him to conquer the world. 

Sure, he hadn’t asked for it. Getting dragged into that steel mill was the most terrifying moment in his life, worse than anything his dad had ever done. But it was his pain that put him on the road outside the steel mill that night. His pain that led him to set up a rendezvous with a middle-aged married woman. He wanted to thumb his nose at the rules of the world. 

You can’t control me. My body is my own, and I’ll do what I want with it. 

The world’s lucky El’s the one with superpowers, and on her own merits at that. She didn’t need to make a deal with the devil. She was just… herself. And standing on her own merits, she had the strength to meet Billy blow for blow. Even when her superpowers faltered and he could use brute force to pin her to the ground, she had the strength to defeat him. All it took was a few whispered words and a gentle touch.

After that, he learned an entirely new definition of terror. This girl with the brown eyes, who wore blue spangled shirts and scrunchies? 

She’d seen everything. 

One touch in the Void, and his innermost soul had flashed out, crossing the space between them like lightning. She’d seen everything—his mother, the ocean—the memories he’d locked in a dusty drawer and forgotten. And now, every time she looked at him, the second skin he’d spent years perfecting faded to nothing. She could see the monster beneath, the twisted, ugly thing that even a mother couldn’t love. 

And she didn’t have the kindness to turn away. She kept looking.

Even worse, she didn’t run. It made no sense. Somehow, this girl had the strength to stay where his own mother hadn’t. It stole the breath from his lungs, and he found himself looking back at her, at the promise in her eyes. 

Then his world started to tremble. Glancing down, he saw a crack zigzagging across the ground, racing toward him from where she stood. 

Don’t do this, he’d begged her, glancing up. Don’t give me hope. Because it would be taken away. That, at least, was inevitable. Everyone who loved him left eventually. They looked long enough to see the ugly, broken thing inside him, then turned their backs.

His own mother had done it. His mother.

But El didn’t listen to him. She kept looking. And as the crack raced toward him, exposing the naked rock beneath, he turned and ran. If he didn’t, he would die. The earth would split open, and he’d fall into a darkness he could never crawl out of.

He ran for a long time. Three years he ran, until he thought he’d managed to escape. Then Max invited him back to Hawkins, and he fooled himself into believing El couldn’t possibly be looking still. So he came back. 

And just like that, he was standing in the same spot he’d fled from. She was standing across from him, taller and more beautiful, but with those same, all-seeing eyes. And the crack was racing toward him again, splitting the earth apart. Except this time it wasn’t the only crack. Others were streaking toward him from his right, his left. 

In the intervening years, her powers had only grown. And he knew immediately he’d made a fatal mistake.

So he ran again. But it was too late. Is too late. He can feel the earth giving way beneath his feet, seconds away from swallowing him for good.

As he smokes quietly, the breath of his cigarette wafting away through the open window, his forehead wrinkles. He glances in the direction of the nearby cliff. He imagines falling to his death. And suddenly he wonders if that’s such a bad thing.

He remembers Sunday mornings in mass. His mother hadn’t taken him often; despite her fervent belief, she seemed to find a thousand excuses not to go. But he remembers how she would stand beside him, sometimes holding his hand, sometimes resting her hands on the pew in front of them. He remembers hearing about death and resurrection, concepts that confused him at the time. And he remembers the day he finally asked her about them. They’d just gotten home from mass, and she took him outside to look at a bush. He can’t remember what kind it was now, but it smelled good.

“Just look at the world, Billy,” she’d told him. “Do you see this plant? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She had him bend down to smell it. “And do you see the roots, how they’re going down into the soil? Well, believe it or not, this plant is only beautiful and alive because other things have died.”

He must’ve wrinkled his nose, because she laughed. “Really! Everything that grows, and I mean everything, needs nutrients to survive. This plant gets its nutrients from the soil. And this soil has all those nutrients because other plants, and animals, even people, have given their bodies to it. 

“Imagine—” her eyes sparkled “—a dead animal. You know what happens when an animal dies, right? It rots. Gross, I know. But that’s because it’s breaking down into its component parts, and those parts are trickling back into the soil. It’s giving itself back to the earth. If it didn’t do that, the earth wouldn’t have the nutrients it needs to grow new things. Eventually it’d run out and everything would die.

“But you know what’s amazing? Those nutrients never change. The stuff that’s in you—” she tapped a gentle finger on his chest “—and me—” she pointed to herself “—is the exact same stuff that’ll go back in the soil when we die. And that’s the stuff the earth will use to grow new things. Do you know what that means, Billy?”

Enraptured, Billy shook his head eagerly. She leaned forward. Her eyes were blue and bright.

“It means when you die, your body will turn into something new. It could be a plant like this one. Or maybe,” she gasped, “a tree. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to become a tree?”

He nodded.

“Well, that’s what resurrection is. It’s the idea that when something dies, it becomes something new. Death,” she said firmly, “is never the end. The cycle keeps going forever and ever.

“Do you understand now?”

He nodded again, and he meant it. She smiled brilliantly. Pulling him close, she kissed his cheek with a smack.

“Always remember that, Billy,” she said. “Death is never the end. And that’s what makes life worth it.”

[zabe-books]

Queer Joy

“We’re looking for stories about queer joy. Joyous queers. Happy queer stories. No homophobia/transphobia. Happy endings.”

“We want authentic queer narratives.”

When my mother explained to me what being gay was, she bent and whispered it in my ear, so no one else in the house would hear her say it. I was eight. I remember thinking that doesn’t sound so bad but everyone–my classmates, my church, my family–was convinced. My father caught me reading a story someone wrote about their lesbian characters in the Sims 2 and installed a parental controls module on the computer.

Two years later, I had a crush on the captain of the girls’ soccer team, and I was horrified with myself. I vowed to never tell anyone, to keep it a secret from everyone I knew until my dying day. I was eleven and I thought I would be tortured in hell for all eternity because I liked how shiny another girl’s hair looked in her ponytail.

I spent my childhood in a state of terror that still haunts me. Not to sound dramatic–most queer people do. You grow up. You do the work of putting yourself back together.

And then you tell your story.

One of my most profound moments of queer joy: I’m a few weeks from graduating college. Me and a group of trans friends I’ll be parting from set up a kiddie pool on the dorm lawn at 3AM. We float in the water and sing hymns from the churches that rejected us. The next day, we’ll go back to the hometowns we’re not safe in and build ourselves some lives from toothpicks. It’s the Last Supper and a baptism all in one. God is in the water.

Queer joy. We want queer joy. I hear it over and over in publishing circles. We want queer joy. But I have never experienced any kind of ‘queer joy’ that hasn’t been touched–or given meaning–by the circumstances that marginalize queer folk to begin with. A bawdy joke in a bowling alley. The celebration when a friend leaves an unsafe household. The invisible language of touch in a gay bar saying things you cannot safely share out loud.

There is joy and then there is queer joy. To me, queer joy is rooted in overcoming oppression, in dodging a gender norm, in seeking love and community against the odds. Queer joy is not permitted. It’s something illegal, taboo, something that must be stolen. I can write a queer person experiencing joy at finding a nice pair of shoes on sale. But to explore why that joy is queer, I need to hold in my head the laws and customs that deny us the right to self-expression, the consequences and complications and the intersections that go into something as simple as planning an outfit for a night on the town. Other authors may not, but I do.

When I turn to queer literature, I look for stories about navigating the complexities of queerness–how you can belong in one moment and be banished in the next, how you can be hyper-visible and invisible all at once. I look for queer depression, queer anxiety, queer trauma–for queer characters who bear the scars of living in an unfriendly society and yet move forward. Other people want to read about people without trauma falling in love and expressing their gender how they please in magical worlds without homophobia and this is their right. But unless we invent a time machine and I can drag Baby Me to a kinder, safer era (whenever that may be)–queer joy with no homophobia is as alien to my authentic lived personal queer experience as life on the moon. And to build a literary canon that represents queer life, we need to keep the doors open for stories about pain.

[crazylinx68]

So I’ve been working on this for two days or so. This came to me and I wanted to write it. I don’t have a ao3 cause I can’t figure how to get an account. This is short but I tried. There’s two more parts to this story, so yeah. Also, a warden is in this. This takes place a little while after Spepticle and Vitalasy died in the funhouse. Hope you enjoy :D

Spepticle didn’t know what he did to lose a heart today, but it’s been his own fault he hates to admit. He followed Clown, a man known for leading people to their doom. And Branzy, a man he already “stole” 10 diamonds from. Hell, he didn’t even hear Vitalasy’s screams of terror. Maybe that could’ve saved him. But now, he’s wondering around spawn, beating himself up over how he fell so easily to a trap.

Spepticle thought about just building something or whatever to get his mind off of everything. But he’s just walking in any direction, not paying attention to the world around. All Spepticle could do is wait for a trap to kill him or someone walking about late at night and steal another heart of his. He just wanted to be alone right now.

Since Vitalasy was also a victim to Clown and Branzy’s funhouse, the red slime got some comfort from him afterwards. Spepticle did feel guilty about not hearing or helping Vitalasy when he was getting attacked by Clown, but the fox eared boy kept telling him that it was all in the past. And it would’ve done nothing to help him defeat Clown. That was encouraging.

Spepticle knew he wasn’t the strongest or fastest or smartest player on the server. But hell, when he first joined, he just wanted friends. Now, he didn’t know how he could’ve been so naive, so weak. 

So pathetic. 

Spepticle continued forward until he hit the edge of the forest line near the circus. He turned to look at that wrenched place, and he grimaced. He wants to so badly get back at those monsters. For what they stole from him, Vitalasy, and from the possible other victims they stole hearts from. But what could he do? Against Clown, the best pvper on the server. And Branzy, a red stone and chaos making madman. There would be no way Spepticle could take them on.

Speaking of the two madmen, one just walked right out of the circus. Branzy himself was covered in redstone dust and sweat. He must’ve been working on the funhouse redstoneing. He hasn’t seen or spoken to Branzy since the funhouse incident. Their last interaction was when Spepticle was getting back his stuff and hearing Branzy repeatedly apologize to Vitalasy over the private line. Like it going to do anything after he willingly led his former teammate to his death. Spepticle clenched his fists, thinking how he also had trusted Branzy, how it was just a mistake that the man couldn’t get the diamonds cause Spepticle didn’t have any. The half slime was just hoping Branzy wouldn’t look...nevermind. Branzy met Spepticle’s eyes and the two stared at each other. There was slight confusion in those purple eyes. He must be wondering why Spepticle was by the woods. He must have been slightly suspicious, cause he started walking towards Spepticle at that moment. Spepticle didn’t waste anytime and rushed into the woods. 

Spepticle didn’t have a specific direction or place he was running to, he just had to get away. Branzy would surely tell Clown and the two would start running after him. They would steal another one of his hearts. He was running on fear now, not noticing the tears running down his face. He didn’t wanna die, let alone see that clown mask or those purple eyes again. He kept running and running until he fell. He fell right into a cave opening without even noticing it. Spepticle felt his head hit the stone ground with a loud thud. Just because he was a slime doesn’t mean he is just liquid. He was solid right now, in a human form, and it didn’t help with the pain. He lifted his hand to his forehead and felt a liquid. Bringing the hand to his face, Spepticle saw it was blood. 

“Of course I get hurt in the dumbest way.” Spepticle mumbled to himself, mainly just talking to himself. So he laid there, stomach on the ground, face planted there, blood oozing out of his forehead, and small tears coming from his eyes. “I’m truly a mess.” 

Spepticle laid there for awhile, surprisingly no mobs came for him. He didn’t have the energy to care, mentally and physically. He didn’t even here to footsteps of someone, so he ran and started crying for no reason. He got hurt for no reason. He did all of this for no reason. 

Spepticle spent the rest of the time beating himself up mentally while still laying on the ground. Exhaustion finally caught up to him in a large wave, he didn’t even notice the large creature stalking towards him from the dark caves.

—

Spepticle woke to an odd feeling below him. It felt squishy and cold. He feels his hand sink slightly when he tries to push himself up and he starts to question. The last time he was awake, he was on hard stone. The surface he was on right now wasn’t hard, it wasn’t stone. Someone moved him, found him and brought him somewhere. It was obviously not someone’s base, cause he wasn’t on a bed or wooden floor or anything. He opened his eyes, slowly adjusting them to the dark place he was in. Once he can properly see, he saw what he was laying on.

It was the black substance, like the void was right below him. The only difference between it and the void is that cyan spots peppered on the black substance, glowing in and out. All this made Spepticle panic. The half slime quickly lifted himself to rest on his knees and surveyed the area around him. The black substance was everywhere, being the only light source he can see. But that wasn’t the only thing. In was in what he could tell was a ruined city.   It was covered in the black substance, barely any light coming from the ruins. Spepticle was perched on a ledge that over looked the entire city, and it was huge. Spepticle looked over the ledge he woke up on, and immediately moved back from there. It was a pretty long fall and he didn’t have his armor on him. He barely had any of his stuff anymore somehow. His armor was gone, he barely had any of the food he had on him, and his communicator was thrown on the other side of the ledge he was on. 

Spepticle tried standing up, but his legs were shaking like crazy. He checked his food bar and saw he only had one and half food left. He quickly pulled out a cooked pork chop he had and ate it. He slowly walked towards his discarded communicator and picked it up. He was shocked to see the amount of notifications he had.

“They noticed I was gone. And Branzy did wonder why I was there.” Spepticle muttered to himself. There were messages from Mid, Zam, Vitalasy, Subz, and to his horror, Clown and Branzy. The two funhouse killers only private messaged him, probably to not look suspicious in his disappearance.

BranzyCraft whispers to you: Spepticle why were you at the forest?

BranzyCraft whispers to you: why aren’t you answering are you that scared of me?

Spepticle quickly closed out of those messages. He didn’t want to see Branzy knowing fully well he was scared of him now. He absolutely did not want to see Clown’s messages either. So he went back to the main chat and quickly typed something out. 

Spepticle: um hi. I don’t know where I am. 

Midmysticx: holy shit dude how? Do you have cords?

PrinceZam: need someone to pick you up

Vitalasy: did you get kidnapped or something? Need me to storm the circus?

Spepticle: no no I’m in a cave. A big one. My armors gone and I’m stuck on a ledge with nothing. 

BranzyCraft: he was by the forest near the circus last I saw him

BranzyCraft: ran for the hills the moment I saw him

Spepticle turned off his communicator right there and threw it at the wall. That man had the urge to make him look like a coward? He ran cause he didn’t wanna look suspicious, like...a coward. He is one. He ran away without even standing up for himself. He ran instead of facing the man who stole his hearts. He really is a coward. He leaned his back onto the wall, sliding down it. He curled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He felt tears forming and he couldn’t care less as he buried his face into his knees. 

“Stupid Branzy, stupid Clown, stupid funhouse. Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Spepticle’s voice rosed in volume as he spoke. He was mad, at Branzy, at Clown. At himself. 

Spepticle was so caught up in his self loathing, he barely noticed the sudden rumble of the ground beneath him. He immediately got up and looked at the ground. The rumbling was right in the center of the ledge and blocked his way to the open. Spepticle was trying to think of something, cause he’s never heard of a mob that came up from underground. And he got his answer.

A giant clawed arm erupted from the black substance, it’s arm the same color of it. The only difference was the white bone armor on its shoulder. Then came it’s head, a giant gaping mouth letting out a giant roar shook Spepticle to his core. A pair of glowing antlers sat upon its head. Spepticle noted that they glowed with every panic breathe he made. When it’s chest rosed up, Spepticle got the full view of its opened rib cage, seeing cyan souls swirling in around in it. Now being fully out of the ground, Spepticle now can take in the large beast in front of him. Its arms reached down to its legs, that were short and stubby. It’s skin mimic the black substance and it’s glowing spots. It’s skin was leathering and muscular, being around 7 feet tall. 

Spepticle was completely speechless to what he just witness. What is this mob? How did it get here? Questions rushed through his head, but the main being is he getting out of this situation. He took a hesitate step towards the open ledge, but the beast in front of him must of heard it. It’s antlers lit up and it turned towards him. That’s was when he saw it didn’t have eyes, it hearing was the only reason why it knew where Spepticle was. It started stalking towards him and blocked his only way out. Spepticle backed fully into the wall, sliding down it and raising his arms up to cover his face. He knows he’s about to lose his heart. As he watched the beast come closer and closer, Spepticle waited for his death, tears streaming down his face hoping for a quick death. But once the creature was a few inches from Spepticle’s, it stopped. 

Spepticle lowered his arms and is now staring at the slightly opened mouth of the creature, it’s snout in his face. He watched as the sniffed his face, going still for a second, than shoved its snout into his tear soaked cheek. It started purring, like it was trying to be comforting. 

Spepticle was completely blown away with it. And that it was actually comforting. Spepticle felt all the built up stress leave his body and himself calming down. Spepticle could guess that this creature was the one to find him and bring him to this place. The half slime slowly brought his hand up and placed it on top of the creatures head. It stopped its nuzzling and lifted its head up slightly, enough that Spepticle’s hand still rested on its head. He then started gently petting the leathery skin of the creature, losing all of the nervousness in his body once he heard it purring. As it was purring, it lowered its head onto his lap and nuzzles its snout into his chest. Spepticle couldn’t help but giggle at the purring beast on his lap. 

“Not what I was expecting today. But surprisingly, I’m okay with it.” He told the beast. It seemed to understand, it purring louder. “I think I should give you a name. How about Opal?” 

Opal seemed to liked the name, as it gave a low rumble from it chest. Spepticle became content with that as sleep started to catch up to him. Opal’s antlers lit up again, lifting its muzzle off of Spepticle’s lap. It wrapped its arm around Spepticle’s back, pulling him in close as Opal rested its head on his lap again. It continues to purr loudly, Spepticle feeling it on his stomach and lap. Sleep finally caught him and he laid his upper body on Opal’s back, enjoying the calming rise and fall of its back. He completely forgot the communicator still thrown on the other side of the ledge as he fell asleep, concerned messages being left unread.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Mythical Beings & Creatures Masterlist

A Human Heart (ao3) - andthenshesaid-write (ladyknight1512)

Summary: Phil's mother has always said that there are creatures in the forest and Phil has always thought they were just stories. Then one day he runs into the forest looking for somewhere to hide and meets Dan, a man with antlers and the ability to talk to trees. Phil's world opens up but there are dangers in the forest that he can't even begin to imagine.

A Seedy Place (ao3) - intoapuddle

Summary: Phil frequents a bar in order to find humans, just to fulfil a need. Tonight, he gets much more than he bargained for.

candles are how we keep fires as pets (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Dan tries to convince Phil that no, they absolutely cannot adopt the fire sprite that comes to visit their flat every day. Spoiler: He fails spectacularly.

Folktales from the sea (ao3) - glowingatmosphere

Summary: An unusual stranger saves Phil from drowning.

(held him captive in my kiss) (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan's a sadistic siren with fingers tinted blue and Phil's a silent coward who fears bravery.

Hold the Weight of Worlds (ao3) - letspartyrightnow

Summary: The curse could only be unleashed by a life being taken. Dan still remembered the blood, the screams, the terror in his mother’s eyes. The rush of power and strength that consumed him after, right when the curse was coursing through his body, and how it was unimaginable, painful, yet liberating.

That’s what scared him the most.

Like a moth to a flame (ao3) - sierraadeux

Summary: Phil has been searching for something—someone—for the past ten years of his life. Dan would like to think he tells his boyfriend everything, but he just can't bring himself to tell Phil that his search is over.

Midnight and Crimson (ao3) - 2amphan

Summary: Dan is a siren, a mythical creature who lures sailors to their deaths with his beautiful voice. Phil is a sailor who just so happens to fall into Dan's trap.

sea swept (ao3) - CapriciousCrab

Summary: Eager to get away from the city, Dan takes on the position of lighthouse keeper for a small coastal town and finds more than the solitude he was searching for.

shifting tides (ao3) - CapriciousCrab

Summary: Phil's declining health has Dan struggling with new, uncomfortable feelings.

Siren Call (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Beware of the siren's call, they tell you.

Dan had heard enough horror stories about sirens to be thoroughly terrified. He never wanted to go near the water, but as fate would have it, Dan's father had to sign him up for on a merchant's ship bound for the siren's passage. Dan had a sinking feeling that he was not going to survive an encounter with one of the deadly predators. Those touched by the siren's kiss were bound to drown. Except... it doesn't go quite like that.

siren song (ao3) - lestered (clonetrobed)

Summary: He thinks of last night, teetering on the edge of the cliff, so happy with the idea of following Phil’s voice all the way down. That’d been a particularly close call, and he doesn’t even care. He just wants to hear the song again.

the beast you've made of me (ao3) - azurephil (orphan_account)

Summary: Phil’s eccentric aunt lives hours away in the countryside and needs someone to house-sit while she goes on holiday during the summer. He expects it to be peaceful, albeit boring. Then he meets the gardener.

The Last of the Anthousai (ao3) - americanphancakes

Summary: Phil is different from everyone else in his village. For one thing, his mother is dead. For another, she wasn't human, so neither is he. To learn how to harness the powers he inherited from her, Philip enlists the aid of a Druid living at the edge of a mysterious forest. To make matters more complex, the forest’s waters are drying up and a beautiful flower nymph is telling Philip that he's some sort of chosen one sent to the forest in order to protect it. How is Phil supposed to handle all of this? And who or what is causing the forest to slowly die?

They'll Tear Us Apart (If You Give Them the Chance) (ao3) - Yiffandquiff (paradisobound)

Summary: Dan was just a fairy in his little village of Vixedeler when a mermaid invades the waters and sends the village into a frenzy. A thousand year old rivalry is resurfaced and Dan is left in the middle of his village while also feeding his new connection with the mermaid, Phil. As tensions rise, and Dan falls deeply for Phil, a Romeo and Juliet love story begins.

we'll spend some time, forever (ao3) - sierraadeux

Summary: Dangerous, the primal part of his brain supplied. He’d been selective about ignoring it lately, and maybe if he would take two seconds to fill his mind with anything but the beautiful creature, he would realize just how much he was starting to integrate. Bad. But he was so, so good. So pretty. or Two sets of legs, two tails, one human.

[irishhills]

rainbow

Blair has a habit of missing the world around her. She’s usually thinking so hard about something in her dreams, some goal for the future, some idea that’s never going to come to fruition, that she misses things. Last summer, when she and her family were driving up from Disney World, her dad was disappointed when she missed the holler off the highway in Kentucky. He tried to explain why it was important, and she didn’t get it. She still doesn’t get it. But he seemed really broken up about it, so for the past year, Blair’s made a conscious effort to notice the world around her.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to experience the world as it is. It’s that the world is terrifying and filled with things that can get you if you slow down. She’s sixteen now, drives on her own almost everyday, and she knows what to do to stay alive. Eyes up. Feel for keys. Feel for wallet. Look around. Pan and scan. Eyes up. Walk fast. No second thoughts. Move, move, move. Eyes up. If she can just stay alert, and if she can just move quickly enough, she’ll never be in any pain. She’ll notice things, and her dad won’t have to be sad about his daydreaming, TV-watching daughter anymore.

Except it kind of backfires on her. Blair doesn’t think about Happy Days when she crosses the street anymore, but her mind is still like TV. The disastrous local news. Every time she parks her car, she can hear the anchors saying, “Early this evening, on Ann Arbor-Saline Road, a sixteen-year-old girl was abducted by three men and a baby.” Something like that, anyway. It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s the way her mind works now. Eyes up. Don’t dream.

She misses more things in the terror. A few weeks ago, when she and Chris walked to the car after a late-night movie, the bar next door was apparently blasting “Never Ending Song of Love,” one of Blair’s ironic favorite songs. She missed it because she was thinking about murderers and bombs in the shadows.

This evening shouldn’t be much different. Blair is picking up her little sister, Lennie, who’s been hanging out with a friend all day. It’s summer, and the sun stays out a little longer. But sunlight doesn’t matter when you’ve never been to this house. Blair’s not sure where she’s going, which is a nightmare. Why did they ever trust her with a driver’s license if she has no idea where she’s going? She looks at the directions her mother hastily scribbled down, but they don’t make sense. Before she knows it, she’s gone about a mile out of the way.

She does a U-turn that would surely earn her a ticket if a cop was there to see it. After a few anxious minutes, Blair winds up in a video store parking lot. She gets out of the car because she’s sweating now, and maybe the outdoor air will cool her off. It doesn’t. She pictures a life of never getting back home, spending the night in her car, leaving Lennie stranded with some friends Blair has never even met. She wishes she could call, but there’s nothing tackier than a car phone, no matter what Luke says. She knows she should probably worry about strangers and disaster here. It’s just that she can’t bring herself to worry anymore. Not when everything seems to look and feel remarkably like shit.

But the instincts are still there.

Eyes up.

When Blair lifts her gaze, there is a beautiful rainbow in the sky. For a second, she feels nothing, until she begins to shake and laugh hysterically. Blair tries not to put too much stock in clichés, especially not the ones she learned in Catholic school, but this one feels right. The rainbow could be a covenant. It could be telling her where to go, or at least that she’s not doomed. Maybe she’s never been doomed.

You ever think about why you always worry about doom? she asks herself.

She knows the answer. She worries she’ll never love herself enough – that life will be taken out of her lungs before she learns how to like it. How to like herself. It’s not about Chris not liking her, and it’s not about her GPA. It’s not about what college she goes to or what job she ends up working. There’s more, and Blair is terrified she’ll die before she figures out what it is.

She looks at the rainbow in the sky, and it is still beautiful.

And she thinks she knows how to loop back around to Lennie, too.

[strywoven-moved]

@lachrymosestorm​​ asked : [ scream ]   my  muse  hears  your  muse  scream  and  runs  to  them // AH.. I suck at these whatever the order is that Claudius hears Dez scream o.o

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅.

          This is not the first time the Chimera has accidentally fallen asleep somewhere that is not his home ( but at the very least it wasn’t his office , dozed off amid his paperwork , his dreams even still plagued by the realm of work when he should be at peace ) .  He does not realize is SO TIRED until he’s fallen completely unconscious , already strewn / stranded on the poor woman’s couch by the time she returns from taking a call in the other room.  It must seem endearing - such an imposing , patriarchal figure , dozing off on your sofa like a fledgling.  It is a sign of how c o m f o r t a b l e he’s grown with Dez ( this young woman who’s nestled almost too comfortably into his life ) ; able to sleep in her home , able to free himself from his concerns for an entire evening’s rest knowing well there would be p e a c e .  Or so he believes.

          Claudius jolts awake , sitting upright as soon as the first terror-stricken notes cut through his slumber.  Taking a moment to settle his own startled heart , he waits – he listens … Was it simply his own mind ?  Or could it be something in the world of the waking that’s making the noise ?  But it happens again – a whimper , a sound of despair / distress , caught somewhere ‘tween a shriek and a sob – Claudius’s concerns rush back to the surface : DEZ !  Already in motion , tossing aside the blanket and putting long gait to use to make haste to her room.  There is no time for pretense , the Chimera opens the door and goes within , settling beside her on the bed.  The poor creature , caught in a NIGHTMARE ; possessed with a pain he’s not entirely sure he can help her fight ( though he remembers , some many conversations ago , that the woman was , at times , a victim of her memories ; haunted by the past ) .

          “Dez,” Comes the softened rumble of her name , calloused hands reaching for her – hesitating only the once – and brushing back sweat-seeped hair from her forehead , smoothing over her fevered cheek.  “Dez , I’m here,” Gingerly , he lifts her , cradling her close to his chest , h o p i n g for all he was worth that – somehow – his presence would be enough to absolve her of whatever has come to terrify her this night.  “I’m here —” Claudius repeats the verse , a mantra he hopes she’ll wake to and find comfort in , one he hopes she’ll BELIEVE .  He knows he’s never been this b r a v e before , never wanting to be so close , but he doesn’t seem to risk thinking about it now.  All that matters is keeping her SAFE .

[stupidfatpenguin]

Grogu likes master Luke.

(Partially because he lets Grogu’s father come visit whenever he can, and partially because he lets Grogu keep a free reign of terror over the creatures in the pond outside the temple, but there are other reasons, too.)

Instinctively, from when they first met, from when Grogu first felt him, he had known that his master is someone special. Only someone very special could enter a place with so much fear and anger and despair and make the Force sing tunes of hope. There is a light in him, a place of good and wanting to do good that wells and overflows and makes the galaxy a little less dark of a place.

Master Luke is very different from the other masters—the ones Grogu can vaguely recall from a past that seems so far away now. His temple is different, too, and too large for the two Jedi it houses. But Grogu likes the training they do, likes the way he feels against his mind, assured and strong, and playful and exploring. Like he is learning with Grogu, rather than just departing a lesson.

He likes master’s flying, the acrobatics he’ll sometimes perform in his x-wing that makes Grogu’s stomach churn with excitement; he likes his astromech, and how he bickers and banters with it like they are family or very old friends, and how he convinces R2 to let Grogu ride on top of his dome head as they zoom around the halls; he likes how he asks Grogu to show him his favourite things and happiest memories, and how he ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s at the right parts when he shows him his adventures with father.

More than anything—more than sitting comfy in his master’s hood as they explore the jungle or getting to play in the pond until sundown, hunting down the largest and tastiest frogs with hunter-like determination that surely would make his father proud—he likes the understanding. Here, at the temple, there is no hiding anymore, and no suppressing what he hears and feels in the universe around him, no hiding what he can do. He is safe. With master Luke, here, he feels safe.

(He likes it even better when father is here because that means his father, too, is safe.)

His master is bright, and kind, and he listens, and he is all this even when Grogu does something he was not supposed to do. Whenever he reaches out for him, he reaches back, and he is warm, warm, warm.

So Grogu likes master Luke very much.

And, naturally, he wishes that he can make his master feel as safe and happy as Grogu is.

(Master Luke is not always happy. Often, he hides his pain and his own fears and loneliness, and Grogu knows because he had long done the same.)

There isn't much one can do when one is only very small, and his master is not as fond of the largest and tastiest frogs as Grogu is (even though he has shared with him memories of a time when he ate them often).

But there are some things Grogu can do.

The first time Grogu sees his master hurt is while they are out in the humid jungle, stacking stones and moving water with the Force. The stones come easy to him now, but the water is challenging in its formlessness. Master Luke is demonstrating a particularly difficult manoeuvre, creating fine, cooling mist out of pond-water.

There, where his shirt once covered his shoulders, Grogu sees the angry red and dark purpling of bruises. His ears flatten against his head, and he wonders how his master could have been made to suffer these injuries. He sometimes has them when he returns from off-world, from places that are probably dangerous—places he goes to so that they can all be safe.

This time, master has not been off-world, and these bruises are relatively small. The cause is likely the nasty, large mosquitos or meat-flies that sometimes find their way into the temple, if they’re not careful enough with the doors and windows.

Grogu vows to eat one the next time he sees one buzzing by.

He likes master Luke very much, after all.

Which is why it is so strange to Grogu when master Luke tries to stop him while he is healing his wounds.

“Grogu,” says his master, eyes wide in surprise and his own hand holding Grogu’s away from his neck—now back to its regular, healthy colour.

Grogu coos, askance. Not better?

“I—you didn’t have to…” master Luke pauses, turns a little, as if embarrassed for a moment. “Thank you, I mean. But I was doing just fine. You should save those powers for when they are truly needed, little one.”

Grogu’s head drops, and he feels unhappy for a moment. He had only meant to help.

His master must sense this, for he reaches out, warm and wonderful, and gives Grogu a brilliant smile.

“Some practice doesn't hurt, of course. But you don’t have to do that again.”

Grogu makes a sound of understanding, but he really doesn’t understand why his master would refuse to let Grogu heal him.

Some weeks the biting bugs are more vicious than others. Grogu makes good on his promise to exterminate every such creature he comes over, and even enlists R2 to his aid, incinerating the ones that Grogu misses.

Grogu luckily does not suffer so badly, and his father is so well protected that no insect could ever do him harm. Why are they so interested in master Luke? Perhaps some people, the ones that are good and powerful, like his master, simply taste better.

(Despite his master’s request that he doesn’t, Grogu sometimes, when seated conveniently in his hood or on his shoulder, can’t resist reaching out in focus, and watching in satisfaction as the skin there is healed and turned unblemished, even when master gives him very accusive stares when he discovers it later, although Grogu claims none of the credit.)

To Grogu’s great worry and frustration, the bruises keep returning.

It is only a day later, when father is holding him just after breakfast, and Grogu clearly spies more terrible bruises on master Luke—red and vicious and high on his neck. He reaches out, whines loudly. Perhaps father can help him convince his master to accept his help.

“Grogu? Hey, what’s wrong, kid?”

Master Luke immediately knows his intentions, but his face, inexplicably, slowly takes on a hue of red. To his father, he explains: “Ah, he… wants to heal me.”

“Are you hurt?” father asks urgently, and Grogu feels validated in his concern.

“No! No, I’m fine, he just, uh…” His face grows redder still. “The other day, he saw the… marks and… healed them. He thinks they’re hurting me.”

His father stares, eyes wide, and Grogu can feel his hand twitching and his body radiate a sort of embarrassment. “Maybe I should… stop doing that.”

Master laughs, smiles mischievously. “Maybe you should start leaving them lower.”

Grogu is suddenly confused. Had his father been the one to do this? Are his father and his master fighting? Hurting each other? He remembers that his father hadn’t been happy when he had tried protecting him when he had wrestled with Cara Dune, because she was “his friend”, but they had never wounded each other. Not like this. Were his father and master Luke, perhaps, not friends after all? None of this seemed to make sense. But he can’t allow them to hurt each other anymore.

So when his two most important people are suddenly standing a lot closer, and his father’s other hand touches his master’s neck exactly where he is hurt, Grogu gathers the Force around him and promptly pushes.

(And because Grogu likes master Luke and his father so very, very much, he is not that sad when he is not allowed frogs for dinner that night).

-

Tl;dr: Grogu wants to heal Luke’s injuries, but they are actually hickeys.

(This started as a ficlet about Grogu’s feelings on Luke, and suddenly became DinLuke whoops)

[mypoisonedvine]

The Wrong Idea | Lee Bodecker x reader

summary: you weren’t exactly a rebel in the eyes of the law, but that didn’t mean you cared for the corrupt, alcoholic town sheriff.  and that certainly didn’t mean you would care at all for him marrying your mother.  if only you’d known how much worse it could get...

word count: 4.5k

warnings: smut!! (heavy dubcon/noncon), age gap (reader is 19), stepcest, loss of virginity, pain kink, creampie kink, infidelity, degradation, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, choking, slapping, daddy kink, authority kink, subtle ddlg themes?, reader’s mom being toxic af

You’d never cared for the Sheriff.  Even you, being generally a well-behaved young woman, thought he was a little too intense and a little too corrupt.  Up until now, you’d assumed your mother agreed with you on that, because she never protested to your complaints about Sheriff Bodecker and his ‘fascist reign of terror’ as you called it.  Apparently that was a poor assumption, though.

“You… what?!”

“I never told you we were seein’ each other because I knew you had your childish rebellion against him and his police force,” your mother explained with a demeaning eyeroll.  “But now that we’re engaged, I can’t hide it anymore.”

“How long has this been going on?” you asked quietly, still in shock at what you were hearing— and unable to take your eyes off of the sparkling diamond wrapped around her finger.

“Oh, I’d say… about two months now,” she decided.

“Two—” you stopped and started over, so bewildered that you couldn’t finish your original sentence.  “You’re engaged after two months?”

“Don’t make that face at me, you look so ugly when you scowl like that,” she frowned.  Of course, she could never miss an opportunity to nag you.  “He’s a respectable man, and he treats me well.  The wedding is in three weeks— and he’s generous enough to let you live with us after that.  Says there’s a spare bedroom for you in his house.”

“His… his house…” you slurred, suddenly feeling light-headed.  “I’m… we’re moving…?”

“Yes, honey, and with your work ethic it’ll take you the whole three weeks to pack up, so you should start now,” she informed you with that cruel, fake smile of hers.

She walked away as you sat down on the couch, staring off into space, trying to comprehend what you just heard.  It’s not like you thought your mother was flawless or anything, or that you and her had a perfect relationship, but you thought she would’ve been a little more… gentle about all this.  She could do better than him anyways!  But she didn’t care about that, only money and status.  You could almost laugh at her small-mindedness to think the Sheriff of a nothing-town like Knockemstiff was actually plentiful in either of those things, but right now you couldn’t laugh.  You couldn’t even cry as you packed your things and said goodbye to the home you’d known your whole life.  You were just numb.

//

You couldn’t look him in the eye when you arrived at his house, duffel bags in hand and shoes stained with the dry red dirt of summer.  It was nicer than your old place, and if it were anyone else’s you’d say it had charm, but everything was tainted because you knew it was his.  You could sort of tell that this had been his bachelor pad for a while, but it had a half-assed attempt at hominess with the rug in the living room and a centerpiece on the kitchen table.  He even had a TV, presumably funded by bribes and all his other nefarious dealings— meaning you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to watch it.

“Nice to meet ya, properly,” Lee greeted, though his monotone didn’t come across as particularly impassioned.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” you mumbled quickly, hoping to get this conversation over with.

“You don’t have to call me Sheriff anymore, you know.  Not in the house, at least.”

You nodded but said nothing, following him as he motioned for you and moved into the hallway.  You trailed behind him, noticing the eerie lack of any personal effects on the walls (no family photos, apparently, and not much of a family to photograph in the first place from what you’d heard), and stopped when he reached the door at the end.

“This is your room,” Lee informed you stiffly.  Opening the door, you were horrified by the assault on your eyes of pink.  Pink everything: pink wallpaper, a pink fuzzy quilt, pink bedframe.  There were even assorted stuffed animals on the bed, disturbingly enough.

“When my mother told you she had a daughter, did she not mention that I was grown?”

“You may be nineteen, honey, but you’re nowhere near grown,” he scowled.  “She didn’t tell me she had a daughter until two days before the weddin’.  This is what I managed to... improvise, since then.”

You almost had sympathy for him, just in that you two were both victims of your mother’s eccentricity.  Almost.  

“Must’ve inherited your expensive taste from your ma,” he frowned.  “Sorry, princess—” the nickname made his lips curl like the word itself tasted sour— “but this’ll have to do.”

“Oh, I’m nothing like her,” you sneered back, “cause I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”

“What are you two chatting about?” your mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

Both of you answered at the same time: “Nothing!” 

With a grimace, you dragged your bag into the room and shut the door in his face.  It was those little acts of rebellion that had to tide you over.  You weren’t audacious enough to do anything actually cruel, or illegal, but you weren’t going to make this any easier for him.

At first it was just refusing to leave your room.  That worked for a week, until you realized you were going to starve to death.  So then the only times you saw him were at the dinner table, which you made into a protest by pretending he didn’t exist and refusing to answer his questions.  You occasionally relented when he asked you to pass something from your side of the table, but you never looked at him while you did it.  

He didn’t seem angry or sad about your determination to avoid him, if anything it seemed like he was happy to pretend you weren’t there either.  And that should’ve made it easier, but for some reason it bothered you even more.  You realized that maybe his attention did matter to you, even though it was negative attention that you were hoping to inspire, but you knew that was ridiculous and you tried to fight it.  Still, for all your plans to never see him, you sure did think about him a lot.  You thought about where he might be, so you could be somewhere else.  You thought about what he must be doing at work, and how he was probably continuing to be a nasty mean drunk as frequently as possible.  You wondered if he and your mother were making love just across the house, although you were lucky enough to never hear anything.  Just knowing that could be happening made you feel sick, even though you realized it was none of your business.  

You sometimes found yourself listening for it at night, just in case.

//

Your mother had decided to spend her new husband’s money on a trip, but the man himself couldn’t tag along— too much work to do, apparently.  The prospect of being left alone with him was nightmare fuel, but you didn’t even try to ask her to stay… you knew she wouldn’t listen.  She’d been totally absorbed in her own world since the wedding, seeming to be very fulfilled by the social role of ‘Sheriff’s wife’ to the point that she had lost all interest in her former position as ‘your mom’.  

There was a balance to the silence with her gone, though.  You avoided him, he avoided you; it was a tense truce, but a survivable one.  At least without her, nobody was going to try to make you two get along.  Friday night was different, though.  This time when he came home from work, you knew you were stuck with him until Monday morning.  That thought made you realize that you needed to get out and you didn’t care if you weren’t dressed for it.  It was hot, and it was just a walk so nobody was going to see you in this miniskirt anyway, right?

Too bad Lee was sitting on the couch, still in his uniform, not giving you any mind but likely to harass you before you could make it outside.  You figured if you just walked casually enough, he wouldn’t even notice, so you made your way towards the door.

“You’re not going out like that,” he announced suddenly, seemingly without even looking up from his newspaper.

“Says who?” you deflected quickly with a raised brow.  It wasn’t that you wanted to pick a fight, but you just couldn’t understand why he would even care what you were wearing.

“Says the guy who doesn’t want you to give all the neighborhood boys the wrong idea.”

“What idea?!” you asked, crossing your arms.  He shot you a look, quickly raking in your body and outfit which made you feel more observed than you cared for.

“The idea that you’re a slut,” he explained coldly.

You gulped at his words but tried to keep a poker face.  You didn’t let it get this far just to give up.  You were so sick of his shit; what made him think he could boss you around when he’d never even tried to get to know you?

“What makes you assume that’s the wrong idea?” you shot back, fighting the nervousness in your voice.

You hadn’t expected him to stand up instantly, the coffee table wobbling a bit when his knee bumped into it.

“The fuck did you say?” he hissed.

With his teeth bared at you he looked like a predator, and you felt like small, helpless prey.  You tried to muster some of your former confidence, but everything came out shaky and weak.  “I— I said that maybe it’s not the wrong ide—”

He pounced, crossing the room and slamming you back against the wall, a hand at each shoulder; you instantly cowered, shrinking back and turning your face away from him as far as you could.  You never thought he’d put his hands on you like this.  Your heart was pounding so loudly that you were surprised you could hear his hoarse whisper.

“Watch your tone with me.  I’m not kidding around.”

“I’m an adult,” you weakly fought back, “I can do what I want.”

“Not in my fuckin’ house you can’t!” he bellowed.

For some reason, it all hit you at once.  All the emotions you’d been suppressing since your mother had gotten engaged— all the anger and fear and betrayal and indignation, they came bubbling up before you could stop them.  

“I don’t even want to be in your ugly fucking house!” you cried in response.  “I don’t wanna be anywhere near you!  You’re a fascist and a tyrant and a pig!”

You expected him to get more aggressive but he suddenly stilled.  It was the scariest anger, that outwardly-calm type that made your blood go cold.

“Go to your room.”

You didn’t question it, turning to walk away (any excuse to get away from him, right?), but you didn’t expect him to follow you in and shut the door behind the both of you.

You were paralyzed with fear as he stepped past you and sat on your bed.  It was sort of strange as you realized you’d never seen him in your room before.  He stood out against the somewhat childish decorations, but you were in no mood to appreciate the humor of the situation as he patted his knee.

“Lay across my lap.  Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He couldn’t possibly be doing what I think he’s doing, could he? you wondered to yourself, but did as he asked.  You realized you’d never been so close to him before, the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes.  He smelled like cologne and booze, although you didn’t think he’d actually had much to drink yet today— at least compared to his normal habits.  It was almost worse to think that he wasn’t acting on drunkenness now.

“It’s prob’ly too late for it, but you are in serious need of discipline, young lady.”

You had no idea what he was talking about, but your body reacted to it differently than you expected.

His fingers slipped between the top of your skirt and your skin, having to pull pretty hard to get it down due to how tight it was.  You bit your lip and hoped he wouldn’t notice your arousal, but as your pussy was exposed, you could feel the breeze from the ceiling fan and you knew you were undeniably wet.  You didn’t know why, but you were.

“Count them for me,” he instructed coldly and before you could ask what you were counting, he brought his hand down firmly.  You felt his wedding ring in the slap and it made you feel a little sick.

“O-one,” you stammered.

He delivered four more, alternating cheeks, and you tried not to react with visible pain.  But as the intensity increased, you realized that not reacting might’ve actually been making it worse.  Either way, you couldn’t stop yourself from crying out when the eighth made your whole body lurch forward from the force.

“Eight!” you squealed, but both of you noticed the way you pushed your hips forward.  Unintentional as it may have been, you were trying to rub yourself on his thigh, desperate to be touched where it felt like all the energy of your body had focused.  You were sure you’d never been so horny before, and now your clit was nearly throbbing.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!

He quickly delivered the final two slaps before grabbing your neck, hoisting you up until you were on your knees before him.  He examined your face closely and you tried to keep your lip from shaking.

“You’re worse than I thought,” he hissed.  “You are in dire need of a punishment.  You should thank me for going so easy on you so far.”

You realized when his grip on your jaw tightened that he was being literal.  “Thank you, for going easy on me…”

“Where’d that fire go, huh?  Guess you’re all talk,” he laughed.  

He roughly shoved his fingers into your mouth, moaning lowly as your tongue rubbed against the pads of his fingers.  “This fuckin’ mouth.  You just don’t know when to keep it shut, do you?  Come on baby, open up.  I’ve got a better use for it than your fuckin’ disrespectful attitude.”

He used his free hand to work on his belt right in front of your face, and your eyes went wide.

“Don’t act so surprised sweetheart,” he said with a hint of irritation, “this is exactly what you’re asking for.”

You gasped a bit when his cock was freed from his trousers, springing up and already red at the tip.  You’d never seen one this close before and it was intimidating in every way.

“Like what you see?  You’re so wet for it,” he purred.  You tried to speak but words abandoned you. 

It was all a blur as he held your mouth open and shoved his cock inside— it tasted like skin and salt, and the size made your chapped lips crack until you worried they would bleed.  His moans were deep and gravelly, making your skin break out into goosebumps as he pumped smoothly into your pliant mouth.  He slapped your face a few times, not quite hard but plenty strong enough to make it sting.  You winced with each impact, the tears which had welled from your gagging finally falling down and dripping from your chin.

“Suck on it, princess, like a popsicle… fuck yeah, like that,” he groaned, and your mind resisted obeying him but your body was completely at his mercy.  “Aw baby, ya look so good chokin’ on my cock.  Is that what you were gonna go do in this slutty little outfit you’ve got on?”

You tried to shake your head but he was holding you down, not even giving you a chance to breathe.  His protruding stomach rubbed against your forehead when his cock was this deep in your throat, and the disgust and fear somehow made your arousal stronger.

He let you go, finally, and you pulled back with a gasp and a cough.  You weren’t given much reprieve, though, as he started to tug at your blouse as well.

“No, wait,” you whimpered, weakly trying to bat his hands away.

“Wait?  I think I’ve been waiting long enough,” he growled.  “Your ma’s a fuckin’ tease, hasn’t touched me since I got her that ugly fuckin’ ring.  Let’s hope you learn from her mistakes.”

Your blouse was torn open and tossed aside, leaving you only in the pulled-up skirt and your bra.  Reaching up to cover yourself, you were discouraged by the shockingly-gentle brush of his hands. 

“Don’t cover yourself, sweetheart, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured.  His gaze made you feel hot all over, and it wasn’t just because of the summer weather outside.  “Nobody ever looked at ya before?”

You shook your head, looking down at the floor.  A finger under your chin guided you to look up at him.  

“Nobody ever touched ya before?” he pressed, his stare boring into you.  You shook your head again.  “Fuck,” he whispered, but then he started to smile proudly.  “Knew you were a good girl, princess, you just didn’t wanna act like one for some reason.  You gonna be good for me now?” 

You nodded weakly, swallowing as you tried to comprehend what was happening.  

“Then I’ll be good to you, too,” he promised darkly, a shimmer in his eyes that made you throb between your thighs.  “Come get on the bed, pretty girl.”

You almost resisted, but it was your need driving you now, not your mind.  You had been waiting too long to let a boy touch you, and now that a man had touched you, you felt all kinds of wrong and yet craved more.  Before you had even finished sitting down beside him, he was slipping off your bra and pushing you back onto the quilt.

“Sheriff!” you yelped instinctively, a little disoriented as he started to climb on top of you.

He chuckled, clearly amused by your unexpected appeal to authority.  “Wanna know a secret, sweetheart?  Wanna know the real reason I said you didn’t have to call me that anymore?”  He leaned down, his breath hot and moist against your neck when he spoke: “Because it made me so fuckin’ hard when you said it.”

He pressed his cock, still wet with your spit, against your thigh; maybe just for emphasis, a reminder that he was still hard and wasn’t anywhere near done with you.

“What are you gonna do to me…?” you asked weakly, your voice so wavering and broken that you cringed just hearing it.  

“Just gonna make you feel good, princess,” he smiled, and before you could ask what that would entail, he was groping your tits in his large, calloused hands.  A low groan echoed in his chest, and you tried not to squirm as he teased your nipples between his fingers.  They were already hardening from the moment he’d touched you, but somehow it was getting even worse when he played with them, watching your face and surely seeing the shame you wore there.

His hands trailed lower, rubbing your waist, your thighs… you found yourself anticipating that he’d remove your panties, so much so that when he did, you quickly lifted your hips to help him slide them off.  You couldn’t believe how easily you were letting him do this to you.

“I can tell how much you want it,” he taunted lowly as the fabric slid down your legs and was tossed to the floor.  “I can smell how much you want it.”  He growled a little before diving in, licking a thick stripe through your folds and taking a moment right at the end to tickle your clit with his tongue.  “So fuckin’ sweet, princess; I knew you would be,” he praised.  You were forced to wonder how long he’d been thinking about this.

The noises were beyond obscene and you felt your face burning— but there was a burning in your gut, too, and shooting down your legs.  You’d never felt like this before (being a very good girl who never even touched herself), but you knew that if he didn’t stop, you would come.  And you really, really wanted to come.

Everytime he put pressure on your clit, your leg quivered involuntarily.  It was nearly too much, the sensation so powerful it almost hurt, but he pushed you right to the edge without knocking you off.

“Please,” you found yourself begging before you could stop it, “please, Sheriff—”

“I’m not your Sheriff anymore, sweetheart,” he informed you gruffly, popping up from between your legs with the entire bottom half of his face covered in your arousal, “I’m your daddy now.  Go on and beg your daddy to fuck you.”

Eyes shot wide open, you stared back at him in bewilderment.  Rage flashed in his eyes, and he snarled as his hand suddenly wrapped around your neck, tightening and choking you. 

“You heard me,” he groaned through his teeth.  “Beg me.  To fuck you.”

“Daddy,” you stammered, hoarsely fighting to speak through the pressure on your throat, “fuck me, please.”

He slammed his cock into you and you nearly screamed.  It burned and you instinctively tried to crawl away but, of course, his weight on top of you made it impossible.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned.  He laid down on top of you entirely then, slipping his arms under your torso and holding you tightly.

Each thrust made you feel like you had reached your limits, as if you couldn’t be stretched further which was probably true.  And yet, in spite of it (or worse, because of it), you found yourself moaning and writhing under him, even arching your back to make his movements smoother.  He laughed a little as he bit at the shell of your ear.

“You love it, baby,” he moaned, “you love my cock.”

You couldn’t respond, just sob as you clutched at the shirt still on his back, your jaw tight as you tried to bear the pain.  

“It’s not always gonna hurt like this,” he promised between heavy breaths, “s’gonna feel good soon.  Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, pretty girl.”

Truthfully, you weren’t sure if that meant that this would happen again or not.  At the moment, you were incapable of thinking that far ahead, too focused on the way the sting of the stretch was melting away and morphing into such powerful pleasure that you couldn’t even see straight.

He kissed you, and only then did the weight of it hit you.  Who he was, what he was doing, what you were doing… it had been distant and vague before, but something about his tongue inside your mouth made you remember that the metal digging into your back was his ring; that the lips on yours were sworn to somebody else— and at that, the one exact person that made this so fundamentally wrong.

Tears welled in your eyes, gentle sobs shaking your chest.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, pulling back and kissing your tears away, “feels good, don’t it?  Feels good when daddy fucks you?”

You knew speaking would only make you cry more, so you only nodded your head shamefully.

“That’s my good girl,” he moaned as he fucked you deeper, harder, rougher.  Your fingers held onto the back of his neck, running through his hair and pulling him closer.  He kept mumbling praises but they fell on deaf ears, pleasure clouding your mind and making every hair on your body stand upright.  He didn’t stop as he reached down between your bodies and laid his hand over your stomach, growling with satisfaction at what he found there.

“I can feel me inside ya,” he grinned.  “Feel that, sweetheart?  Feel how deep I am in your wet little cunt?”

When you didn’t answer, you got a quick slap to the face.  “Yes,” you replied quickly, “yes, I— I feel it.”

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, biting you there until you nearly screamed.  You couldn’t figure out why something so objectively painful only pushed you closer to your peak, making every spot inside you more sensitive, but somehow it did.

“Gonna come, pretty girl?  Want daddy to fill you up?” he groaned against your ear, pushing down on your stomach even harder.

“Yes, daddy!” you sobbed.  “Please!”

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me,” he hissed, “don’t fuckin’ stop.  Keep milkin’ my cock and m’gonna fill ya up so good, princess…”

You couldn’t stop even if you tried— your orgasm hit you in powerful waves, your head falling back as your walls clenched involuntarily (as did your fingers and toes, so hard that your nail tore the sheets a little bit, which you wouldn’t notice until the next day).  He grunted as he came, pumping into you with each thrust until you felt more full than you ever had before, in a way you could never describe.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, him catching his breath and you losing yours as his weight threatened to crush you.  “Fuck,” he groaned as he sat up and pulled out.  He grabbed your legs and held them up for you, staring at your abused pussy and making you feel uncomfortably observed.

“Push it out for me, wanna see my come leak outta ya,” he purred, moaning a little when you did as he asked.  It felt even hotter as it gushed out of you, and you mindlessly bit your lip.  He tucked his softening cock back into his trousers, rezipping them and buckling his belt.  “We’d better get ya cleaned up, huh princess?” 

The bathroom wasn’t far, so he carried you, setting you down to stand on your own as he started to draw a bath.  You watched him, although you weren’t really watching him so much as staring into the void of space that happened to be in his general direction.  You were so out of it that you didn’t even register when he turned around and smiled at you with an air of pride.

“You look so good like this.”  

It pulled you out of your trance, though you had to ask him to repeat himself with a mumbled “huh?”

“I said you look good like this,” he explained, stepping closer.  “Fucked out, braindead, just my empty-headed fucktoy.”

“I… I don’t…” you began to disagree.

He used your jaw to turn your face to the mirror, and you gasped when you saw yourself: your hair was a mess; your whole face was red, especially your eyes and nose from crying, but plenty on your cheeks where he’d slapped you; your lips were swollen and slick; bruises were already forming on your arms where he’d grabbed you, and along your neck and shoulders where he had bitten you.

His form dwarfed yours as he stood behind you, looking at your reflection with a smile.

“Look at us,” he announced wistfully, “one big happy family, huh?”

[lyssahlyssah]

Obey Me! Lucifer's Dream

a/n: This is a piece for the lead-up to Kinktober. I wanted to bring the unevolved, evil, and dangerous Lucifer out in a safe environment where no one actually ends up getting hurt. The timeframe is just after MC arrives in the devildom and meets everyone, but hasn't had time to get close and develop relationships. Thanks to @theinariakuma for beta-ing.

Trigger warnings: fantasy violence, implied fantasy murder, implied fantasy rape, sadism, anger, dark themes.

Pairing: F!MC x Lucifer

Category: not suitable for work, dark fantasy

//

Midnight rolled around again and Lucifer rubbed his temples with gloved fingers. With no sun, day and night had little meaning here, but even so, he had been awake for five straight days, a full two days longer than his normal and it was starting to show.

Irritably, he signed his name to the latest document in front of him and with a scowl, snapped the pen in two between his fingers. I mean, how much was a demon supposed to take?

First, there was helping Diavolo with his extra paperwork since Barbatos was on vacation, then overseeing the RAD student council... Mammon playing the fool... and now babysitting the new human exchange student. The last one took an enormous amount of his resources because she was just so damn fragile. He was always having to watch over her, keep lesser demons from devouring her, creating special education for her, and most of all, controlling his own temper so he wouldn't kill or frighten her. She obviously didn't belong here, but Diavolo was firm with his instructions regarding the human, she was to be treated as gently as if she was back in her own world.

He scoffed, irritation sliding into anger. Something about interworld relations. Really, who cares at all about that. If his time in the Celestial Realm had taught him anything, it was that humans were weak, unworthy of his time, and invited trouble. Trouble was already something they had plenty of, thanks to Mammon.

And he certainly didn't care about maintaining relations with the Celestial Realm, he didn't want to see another angel for the rest of his life.

He resented the extra intrusion on his time. Solomon was a different story, he could take care of himself and required very little attention, and as far as Lucifer cared, could stay as long as he liked, so long as he didn't try to cook.

Uninvited, her face floated into his mind and he angrily stuffed the thought away. MC... What kind of a name is MC anyway, he thought.

He got up and walked to the piano, sitting down in front of the keys, hoping some music could help clear and calm his head. Playing a few bars of his favorite composer, De La Lordo, he closed his eyes and leaned into the music. However, his anger continued to throb and as it did so, his fingers tripped over one another causing a shriek of dissonance that cut through the silence of his office like a knife.

Irritation exploding, he slammed down the lid to the keys. Even his favorite classical music couldn't cool him down. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw HER face. HER body. HER skin. He didn't understand. He was the chosen one of his father's creations, the strongest, the most beautiful, the most talented, the most intelligent. His burgeoning attraction to something so unremarkable sent waves of revulsion and confusion tumbling through him.

Unable to control his anger and disgust, he rampaged through his office; and only after his curtains and furniture were hanging in shreds with several new vase-shaped holes in the walls did he finally sit down hard in the armchair by his fireplace, leather creaking to accommodate his weight. He hadn't lost his temper like this for a long time, but he knew his brothers wouldn't dare approach his door after hearing his wrath. Spent, he pushed his sweaty hair out of his face and leaned his head back against the soft surface, eyes closing.

...squeals in the dark.

Everything was fuzzy. He shook his head roughly to clear it, but the cloudiness stubbornly held on. Hazily, he pushed through long-limbed bushes that grasped at his hair and clothes into a woody clearing and there she was. Small, perfect, tearful eyes wide, gag tightening into the sides of her mouth, hands tied in front of her. She's naked. A fire to one side, casting flickering shadows that danced across her terrified face.

His heart started to race and his breathing quickened. This is a dream, he thought.

Touching his tongue to his upper lip, and then dragging it across the top of his lower teeth, he continued to watch her struggle. He felt dark urges bubbling up within him...he wanted to hurt her. Use her. Feed off her fear. The longer he watched, the stronger the urges became.

His fingers curled up in tight fists at his side. How good it would feel to let go...stop controlling himself for once. Stop doing what everyone expected of him. Just be free. Free to hate. Free to rage. Free to destroy.

The passion was too intoxicating to resist. With eyes closed, he let the anger take him. Roaring, he exploded into fire, white-hot flames threatening to sear his bones to ash. His handsome face melted into a horrific ghastly caricature of its former self. Pain as blackened wing tips burst through the taut skin of his back leaving bloody and ragged holes around them, pain as one curled horn ground its way free of the top of his head, then the other. Pain as his bones stretched to make him larger, thicker, new muscles pulsating with power. Pain as his claws burst from his fingertips impaling themselves on his palms as he ground his fists with rage.

All was pain and he drank it in like a man dying of thirst. His transformation complete, he throbbed with energy, heat, and rage.

The poor girl had yet to see him emerge from the darkness, but emerge he did, at last, a red glow upon the ground and an earth-shaking tremor heralding his arrival. Her already widened eyes, bulged from their sockets. Too scared to make a noise, strangled whimpers were all that emerged from around the gag.

Standing tall in all his terrible glory before her, her fear increases his desire.

He frees himself from his pants and masturbates furiously. He can't remember how long it's been since he touched himself like this, with an anger and intent. Or at all, for that matter. Passion had all but dried up for him after his fall from grace. Life had become controlling his brothers and the mundane of Diavolo's paperwork. It felt good just to feel anything again.

Sadistically, he chuckled lowly. His beautiful, terrible eyes narrowing, he lets loose his enormous hard cock, where it hangs heavily erect against his leg, waiting. Her eyes follow its movements and he revels in her horror. She knows what's going to happen and that she has absolutely no way to stop it.

Even through her fear and almost as a betrayal to herself, she can't help but feel a supernatural attraction to him, his power, his beauty. He can sense it as well, and it increases his contempt for her.

It's only too easy, he thinks arrogantly. She can't help but want me, even like this. I can smell it all over her. She wants to get fucked by a monster.

It confirms all of his previously-held beliefs that humans are inferior. He sneers, face contorting. Pitiful. So weak...so insignificant. Utterly disposable.

That last thought ignited his lust to new levels. Here was a toy he could abuse with no repercussions to his conscience. She wasn't worth consideration or care. Since she was beneath his respect, he could be himself completely.

Dark excitement pushing him forward, he took a quick step towards her, and she cringed backward against her restraints, desperate to flee.

He smiles. "It's no use trying to escape, little one," he said cruelly, his soft words contradicted by his harsh tone."Escape doesn't exist for you anymore. You're mine. "

Her screams echo throughout the woods, full of terror and ecstasy.

Hours later, the screams fade as a long howl rises. The girl's mangled body lies still on the ground, every orifice stuffed full and dripping, blood on the ground. Her face is quiet, eyes glassy with rapture, expression frozen in terror. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

His violence finally sated, Lucifer stands with his bloody cock dripping, drenched in sweat and other fluids, parts of himself slipping back into human form. An unexpected warm rush fills him as he looks at her, and impulsively, he leans down and tenderly kisses her cooling cheek.

At the touch of her flesh, his eyes open and he is back in his office chair. His grandfather clock lets him know morning has come.

The chair lies in ruins around his outline, he had transformed outside of his dream as well. He shifts in the chair and his pants catch against him uncomfortably, sticky, full of his cum several times over. He feels an overwhelming sense of release, of a long-overdue itch scratched, a boiling tea kettle that has let off its steam. Feeling powerful and confident, he rises to clean himself and get ready for the day.

Later

"Once again, Lucifer will be providing you with your lessons and general protection this week," Diavolo said conversationally to the girl. All three of them were sitting in Diavolo's office, sipping tea kept at the perfect temperature by Barbatos's careful attentions. The girl hesitantly looked over her teacup towards Lucifer, remembering the handsome demon's obvious irritation the week before.

"I'm at your command," Lucifer said silkily, cooly polite. He showed none of the irritation from before, and in fact...looked perfectly content with his extra duties.

For a second, she thought she heard something odd in his tone...what, she wasn't sure.

She glanced his way again, and shivered as she saw he was watching her...a faint smile on his lips, red eyes glowing.

[boytouya]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦

words:2.3k

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, blood, angst, open ended/ambiguous ending, descriptions of death.

request: “Can i request sukuna x male reader. Where reader keeps reincarnating with each lifetime for a curse and every time he remembers sukuna, he dies after gaining memories back. You can choose if theres a good ending or angst. Thank you king! I fell in love with him especially after reading that one shot i had to watch jjk and hes hot! Thank you for turning me into a sukuna simp! Much love”

a/n: i went,,,overboard with this request 🗿 BUT IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITESSIJEHSHE i’m honored to have introduced you to such a foine man

When you were five, only then had you understood the curse deemed ‘Ryoumen Sukuna.’ A rather tall man with two heads, one of which had splattered blood onto your sneakers. You understood the concept of death, of course, but could never truly comprehend the feeling of nothingness after watching your life flash before your eyes until nineteen. But there you stood, clutching the loop of your shorts when you witnessed the murder of your entire village. You didn’t know evil could have a moral compass, but the tall curse seemed to exclude half of the women and children. After the widening of youthful eyes and curdling screams you learned the monster took likings to things too. Women, with shaking forms and broken spirits. He’d stop before them, stare at them with eyes that could- in fact- kill, if they truly wanted to. But then he stopped in front of you.

“Close your eyes, Brat.” Death's hands were just as large as your family painted them out to be, if not larger. Calloused and riddled with blood as they are placed over your ears. You do as he- it says, squeezing your eyes shut and enclosing your eyes behind the meat of your palms just to be extra careful. You can see stars behind your eyelids, just as you can feel the sickening twang of death lingering in the air. You were aware it would happen at some point, Death would find its place for you over and over and over again, you’d been told since the day you were born.

There’s another sound, only muted under large palms. You don’t need your sense of sight or hearing to know what it was, the warm chunks splattering onto your skin was enough. Immediately, you flinched. When you opened your eyes, there were piercing eyes staring straight into your own. It looked so human, but something was off. Uncanny, as if it took years to manipulate its flesh and bone to emulate humans to a T. But there was nothing human behind those eyes, instead a void of nothingness. Death itself. If Death could express interest, you’d have thought that was the expression it was imitating. It offers a hand, one of four. Larger than your face, with sharp claws that could almost be described as talons. Darkened by dirt and remains of your loved ones, if it truly wanted to kill you, it could. It could tear you limb from limb with the wave of a finger. And it knew that.

So you took the hand, and he became your second home.

When you were ten, you learned about the red string of fate. It could never be broken, and those connected by it would always reunite, no matter the circumstances. You often had nightmares, those of which filled with blurred faces and sharp pain that reached you in your lucid state. Dreams of talons, piercing eyes, and double headed monsters. You dreamt under the stars, tasted metal on your tongue, and choked on smoke that wasn’t actually there. You dreamt of facial markings, details that you couldn’t exactly place, a name that you couldn’t quite remember. It left your tongue feeling thick in your mouth, racked tremors through your body, and caused premature dark circles to accumulate under your eyes.

When you were nineteen, you experienced your last breath. The air was stolen from your lungs, crushed under years of heartbreak and terror, and snatched from you in the dead of night. Your eyes glazed over, and nothingness overtook you. It left you for someone else to find, cold and lifeless. A void, similar to the eyes you had finally placed. But that didn’t matter much then, you had already drifted away from your body.

And that was that.

Thus, the cycle repeated. Under different names, different ages, different genders. There was always something gnawing away at your conscience, you felt as though you were forgetting something. But when you finally remembered, it was too late. And there was nothing you could do about it.

It was almost like deja vu, stepping outside your home to find blood splattered on the concrete floor. It made your blood run cold, sent a tremor through your body and made you feel like you were five again. Small and defenseless. You take it as your best interest to go back inside before you pass out, but the second you whip your body around you meet something- someone?- large and sturdy.

“Sukuna.” That was it, the sour taste at the tip of your tongue, the lingering sensation at the back of your brain. Him. He didn’t look the same, no, much smaller with tufts of pink hair. There’s something behind his eyes this time, something almost irrevocably human. For some reason that’s much scarier than what you remember. What you think you remember. He’s much more human, but the way he looks at you is everything but humane. He looks frustrated, angry at something, as if he’ll implode any second and go on a rampage. Dread bubbles up in your stomach, nearly erupting through your mouth as bile. It felt as though something should be happening, like something usually happened when the itch went away. He chuckles, low in his throat as he cranes his neck to put his face uncomfortably close to your own. His hands, still large, find their way to your wrist, gripping your right hand uncomfortably tight. For a moment, you consider how long a trip to the hospital would be if he shattered the bone beneath his fingers. But instead there’s a jolt of electricity that would’ve had you yanking your hand back if he weren’t holding it.

“What? You look different.” He all but purrs, inspecting your palm with long nails. Not long enough to be talons, but longer than those of a claw. It was true, you did look different. He wondered if you spent your lifetimes looking exactly the same. That couldn’t have been possible, he would’ve found you much easier, then. Still quite boyish, as if the body you were in didn’t originally belong to you. Clearly grown out of cargo shorts and polos, much taller than you were before. There was no way he could have forgotten you, the way you jumped when the remains of your loved one splattered across your legs. The way you stared back at him with a look of acceptance, the way you grabbed his hand and allowed him to lead you out of the village. It explained the body memories perfectly, the feeling of large palms on your head and remnants of a brain splattering onto your knees.

“Last time I saw you,” He let’s go of your wrist with a bored expression, then replaces its spot with the top of your head. He shoves you down, and you make an effort to ignore the crack your knees make when they smack against the concrete. Then, he crouches down to stare you directly in the eye, just like he had the first time you met. His eyes were no longer dark, instead a deep shade of red that caught light from the moon. They reminded you of vials of blood. “You were this tall. Much cuter in this century.”

“And you were bigger.” Sukuna laughs as if hearing that was the funniest thing in the world. He leans his weight into you and uses you as a support beam, laughing until his ribs burn and beg for a break. But how could he laugh at a time like this? He didn’t think it was weird? He’s existed for centuries, murdered for millennias and only now has he seen you. That wasn’t how it worked, when you died, you died. But Sukuna was a walking oxymoron to that statement. When he died, if he died, he would return. He’d return through you, the last fragments of his soul would stay bound to yours until the end of time. Perhaps that’s how he knew, how he remembered. Perhaps that’s why he still took the time to find you, even after countless years of failure. It was peculiar, but not as much as being bound to Death himself. It was a sick game of turning the phrase ‘Til’ death do you part,’ because in your case it was literal.

“You’re still a brat.” His voice is closest to something fond, as if he’s reminiscing sweet memories. It was much different on your account, and part of you wondered if Sukuna understood that. He makes no effort to help you up (he explains that you’re “a big boy now”) as he invites himself into your apartment. Nothing special, he doesn’t care much for family photos or if you have them, but the stacks of letters and books on your table peak his interest. He tears apart envelopes as if he owns them, reads through the contents and discards them to the floor if he deems them useless. The way he sits nearly breaks your chair, and, honestly, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

So you sit beside him.

“You were so scared,” He says, almost as if he were bragging. But he was known to be arrogant and cocky, that was just his nature. He didn’t truly mean it like that, in fact, he looked quite reverent after letting the thought drift into the air. It was kind of funny, such a powerful thing fawning over past memories. But that wasn’t how this should go, you had your memory back, so why hasn’t anything happened? “When you grabbed my hand you stopped shaking.”

“...”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t keep you long,” He visibly frowns, the skin around his lips worry, but you can't tell if it’s genuine or not. He looks at you with something knowing the second the thought enters your head. “I looked for you, at first. You died young, for a human.”

Ninteen. ‘I should have been there,” he wants to add.

“Why aren’t I dying now?” You interrupt and let the panic sink in, the thought of impending doom sits on your shoulders because, really, it could happen at any moment. But this time, you don’t want it to. You remember accepting death when it came to your door at the young age of five, nineteen, countless times over and over. You had only ever gotten this far, you weren’t ready yet. You couldn’t start over, not now. “Sukuna?”

The question sours his mood in the blink of an eye, and instead of looking through your things, he raises himself from his seat to rest his palms on the table. It seemed he had a thing for staring down at people, making them cower under his stone cold gaze. You note the way his jaw clenches. You open your mouth to speak again, but he seems to have other plans. He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips purse together under the pressure of his large fingers. The movement feels familiar, like he’s done it before. The five years you spent with him were still a bit of a blur, but you remembered holding his hand quite often. He’d tell you to close your eyes if there was something he didn’t want you to see, he’d ruffle your hair a bit too hard, let you sleep on his back if he was out in the town. But that was all you remembered. He remembered it all.

“Respect your elders,” He lets go and sits back down as if he hadn’t just thrown a tantrum over you interrupting him. Sukuna was centuries old, but even then, he’d exhibit immature behavior sometimes. Living for so long had to get boring (and lonely) at some point, perhaps that was why he looked for you. He did consider you something close to family, after all. In truth, there were some lifetimes where you met. Some when you were friends, something more than that, and something inseparable. And that’s why you hadn’t died yet, you didn’t remember it all. “It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking.”

“You’re much more handsome in this life.” His smile is much more intimidating than sweet, the sinister curl to his lips would only ever be associated with bloodshed in your eyes. But it was much more than that. Nights of sleeping together, days of laughter and flirtatious comments, soft moments that only you had seen. And it was bittersweet, because he knew the second he’d jog your memory you’d be gone. It wasn’t just a curse for you, but for him. Maybe it was his punishment for hurting so many people, dragging an innocent soul down with him and hanging them by the red string of fate. The comment makes your skin prickle with heat. Sukuna was quite the charmer when he wanted to be, easily picking at your weak spots with whatever you wanted to hear. But the comment was much more for the sake of his own, instead of yours.

Sukuna stands, hot on his heels as he holds out his hand one last time. If something were to happen to you tonight he’d make the most out of it, just as he did countless times over and over. So many years of starting over, getting to know you in various different bodies, realizing that being trapped away was the only way you’d get to live a full life, it was always on his mind. You were always on his mind.

So you take his hand. And for the millionth time, he’d become your second home.

taglist:

@ryoukuna @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @kissesdenji @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @princejasno @mel-bigia04 @mhasimp666 @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shadows-of-nightmares @rinkindaugly

[forever-rogue]

I got a whole 4 hours of sleep today and have to pull a 12 hour shift. So I apologize if it doesn’t make sense, I am new to the Bucky fandom!

I like the idea of his grumpy, refusing to let anyone in, be slowly ground down by reader, but teeters back and forth until reader is in some sort of trouble. Then the flood gates of vulnerability open because he was worried about them. I mean he hasn’t been with anyone since the 40s right? Would he still know how to navigate caring about someone in that way? I don’t know. It was something that has been buzzing around in my head for a week.

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: langauge, vague description of sex (minors dni!)

BUCKY MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

You’d started out as neighbors - nothing more and nothing less. 

Neighbors turned into causal acquaintances, fueled by your constant baking and copious amounts of goodies. Casual acquaintances turned into friends that would spend an occasional evening watching television together. Friends quickly turned into best friends that became utterly inseparable....with the occasional hook-up. You were hesitant to call it friends with benefits because that just sounded so crass. It was more like best friends with the occasional stress relief.

Stress relief. Sure that worked.

None that you wouldn’t have minded more of course. But you weren’t about to make a move on James Buchanan Barnes and ask him out on a date. No, you knew your place and his. He was physically akin to a god, mixed in with a bit of fuck boy, and yet...you loved him. You’d fallen hard and fast for the man that had gone from a mere stranger to a welcome and comfortable part of your life. But you’d never tell him that. 

No, nope, hell no. Bucky surely didn’t reciprocate your feelings and you’d never been the type to make a move first. 

Besides that...Bucky didn’t exactly strike you as a relationship type of guy. You’d seen him here and there with a girl or two, but it wasn’t anything serious. And since the two of you had started hooking up, you’d never noticed anyone else. And you hadn’t been with anyone else either. It was akin to a non-exclusive exclusive not-really-a-relationship relationship. Neither of you pushed it any further - you both accepted dates here and there but they never amounted to anything. Wonder why?

Unbeknownst to you, it wasn’t that Bucky didn’t want a relationship - he did. He did very much with you. But he just...there was something about being a one hundred and six year-old man that just left him confused and worried. He hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to date much and now that he had the time it reminded him of just how different things were. Dating was this weird confused jumble, but you were a clear and obvious bright spot. He had his doubts that you’d ever want anything more from him. He knew what he was - a mostly stable old man with a body that people seemed to enjoy. He made the most of that - it didn’t seem like people were interested in getting to know him much these days. 

But you did - you always did. And, gods, he’d fallen hard for you - the kind of love that makes your stomach churn and heart feel like bursting and steals your breath away no matter how long it’s been. But what the fuck would you want with him? He’s a fossil with a boatload of mental trauma and even more sass and attitude.

You deserved the world and he only had himself to give. Of course, he was enough - way more than enough - but he didn't believe that. 

There had been numerous occasions when you'd tried to be honest, to confess your true feelings, but you'd always managed to fall short. Every time you got close, something came up. And after the last girl you'd seen him with, you vowed to take your secret to the grave. 

You had come close though - so close - especially the last time you'd hooked up.

»»————-　♡　————-««

You were under Bucky, both of you naked and panting as you quickly approached your highs. He was buried deep inside you, head dropped to the juncture of your neck and shoulder, nipping and biting at the delicate skin. 

Your legs were wrapped around his waist in order to hold him close. One of your hands was laced together with his while the other was wrapped around his neck. There was something so perfectly harmonious about how you always were together. 

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, James, James, James as he kept going. It was the only time you called him anything but Bucky. As your vision had grown hazy and you felt that familiar warm start to blood your veins, you’d let your true feelings slip. It was so easy, so effortless and in the moment it just...happened.

I love you. 

The declaration hung in the air as you felt your walls clamp around him and he reached his own eyes. That’s when you’d realized what you’d done. This time it was an entirely different sensation radiating throughout your bones - terror. Utter terror.

But if Bucky had heard your three little words he made no mention of them. Relief washed over you as you came to the conclusion that he was just as wrapped up in his own blissful haze that he simply hadn’t heard you. You were safe this time - but you’d have to be extra cautious from here on out.

Oh, but Bucky had heard you. Loudly and clearly. He chose to ignore your words because he was positive that he hadn’t heard you incorrectly. Surely you hadn’t meant to say that - and more importantly, it was a mistake. As much as he loved hearing those words from your pretty lips, he knew it was either an accident or a figment of his imagination. 

You both pretended that nothing had happened. 

»»————-　♡　————-««

Bucky rolled his eyes lightly as he watched his phone light up with a call from Sam. He was half tempted to ignore it but decided to answer anyway; he was bored and the call might lead to something to do. You’d normally be hanging out with him on a Friday night, but his calls and texts had gone unanswered.

“Hey man,” Bucky picked up the call and walked into the kitchen to grab a beer, “what’s up?”

“You need to get to the hospital,” Sam was speaking so quickly that it all came out in a single slew of words as Bucky’s brows knitted together.

“I know I don’t have a lot going on this Friday night, but I think I’m okay,” he snorted as he opened the bottle and took a swig.

“No, no, no,” Sam interrupted by almost whispering your name, “there’s been an accident. She was hurt and taken to the ER. I was on the phone with her when it happened - just come. Now.”

Bucky didn’t even wait for Sam to finish before he dropped the beer and ran out the door. His whole body felt like it was growing numb and the only thing on his mind was you. You couldn't be hurt...you just couldn’t. Bucky couldn’t imagine any sort of reality in which you weren’t there. 

»»————-　♡　————-««

As soon as he ran into the hospital, seeking out the emergency room, he was asking about you. He looked probably just as crazy as he felt as he was nervously directed to your room. He almost jogged down the hall and into your small space. Sam stood at the end of your bed, looking down at you with a concerned expression.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky could barely bring himself to look at you as you laid on the small bed, looking so helpless and fragile. You were sleeping, sedated from lots of heavy drugs, but hooked up to several beeping machines. Your arm was in a cast already, bruises and contusions and cuts littered every bit of your skin that he could see. His heart plummeted into his stomach. 

“She was crossing the street and got hit by a car that didn’t slow down enough in time,” Sam’s heavy was heavy as he rubbed at his tired, “I heard it all happen, Buck. It was terrible - but she’s strong. She’s going to be okay. No internal damage, luckily, but she’s going to be in a lot of pain for a while. The arm’s broken.”

“Jesus,” Bucky sighed as Sam nodded.

“I called her parents and they’ll be here soon. She’s just sleeping but hopefully will wake up soon.”

“Okay,” Bucky took a hesitant step closer.

“She asked for you,” Sam hadn’t been sure if he should have confessed that little part or not, “when they were bringing her in. Kept repeating your name. You should just tell her, you know. She’s obvious she feels the same. Don’t be idiots.”

“Thanks,” Bucky rolled his eyes dramatically as the two men shared a quick laugh before Sam hugged him, “I’ll stay here if you want to go. You’ve done a lot already. Thank you for calling me.”

“I got you man,” Sam gave him a half smile, “call me if you need anything at all...or if anything happens.”

“Goodbye.”

As soon as his friend left, Bucky came over to you, his fingers grazing the side of the small, horrid looking bed. He was going to help you however you needed it for however long it would take till you were better and out of pain. If he had the choice, he wouldn’t ever leave your side again.

This whole time he’d been so dumb, so silly. He should have just told you how he left - a long time ago and gotten over himself. A heavy sigh escaped him as you pulled up the uncomfortable plastic chair and took a seat next to you.

He gently, ever so delicately reached for the hand that was in the cast and held it in his. It almost made him laugh with how much smaller your hand was than his. They fit perfectly together.

He watched the steady rise and fall of your chest as you slept, wondering when you’d wake up. He hoped soon - so he could finally tell you all of those unspoken words. 

»»————-　♡　————-««

“James?” a croaky, dry voice met his ears as his tired eyes snapped open. He blinked a few times to adjust his vision before focusing on you. You were looking back at him with a tired, sleepy little smile on your features. You looked beautiful, so damn beautiful, despite the blues and purples painting your skin, “what are you doing here?”

He must have fallen asleep at some point during the night. He was still holding your hand. He beamed back at you, “hi pretty girl. Sam called me and told me what happened. I came right over.”

“I’m anything but pretty right now,” you laughed lightly but quickly grimaced at the pain, “how long have you been here?”

“Since yesterday evening,” he confessed quickly, “I didn’t want to leave - wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh Bucky,” there was that saccharine little smile on your face. The same one he loved so much, “you didn’t have to. I...I really fucked up movie night, huh?”

“I’m in love with you.”

He finally got those damn words out before he could change his mind or think too much about it. Your face immediately lit up with a grin as you searched his cerulean eyes. 

“Do you mean it?” you asked softly as he nodded, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks.

“Of course.”

“I love you too, Bucky,” you replied, giving his hand a tight squeeze, “I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he whispered as he leaned closer to you, “because I’m not going anywhere, pretty girl. Not now, not ever.”

“I don’t want you to, Bucky,” you promised, “I want you with me always.”

“That sounds perfect to me.”

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Marvel Taglist (add yourself to a taglist here!)(strike-through means I couldn’t tag you)

@qhbr2013  @greeneyedblondie44  @april-showers-and-flowers  @softboiipascal @im-an-adult-ish  @patzammit  @niki-xie  @xxlovingfandomsxx  @startrekkingaroundasgard  @welcometothepedroverse  @actual-spawn-of-satan  @punkerthanpascal  @lazybeeches @someday-when-you-leave-me @justgivemethekeys @salome-c @rosiefridayrogersunday  @neptunesglow  @artsymaddie @haildoodles @amneris21 @star017 @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater @its–fandom–darling @ayamenimthiriel @alyispunk @djarinbarnes @edencherries @ashamed23 @sunsetskywalkerr  @nikkixostan @spookispunk @cable-kenobi @hrtsgetbrkn @ironicfoxes @iilwjbb @cc13723things @thenormreedus @gooddaykate